THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


COLLIER'S    UNABRIDGED    EDITION. 


THE    ^ORKS 


or 


WILLIAM  CARLETON. 


V  O  L  XJ  INI  E     I . 


WIIXY  REILLY. 

FARDOROUGHA  THE  MISER. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET; 

OR,  The  Chronicles  of  Ballttrain. 

THE  EVIL  EYE; 

or,  The  Black  Spectek 


NEW  YORK : 
P.    F.    COLLIER,    PUBLISHER. 


CONTENTS. 


.  / 


WILLY  REILLY. 


CBAPTXB 

I.- 

II.- 

UI 


IT.- 


V. 

VL 

VIL 


vin. 

IX. 


x.~ 


XI. 
XII. 


XIIL 


FAOB 

An  Adventure  and  an  Escape 6 

-The  Cooleen  Bawn 12 

Daring  Attempt  of  the  Red  Rapparee 
— Mysterious  Disappearance  of  His 
Gang— The  Avowal 19 

A  Sapient  Project  for  our  Hero's  Con- 
version— His  Rival  makes  his  Ap- 
pearance, and  its  Consequences. . .     20 

The  Plot  and  the  Victims 34 

■The  Warning—  an  Escape 41 

•An  Accidental  Incident  favorable  to 
Reilly,  and  a  Curious  Conversa- 
tion      48 

-A  Conflagration — An  Escape  —  And 
an  Adventure 54 

•Reilly's  Adventure  Continued  —  A 
Prospect  of  By-gone  Times — Reilly 
gets  a  Bed  in  a  Curious  Establish- 
ment      62 

Scenes  that  took  place  in  the  Moun- 
tain Cave G9 

The  Squire's  Dinner  and  his  Guests..     75 

Sir  Rol»ert  Meets  a  Brother  Sports- 
man— Draws  his  Nets,  but  Catches 
Nothing 82 

Reilly  is  Taken,  but  connived  at  by 
the  Sheriff — the  Mountain  Mass. . .     86 


CHAPTER  FAOI 

XIV. — Reilly  takes  Service  with  Squire  Fol~ 

liard 99 

XV.— More  of  Whitecraft's  Plots  and  Pranks  105 
XVI. — Sir     Robert     ingeniously     extricates 

Himself  out  of  a  great  Difficulty. .   Ill 
XVII. — Awful  Conduct  of  Squire  FoUiaiU — 
Fergus  HeiUy  begins  to  Contravene 

the  Red  Rapparee 117 

XVIII. — Something  not  very  Pleasant  for  all 

Parties 133 

XIX. — Reilly's  Disguise  Penetrated — He  Es- 
capes—  Fergus  Reilly  is  on  the  Trail 
of  the  Rapparee — Sir  Robert  begins 

to  feel  Confident  of  Success 129 

XX.  —The   Rapparee   Secured — Reilly  and 
the  Cooleen  Bawn  Escape,  and  are 

Captured ,    ....  136 

XXI. — Sir  Robert  Accepts  of  an  Invitation..  141 
XXII. — The  Squire  Comforts  Whitecraft  in 

his  Atiiiction 151 

XXIII. — The  Squire  becomes  Theological  and 

a  Proseiytizer,  but  signally  fails. ..   156 
XXIV. — Preparation.^ — Jury  of  the  Olden  Time 

—  The  Scales  of  Justice 162 

XXV- — Rumor  of  Coolen  Bawn's  Treachery 
— How  it  appears — Reilly  stands 
his  Trial — Conclusion 170 


FARDOROUGHA,  THE  MISER. 


PAGE   I  P*?" 

Part  T.— Fardorougha,  the  Miser 187  Part  V 2o9 

Part  II 203  Part  VI 278 

Part  III 222  Part  VIT 293 

Part  IV 236  Part  VIII.  and  Last 306 


THE  BLACK  BARONET;  OR,  TPIE  CHRONICLES  OF  BALLY- 

TRAIN. 


OHAPTEB  PAGE 

I. — A  Mai!  Coach  by  Night,  and  a  Bit 

of  Moonshine 322 

fL — The  Town  and  its  Inhabitant*-   ...  326 
III. — Paudeen   Gair's  Receipt  bow    to 
make  a  Bad  Dinner  a  Good  One 
—The  Stranger  finds  Fenton  as 

Mysterious  as  Himself 328 

rV. — An  Anonymous  Letter-Lucy  Gour- 


CEAPTEB  PAG3 

lay  Avows  a  Previous  Attach- 
ment  333 

v.— Sir  Thomas  Goiirlay  FaiLs  in  Un- 
masking the  Stranger — Mysteri- 
ous Conduct  of  Fenton 333 

VI. — Extraordinary  Scene  between  Feu- 
ton  and  the  Stranger 34C 

VII. — The   Baronet  attempts  by  False- 


,"V 


CONTENTS. 


hood  to  urge  his  Daughter  into 
an  Avowal  of  ht  r  Lover's  Name.  343 
VIII.— The  Fortuuo-l'tller— Au  Equivo- 
cal Prediction 347 

IX. — Caudor  and  Dissinuilation 350 

X. — A  Family  Dialoj^ue — and  a  Secret 

noarly  Di8ct>verud 357 

XI. — Tlio   Straugei's   Visit    to  Father 

MacMahon 362 

XII. — Crackenfndge  Outwitted  by  Fen- 
ton — The  Baronet,  Enraged  at 
his  Daughter's  Firmness,  strikes 

Her 369 

XIII.— The   Stranger's   Second   Visit   to 
Father  JIac.Mahon — Something 

like  an  Elojiemeut 375 

XIT. — Crackenfudge  put  upon  a  Wrong 
Scent — ^Miss  Gourlay  takes  Ref- 

uge  with  an  Old  Friend 385 

XV. — Interview  between  Lady  Gourlay 
and  the  Stranger— Dandy  Dulci- 
mer makes  a  Discovery — The 
Stranger    Iteceives  Mysterious 

Communications  392 

XVI. — Conception  and  Perpetration  of  a 
Diabolical   Plot   against     Fen- 

ton 399 

XVII. — A  Scene  in  Jemmy  Trailcudgel's- 
Hetributive  Ju.stice,  or  the  Rob- 
ber Robbed 407 

XVIII. — Diiuphy  visits  the  County  Wick- 
low— Old  Sam  and  his  Wife. ...  415 
XIX. — Interview  between  Trailcudgel 
and  the  Stranger — A  Peep  at 
Lord  Dunroo  and  his  Friend. . .  433 
XX. — Interview  between  Lords  Culla- 
more,  Dunroe,  and  Lady  Emily 
— Tom  Norton's  Aristocracy 
fails    him — His    Reception   by 

Lord  Cullamore 439 

XXI. — A  Spy  Rewarded— Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay  Charged  Home  by  tlie 
Stranger  with  the  Removal  and 
Disappearance  of  his  Brother's 

Son 437 

XXII. —Lucy  at  Summerfield  Cottage 44(j 

XXIII. —A  Lunch  in  Summerfield  Cottage.  454 
XXIV. — An  Irish  Watchhouse  in  the  time 

of  the  ''  Charlies  " 460 

XXV.— The  Police  Office  —  Sir  Spigot 
S\)uttcr  and  Mr.  Coke — An  Un- 
fortunate Translator — Decision 

in  •'  a  Law  Case  " 479 

XXVI.— Thj  Priest  Returns  Sir  Thomas's 


OnAFTBB  PAGE 

Money  and  Pistols — A  Bit  of 
Controversy — A  New  Light  Be- 
gins to  Appear 475 

XXVri. — Sir  Thoma.«,  who  Shams  Illuess,  is 
too  sharp  for  Mrs.  Mainwaring, 
who  visits  Him — Lucy  calls  up- 
on Lady  Gourlay,  where  she 
meets  her  Lover— Affecting  In- 
terview between  Lucy  and  Lady 

Gourlay, 48G 

XXVIJI. — Innocence  and  Affection  overcome 
bj'  Fraud  and  Hypocrisy — Lucy 

yields  at  Last 488 

XXIX. — Lord  Dunroe's  Affection  for  his 
Father — Glimpse  of  a  new  Cha- 
racter— Lord  CuUimore's  Re- 
buke to  his  Son,  who  greatly 
Refuses  to  give  up  his  Friend..  496 
XXX. — A  Courtship  on  Novel  Principles..  5u4 
XXXI. — The  Priest  goes  into  Corbet's 
House  very  like  a  'J'hief — a  Se- 
derunt, with  a  Bright  look  up 

for  3Ir.  Gray 51;3 

XXXII. — Discovery  of  the  Baronet's  Son — 
who,  however,  is  Shelved  for  a 

Time 520 

XXXIII.— The  Priest  asks  for  a  Loan  of 
Fifty  Guineas,  and  Offers  "Fre- 
ney  the  Robber"  as  Security. .  528 
XXXIV. — Young  Gourlay's  Affectionate  In- 
terview with  His  Father — Risk 
of  Strangulation  —  Movements 

of  M'Bride 533 

XXXV. — Lucy's  Vain  but  Affecting  Expos- 
tulation with  her  Father — Her 
Terrible  Denunciation  of  Am- 
brose Gray 542 

XXXVI. — Which  contains  a  variety  of  Mat- 
ters, some   to  Laugh  and  some 

to  Weep  ac 547 

XXXVII. — Dandy's  Visit  to  Summerfield  Cot- 
tage, where  he  ]U,akes  a  most 
Ungailant  Mistake  —  Returns 
with  Tidings  of  both  Mrs.  Nor- 
ton and  Fenton — and  Generous- 
ly Patronizes  his  Master 556 

XXXVIII. — Anthony  Corbet  gives  Important 
Documents  to  the  Stranger — An 
Unpleasant  Disclosure  to  Dun- 
roe — Norton  catches  a  Tartar..  564 
XXXIX.— Fenton  Recovered  —  The  Mad- 
House  574 

XL. — Lady  Gourlay  sees  her  Son 581 

XLI. — Denouement 587 


THE  EVIL  EYE;  OR,  THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


OHAPTtB  p^gg 

I.-  Short  and  Preliminary (JI3 

II.-  A  Murderer's  Wake  and  the  Arrival 

of  a  Stranger gl7 

Breakfjist  ne.xt  morning — Woodward, 
on  his  way  Home,  meets  a  Stranger 

— Their  Conversation 625 

-Woodward   meets  a   Guide— His  Re- 
ception at  Home — Preparations  for 

a  Fete 631 

V    -Tho  Bonfire— The  Prodigy ...'..'.  \  \ '.  *  640 
VI.  -Sh.iwn  na-.Middogue  —  Shnn-Dhinne- 

Dhuv,  or  The  Black  Spectre 647 


III. 


IV. 


CHAPTER  PAOl 

VII.— A  Council  of   Two— Visit  to  Beech 

Grove— The  Herbalist 655 

VIII.— A  Healing  of  the  Breach — A  Proposal 

for  Marriage  Accepted 663 

IX. — Chase  of  the  White  Hare 670 

X.— True  Love  Defeated 678 

XI. — A  Conjurer's  Levee 685 

XII. — Fortune-telling 694 

XIII. — Woodward  is  Discarded  from  Mr. 
Goodwin's  Family — Other  Particu- 
lar.' of  Importance 701 

XIV. — Shawn-na-Middogue     Stabs    Charles 


CONTENTS. 


Mistake  for  his  Broth-  '  XV 11 1. 

. . .  (Uy 


Lindsay  in 
XV.— The  naushee-Disappeara,uceof  Grace  ^ 


l>avor( 


10 


XVI  —A  II  >use  of  Sorrow— After  which  fol-  ^^^  } 
lows  a  Gourtiug  Scene. 


,XVIL-D(8oription   of  ihe   Original   Tory-  ;  ^^^j_^,^.;^^.^,4,,^g  at  Work-Denouement 

*  Th«ii-  Maiiiiftr  of  bweariUiC *"■'    -^^^*^-     ^'■^^-  "• 


PAGB 

-The  Toir,  or  Tory  Hunt ^^ 

XIX.— Plans  and  Negotiatious. . l^^ 

XX  — Woodward's  Visit  to   Rallyspellan . .    .4» 
XXI.— The  Dinner  at  Biillyspellan—lhe  Ap- 
pearance of   Woodward— Valentine  ^_ 

Greatrakes ;!.'^' 

XXII.— History  of  tbe , Black  Spectre .^^^.  • .   ;^w 


Their  Mauuer  of  bweariug 


"Willy  Reillt. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 

Most  of  our  Irish  readers  must  be  aware 
that  the  following  story  is  founded  upon  an 
incident  in  the  history  of  the  affections, 
which,  ever  since  its  occurrence,  has  oc- 
cupied a  large  portion  of  popular  interest. 
From  the  very  first  discovery  of  their  at- 
tachment, the  loves  of  "WiUy  Reilly"  and 
his  "  Fair  Cooleen  Ba\NTi "  became  celebrated, 
and  were  made  the  burden  of  many  a  rude 
ballad  throughout  Ireland.  With  the  ex- 
ception, however,  of  the  one  which  we  sub- 
Join,  they  have  all  nearly  disaj)peared;  but 
that  production,  rude  as  it  is,  has  stood  its 
ground,  and  is  permanently  embodied  as  a 
iavorite  in  the  ballad  poetry  of  the  peojDle. 
It  is  not,  though  couched  in  humble  and  un- 
pretending language,  -vN-ithout  a  good  deal 
of  rustic  vigor,  and,  if  we  may  be  allowed 
the  expression,  a  kind  of  inartistic  skill, 
furnished  either  by  chance  or  natui-e — it  is 
difficult  to  determine  which.  We  ai-e  of 
opinion,  however,  that  it  owes  a  great  por- 
tion of  its  permanent  populaiity  to  feelings 
which  have  been  transmitted  to  the  people, 
arising  not  so  much  from  the  direct  interest 
of  the  incidents  embodied  in  it,  as  fi-om  the 
pohtical  spirit  of  the  times  in  which  they 
occurred.  At  that  vmhappy  period  the 
Penal  Laws  were  in  deadly  and  tei-rible 
operation;  and  we  need  not  be  sui-prised 
that  a  young  and  handsome  CathoHc  should 
earn  a  boundless  popularity,  especially 
among  those  of  his  own  creed,  by  the  dar- 
ing and  resolute  act  of  taking  away  a  Prot- 
estant heiress — the  daughter  of  a  persecu- 
tor— and  whose  fame,  from  her  loveliness 
and  accompHshments,  had  already  become 
proverbial  among  the  great  body  of  the 
Irish  people,  and,  indeed,  throughout  aU 
classes.  It  was  looked  upon  as  a  kind  of 
triumph  over  the  persecutors ;  and,  in  this 
instance,  Cupid  himself  seemed  to  espouse 
the  cause  of  the  beads  and  rosar}-,  and  to 
become  a  tight  Uttle  Cathohc.  The  chai-ac- 
ter  of  Sir  Robert  "S\rhitecraft  (a  fictitious 
name)  is  drawn  from  traditions  which  were 
some  time  ago  floating  among  the  people, 
but  which  are  fast  fading  out  of  the  popular 
mind.  The  mode  of  his  death,  and  its  con- 
I 


comitants,  the  author  has  often  heard  tol6 
in  his  youth,  around  the  hob,  during  the 
long  -winter  evenings.  With  respect  to  the 
description  of  the  state  of  the  imhappy 
Catholics,  however  I  may  have  diminished,  I 
have  not  exaggerated  it ;  and  I  trust  that  I 
have  done  ample  justice  to  the  educated 
Protestants  of  the  day,  many  of  whom  not 
only  opposed  the  Government  openly  and 
directly — whose  object  was  extermination 
by  the  withering  operation  of  oppressive 
laws — ^but  threw  up  their  commissions  as 
justices  of  the  peace,  and  refused  to  become 
the  tools  and  abettors  of  rehgious  perse- 
cution. To  such  noble-minded  men  I 
trust  I  have  rendered  ample  justice.  The 
following  is  the  celebrated  baUad  of  "  Willj 
Reilly,"  which  is  still  sung,  and  will  long 
continue  to  be  sung,  at  many  a  hearth  is 
Ireland : 

"  Oh  !  rise  up  Willy  Reilly,  and  come  alongst  with 

me, 
I  mean  for  to  go  with  you  and  leave  this  counfcrie, 
To  leave  my  father's  dwelling,  his  houses  and  fre« 

lands—" 
And  away  goes  Willy  Reilly  and  his  dear  Cooleen 

Bawn. 

They  go  by  hill  and  mountains,  and  by  yon  lone- 
some plain, 

Throuj^h  shady  groves  and  valleys  all  dangers  to 
refrain ; 

But  her  father  followed  after  with  a  well-arm'd 
chosen  band, 

And  taken  was  poor  Reilly  and  his  dear  Cooleen 
Bawn. 

It's  home  then  she  was  taken,  and  in  her  closet 

bound. 
Poor  Reilly  all  in  Sligo  jail  lay  on  the  stony  ground, 
Till  at  the  bar  of  justice  before  the  Judge  he'd 

stand, 
For  nothing  but  the  stealing  of  his  dear   Cooleen 

Bawn. 

"  Now  in  the  cold,  cold  iron,  my  hands  and  feet 

are  bound. 
Fm  handcuffed  like  a  murderer,  and  tied  unto  the 

ground  ; 
But  all  this  toil  and  slavery  Fm  willing  for  to  stand, 
Still  hoping  to  be  succored   by  my  dear   Cooleen. 

Bawn.^^ 

The  jailer's  son  to  Reilly  goes,  and  thus  to  him  did 

say, 
"  Oh !  get  up,  Willy  Reilly,  you  most  appear  this 

day. 


WILL  [AM    CARLKTO^'S    \VUUK;S. 


For  great  Squire  Folliard'a  anger  you   never  can 

withstand  ; 
I'm  afear'd  you'll  suffer  sorely  for  your  dear  Cookcn 

13a  wn. 

"  This  is  the  news,  young  Reilly,  last  night  that  I 

did  hear. 
The  lady's  oath  will  hang  you,  or  rlso  will  set  you 

clear." 
"  If  that  be  so,"  says  Reilly,   "  her  pleasure  I  will 

stand, 
Still  hoping  to  be  succored  by  my  dear   Cooleen 

iJawn." 

Now  Willy's  drest  from  top  to  toe  all  in  a  suit  of 

green, 
His  hair  hangs  o'er  his  shoulders  most  glorious  to 

be  seen ; 
He's  tall  and  straight  and  comely  as  any  could  be 

found. 
He's  fit  for  Folliard's  daughter,  was  she  heiress  to 

a  crown. 

The  Judge  he  said,  "This  lady  being  in  her  tender 

youth, 
If  Reilly   has  deluded  her,   she   will   declare   the 

truth." 
Then,  like  a  moving  beauty  bright,  before  him  she 

did  stand. 
"  You're   welcome  there   my  heart's   delight  and 

dear  Cooleen  Bawn/'' 

"Oh,    gentlemen,"   Squire    FoUiard   said,    "with 

pity  look  on  me, 
This  villain   came    amongst   us   to    disgrace    our 

family, 
And   by   his   base   contrivances    this   villany    was 

planned ; 
If  I  don  t  get  satisfaction  I  will  quit  this  Irish  land." 

The  lady  with  a  tear  began,  and  thus  replied  she, 
'•  The  fault  is  none  of  Reilly's,  the  blame  lies  all 

on  me  : 
I  forced  him  for  to  leave  his  place  and  come  along 

with  me  ; 
I  loved  him  out  of  measure,  which  has  wrought  our 

destiny. ' ' 

Then  out  bespoke  the  noble  Fox,  at  the  table  he 

stood  by, 
"  Oh,  gentlemen,  consider  on  this  extremity, 
To  hang  a  man  for  love  is  a  murder  you  may  see. 
So  spare  the  life  of  Reilly,  let  him  leave  this  coun- 

trie." 

"  Good,  my  lord,  he  stole  from  her  her  diamonds, 

and  her  rings. 
Gold  watch  and  silver  buckles,  and  many  precious 

things. 
Which  cost  me  in  bright  guineas,  more  than  five 

hundred  pound, 
I   will  have   the   life  of  Reilly  should  I   lose  ten 

thousand  pounds." 

"  Good,  my  lord,  I   gave  them   him  as   tokens  of 

true  love  ; 
And  when  we  are  a-parting  I  will  them  all  remove: 
If  you  have  got  them,  Reilly,  pray  send  them  home 

to  me  ; 
They're  poor  compared  to  that  true  heart  which  I 
have  given  to  thee. 

"  There  is  a  ring  among  them  I  allow  yourself  to 

wear. 
With  thirty  locket  diamonds  well  set  in  silver  fair ; 


And  as  a  true-love  token  wear  it  on  your  right  hand, 
That  you  may  think  on   my  broken    heart  when 
you're  in  a  foreign  land." 

Then  out   spoke   noble   Fox,  '  *  You  may  let  the 

prisoner  go. 
The  lady's  oath  has  cleared  him,  as  the  Jury  all 

may  know : 
She   has  released  her  own  true  love,  she  has  re* 

newed  his  name, 
May  her  honor  bright  gain  high  estate,  and  her  ofiE- 

spring  rise  to  fame." 

This  ballad  I  found  in  a  state  of  wretched 
disorder.  It  passed  from  one  indi^-idual  to 
another  by  ear  alone  ;  and  the  inconsecu- 
tive position  of  the  verses,  occasioned  by  inac- 
curacy of  memory  and  ignorance,  has  sadly 
detracted  from  its  genuine  force.  As  it  ex- 
isted in  the  oral  versions  of  the  populace, 
the  naiTative  was  grossly  at  variance  with 
the  regular  progress  of  cii'cumstances  which 
characterize  a  trial  of  any  kind,  but  especial- 
ly such  a  trial  as  that  which  it  imdertakes 
to  describe.  The  individuals  concerned  in 
it,  for  instance,  are  made  to  speak  out  of 
place  ;  and  it  would  appear,  fi'om  all  the 
versions  that  I  have  heard,  as  if  eveiy  stanza 
was  assigned  its  position  by  lot.  This  fact, 
however,  I  have  just  accounted  for  and 
remedied,  by  ha\ing  restored  them  to  their 
original  places,  so  that  the  vigorous  but 
rustic  bard  is  not  answerable  for  the  confit- 
sion  to  which  unprinted  poetiy,  sung  by  an 
uneducated  people,  is  liable.  As  the  ballad 
now  stands,  the  character  of  the  jioet  is 
satisfactoiily  vindicated  ;  and  the  disorder 
which  crept  in  during  the  course  of  time, 
though  sti-ongly  calciilated  to  weaken  its 
influence,  has  never  been  able  to  injure  its 
fame.  This  is  a  high  honor  to  its  composer, 
and  proves  him  well  worthy  of  the  popularity 
which,  under  such  adverse  circumsttmces, 
has  taken  so  firm  a  hold  of  the  present  feel- 
ing, and  sui-^ived  so  long. 

Tlie  author  ti-usts  that  he  has  avoided,  as 
far  as  the  truthful  treatment  of  his  subject 
would  enable  him,  the  expression  of  any 
political  sentiment  calculated  to  give  offence 
to  any  party — an  attempt  of  singular  diffi- 
culty in  a  countiy  so  miserably  divided  upon 
reUgious  feehng  as  this.  The  experience  of 
centuries  should  teach  statesmen  and  legisla- 
tors that  persecution,  on  account  of  creed 
and  conscience,  is  not  only  bad  feeling,  but 
worse  policy  ;  and  if  the  author,  in  thes« 
pages,  has  succeeded  in  conveying  this  seK- 
evident  truth  to  his  readers,  he  will  rest 
satisfied  with  that  result,  however  severely 
the  demerits  of  his  work  may  be  censured 
upon  pui'ely  litei*ary  grounds.  One  thing 
may  be  said  in  his  defence — that  it  was 
utterly  impossible  to  dissociate  the  loves  of 
this  celebrated  coutJe  fi-om  the  condition  of 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


tb«:  coimtry,  and  the  operation  of  the  merci- 
less laws  which  prevailed  against  the  Catho- 
lics in  their  day.  Had  the  lovers  both  been 
Catholics,  or  both  been  Protestants,  this 
might  have  been  avoided  ;  but,  as  political 
and  rehgious  matters  then  stood,  to  omit  the 
stjite  and  condition  of  society  which  resulted 
from  them,  and  so  deeply  affected  their  fate, 
would  be  somewhat  like  lea^•ing  the  charac- 
ter of  Hamlet  out  of  the  tragedy. 

As  the  work  was  first  "v\a'itten,  I  described 
a  good  many  of  the  Catholic  priests  of  the 
day  as  disguised  in  female  apj^arel ;  but  on 
discovering  that  there  exists  an  ecclesiastical 
regulation  or  canon  forbidding  any  priest, 
vmder  whatever  ^persecution  or  pressure,  to 
assume  such  apparel  for  the  jjui-pose  of  dis- 
guising his  person  or  saving  his  life,  I,  of 
course,  changed  that  portion  of  the  matter, 
although  a  laj'man  might  well  be  pardoned 
for  his  ignorance  of  an  ecclesiastical  statute, 
which,  except  in  ver^'  rare  cases,  can  be 
known  onl}'  to  ecclesiastics  themselves.  I 
retain  one  instance,  however,  of  this  descrip- 
tion, which  I  ascribe  to  Hennessy,  the  de- 
graded friar,  who  is  a  historical  character, 
and  Avho  wrought  a  vast  weight  of  evU,  as 
an  informer,  against  the  Catholic  priesthood 
of  Ii-eland,  both  regular  and  secidar. 

With  respect  to  the  family  name  of  the 
heroine  and  her  father,  I  have  adopted  both 
the  popular  pronunciation  and  orthogi-apliy, 
instead  of  the  real.  I  give  it  simply  as  I 
found  it  in  the  ballad,  and  as  I  always  heard 
it  pronounced  by  the  j)eople  ;  in  the  first 
place,  frojn  reluctance,  by  "UTiting  it  accu- 
rately, to  give  offence  to  that  portion  of  this 
higlily  respectable  family  wliich  still  exists  ; 
and,  in  the  next,  fi'om  a  disinclmation  to  dis- 
turb the  original  impressions  made  on  the 
popular  mind  by  the  ballad  and  the  traditions 
associated  with  it.  So  far  as  the  traditions 
go,  there  was  nothing  connected  with  the 
heroine  of  which  her  descendants  need  feel 
ashamed.  If  it  had  been  othei"wise,  her 
memory  never  would  have  been  enshrined 
in  the  affections  of  the  Iiish  people  for  such 
an  unusual  period  of  time. 

DuBLix,  February,  1855. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

I  AM  agreeably  called  upon  by  my  book- 
seller to  prepare  for  a  Second  Edition  of 
I'  Willy  Reilly."  This  is  at  oJl  tidf-s  a  pleas- 
ing call  upon  an  author ;  and  it  is  so  especial- 
ly to  me,  inasmuch  as  the  first  Edition  was 
sold  at  the  fashionable,  but  imreasonable, 
price  of  a  guinea  and  a  half — a  price  which, 
in  this  age  of  cheap  Hterature.  is  almost  fatal 


to  the  sale  of  any  three-volume  novel,  no 
matter  what  may  be  its  merits.  With  respect 
to  "Willy  Eeilly,"  it  may  be  necessaiy  to 
say  that  I  never  wrote  any  work  of  the  same 
extent  in  so  short  a  time,  or  yA\h  so 
much  haste.  Its  popularity,  however,  has 
been  equal  to  that  of  any  other  of  my  pro- 
ductions ;  and  the  reception  which  it  has 
experienced  from  the  ablest  pubhc  and  pro- 
fessional critics  of  the  day  has  far  surpassed 
my  expectations.  I  accordingly  take  this 
opportunity  of  thanking  them  most  sincerely 
for  the  favorable  verdict  wliich  they  have 
generously  passed  uj^on  it,  as  I  do  for  their 
kindness  to  my  humble  efforts  for  the  last 
twenty-eight  years.  Nothing,  indeed,  can  be 
a  greater  encoiu-agement  to  a  hterary  man, 
to  a  novel  writer,  in  fact,  than  the  reflection 
that  he  has  an  honest  and  generous  tribunal 
to  encounter.  If  he  be  a  c|uack  or  an  im- 
postor, they  will  at  once  detect  him  ;  but  if 
he  exhibit  human  nature  and  tiaithful  char- 
acter in  liis  I3ages,  it  matters  not  whether  he 
goes  to  his  bookseller's  in  a  coach,  or  plods 
there  humbly,  and  on  foot ;  they  Mill  forget 
everything  but  the  value  and  merit  of  what 
he  places  before  them.  On  this  account  it  is 
that  I  reverence  and  resj^ect  them ;  and 
indeed  I  ought  to  do  so,  for  I  owe  them  the 
gi-atitude  of  a  pretty  long  ht^i-aiy  life. 

Concerning  this  Edition,  I  must  say  some- 
thing. I  have  already  stated  that  it  wass 
"uiitten  rapidly  and  in  a  huny.  On  reading 
it  over  for  coiTection,  I  was  sti-uck  in  my 
cooler  moments  by  many  defects  in  it,  which 
were  kindly  overlooked,  or,  perhaps,  not 
noticed  at  all.  To  myself,  however,  who  had 
been  brooding  over  this  work  for  a  long 
time,  they  at  once  became  obrious.  I  have 
according!}'  added  an  undei-jilot  of  affection 
between  Fergus  PieiUy — mentioned  as  a  dis- 
tant relative  of  my  hero — and  the  Cooleen 
Baini's  maid,  Ellen  Connor.  Li  doing  so,  I 
have  not  disturbed  a  single  incident  in  the 
work  ;  and  the  reader  who  may  have  peinised 
the  fii-st  Etlition,  if  he  should  ever — as  is  not 
unfi'equently  the  case — peruse  this  second 
one,  will  ceriainly  wonder  how  the  additions 
were  made.  That,  however,  is  the  secret  of 
the  author,  with  which  they  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  enjoy  the  book,  if  they  can  enjoy  it. 

With  respect  to  tlie  O'Eeilly  name  and 
family,  I  have  consulted  my  distinguished 
friend — and  I  am  proud  to  c;xll  him  so  — 
John  O' Donovan,  Esq.,  LL.D.,  M.RL^, 
who,  with  the  greatest  kindness,  placed  the 
summary  of  the  history  of  that  celebrated 
family  at  my  disposal.  Tliis  learned  gentle- 
man is  an  authority  beyond  all  question. 
With  respect  to  Ii-ekuid — her  language — her 
old  laws — her  historj' — her  antiquities — hoi 
archaeology — her  tojjography,  and  the  gen© 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


alopfy  of  her  families,  he  is  a  pei*fect  niiracle, 
as  is  his  distinpfuislied  fellow-laborer  in  the 
same  field,  Eugene  Curry.  Tvvo  siich  men — 
and,  including  Dr.  Petrie,  Uxree  such  men — 
Ireland  never  has  produced,  and  never  can 
again — for  this  simple  reason,  that  they  will 
have  left  nothing  after  them  for  theii*  succes- 
sors to  accomplish.  To  Eugene  Curiy  I  am 
indebted  for  the  j^rincipid  fact  upon  wliich 
my  novel  of  the  "  Tithe  Proctor  "  was  wiit- 
ten — the  able  introduction  to  which  was 
printed  verbatim  from  a  manuscript  T^-itli 
which  he  kindly  furnished  me.  The  follow- 
ing is  Dr.  O'Donovan's  clear  and  succinct 
history  of  the  O'Reilly  famil}'  fi'om  the  year 
135  until  the  present  time  : 

"The  ancestors  of  the  family  of  O'Reilly 
had  been  celebrated  ui  Iiish  history  long  be- 
fore the  establishment  of  surnames  in  Ii-e- 
land.  In  the  year  435  their  ancestor,  Duach 
Galach,  King  of  Connaiight,  was  baptized 
by  St.  Patrick  on  the  banks  of  Loch  Scola, 
and  tliey  had  remained  Chi-istians  of  the 
old  Irisli  Church,  which  aj)peai-s  to  have 
been  pecuhai*  in  its  mode  of  tonsure,  and  of 
keeping  Easter  (and,  since  the  twelfth  cen- 
tuiy,  fimi  adherents  to  the  rehgion  of  the 
Pope,  till  DoweU  O'Reilly,  Esq.,  the  father 
of  the  present  head  of  the  name,  quarrelling 
with  Father  Dowling,  of  Stradbally,  turned 
Protestant,  about  the  year  1800). 

"The  ancestor,  after  whom  they  took  the 
family  name,  was  Reillagh,  who  was  chief 
of  his  sept,  and  flouiished  about  the  year 
981. 

"  From  tliis  pei'iod  they  are  traced  in  the 
Irish  Annals  tlirough  a  long  hne  of  power- 
ful chieftains  of  East  Breifuy  (County 
Cavan),  who  succeeded  each  other,  accord- 
ing to  the  law  of  Tanistry,  till  the  year  1585, 
when  two  rival  chieftians  of  the  name,  Sir 
John  O'lteilly  and  Edmund  O'Reilly,  ap- 
peared in  Dublin,  at  the  parliament  sum- 
moned by  PeiTot.  Previously  to  this,  John 
O'Reilly,  finding  his  party  wealc,  had  rejoau'ed 
to  England,  in  1583,  to  solicit  Queen  Ehza- 
beth's  interest,  and  had  been  kindly  received 
at  Couri,  and  invested  with  the  order  of 
Knighthood,  and  j:)romised  to  be  made  Earl, 
whereupon  he  returned  home  with  letters 
from  the  Queen  to  the  Lord  Deputy  and 
Council  of  Ireland,  instructing  them  to 
support  him  in  his  claims.  His  uncle, 
Eclmund,  of  liilnacrott,  would  have  succeeded 
Hugh  Connallagh  O'Reilly,  the  father  rf  Sir 
John,  according  to  the  Ii-ish  law  of  Tanistry, 
but  he  was  set  aside  by  Elizal)cth's  govern- 
ment, and  Sir  John  set  up  as  O'Reilly  in  his 
l)Lace.  Sir  John  being  settled  in  the  chief- 
tainship of  East  Breifny,  entered  into  certain 
articles  of  agreement  with  Sii-  John  Perrot, 
the  Lord  Deputy,  and  the  Council  of  Ireland, 


whereby  he  agreed  to  surrender  the  prind. 
pality  of  East  Breifny  to  the  Queen,  on 
conation  of  obtaining  it  again  from  the 
cro^vn  in  capite  by  English  tenure,  and  the 
same  to  be  ratified  to  him  and  the  heirs 
male  of  his  body.  In  consequence  ot  this 
agi'eement,  and  with  the  intent  of  aboUshing 
the  tanistic  succession,  he,  on  the  last  day 
of  August,  1590,  perfected  a  deed  of  feofment, 
entaihiig  thereby  the  seignoiy  of  Breifny 
(O'Reilly)  on  his  eldest  son,  Malmore 
(Myles),  sui-named  Alainn  (the  comely), 
afterwards  knowTi  as  the  Queen's  O'Reilly. 

"  Notmthstandiag  these  transactions.  Sir 
John  O'Reilly  soon  after  joined  in  the  rebel- 
Hon  of  Hugh,  Earl  of  TjTone,  and  died  on 
the  first  of  June,  1596.  After  his  death  the 
Earl  of  Tyrone  set  up  his  second  brother, 
Philip,  as  the  O'Reilly,  and  the  government 
of  Elizabeth  supported  the  claim  of  Sir  John's 
son,  Malmore,  the  comely,  in  opposition  to 
Philij),  and  Edmund  of  Kilnacrott.  But 
Malmoi'e,  the  Queen's  O'Reilly,  was  slain  by 
TjTone  in  the  great  battle  of  the  Yellow 
Ford,  near  Benburb,  on  the  14th  of  August, 
1598,  and  the  Irish  of  Ulster  agreed  to 
establish  Edmund  of  Kilnacrott,  as  the 
O'REnjLT. 

"  The  lineal  descendants  of  Sir  John 
passed  into  the  French  service,  and  are  now 
totally  unknown,  and  probably  extinct.  The 
descendants  of  Edmund  of  Kilnacrott  have 
been  far  more  proUfic  and  more  fortunate. 
His  senior  representative  is  my  worthy  old 
fi'iend  Myles  John  O'Reilly,  Esq.,  Heath 
House,  Emo,  Queen's  Co.,  and  from  him  are 
also  descended  the  O'Reillys  of  Thomastown 
Castle,  in  the  County  of  Louth,  the  Cotmts 
O'Reilly  of  Sj^ain,  the  O'Reillys  of  Beltrasna, 
in  Yfestmeath,  and  the  Reillys  of  Scarva 
House,  in  the  County  of  Down. 

"Edmund  of  lialnaci'ott  had  a  son  John 
who  had  a  son  Brian,  by  Mary,  daughter  of 
the  Baron  of  Dunsany,  who  had  a  famous 
son  Malmore,  commonly  called  Myles  the 
Slasher.  This  Myles  was  an  able  military 
leader  duruig  the  civil  wars  of  1641,  and 
showed  prodigies  of  valor  during  the  years 
1641,  1642,  and  1643  ;  but,  in  1644,  being 
encamjjed  at  Granard,  in  the  Coimty  of 
Longford,  with  Lord  Castlehaven,  who  or- 
dered him  to  proceed  with  a  chosen  detacii' 
ment  of  horse  to  defend  the  bridge  of  Fines 
against  the  Scots,  then  bearing  down  on 
the  main  ai*my  with  a  very  superior  force, 
Myles  was  slain  at  the  head  of  his  troops, 
fighting  bravely  on  the  middle  of  the  bridge. 
Tradition  adds,  that  dnring  this  action  he 
encountered  the  cclonel  of  the  Scots  in 
single  combat,  who  laid  open  his  cheek  vritb 
a  blow  of  his  sword  ;  but  Myles,  whose  jawa 
were  stronger  than  a  sinith's  vice,  held  fast 


W/LLT   REILLT. 


fche  Scotchman's  sword  between  his  teeth 
till  he  cut  him  dowTi,  but  the  main  body  of 
the  Scots  i^ressing  upon  him,  he  was  left 
dead  on  the  bridge. 

"  This  Myles  the  Slasher  was  the  father  of 
Colonel  John  O'Reilly,  of  Ballymacadd,  in 
the  County  Meath,  who  was  elected  Knight 
of  the  Shire  for  the  County  of  Cavan,  in  the 
parhament  held  at  Dubhn  on  the  7tli  of  May, 
1689.  He  raised  a  regiment  of  dragoons,  at 
his  own  exjjense,  for  the  service  of  James 
n.,  and  assisted  at  the  siege  of  Londondeny 
in  1689.  He  liad  two  engagements  with 
Colonel  Wolsley,  the  commander  of  the  gar- 
rison of  Belturbet,  whom  he  signally  defeated. 
He  fought  at  the  battles  of  the  I3o}Tie  and 
Aughrim,  and  was  included  in  tho  articles  of 
capitulation  of  Limerick,  whereby  he  j)re- 
seiTed  his  property,  and  was  allowed  to  cany 
arms. 

"  Of  the  eldest  son  of  this  Colonel  John 
O'Reilly,  who  left  issue,  my  friend  Myles  J. 
O'Reilly,  Esq.,  is  now  the  senior  representa- 
tive. 

"  From  Colonel  John  O'Reilly's  youiigest 
son,  Thomas  O'Reilly,  of  Beltrasna,  was  de- 
cended  Count  Alexander  O'Reilly,  of  Spain, 
who  TOOK  Algiers  !  immortalized  by  Byron. 
This  Alexander  was  born  near  Oldcastle,  in 
the  County  Meath,  in  the  3'ear  1722.  He  was 
Generalissimo  of  his  CathoHc  Majesty's 
forces,  and  Inspector-Genend  of  the  Infantiy, 
etc.,  etc.  In  the  year  1786  he  employed  the 
Chevalier  Thomas  O'Gorman  to  comj^ile  for 
him  a  history  of  the  House  of  O'ReiUy,  for 
wliich  he  paid  0'Goi*man  the  sum  of  £1,137 
lO.s'.,  the  original  receij^t  for  which  I  have  in 
my  possession. 

"  From  this  branch  of  the  O'ReiUy  family 
was  also  descended  the  illustrious  Andrew 
Count  O'Reilly,  who  died  at  Vienna  in  1832, 
at  the  age  of  92.  He  was  General  of  Cavalry 
in  the  Austrian  service.  This  distinguished 
man  iilled  in  succession  aU  the  mihtaiy 
grades  in  the  Austrian  service,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  that  of  Field  Marshal,  and  was 
called  by  Napoleon  '  le  respectable  General 
O'lii'ilhj: 

"The  eldest  son  of  Myles  J.  O'Reilly, 
Esq.,  is  a  young  gentleman  of  great  promise 
and  considerable  fortune.  His  rencontre  mth 
Lord  Clements  (now  Earl  of  Leitrim)  has 
been  not  long  since  prominently  before  the 
public,  and  in  a  manner  which  docs  justice 
to  our  old  party  quarrels  !  Both  are,  how- 
ever, worthy  of  their  high  descent  ;  and  it 
is  to  be  hoped  that  they  Avill  soon  become 
good  friends,  as  they  ai'e  boih  young,  and 
remarkaV)le  for  benevolence  and  love  of 
fatherland." 

As  this  has  been  considered  by  some  per- 
sons as  a  historical  novel,  although  I  really 


never  intended  it  as  such,  it  may  be  necessary 
to  give  the  reader  a  more  distinct  notion  0/ 
the  period  in  which  the  incidents  recorded 
in  it  took  place.  The  period  then  was  about 
that  of  1745,  when  Lord  Chesterfield  was 
Governor-General  of  Ireland.  This  noble- 
man, though  an  infidel,  was  a  bigot,  and  a 
decided  anti-Cathohc  ;  nor  do  I  think  that 
the  temporaiy  relaxation  of  the  penal  laws 
against  Catholics  was  an}i:hing  else  than  an 
I  apiDrehension  on  the  part  of  England  that 
the  chiims  of  the  Pretender  might  be  sup- 
ported by  the  Ii'ish  Catholics,  who  then,  so 
depressed  and  persecuted,  must  have  natu- 
rally felt  a  strong  interest  in  having  a  prince 
who  professed  their  own  rehgion  jjlaced  upon 
the  English  throne.  Strange  as  it  may  aji- 
pear,  however,  and  be  the  cause  of  it  what  it 
may,  the  Cathohcs  of  Ii-eland,  as  a  people 
and  as  a  body,  took  no  part  whatever  in  sup- 
porting him.  Under  Lord  Chestei-field's  ad- 
ministration, one  of  the  most  shocking  and 
unnatural  Acts  of  Parhament  ever  Conceived 
passed  into  a  law.  This  was  the  making  void 
and  nuU  all  intennarriages  between  Cathohc 
and  Protestant  that  should  take  place  after 
the  1st  of  May,  1746.  Such  an  Act  was  a 
renewal  of  the  Statute  of  Kilkenny,  and  it 
was  a  fortunate  circumstance  to  Willy  Re  illy 
and  his  dear  C'oolecn  Bawn  that  he  had  the 
consolation  of  having  been  transported  for 
seven  years.  Had  her  father  even  given  his 
consent  at  an  earlier  period,  the  laws  of  the 
land  wovdd  have  rendered  their  marriage  im- 
l^ossible.  This  cruel  law,  however,  was  over- 
looked ;  for  it  need  hai-dly  be  said  that  it 
was  met  and  spurned  not  only  by  human 
reason,  but  by  human  passion.  In  truth, 
the  strong  and  influential  of  both  religions 
treated  it  Avith  contempt,  and  trampled  on  it 
without  any  dread  of  the  consequences.  By 
the  time  of  his  return  from  transportation, 
it  was  merely  a  dead  letter,  disregarded  and 
scorned  by  both  pai'ties,  and  was  no  ob^ 
stiniction  to  either  the  marriage  or  the  happi- 
ness of  himself  and  his  dear  Cooleen  Bawn. 

I  know  not  that  there  is  any  thing  else  I 
can  add  to  this  preface,  unless  the  fact  that  I 
have  heai'd  several  other  ballads  ujion  the 
subject  of  these  celebrated  lovei-s — all  of  the 
same  tendency,  and  all  in  the  highest  praise 
of  the  beaut}'  and  virtues  of  the  fair  Cooleen 
Baton.  Their  utter  -vulgarity,  however,  pre- 
cludes them  fi'om  a  place  in  these  pages. 
And,  by  the  way,  talking  of  the  law  which 
passed  under  the  administration  of  Lord 
Chesterfield  agsiinst  intcrmai'riages,  it  is  not 
improbable  that  the  eloijement  of  Reill}^  and 
the  Cooleen  Baicn,  in  addition  to  the  execu- 
tion of  the  man  to  whom  I  have  given  the 
name  of  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  may  have  in- 
troduced it  in  a  spirit  of  reaction,  not  onlj 


6 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


against  the  consequences  of  the  elopement, 
but  a^inst  the  baronet's  ignominious  death. 
Thus,  in  every  point  from  which  Ave  can  view 
it,  the  fate  of  this  cc4obratecl  couple  involved 
not  only  popuhu*  feeling,  but  national  impor- 
tance. 

I  have  not  been  able  to  trace  Avith  any  ac- 
curacy or  sjitisftictJon  that  portion  or  branch 
of  the  O'Reilly  fimiily  to  which  my  hero  be- 
longed. The  drcaiy  lapse  of  time,  and  his 
removal  fi'om  the  countrv',  have  been  the 
means  of  sweeping  into  obliAion  ever}' 
thing  concerning  him,  Avith  the  exception  of 
his  love  for  ]Miss  Folliard.  «vnd  its  strange  con- 
sequences. Even  h-aditxon  is  silent  upon 
that  pai-t  of  the  subject,  and  I  fear  that  any 
attempt  to  thi-ow  hght  upon,  it  must  end 
only  in  disaj^jDointment.  1  lii^ie  reason  to 
believe  that  the  Counsellor  Fox,  who  acted 
as  his  advocate,  was  never  liimselt'  raised  to 
the  bench  ;  but  that  that  honor  war*  v'^'.seiTed 
for  his  son,  who  was  an  active  jud^e  ?  httle 
before  the  close  of  the  last  centurj'. 

W.  CAKti^rqw- 

DUBLIN,  December,  1856. 


CHAKTER  L 

An  Adventure  and  an  Encape. 

SpniiT  of  George  Prince  Regent  James, 
Esq.,  forgive  me  this  commencement !  * 

It  was  one  evening  at  the  close  of  a  Sep- 
tember month  and  a  September  day  that 
two  equestiians  might  be  obsen-ed  passing 
along  one  of  those  old  and  lonely  Lish  roads 
that  seemed,  from  the  natui'e  of  its  con- 
stiiiction,  to  have  been  paved  by  a  society  of 
antiquarians,  if  a  person  could  judge  from 
its  obsolete  chiu-acter,  and  the  difficulty, 
without  risk  of  neck  or  hmb,  of  liding  a 
horse  or  driving  a  ctuiiage  along  it.  li-eland, 
as  our  Enghsh  readers  ought  to  know,  has 
always  been  a  country  teeming  Avith  abun- 
dance— a  haj^py  land,  in  which  want,  desti- 
tution, sickness,  and  famine  have  never  been 
felt  or  known,  except  through  the  menda- 
cious misrepresentations  of  her  enemies. 
The  road  we  speak  of  was  a  proof  of  tliis  ; 
for  it  was  evident  to  eveiy  obsen-er  that,  in 
some  season  of  supei'abundant  food,  the 
people,  not  knowing  exactly  how  to  dispose 
of  tl)eir  shilling  loaves,  took  to  paving  tlie 
common  roiwls  with  them,  rather  than  they 
should  be  utterly  useless.     These  loaves,  in 


*  T  mean  no  offence  whatsoever  to  this  distin- 
gnished  anil  innltitudinous  writer  ;  bnt  the  com- 
raencfment  of  this  novel  really  resembled  that  of 
BO  many  of  his  that  I  was  anxious  to  avoid  the 
charge  of  imitating  him. 


the  course  of  time,  underwent  the  process  a' 
petrifaction,  but  could  not,  nevertheless,  be 
looked  uj^on  as  wholl}'  lost  to  the  country. 
A  gi'eat  number  of  the  Irish,  within  six  of 
the  last  preceding  years — that  is,  from  '46  to 
'52 — took  a  pecuhar  fjincy  for  them  as  food, 
which,  we  presume,  caused  their  enemies  to 
say  that  we  then  had  hard  times  in  Ireland. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  it  enabled  the  sagacious 
epicures  who  hved  upon  them  to  retire,  in 
due  course,  to  the  delightful  retreats  of 
Skull  and  Skibbereen,*  and  similar  asylums, 
there  to  pass  the  veiy  short  remainder  of 
their  lives  in  health,  ease,  and  luxury. 

The  evening,  as  we  have  said,  was  about 
the  close  of  September,  when  the  two  eques- 
trians we  speak  of  were  proceeding  at  a  pace 
necessarily  sloio.  One  of  them  "was  a  bluff, 
fresh-complexioned  man,  of  about  sixty  sum- 
mers ;  but  although  of  a  healthy  look,  and  a 
frame  that  had  evidently  once  been  vigorous, 
yet  he  was  a  good  deal  stooped,  had  about 
him  all  the  impotence  of  i:)lethora,  and  his 
hail',  wliich  fell  doAvoi  his  shoulders,  wa» 
white  as  snow.  The  other,  who  rode  pretty 
close  to  him,  was  much  about  his  own  age, 
or  perhaps  a  few  yeai-s  older,  if  one  could 
judge  by  a  face  that  gave  more  undeniable 
e^dences  of  those  furrows  and  A\iinkles. 
whjch  Time  usually  leaves  behind  him.  This 
persoij  did  not  ride  exactly  side  by  side  with 
the  tirj't-mentioned,  but  a  httle  aback,  though 
not  so  fox  as  to  prevent  the  possibihty  of 
conversation.  At  this  time  it  ma}'  be  men- 
tioned here  that  everv'  man  that  could  afibrd 
it  wore  a  wig,  with  the  exception  of  some  of 
those  eccentric  individuals  that  are  to  be 
found  in  every  state  and  period  of  society, 
and  who  are  remarkable  for  that  peculiar 
love  of  singularity  wliich  generally  constitutes 
their  character — a  small  and  harmless  am- 
bition, easily  gratified,  and  involving  no 
injmy  to  theu'  feUow-creatures.  The  second 
horseman,  therefore,  wore  a  wig,  but  the 
other,  although  he  eschewed  that  ornament, 
if  it  can  be  called  so,  was  b\  no  means  a  man 
of  that  mild  and  harmless  character  Avhich 
Ave  have  attributed  to  the  eccentric  and  un- 
fashionable class  of  Avhom  we  have  just 
spoken.  So  far  from  that,  he  was  a  man  of 
an  obstinate  and  Aiolent  temper,  of  strong 
and  unreflecting  prejudices  both  for  good 
and  eAol,  hot,  persevering,  and  A-indictive, 
though     personally     brave,    intrepid,    and 

*  Two  poor-houses  in  the  most  desolate  parts  of 
the  County  of  Cork,  where  famine,  fever,  dysen- 
tery, and  cholera,  rendered  more  destructive  by 
the  crowded  state  of  the  houses  and  the  consequent 
want  of  ventilation,  swept  away  the  wretched  in- 
mates to  the  amount,  if  we  reooUsct  rightly,  of 
sometimes  from  fifty  to  seventy  per  d?em  ia  the- 
years  '4.j  and  '47. 


WILLY  REILLY. 


often  generous.  Like  many  of  his  class, 
ne  never  troubled  liis  head  about  reUgiou 
as  a  matter  that  must,  and  ought  to  have 
oeen,  personally,  of  the  chiefest  interest 
to  himself,  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  was 
looked  upon  as  one  of  the  best  and 
staunchest  Protestants  of  the  day.  His  loy- 
alty and  devotedness  to  tlie  throne  of  Eng- 
land were  not  only  unquestionable,  biit 
proverbial  thi'oughout  the  coimtiy ;  but, 
at  the  same  time,  he  regarded  no  clergj'- 
man,  either  of  his  own  or  any  other  creed, 
as  a  man  wliose  intimacy  was  worth  presei'v- 
ing,  unless  he  was  able  to  take  ofif  his  three 
or  four  bottles  of  claret  after  dinner.  In 
fact,  not  to  keej)  our  readers  longer  in  sus- 
pense, the  relation  which  he  and  his  com- 
panion bore  to  each  other  was  that  of  master 
and  sei-vant. 

The  hour  was  now  a  little  past  t\\aUght, 
and  the  western  sky  presented  an  imusual, 
if  not  an  ominous,  appearance.  A  shai'j)  and 
xaelanclioly  breeze  was  abroad,  and  the  sun, 
which  had  set  among  a  mass  of  red  clouds, 
half  placid,  and  half  angiy  in  appearance, 
had  for  some  brief  space  gone  down.  Over 
fi'om  the  norih,  however,  glided  by  imper- 
ceptible degrees  a  long  bhvck  bai-,  right 
across  the  place  of  his  disappeai'ance,  and 
nothing  could  be  more  striking  than  the 
wild  and  unnatural  contrast  between  the  d}'- 
ing  crimson  of  the  west  and  this  feai-fid  mass 
of  impenetrable  dai-kness  that  came  over  it. 
As  yet  there  was  no  moon,  and  the  portion 
of  hght  or  rather  "  darkness  visible  "  that 
feebly  appeared  on  the  sky  and  the  land- 
scape, was  singularly  sombre  and  imjn-es- 
sive,  if  not  actually  app;xlling.  The  scene 
about  them  was  wild  and  desolate  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  and  as  the  faint  outlines  of  the  bleak 
and  barren  moors  appeared  in  the  dim  and 
melancholy-  distance,  the  feelings  they  in- 
spired were  those  of  discomfort  and  depres- 
sion. On  each  side  of  them  were  a  variety 
of  lonely  lakes,  abrupt  precipices,  and  ex- 
tensive marshes  ;  and  as  our  travellers  went 
along,  the  hum  of  the  snipe,  the  feeble  but 
mournful  ciy  of  the  plover,  and  the  \\ilder 
iind  more  piercing  whistle  of  the  cui'lew, 
stiU  deepened  the  melancholy  dreariness  of 
their  situation,  and  added  to  their  anxiety 
to  press  on  towards  the  place  of  their  des- 
tination. 

"This  is  a  veiy  lonely  spot,  yoiu'  honor,  " 
said  his  servant,  whose  name  was  Andi-ew, 
or,  as  he  was  more  famiharly  called,  Andy 
Cumraiskey. 

"Yes,  but  it's  the  safer,  Andy,"  replied  his 
master.  "  Tliere  is  not  a  human  habitation 
"Within  miles  of  us." 

"  It  doesn't  follow,  sir,  that  this  place,  above 
•oU   others  in  the  neighborhood,  is  not,  es- 


pecially at  this  hour,  without  some  persona 
aljout  it.     You  know  I'm  no  coward,  sir." 

"  What,  you  scomidrel !  and  do  you  mean 
to  hint  that  I'm  one  ?  " 

"Not  at  jiU,  sii' ;  but  you  see  the  truth  is, 
that,  this  being  the  very  hour  for  duck  and 
wild-fowl  shootin',  it's  hard  to  say  where  oi 
when  a  fellow  might  start  up,  and  mistakA 
me  for  a  wild  duck,  and  your  honor  for  & 
curlew  or  a  bittern." 

He  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  the  breeze 
started,  as  it  were,  into  more  vigorous  life, 
and  ere  the  space  of  many  minutes  a  dark 
impenetrable  mist  or  fog  was  bome  over 
from  the  solitary  hills  across  the  dreary  level 
of  country  through  which  they  passed,  and 
they  felt  themselves  suddenly  chilled,  whilst 
a  darkness,  almost  palpable,  nearly  conceixled 
them  from  each  other.  Nov/  the  roads  wliich 
we  have  described,  being  almost  without  ex- 
ception in  remote 'and  imfrequented  parts  of 
the  country,  are  for  the  most  part  covered 
over  with  a  thick  sole  of  close  gi-ass,  unless 
where  a  naiTow  strip  in  the  centre  shows 
that  a  pathway'  is  kept  worn,  and  distinctly 
mailicd  by  the  tread  of  foot-passengers.  Un- 
der all  these  circumstances,  then,  our  read- 
ers need  not  feel  sm-prised  that,  owing  at 
once  to  the  impenetrable  obscurity  ai'ound 
them,  and  the  noiseless  nature  of  the  antique 
and  grass-covered  pavement  over  which  they, 
went,  scarcely  a  distance  of  two  hundred 
yards  had  been  gained  when  they  fovmd,  to 
their  dismay,  that  they  had  lost  theii-  i^ath, 
and  were  in  one  of  the  wild  and  heathy 
stretches  of  luibounded  moor  by  which  they 
were  siuTounded. 

"We  have  lost  om-  way,  Andy,"  observed 
his  master.  "  We've  got  off  that  damned  old 
l^ath  ;  what's  to  be  done '?  where  ai-e  you  ?  " 

"I'm  here,  sir,"  replied  his  man  ;  " but  as 
for  what's  to  be  done,  it  would  take  Mave 
Mullen,  that  sees  the  faii'ies  and  teUs  for- 
tunes, to  tell  us  that.  For  heaven's  sake, 
stay  where  you  are,  sir,  till  I  get  up  to  }  ou, 
for  if  we  pait  fi-om  one  another,  we're  both 
lost.     Where  are  you,  sii'  ?  " 

"  C\irse  you,  sirra,"  replied  his  master  an- 
gi-ily,  "is  this  either  a  time  or  place  to 
jest  in  ?  A  man  that  would  make  a  jest  in 
such  a  situation  as  this  would  dance  on  his 
father's  tombstone." 

"  By  my  soul,  sir,  and  I'd  give  a  five-pound 
note,  if  I  had  it,  that  you  and  I  were  dan- 
cing '  Jig  Polthogue '  on  it  this  minute.  But, 
in  the  mane  time,  the  devil  a  one  o'  me  seea 
the  joke  your  honor  speaks  of." 

"  \\liy,  then,  do  you  ask  me  where  I  am, 
when  you  know  I'm  astray,  that  we're  both 
astray,  you  snivelling  old  whelj)  ?  By  tha 
great  and  good  King  Wilham,  11]  be  lost, 
Andy ! " 


8 


WTLLTAM  CARLETOjPS   WORKS, 


"  Well,  and  even  if  you  are,  sir,"  replied 
Andy,  who,  guided  by  liis  voice,  bad  now 
approached  and  joined  bim  ;  "  even  if  you 
are,  sii-,  I  trust  you'll  bear  it  like  a  Cbristian 
and  a  Trojan." 

"  Get  out,  you  old  sniveller — wbat  do  you 
mean  by  a  Trojiui  ?  " 

"A  Troj;m,  sir,  I  was  tould,  is  a  man  tbat 
lives  by  sellin'  A\-ild-fowl.  They  take  an 
oath,  sir,  before  they  be{?in  the  trade,  never 
to  die  until  they  can't  help  it." 

"You  mean  to  say,  or  to  hint  at  least,  that 
in  addition  to  our  other  dangers  we  run 
the  risk  of  coming  in  contact  with  poach- 
ers?" 

"  Well,  then,  sir,  if  I  don't  mistake  they're 
out  to-night.  However,  don't  let  us  alarm 
one  anothei-.  God  forbid  that  I'd  say  a  sin- 
gle word  to  fi-ighten  you ;  but  still,  you 
know  yovu-self  that  there's  many  a  man  not 
a  huncb-ed  miles  fi-om  us  tha-t '  ud  be  glad  to 
mistake  you  for  a  target,  a  mallard,  or  any 
other  v.ild-fowl  of  that  description." 

"In  the  meantime  we  are  both  well 
armed,"  rephed  his  master  ;  "  but  what  I  fera- 
most  is  the  risk  we  iiin  of  faUing  down 
precipices,  or  walking  into  lakes  or  quag- 
mu-es.  WTiat's  to  be  done  ?  This  fog  is  so 
cui'.^G'Jly  cold  that  it  has  chilled  my  very 
blood  into  ice." 

"  Our  best  plan,  sii-,  is  to  dismount,  and 
keep  ourselves  wann  by  taking  a  pleasant 
stroll  across  the  covmtiy.  The  horses  will 
take  cai'e  of  themselves.  In  the  meantime 
keep  up  your  spiiits — we'U  both  want  some- 
thing to  console  us  ;  but  this  I  can  tell  you, 
that  devil  a  bit  of  tombstone  ever  will  go 
over  either  of  us,  bariin'  the  sky  in  heaven  ; 
and  for  our  coffins,  let  us  pray  to  the  coffin- 
maker,  bekaise,  you  see,  it's  the  maddku 
ruaJi*  (the  foxes),  and  ravens,  and  other 
civilized  animals  that  will  coffin  us  both  by 
instidments  in  their  hungiy  g"uts,  until  oiu' 
bones  wiU  be  beautiful  to  look  at — afther 
about  six  months'  bleaching — and  a  sharp 
eye  'twould  be  that  'ud  know  the  difference 
between  masther  and  man  then,  I  think." 

We  omitted  to  say  that  a  piei'cing  and 
most  severe  hoar  fi'ost  had  set  in  with  the 
fog,  and  that  Cummiskey's  master  felt  the 
immediate  necessity  of  dismounting,  and 
walking  about,  in  order  to  presei've  some 
degi'ee  of  animal  heat  in  his  body. 

"  I  cannot  bear  this,  Andy,"  said  he,  "  and 
these  two  gaUant  animals  will  never  recover 
it  after  the  severe  day's  hunting  they've  had. 
Poor  Fiddler  and  Piper,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  this  has  proved  a  melancholy  day  to  you 
both.     What  is  to  be  done,  Ajidy?    I  am 


*  Maddhu  rua?i,  or  red   dog,  the   Irish  name  for 
Uie  fox. 


scarcely  able  to  st^md,  and  feel  as  if  my 
strength  had  utterly  left  me." 

"  "What,  sii',"  repUed  his  servant,  who  was 
certainly  deeply  attached  to  his  master,  "  is 
it  so  bad  with  you  as  all  that  comes  to? 
Sm-e  I  only  thought  to  amuse  you,  sir. 
Come,  take  courage  ;  I'U  whistle,  and  maybe 
somebody  "v^ill  come  to  our  reUef." 

He  accordingly  put  his  two  fingers  into 
his  mouth,  and  uttered  a  loud  and  piercing 
whistle,  after  which  both  stood  still  for  a 
time,  but  no  reply  was  given. 

"Stoj),  sir,"  proceeded  Andrew;  111  give 
them  another  touch  that'll  make  them  spake, 
if  there's  any  one  near  enough  to  hear  us." 

He  once  more  repeated  the  whistle,  but 
with  two  or  tkree  peculiar  shakes  or  varia- 
tions, when  almost  instantly  one  of  a  similar 
character  was  given  in  reply. 

"Thank  God,"  he  exclaimed,  "be  they 
friends  or  foes,  we  have  human  creatures  not 
far  from  us.  Take  courage,  sir.  How  do 
you  feel?" 

"Frozen  and  chilled  almost  to  death," 
rephed  his  master  ;  "I'U  give  fifty  povmda 
to  any  man  or  party  of  men  that  will  conduct 
us  safely  home." 

"  I  Lope  in  the  Almighty,"  said  Andi-ew  to 
himself  in  an  anxious  and  apprehensive  tone 
of  voice,  "  that  it's  not  Par  rah  Buah  (Red 
Patrick),  the  red  Eapparee,  that's  in  it,  and 
I'm  afeered  it  is,  for  I  think  I  know  his  whistle. 
There's  not  a  man  in  the  three  baronies 
could  give  such  a  whistle  as  that,  barring  him- 
self. If  it  is,  the  masther's  a  gone  man, 
and  I'U  not  be  left  behind  to  tell  the  stoiy, 
God  protect  us  !  " 

"  What  are  you  saving,  Andy  ?  "  asked  his 
master.  "What  were  you  mutteiing  just 
now?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,  nothing  ;  but  there  can  be 
no  harm,  at  aU  events,  to  look  to  our  pistols. 
If  there  should  be  danger,  let  us  seU  our 
Hves  like  men." 

"And  so  w^e  will,  Andy.  The  country  I 
know  is  in  a  distiu'bed  and  lawless  state,  and 
ever  since  that  unfortunate  affair  of  the 
priest,  I  know  I  am  not  popular  with  a  great 
many.  I  hope  we  won't  come  across  his 
Rappai-ee  nephew." 

"Whether  we  do  or  not,  sir,  let  us  look  to 
our  firearms.  Show  me  yours  tUl  I  settle 
the  poAvdher  in  them.  "Wliy,  God  bless  me, 
how  you  ai'e  tremblin'." 

"It  is  not  fi'om  fear,  sir,"  replied  thg 
intrepid  old  man,  "  but  from  cold.  If  any 
thing  should  happen  me,  Andy,  let  my 
daughter  know  that  my  will  is  in  the  oaken 
cabinet ;  that  is  to  say,  the  last  I  made.  She 
is  my  heiress — but  that  she  is  by  the  laws  of 
the  land.  However,  as  I  had  disposed  of 
some  personal  property  to   other  persons 


WILLY  REILLY. 


which  disposition  I  have  revoked  in  the  will 
I  speak  of — my  last,  as  I  said — I  wish  you  to 
let  lier  know  where  she  may  find  it.  Her 
mother's  jewels  ai-e  also  in  the  same  place — 
but  tliey,  too,  are  hers  by  right  of  law — her 
mother  bequeathed  them  to  her." 

"  Ah  !  sir,  you  are  right  to  remember  and 
think  well  of  that  daughter.  She  has  been  a 
guardian  angel  to  you  these  five  yeai's.  But 
why,  sir,  do  you  give  me  this  message  ?  Do 
you  think  I  won't  sell  my  life  in  defence  of 
yours  '?     If  you  do  you're  mistaken." 

"  I  beheve  it,  Andrew  ;  Ibeheve  it,  Andy," 
said  ne  again,  familiai'izing  tlie  word  ;  but  if 
this  red  Kapparee  should  murder  me,  I  don't 
wi.sh  you  to  sacrifice  your  life  on  my  account. 
Miike  yom-  escape  if  he  should  be  the  person 
who  is  approaching  us,  and  convey  to  my 
daughter  the  message  I  have  given  you." 

At  this  moment  another  whistle  proceeded 
from  a  quarter  of  the  moor  much  nearer 
them,  and  .Vndy,  having  handed  back  the 
pistols  to  liis  master,  asked  him  should  he 
return  it. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  other,  who  dur- 
ing all  this  time  was  jiacing  to  and  fi'O,  in 
order  to  kee^D  himself  from  sinking  ;  "  cer- 
tainly, let  us  see  whether  these  persons  are 
fi'iends  or  enemies." 

His  sen'ant  then  replied  to  the  whistle, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  it  was  answered  again, 
wliilst  at  the  same  time  a  strong  but  bitter 
wind  arose  which  cleai-ed  away  the  mist,  and 
showed  them  with  considerable  distinctness 
the  position  which  they  occuj^ied. 

Within  about  ten  yai'ds  of  them,  to  the 
left,  the  verj-  direction  in  which  they  had 
been  proceeding,  was  a  small  deep  lake  or 
tarn,  utterly  shoreless,  and  into  w^hich  they 
unquestionably  would  have  walked  and  j^er- 
ished,  as  neither  of  them  knew  how  to  swim. 
The  clearing  away  of  the  mist,  and  the 
light  of  the  stai-3  (for  the  moon  had  not  yet 
risen),  enabled  the  parties  to  see  each  other, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Andi-ew  and  his  master 
were  joined  by  four  men,  the  principal  per- 
son among  them  being  the  identical  indi- 
vidual whom  they  both  had  dreaded — the 
Red  R.ipparee. 

"  jMaster,"  said  Cummiskey,  in  a  wliisper, 
on  seeing  them  approach,  "we  must  fight 
for  it,  I'm  afeered,  but  let  us  not  be  rash ; 
there  may  be  a  friend  or  two  among  them, 
and  it  is  better  to  come  off  peaceablv  if  we 
can." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  replied  his  master. 
"  There  is  no  use  in  shedding  vmuccessaiy 
blood  ;  but,  in  any  event,  let  us  not  j^ennit 
them  to  disarm  us,  should  they  insist  on 
doing  so.  Tliey  know  I  never  go  three  yards 
from  my  hail-door  without  arms,  and  it  is  not 
im])vobable  they  may  make  a  point  of  t;iking 


them  from  us.     I,  however,  for  one,  vvill  not 

1  trust   to  their  promises,  for  I   know  their 

treachery-,    as   I   do   theii-  cowardice,   when 

their  numbers  are  but  few,  and  an  armed 

ojDponent  or  two  before  them,  determined  to 

i  give  battle.     Stand,  therefore,  by  me,  Andy, 

;  and,  by  King  William,  should  they  have  re- 

!  course  to  violence,  we  shall  let  them  see,  and 

feel  too,  that  we  are  not  unprepai'ed." 

"  I  have  but  one  life,  sir,"  replied  his 
faithful  follower  ;  "it  was  spent — at  least  its 
best  days  were — in  your  sendee,  and  sooner 
than  any  danger  should  come  to  you,  it  ^vill 
be  lost  in  your  defence.  If  it  was  only  for 
the  sake  of  her,  that  is  not  here,  the  Cuoleen 
Bawn,  I  would  do  it." 

"  "VMio  goes  there  ?  "  asked  a  deep  and 
powerftd  voice  when  the  parties  had  come 
within  about  twenty  yards  of  each  other. 

"By  the  powers  !  "  exclaimed  Andrew  in  a 
whisper,  "  it's  liimself — the  Red  Ra2)paree ! " 
"We  are  friends,"  he  repHed,  "and  have 
lost  our  way." 

The  other  pai-ty  approached,  and,  on  join- 
ing our  travellers,  the  Rapparee  started,  ex- 
claiming, ""Wliat,  noble  Squu-e,  is  it  jDossible 
that  this  is  you  ?  Hut !  it  can't  be — let  me 
look  at  you  closer,  till  I  make  sure  of  you." 

"  Keep  youi'  distance,  sii',"  replied  the  old 
man  with  courage  and  dignity  ;  "  keej?  your 
distance  ;  you  see  that  I  and  my  sei-vant  are 
both  well  ai'med,  and  determined  to  defend 
oui'selves  against  violence." 

An  ominous  and  ferocious  glance  passed 
from  the  Rappai-ee  to  his  comrades,  who, 
however,  said  nothing,  but  seemed  to  be  re- 
solved to  g-uide  themselves  altogether  by  his 
conduct.      The  Red  Riipparee  was  a  huge 
man  of  about  forty,  and  the  epithet  of  "  Red  " 
'  had  been  given  to  him  in  consequence  of  the 
I  color  of  his  hair.     In  expression  his  counte- 
I  nance  was  by  no  means  unhandsome,  being 
I  florid  and  symmetrical,  but  hai-d,  and  with 
I  scai-cely  any  trace   of   feehng.     His   brows 
j  were  fiir  asunder,  arguing  ingenuity  and  in- 
vention, but  his  eyes,  which  were  smjill  and 
;  treacherous,  glared — whenever  he  became  ex- 
I  cited — with  the  ferocity  of  an  enraged  tiger. 
;  His  shoulders  A^•ere  broad,  his  chest  deep 
\  and  square,  his  anns  long  and  powerful,  but 
liis  lower  limbs  were  somewhat  light  in  pro- 
portion to  the  great  size  of  his  upper  figure. 
!  This,  however,  is  generally  the  case  when  a 
!  man  combines  in  his  owai  person  the  united 
j  quahties  of  actirity  and  strength.     Even  at 
j  the  period  we  ai-e  describing,  when  this  once 
1  celebrated  character  was  forty  yeai-s  of  age, 
it  was  well  kno^vn  that  in  fleetness  of  foot 
there  was  no  man  in  the  province  able  to 
compete  with  him.    In  athletic  exercises  that 
required  strength  and  skill  he  never  had  a 
rivid,  but  one — with  whom  the  reader  wiU 


lU 


WILLIAM  VARLETON'S  WOEKS. 


soon  be  made  acquainted.  He  was  wrapped 
loosely  in  a  {jniy  frieze  big-coat,  or  colhaniore, 
as  it  is  called  in  L-isli — woi-e  a  liat  of  two 
colors,  and  so  pliant  in  texture  tliat  he  could 
at  any  time  turn  it  inside  out.  His  coat  was 
— as  indeed  were  all  his  clothes — made  upon 
the  s;iine  piinciple,  so  that  when  hiU'd  pressed 
by  the  authorities  he  could  in  a  jninute  or 
two  transmute  himself  into  the  appearance 
of  a  man  veiy  dillerent  fi-om  the  indivithial 
desciibed  to  them.  Indeed  he  was  such  a 
perfect  Proteus  that  no  vigilance  of  the  Ex- 
ecutive was  ever  a  match  for  his  versatility 
of  appearance,  swiftness  of  foot,  and  caution. 
These  frequent  defeats  of  the  authorities  of 
that  day  made  him  extremely  i^opular  with 
the  people,  who  were  always  ready  to  afford 
him  shelter  and  means  of  concealment,  in 
return  for  which  he  assisted  them  with  food, 
money,  and  the  spoils  of  his  predatory  Ufe. 
This,  indeed,  was  the  sagacious  principle  of 
the  Iiish  Robbers  and  Rapparees  from  the 
beginning — (o  rob  from  ihe  rich  and  give  to 
the  jioor  being  their  motto. 

The  persons  who  accompanied  him  on  this 
occasion  were  thi-ee  of  his  own  gang,  who 
usually  constituted  liis  body-g-uard,  and  acted 
as  videttes,  either  for  his  protection  or  for 
the  pui-pose  of  bringing  him  information  of 
such  travellers  as  fi'om  their  kno^vn  wealth 
or-  external  appearance  might  be  supposed 
worth  attacking.  They  were  well-made,  ac- 
tive, and  athletic  men,  in  whom  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  recognize  any  pai-ticular  character 
at  variance  with  that  of  the  peasantry  around 
them.  It  is  unnecessaiy  to  say  tlaat  they 
were  aU  ai*med.  Having  satisfied  himself  as 
to  the  identity  of  master  and  man,  with  a 
glance  at  his  companions,  the  Eapparee  said, 

""What  on  earth  brought  you  and  Andy 
Cummiskey  here,  noble  squire  ?  Oh  !  you  lost 
your  way,  Andy  says.  Well  now,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "you  know  I  have  been  many  a  day 
and  night  on  the  lookout  for  you  ;  aye,  could 
have  i:>ut  dayhght  through  you  many  and 
many  a  time  ;  and  what  do  you  think  pre- 
vented me  ?  " 

"Fear  of  God,  or  of  the  gallows,  I  hope," 
rephed  the  intrepid  old  man. 

"Well,"  returned  the  Eapparee,  mth  a 
smile  of  scorn,  "  I'm  not  a  man — as  I  sup- 
pose you  may  know — that  ever  feared  either 
of  them  much — God  forgive  me  for  the  one, 
I  don't  ask  his  forgiveness  for  the  other. 
No,  Squire  FoUiard,  it  was  the  goodness,  the 
kindness,  the  generosity,  and  the  charity  of 
the  Coolecn  Baivn,  your  lovely  daughter,  that 
held  my  hand.  You  persecuted  my  old 
unele,  the  priest,  and  you  wovild  a'  hiinged 
him  too,  for  merely  maii'j'in '  a  Protestant 
and  a  CathoUc  together.  Well,  sir,  your  fair 
daughter,  and  her  good  mother — that's  now 


in  heaven,  I  hope — went  uj)  to  Dublin  to  th\3 
Lord  Lieutenant,  and  before  him  the  Cooleen 
Baicn,  went  on  her  two  knees  and  begged 
my  uncle's  life,  and  got  it ;  for  the  Lord 
Lieutenjuit  said  tliat  no  one  could  deny  lier 
any  thing.  Now,  sir,  for  her  sake,  go  home 
in  peace.     Boys,  get  their  horses." 

Andy  Cummiskey  would  have  looked  upon 
all  tljis  as  manly  and  generous,  but  he  could 
not  helj)  obsening  a  particular  and  rather 
sinister  meaning  in  the  look  which  the  Rap- 
jiaree  turned  on  his  companions  as  he  spoke. 
He  had  often  heard,  too,  of  his  treacherous 
disposition  and  liis  unrelenting  cnielty 
whenever  he  entertained  a  feehng  of  ven- 
geance. In  his  present  position,  however,  all 
he  could  do  was  to  stand  on  his  guard  ;  and 
wdth  this  impression  strong  upon  him  he  re- 
solved to  put  no  confidence  in  the  words  of 
the  Rai:)paree.  In  a  few  minutes  the  horses 
were  brought  up,  and  Randy  (Randal)  Ruah 
having  wiped  ^Ir.  FoUiard's  saddle — for 
such  was  his  name — ■with  the  skirt  of  his 
cothamore,  and  removed  the  hoar  frost  or 
rime  which  had  gathered  on  it,  he  brought 
the  animal  over  to  him,  and  said,  with  a 
kind  of  rude  courtesy, 

"  Come,  sir,  trust  me  ;  I  will  help  you  to 
your  saddle." 

"You  have  not  the  reputation  of  being 
trustworthy,"  repHed  Mr.  FoUiard;  "keep 
back,  sir,  at  your  joeril  ;  I  will  not  trust  you. 
My  own  seiTant  Avill  assist  me.  " 

This  seemed  precisely  the  arrangement 
which  the  Rapparee  and  his  men  had  con- 
templated. The  squire,  in  moimting,  was 
obHged,  as  eveiy  man  is,  to  use  both  his 
hands,  as  was  his  seiTant  also,  while  assist- 
ing him.  They  consequently  put  up  their 
pistols  until  they  should  get  into  the  saddles, 
and,  almost  in  an  instant,  found  themselves 
disai*med,  and  prisoners  in  the  hands  of 
these  lawless  and  unscrupulous  men. 

"Now,  Squii-e  FoUiard,"  exclaimed  the 
Rapparee,  "  see  what  it  is  not  to  trust  an 
honest  man  ;  had  you  done  so,  not  a  hair  of 
your  head  would  be  injured.  As  it  is.  111 
give  you  five  minutes  to  do  three  things ; 
remember  my  uncle,  the  priest,  tliat  you 
transported." 

"He  acted  most  UlegaUy,  sir,"  replied  the 
old  man  indignauily  ;  "  and,  in  my  opinion.  I 
say  that,  in  consequence  of  liis  conduct,  tlie 
country  had  a  good  riddance  of  him.  I  only 
wish  I  could  send  you  after  him  ;  perhaps  I 
shaU  do  so  yet.  I  believe  in  Providence, 
sirra,  and  that  God  can  protect  me  from 
your  violence  even  here." 

"In  the  next  place,"  proceeded  the  Rap- 
paree, "  think  of  your  daughter,  that  you  wUl 
never  see  again,  either  in  this  world  or  the 
next." 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


lI 


"  I  know  I  am  unworthy  of  having  such  an 
angel,"  replied  the  old  man,  "but  luiless  you 
were  a  cruel  and  a  heartless  ruffian,  you 
would  not  at  this  moment  mention  her,  or 
bring  the  thoughts  of  her  to  my  recol- 
lection." 

"In  the  last  place,  continued  the  other, 
"if  you  have  any  thing  to  say  in  the  shape 
of  a  prayer,  say  it,  for  in  five  miuutes'  time 
there  will  be  a  bullet  through  your  heai't, 
and  in  five  more  you  will  be  snug  and  warm 
at  the  bottom  of  the  loch  there  below — that's 
your  doom." 

"O'Donnel,"  said  Andy,  "tliink  that 
there's  a  God  above  you.  Surel}'  you 
wouldn't  murdher  this  ould  man  and  make 
the  sowl  witliin  your  body  redder — if  the 
thing's  possible — than  the  head  that's  on  the 
top  of  it,  though  in  throth  I  don't  think  it's 
by  way  of  ornament  it's  there  eitlier.  Come, 
come,  Eandid,  my  man,  this  is  aWj'caslhalagh 
(nonsense).  You  only  want  to  frighten  the 
gentleman.  As  for  youi*  uncle,  man  alive, 
all  I  can  say  is  that  he  was  a  fi-ieud  to  your 
famil}',  and  to  reUgion  too,  that  sent  him  on 
his  travels." 

"Take  off  your  gallowses"  (braces),  said 
the  Rajjjjaree  ;  "take  them  oftj  a  couple  of 
you — for,  by  all  the  jiowers  of  darkness, 
they'll  both  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  loch 
together,  back  to  back.  Do^\'n  3-ou'll  go, 
Andy." 

"By  my  soul,  then,"  rephed  the  unflinch- 
ing servant,  "  if  Ave  go  doAvn  you'll  go  w/> ; 
and  we  have  those  belongiu'  to  us  that  will 
see  you  kiss  the  hangman  yet.  Yerra,  now, 
above  all  words  in  the  alphabet  what  could 
put  a  gallows  into  youi-  mouth?  Faith, 
Randal,  it's  about  youi'  neck  it'll  go,  and 
you'll  put  out  your  tongue  at  the  dtiicent 
people  that  will  attend  youi'  ovm  funeral  yet 
— that  is,  if  you  don't  let  us  off." 

"Put  them  both  to  their  knees,"  said  the 
Rappai-ee  iu  a  voice  of  thunder,  "to  their 
knees  with  them.  I'U  take  the  masther,  and, 
Kineely,  do  you  take  the  man." 

The  companions  of  the  Rapparee  could 
not  avoid  laughing  at  the  comic  courage  dis- 
played b}'  Cummiskey,  and  were  about  to 
intercede  for  him,  wherLQ'Xionnel,  which  was 
his  name,  stamped  with  fury  on  the  gi'ound 
and  asked  them  if  they  dai*ed  to  disobey  him. 
This  sobered  them  at  once,  and  in  less  than 
a  minute  ^h:  FoUiard  and  Andy  were  placed 
upon  their  knees,  to  await  the  terrific  sen- 
tence which  was  about  to  be  executed  on 
them,  in  that  vdld  and  lonely  moor,  and 
under  such  appalling  cii-cumstances.  "When 
placed  in  the  desired  postui-e,  to  ask  that 
mercy  fi-om  God  which  they  were  not  about 
to  experience  at  the  hands  of  man,  Squii-e 
Folliard  spoke : 


" Red  Rappai-ee," said  he,  "it  is  not  that 
I  am  afraid  of  death  as  such,  but  I  ieel  that  I 
am  not  prepared  to  die.  Suffer  my  servant 
and  myself  to  go  home  without  harm,  and  1 
shall  engage  not  only  to  get  you  a  pardon 
from  the  Government  of  the  coiintr}',  but  I 
shall  fiu-nish  you  with  money  either  to  take 
you  to  some  useful  calling,  or  to  emigrate  to 
some  foreign  countiy,  where  nobody  will 
know  of  yoiu-  misdeeds,  or  the  life  you  have 
led  here." 

"Randal,  my  man,"  added  Andy,  "hsten 
to  what  the  gentleman  says,  and  you  may 
escape  wliat  you  knoAV  yet.  As  for  my  mas- 
ther, Raudrd,  let  him  pass,  and  take  me  in 
his  place.  ''1  may  as  well  die  now,  maybe,  as 
another  time.  I  was  an  honest,  faithful  ser- 
vant, at  all  times.  I  have  neither  chick  nor 
chiTd  to  ciT  for  me.  No  wife,  thank  God, 
to  break  my  heart  afther.  My  conscience  is 
hght  and  aixy,  like  a  beggai-man's  blanket, 
as  they  say  ;  and,  baiTin'  that  I  once  got 
drunk  wid  your  uncle  in  Moll  Flanagan's 
sheebeen  house,  I  don't  know  that  I  have 
much  to  trouble  me.  Spare  him,  then,  and 
take  me,  if  it  must  come  to  that  He  has 
the  Cooleen  Bawn  to  think  for.  Do  you 
think  of  her,  too  ;  and  remember  that  it  was 
she  who  saved  yoiu*  uncle  fi-om  the  gal- 
lows." 

Tliis  unlucky  allusion  only  deepened  the 
vengeance  of  the  Red  Rapparee,  who  look- 
ed to  the  priming  of  his  gvm,  and  was  in  the 
act  of  ijrejjai'iug  to  iJerj^etrate  this  most  in- 
human and  aAA-ful  muixler,  when  an  inter- 
ruption took  place  for  which  neither  I3ai*ty 
was  i^repared. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  A\dthin  about 
eight  or  ten  yards  of  where  they  stood  there 
existed  the  walls  and  a  portion  of  the  arched 
roof  of  one  of  those  old  ecclesiastical  ruins, 
which  our  antiquarians  denominate  C'yvlo- 
jjean,  like  lucuti  a  non  lucendo,  because  scarcely 
a  dozen  men  could  kneel  in  them.  Over  this 
sad  niia  was  wliat  sportsmen  term  "  a  pass  " 
for  duck  and  widgeon,  and,  aided  by  the 
shelter  of  the  building,  any  persons  who 
stationed  themselves  there  could  certainly 
commit  gi'eat  havoc  among  the  wild-fowl  in 
question.  The  Red  Rapparee  then  had  his 
gun  in  his  hand,  and  was  in  the  very  act  of 
adjusting  it  to  his  shoulder,  when  a  power- 
ful young  man  sj^rung  forward,  and  dashing 
it  aside,  exclaimed  : 

"  "What  is  this,  Randal  ?  Is  it  a  double 
murder  you  are  about  to  execute,  you  inhu- 
man niffian  ?  " 

The  Rai:)paree  glared  at  him,,  but  with  a 
quailing  and  subdued,  yet  svdlen  and  Aindic- 
tive,  expression. 

"  Stand  up,  sir,"  proceeded  this  dai-ing 
and   animated  young  man,  addressing  Mr. 


12 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Folliard  ;  "  and  you,  Cummiskey,  get  to  your 
legs.  No  person  shall  dai-e  to  injure  either 
of  you  while  I  am  here.  O'Dounel — stain 
and  disgi-ace  to  a  noble  name — begone,  you 
and  your  nitiians.  I  know  the  cause  of  yom- 
enmity  against  this  gentleman  ;  and  I  tell 
you  now,  that  if  you  were  as  ready  to  sustain 
your  rehgion  as  you  are  to  disgrace  it  by 
your  conduct,  you  would  not  l)ecome  a  curse 
to  it  and  the  country,  nor  give  promise  of 
feeding  a  himgiy  gallows  some  day,  as  you 
and  your  accomplices  "v\"ill  do." 

Whilst  the  y(^ung  stranger  addi-essed  these 
miscreants  with  such  energ}'  and  detennina- 
tion,  IMi-.  FoUiard,  who,  as  well  as  his  ser- 
vant, had  now  got  to  his  legs,  asked  the  latter 
in  a  wliisi^er  who  he  Avas. 

"  By  all  that's  happy,  sir,"  he  rej^Hed,  "  it's 
himself,  the  onl}'  man  living  that  the  Red 
Rapparee  is  afraid  of  ;  it's  '  Willy  Reilly.' " 


CHAPTER  n. 

The  Cooleen  Baum. 

The  old  man  became  vei-j'  Httle  wiser  by 
the  infoi-mation  of  his  servant,  and  said  in 
reply,  "I  hope,  Andy,  he's  not  a  Papist;" 
but  checking  the  \inworthy  prejudice — and 
in  him  such  prejudices  were  siugiilarly  strong 
in  words,  although  often  feeble  in  fact — he 
added,  "  it  matters  not — we  owe  our  hves  to 
him — the  deepest  and  most  important  obhga- 
tion  that  one  man  can  owe  to  another.  I  am, 
however,  scarcely  able  to  stand  ;  I  feel  be- 
numbed and  exhavisted,  and  wish  to  get 
home  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Mr.  Reilly,"  said  And}-,  "this  gentleman 
is  very  weak  and  ill ;  and  as  you  have  acted 
so  much  hke  a  brave  man  and  a  gentleman, 
maybe  you'd  have  no  objection  to  see  us  safe 
home." 

"It  is  my  intention  to  do  so,"  replied 
Reilly.  "  I  could  not  for  a  moment  think  of 
leaving  either  him  or  you  to  the  mercy  of 
this  treacherous  man,  Avho  dishonors  a  noble 
name.  Randal,"  he  proceeded,  addressing 
the  Rapparee,  "  mark  my  words  ! — if  but  a 
single  hah-  of  this  gentleman's  head,  or  of  any 
one  belonging  to  him,  is  ever  injured  by  you 
or  your  gang,  I  swear  that  you  and  they  will 
swing,  each  of  you,  fi-om  as  many  gibbets,  as 
soon  as  the  course  of  the  law  can  reach  you. 
You  know  me,  sir,  and  my  influence  over 
those  who  protect  you.  As  for  you,  Fergus, " 
he  added,  addressing  one  of  the  Rapparee's 
followers,  "you  are,  thank  God!  the  only 
one  of  my  blood  who  has  ever  disgraced  it 
by  leading  such  a  lawless  and  guilty  life.  Be 
ifdvised  by  me — leave  that  man  of  treachery. 


i-apine,  and  mui-der — abandon  him  and  re. 
form  your  life — and  if  you  are  disposed  to 
become  a  good  and  an  industrious  mem' 
ber  of  society,  go  to  some  other  counti-y, 
where  the  disgrace  you  have  incurred  in  this 
may  not  follow  you.  Be  advised  by  me,  and 
you  shall  not  want  the  means  of  emigrating. 
Now  begone ;  and  think,  each  of  you,  of 
what  I  have  said." 

The  Rappai'ee  glanced  at  the  noble-looking 
young  fellow  "udth  the  vindicti-s^  ferocity  of 
an  enraged  bull,  Avho  feels  a  disjjosition  to 
injure  you,  but  is  restrained  by  terror  ;  or, 
which  is  quite  as  appropriate,  a  cowai'dly 
but  vindictive  mastiff,  who  eyes  jon  askance, 
growls,  shows  his  teeth,  but  has  not  the 
courage  to  attack  you. 

"  Do  not  look  at  me  so,  sii',"  said  Reillj-- ; 
"  you  know  I  fear  you  not." 

"  But  in  the  meantime,"  rephed  the  Rap- 
pai'ee,  "  what's  to  prevent  me  fi-om  putting  a 
bullet  into  you  this  moment,  if  I  wish  to  do 
it?" 

"  There  are  ten  thousand  reasons  against 
it,"  returned  Reilly.  "If  you  did  so,  in  less 
than  twenty-foui'  hours  you  vv  ould  find  your- 
self in  SHgo  jail— or,  to  come  nearer  the 
truth,  in  less  than  five  minutes  you  would 
find  yoiu'self  in  hell." 

"  Well,  now,  suppose  I  should  make  the 
trial,"  said  the  Rapparee.  "  You  don't  know, 
Ml*.  Reilly,  how  you  have  crossed  me  to- 
night. Suppose  now  I  should  try — and  sup- 
pose, too,  that  not  one  of  you  three  should 
leave  the  spot  you  stand  on  only  as  coi-pses 
— wouldn't  I  have  the  advantage  of  you 
then?" 

Reilly  turned  towards  the  mined  chapel, 
and  simply  raising  his  right  hand,  about 
eight  or  ten  persons  made  their  ajDjoearance  ; 
but,  restrained  by  signal  fi-om  him,  they  did 
not  advance. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  he.  "  Now,  Randal, 
I  hope  you  understand  yoiu*  position.  Do 
not  provoke  me  again  ;  for  if  you  do  I  will 
surround  you  with  toils  from  which  you 
could  as  soon  change  youi'  fierce  and  brutal 
natui-e  as  escape.  Yes,  and  I  wiU  take  you 
in  the  midst  of  your  ruffian  guards,  and  in 
the  deepest  of  your  fastnesses,  if  ever  you 
provoke  me  as  you  have  done  on  other  oc- 
casions, or  if  you  ever  injiu'e  this  gentleman 
or  any  individual  of  his  family.  Come,  sir," 
he  proceeded,  addressing  the  old  man,  "  you 
are  now  mounted — my  horse  i«  in  this  old 
ruin — and  in  a  moment  I  shall  be  ready  to 
accompany  you." 

ReiUj'  and  his  companions  joined  our 
travellers,  one  of  the  former  having  offered 
the  old  squu'e  a  large  frieze  gi'eat-coat,  which 
he  gladly  accepted,  and  having  thus  fonned 
a  guard  of  safety  ior  him  and  his  faithful 


WIZZY  Bzzzzr. 


13 


attendant,  they  regained  the  old  road  we 
have  described,  and  resumed  theii-  journey. 

When  they  had  gone,  the  Rappai*ee  and  liis 
companions  looked  after  them  with  blank 
faces  for  some  minutes. 

"  Well,"  said  their  leader,  "  Eeilly  has 
knocked  up  oiu*  game  for  this  night.  Only 
for  him  I'd  have  had  a  full  and  sweet  re- 
venge. However,  never  mind  :  it'U  go  hard 
with  me,  or  I'll  have  it  yet.  In  the  mane 
time  it  won't  be  often  that  such  another  op- 
portunity wiU  come  in  our  way." 

"Well,  now  that  it  is  over,  what  was  your 
intention,  Randal  ? "  asked  the  person  to 
whom  ReiUy  had  addressed  himself. 

"  Why,"  replied  the  miscreant,  "aftei-  the 
deed  was  done,  what  was  to  j^revent  us  from 
robbing  the  house  to-night,  and  taking  away 
his  daughter  to  the  mountains.  I  have  long- 
had  my  eye  on  her,  I  can  tell  you,  and  it'll 
cost  me  a  fall,  or  I'll  have  her  yet." 

"You  had  better,"  replied  Fergus  Reilly, 
for  such  was  his  name,  "neither  malie  nor 
meddle  with  that  family  afther  this  night. 
If  you  do,  that  temble  relation  of  mine  will 
hang  you  hke  a  dog." 

"How  Avill  he  hang  me  like  a  dog?" 
asked  the  Rapparee,  knitting  his  shaggy 
eyebrows,  and  tvu'ning  ujjon  him  a  fierce  and 
gloomy  look. 

"  WTiy,  now,  Randal,  you  know  as  well  as 
I  do,"  replied  the  other,  "  that  if  he  only 
raised  his  finger  against  you  in  the  countiy, 
the  very  people  that  harbor  both  you  and  us 
would  betray  us,  aye,  seize  us,  and  bind  us 
hand  and  foot,  like  common  thieves,  and 
give  us  over  to  the  authorities.  But  as  for 
hijnself,  I  beheve  you  have  sense  enough  to 
let  him  alone.  When  you  took  away 
Mary  TrajTior,  and  neai'ly  kilt  her  brothei", 
the  young  priest — you  know  they  were 
ReiUy's  tenants — I  needn't  tell  you  what 
happened  :  in  iouv  hours'  time  he  had  the 
country'  up,  followed  you  and  your  party — I 
wasn't  with  you  then,  but  you  know  it's 
truth  I'm  spaJkin' — and  when  he  had  five  to 
one  against  you,  didn't  he  make  them  stand 
a,side  until  he  and  you  should  decide  it  be- 
tween you  ?  Aye,  and  you  know  he  covdd  a' 
brought  home  eveiy  man  of  you  tied  neck 
and  heels,  and  would,  too,  only  that  there 
was  a  large  reward  offered  for  the  takin'  of 
you  hvin'  or  dead,  and  he  scorned  to  have 
^my  hand  in  it  on  that  account." 

"  It  was  by  a  chance  blow  he  hit  me,"  said 
the  Rappai'ee — "  by  a  chance  blow." 

"  By  a  couple  dozen  chance  blows,"  repHed 
the  other  ;  "  you  know  he  knocked  you  down 
as  fast  as  ever  you  got  up — I  lave  it  to  the 
boys  here  that  wor  present." 

"  There's  no  use  in  denyin'  it,  Randal,"  they 
repHed  ;  "  you  hadn't  a  chance  wid  him." 


"  Well,  at  all  events,*'  observed  the  Rap- 
paree, "if  he  did  beat  me,  he's  the  only  man 
in  the  countiy  able  to  do  it ;  but  it's  not 
over,  curse  him — I'll  have  another  trial  with 
liim  yet." 

"If  you  take  my  advice,"  repHed  ReiUy, 
"  you'll  neither  make  nor  meddle  with  him. 
He's  the  head  o'  the  CathoHcs  in  this  part  of 
the  countiy,  and  3'ou  know  that;  aye,  and 
he's  their  fi-iend,  and  uses  the  friendship 
that  the  Protestants  have  towards  him  for 
theu'  advantage,  wherever  he  can.  The  man 
that  would  injui-e  Willy  Reilly  is  an  enemy 
to  our  religion,  as  well  as  to  every  thing 
that's  good  and  generous ;  and  mai'k  me, 
Randal,  if  ever  you  cross  him  in  what  he 
warned  you  against  this  veiy  night,  I'll  hang 
you  mj-self,  if  there  wasn't  another  livin'  man 
to  do  it,  and  to  the  back  o'  that  again  I  say 
you  mvist  shed  no  blood  so  long  as  I  am  with 
you." 

"  That  won't  be  long,  then,"  repHed  the 
Rappai-ee,  puUing  out  a  piu'se  ;  "  there's 
twenty  guineas  for  you,  and  go  about  your 
business  ;  but  take  care,  no  treachery." 

"No,"  repHed  the  other,  "I'U  have  none 
of  your  mone}' ;  there's  blood  in  it.  God 
forgive  me  for  ever  joinin'  you.  WTien  I 
want  money  I  can  get  it ;  as  for  treachery', 
there's  none  of  it  in  my  veins  ;  good-night; 
and  remember  my  words." 

Having  thus  spoken,  he  took  his  way 
along  the  same  road  b}^  which  the  old  squire 
and  his  party  went. 

"  That  feUow  vnH  tetray  us,"  said  the 
Rapparee. 

"  No,"  ref)Hed  his  companions  firmly, 
"  there  never  was  treachery  in  his  part  of  the 
family  ;  he  is  not  come  fi'om  any  of  the 
Queen's  O'Reillys.  *  We  wish  you  were  as 
sui'e  of  eveiy  man  you  have  as  you  may  be 
of  him." 

"WeU,  now,"  observed  their  leader,  "a 
thought  strikes  me  ;  this  ould  squu-e  will  be 
half  dead  aU  night.  At  any  rate  he'U  sleep 
like  a  top.  Wouldn't  it  be  a  good  ojipor- 
tunity  to  attack  the  house — aise  him  of  his 
money,  for  he's  as  rich  as  a  Jew — and  take 
away  the  Gooleen  Bawnf  We'U  call  at 
Shane  Beama's  f  stables  on   our  way  and 

*  Catholic  families  who  were  faithful  and  loyal 
to  Queen  Elizabeth  during  her  wars  in  Ireland  were 
stigmatized  by  the  nickname  of  the  Queen's 
friends,  to  distinguish  thera  from  others  of  the 
same  name  who  had  opposed  her,  on  behalf  of 
their  religion,  in  the  wars  which  desolated  Ireland 
during  her  reign  ;  a  portion  of  the  family  of  which 
we  write  were  on  this  account  designated  as  the 
Queen's  O'Reillys. 

f  Shane  Beama  was  a  celebrated  Rapparee.  who, 
among  his  other  exploits,  figured  principally  as  a 
horse-stealer.  He  kej)t  the  stolen  animals  con- 
cealed    in     remote    mountain    caves,    where    he 


14 


WILLFAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


bring  the  other  boys  along  wid  iis.  What 
do  jou  say  ?  " 

"  ^Vhy,  that  you'll  hang  yourself,  and 
every  man  of  us." 

"  Nonseuse,  you  cowai'dly  dogs,"  rephed 
their  leader  indignantly  ;  "  can't  we  lave  the 
covmtrj'  ?  " 

""Well,  if  you're  bent  on  it,"  replied  his 
followers,  "  we  won't  be  yom*  hindrance." 

"  We  can  break  up,  and  be  off  to  America," 
he  added. 

"  But  Avhat  will  you  do  Avith  the  Cooleen 
Baicn,  if  you  tnkc  her  ?  "  they  asked. 

"  Why,  lave  her  behind  us,  afther  showin' 
the  puii}'  creature  the  inside  of  .Shane 
Beama's  stables.  She'll  be  able  to  find  lier 
■way  back  to  her  father's,  never  fear.  Come, 
boys,  now  or  never.  To  say  the  ti-uth,  the 
sooner  we  get  out  of  the  countiy,  at  all 
events,  the  better." 

The  Rapparee  and  his  men  had  moved  up 
to  the  door  of  the  old  chajjel  akeady  alluded 
to,  whilst  this  conversation  went  on  ;  and 
now  that  theu'  dreadful  j)roject  had  been 
determined  on,  they  took  a  short  ciat  across 
the  moors,  in  order  to  j^rocure  additional 
assistance  for  its  accomplishment. 

No  sooner  had  they  gone,  however,  than 
an  individual,  who  had  been  concealed  in 
the  darkness  within,  came  stealthily  to  the 
door,  and  peeping  cautiously  out,  at  length 
advanced  a  few  steps  and  looked  timidly 
about  him.  Perceiving  that  the  coast  was 
clear,  he  placed  himself  imder  the  shadow 
of  the  old  walls — for  there  was  now  sulfi- 
cient  hglit  to  cast  a  shadow  fi-om  any  prom- 
inent object ;  and  fi'om  thence  hining  ob- 
sen'ed  the  dii'ection  which  the  Rapparee  and 
his  men  took,  without  any  risk  of  being 
«een  himself,  he  appeared  satisfied.  The 
name  of  this  individual — who,  although 
shrewd  and  cunning  in  many  things,  was 
nevertheless  deficient  in  reason — or  rather 
the  name  by  which  he  generally  went,  was 
Tom  Steeple,  a  aobnquet  given  to  him  on 
accoimt  of  a  predominant  idea  which  charac- 
terized and  influenced  liis  Avhole  conversa- 
tion. The  great  dehght  of  this  poor  ("reature 
was  to  be  considered  the  tallest  individual 
in  the  kingdom,  and  indeed  nothing  could 
be  more  amusing  than  to  witness  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  held  u]>  his  head  while  he 


trimmed  and  dyed  them  in  Buch  a  way  a.s  made  it 
imposHible  to  recognize  them.  These  caves  are 
curioKities  at  the  present  day,  and  are  now  known 
as  Shiine  Bmrna'a  Staolen.  He  was  a  chief  in  the 
formidable  gang  of  tlie  celebrated  Redmond 
O'Hanlon.  it  is  said  of  him  that  he  was  called 
Bearna  because  he  nev3r  had  any  teeth  ;  but  tra- 
dition tells  us  that  he  could,  notwithstanding,  bite 
a  piece  out  of  a  thin  plate  of  iron  with  as  much 
i*'^<i  a.s  if  i*^  W'^re  q-inp-ari-irea^ 


walked,  or  sat,  or  stood.  In  fact  his  walk 
was  a  complete  stiiit,  to  which  the  pride, 
arising  from  the  consciousness  of,  or  rather 
the  belief  in,  his  extraordinary  height  gave 
an  extremely  ludicrous  appearance.  Poor 
Tom  was  about  five  feet  nine  in  height,  but 
imagined  himself  to  be  at  least  a  foot  higher. 
His  Avhole  family  were  certainly  tall,  and 
one  of  the  greatest  calamities  of  the  poor 
fellow's  life  was  a  bitter  reflection  that  he 
himself  was  by  several  inches  the  lowest  of 
his  race.  This  was  the  only  exception  he 
made  Avith  respect  to  height,  but  so  deejily 
did  it  affect  him  that  he  could  scai'cely  ever 
allude  to  it  Avithout  shedding  teai's.  The 
life  he  led  Avas  similar  in  most  respects  to 
that  of  his  unhappy  class.  He  AA^andered 
about  through  the  country,  stopping  now  at 
one  farmer's  house,  and  now  at  another's, 
where  he  always  experienced  a  kind  recep- 
tion, because  he  Avas  not  only  amusing  and 
inofl'ensive,  but  capable  of  making  himself 
useful  as  a  messenger  and  di-udge.  He  was 
never  guilty  of  a  dishonest  act,  nor  ever 
known  to  commit  a  breach  of  trust ;  and  as 
a  quick  messenger,  his  extraordinary  speed 
of  foot  rendered  him  unrivalled.  His  great 
dehght,  however,  was  to  attend  sportsmen, 
to  Avhom  he  was  iuA'aluable  as  a  guide  and 
du-ector.  Such  Avas  his  AAdnd  and  speed  of 
foot  that,  aided  by  his  knoAvledge  of  Avhat  is 
termed  the  lie  of  the  country,  he  was  able  to 
keep  up  with  any  pack  of  hounds  that  ever 
went  out.  As  a  solio  man  he  Avas  unrivalled. 
The  form  of  every  hare  for  miles  about  Avas 
knoANTi  to  him,  and  if  a  fox  or  a  covey  of 
partridges  were  to  be  found  at  all,  he  was 
your  man.  In  Avild-fowl  shooting  he  Avas 
infallible.  No  pass  of  duck,  AAddgeon,  bar- 
nacle, or  cui'lew,  was  unknoAvn  to  him.  In 
fact,  his  jDrincipal  delight  Avas  to  att^^nd  the 
gentry  of  the  country  to  the  field,  either 
Avith  harrier,  foxhound,  or  setter.  No  cours- 
ing match  Avent  right  if  Tom  Avere  not 
j)resent ;  and  as  for  night  shooting,  his  eye 
and  ear  Avere  such  as,  for  accuracy  of  obser- 
vation, few  have  ever  Avitnessed.  It  is  time 
he  covdd  subsist  a  long  time  AAdthovit  food, 
but,  hke  the  renoAvned  Captain  Dixlgetty, 
wlien  an  abundance  of  it  happened  to  be 
placed  before  him,  he  displayed  the  most 
indefensible  ignorance  as  to  all  knowledge 
of  the  jieriod  when  he  ought  to  stop,  con- 
sidering it  his  bounden  duty  on  all  occasions 
to  clear  off  Avhatever  was  set  before  him — a 
feat  Avhich  he  always  accomplished  with  the 
most  signal  sucrcess. 

"  Aha !  "  exclaimed  Tom,  "  dat  Red  Rap- 
l)aree  is  tail  man,  but  not  tail  as  Tom  ;  h^m 
no  steeple  lilce  Tom  ;  but  him  rogue  and 
murderer,  an'  Tom  honest ;  him  won't  carry 
off  CofJjpjm.  Bavm  dough,  nor  rob  her  fader 


WILLY  REILLT. 


15 


ayder.  Come,  TorOj  Steele  Tom,  out  with 
your  two  legs,~one  afore  Coder,  and  jmt 
Eapparee's  nose  out  o'  joint.  Cooleen  Bawn 
dat's  p^ood  to  everybody,  Catlicks  (Catholics) 
iui'  all,  an'  often  ordered  Tom  many  a  bully 
dinner.  Hicko !  hicko !  be  de  bones  of 
Peter  White— off  I  go  !  " 

Tom,  like  many  other  individuals  of  his 
description,  was  never  able  to  get  over  the 
language  of  childhood — a  characteristic 
which  is  often  appended  to  the  want  of  rea- 
son, and  from  which,  we  presume,  the  term 
"  innocent  "  has  been  applied  in  an  esjjecial 
manner  to  those  who  are  remarkable  for  the 
same  defect. 

Having  uttered  the  words  we  have  just  re- 
cited, he  started  off  at  a  gait,  peculiar  to  fools, 
which  is  known  by  the  name  of  "  a  sUng  trot," 
and  after  getting  out  upon  the  old  road  he 
tmTied  liimself  in  the  direction  ^^hich  Willy 
Reilly  and  his  party  had  taken,  and  there  we 
beg  to  leave  him  for  the  present. 

The  old  squire  felt  his  animal  heat  much 
revi\  ed  by  the  warmth  of  the  fi-ieze  coat,  and 
his  spirits,  now  that  the  dreadful  scene  into 
which  he  had  been  so  unexpectedly  cast  had 
passed  away  without  danger,  began  to  rise 
80  exuberantly  that  his  conversation  became 
quite  loquacious  and  mirthful,  if  not  actual- 
ly, to  a  certain  extent,  incoherent. 

"Sir,  "said  he,  "you  must  come  home 
with  me — confound  me,  but  you  must,  and 
you  needn't  say  nay,  now,  for  I  shall  neither 
take  excuse  nor  apolog5^  I  am  a  hospitable 
man,  ]\Ir. — what's  this  your  name  is  ?  " 

"  My  name,  sir,"  rephed  the  other,  "  is 
Reilly — WiUiam  Reilly,  or,  as  I  am  more 
generally  called,  Willy  Reilly.  The  name, 
su",  though  an  honorable  one,  is,  in  this  in- 
stance, that  of  an  humble  man,  but  one  who, 
I  tnist,  will  never  disgrace  it." 

"  You  must  come  home  with  me,  Mx.  Reil- 
ly.    Not  a  word  now." 

"Such  is  mj' intention,  sir,"  rephed  Reilly. 
"  I  shall  not  leave  you  until  I  see  that  aU  risk 
of  danger  is  past — until  I  place  you  safely 
under  yoiu-  o\vn  roof." 

"  WeD,  now,"  continued  the  old  squire, 
"  I  believe  a  Papist  can  be  a  gentleman — a 
brave  man — a  man  of  honor,  Mr.  Reilly." 

"I  am  not  aware  that  there  is  any  tiling  in 
his  rehgion  to  make  him  either  dishonorable 
or  cowardly,  sir,"  rephed  Reilly  with  a  smile. 

"  No  matter,"  continued  the  other,  who 
foimd  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  in  restraining 
his  prejudices  on  that  point,  "  no  matter,  sir, 
no  matter,  Mr. — a — a — oh,  yes,  Reilly,  we 
will  have  notliing  to  do  Avith  religion — away 
with  it — confound  rehgion,  sir,  if  it  prevents 
one  man  from  being  thanldul,  and  gi*ateful 
too,  to  another,  when  that  other  has  saved 
his  lifa     What's  your  state  and  condition  in 


society,  Mr. — ?  confound  the  scoundrel !  he'd 
have  shot  me.  We  must  hang  that  fellow — 
the  Red  Rapparee  they  call  him — a  dreadful 
scourge  to  the  country  ;  and,  another  thing, 
Mr.  —  Mr.  Mahon — you  must  come  to  my 
daughter's  wedding.  Not  a  word  now — by 
the  great  Boyne,  you  must.  Have  you  eve* 
seen  my  daughter,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  had  that  pleasure,"  replied 
Reill}',  "  but  I  have  heard  enough  of  her  won^ 
derful  goodness  and  beauty." 

"  W^ell,  sir,  I  tell  you  to  your  teeth  that  I 
deny  your  words— j'ou  have  stated  a  false- 
hood, sir — a  he,  sir." 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  rephed  Reil- 
ly, somewhat  indignantly.  "  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  stating  a  falsehood,  nor  of  submit- 
ting tamely  to  such  an  imputation." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  I  say  it's  a  lie  still,  my  friend. 
What  did  you  say?  Why,  that  you  had 
heard  enough  of  her  goodness  and  beauty. 
Now,  sir,  by  the  banks  of  the  Boyne,  I  say 
you  didn't  hear  half  enough  of  either  one  or 
t'other.  Sir,  you  should  know  her,  for  al- 
though you  are  a  Papist  you  are  a  brave 
man,  and  a  gentleman.  StiU,  sir,  a  Papist  is 
not — curse  it,  this  isn't  handsome  of  me, 
WiUy.  I  beg  your  pardon.  Confound  aU 
rehgions  if  it  goes  to  that.  Still  at  the  same 
time  I'm  bound  to  say  as  a  loyal  man  that 
Protestantism  is  mj forte,  IVIr.  ReiUy — there's 
where  I'm  strong,  a  touch  of  Hercules 
about  me  there,  ^Ir.  Reilly — WiUy,  I  mean. 
Well,  you  are  a  thoi-ough  good  fellow.  Papist 
and  all,  though  you — ahem  ! — never  mind 
though,  you  shtdl  see  my  daughter,  and  you 
shaU  hear  my  daughter ;  for,  by  the  great 
Boyne,  she  must  salute  the  man  that  saved 
her  father's  hfe,  and  prevented  her  from 
being  an  oi-phan.  And  yet  see,  Willy,  I 
love  that  gui  to  such  a  degree  that  if  heav- 
en was  open  for  me  this  moment,  and  that 
Saint  Peter — hem  ! — I  mean  the  Apostle  Pe- 
ter, said  to  me,  '  Come,  Folhai'd,  wiilk  in,  sir,' 
by  the  great  Dehverer  that  saved  us  from 
Pope  and  Popery,  brass  money,  and — ahem  ! 
I  beg  your  pardon — weU,  I  say  if  he  was  to 
say  so,  I  wouldn't  leave  her.  There's  affec- 
tion for  you  ;  but  she  desei-ves  it  No,  if 
ever  a  girl  was  capable  of  keeping  an  old 
father  from  heaven  she  is." 

"  I  understmd  your  meaning,  sir,"  rephed 
Reilly  with  a  smile,  "  and  I  believe  she  is 
loved  by  every  one  who  has  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  her — ^liy  rich  and  poor." 

"Troth,  Mr.  ReiUy,"  observed  Andy,  "it's 
a  sin  for  any  one  to  let  their  affections,  even 
for  one  of  their  owti  childer,  go  between 
them  and  heaven.  As  for  the  masther,  he 
makes  a  god  of  her.  To  be  sure  if  ever 
there  was  an  angel  in  this  world  she  is  one." 

"  Get  out,  you  old  whelp,"  exclaimed  his 


16 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJUi'S  WOUKiS. 


master  ;  "  what  do  you  know  about  it  ? — ^you 
who  never  had  wife  or  child  ?  isn't  she  my 
only  child  ?— the  apple  of  my  eye  ?  the  love 
of  my  heart  ?  " 

"  if  you  loved  her  so  well  you  wouldn't 
make  her  unhappy  then." 

"  ^Yhat  do  you  mean,  you  despicable  old 
Papist  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  you  wouldn't  marry  her  to  a 
man  she  doesn't  like,  as  you're  goin'  to  do. 
That's  a  bad  way  to  make  her  happy,  at  any 
rate." 

"Overlook  the  word  Papist,  Mr.  Keillj', 
that  I  apphed  to  that  old  idolater — the  fellow 
worships  images ;  of  coiu'se  you  know,  as 
a  Papist,  he  does — ahem  ! — but  to  show  you 
that  I  don't  hate  the  Papist  without  excep- 
tion, I  beg  to  let  you  know,  sir,  that  I  fre- 
quently have  the  Papist  jwiest  of  our  parish 
to  dine  with  me  ;  and  if  that  isn't  hberahty 
the  devil's  in  it.  Isn't  that  true,  you  super- 
stitious old  Padareen  ?  No,  Mr.  Reilly,  Mr. 
Mahon — Willy,  I  mean — I'm  a  liberal  man, 
and  I  hope  we'll  be  all  saved  yet,  with  the 
exception  of  the  Pope — ahem !  yes,  I  hope 
we  shall  all  be  saved." 

"  Thi'oth,  sir,"  said  Andy,  addressing  him- 
self to  Eeilly,  "he's  a  quai-e  gentleman, 
this.  He's  always  abusing  the  Papists,  as 
he  calls  us,  and  yet  for  every  Protestant  ser- 
vant undher  his  roof  he  has  three  Papists,  as 
he  calls  us.  His  bark,  su',  is  worse  than  his 
bite,  any  day." 

"  I  beheve  it,"  replied  Eeilly  in  a  low  voice, 
"  and  it's  a  pity  that  a  good  and  benevolent 
man  should  suffer  these  idle  prejudices  to 
Bway  him." 

"  Di^•il  a  bit  they  sway  him,  sir,"  replied 
Andy  ;  "  he'll  damn  and  abuse  them  and 
theii'  reUgion,  and  yet  he'll  go  any  length  to 
serve  one  o'  them,  if  they  w^ant  a  fi'iend,  and 
has  a  good  character.  But  here,  now  we're 
at  the  gate  of  the  avenue,  and  you'll  soon  see 
the  Cooleen  Baivn." 

"  Hallo  !  "  the  squire  shouted  out,  "  what 
the  de^il !  are  you  dead  or  asleep  there  ? 
Brady,  you  Papist  scoundi'el,  why  not  open 
the  gate  ?  " 

The  porter's  wife  came  out  as  he  uttered 
the  words,  saying,  "  I  beg  your  honor's  par- 
don. Ned  is  up  at  the  Castle  ;"  and  whilst 
sneaking  she  opened  the  gate. 

"  Ha,  Molly  !  "  exclaimed  her  master  in  a 
(one  of  such  bland  good  nature  as  could  not 
for  a  moment  be  mistaken  ;  "  well,  Molly, 
how  is  httle  IVIick  ?  Is  he  better,  poor  fel- 
low ?  " 

"  He  is,  thank  God,  and  your  honor." 

"  Hallo,  Molly,"  said  the  squire,  laughing, 
"that's  Popery  again.  You  are  tlumking 
God  and  me  as  if  we  were  intimate  acquaint- 
ances.   None  of  that  fooHsh  Pojiish  nonsense. 


When  you  thank  God,  thank  him  ;  and  when 
you  thank  me,  why  thank  me  ;  but  don't 
unite  us,  as  you  do  him  and  your  Popish 
saints,  for  I  tell  you,  Molly,  I'm  no  saint; 
God  forbid !  Tell  the  doctorman  to  pay 
him  eveiy  attention,  and  to  send  his  bill  to 
me  when  the  child  is  properly  recovered; 
mark  that — properly  recovered." 

A  noble  avenue,  that  swept  along  with  two 
or  three  magnificent  bends,  brought  them 
lip  to  a  fine  old  mansion  of  the  castellated 
style,  where  the  squire  and  his  two  equestrian 
attendants  dismounted,  and  were  ushered 
into  the  parlor,  which  they  found  brilliantly 
lighted  vip  with  a  number  of  large  wax 
tapers.  The  furaitui-e  of  the  room  was  ex- 
ceedingly rich,  but  somewhat  curious  and 
old-fashioned.  It  was  such,  however,  as  to 
give  ample  pi'oof  of  great  wealth  and  com- 
fort, and,  by  the  heat  of  a  large  peat  fire 
which  blazed  in  the  capacious  hearth,  it  com- 
municated that  sense  of  warmth  which  was 
in  complete  accordance  with  the  general 
aspect  of  the  apartment.  An  old  gray-haired 
butler,  well-powdered,  together  with  two  or 
three  other  servants  in  rich  livery,  now  en- 
tered, and  the  squire's  first  inquiry  was  after 
his  daughter. 

"  John,"  said  he  to  the  butler,  "  how  is 
your  mistress  ? "  but,  without  waiting  for  a 
rej)ly,  he  added,  "here  are  twenty  pounds, 
which  you  will  hand  to  those  fine  fellows  at 
the  hall-door." 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  replied  Reilly,  "those 
men  are  my  tenants,  and  the  sons  of  my 
tenants  :  they  have  only  performed  towards 
you  a  duty,  which  common  humanity  would 
require  at  their  hands  towards  the  humblest 
person  that  hves." 

"  They  must  accept  it,  Mr.  Eeilly — they 
must  have  it^— they  ai-e  humble  men — and  as 
it  is  only  the  reward  of  a  kind  office,  I  think 
it  is  justly  due  to  them.  Here,  John,  give 
them  the  money." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Reilly  interposed  ;  the 
old  squire  Avould  not  listen  to  him.  John 
was,  accordingly,  dispatched  to  the  hall 
steps,  but  found  that  they  had  all  gone. 

At  this  moment  our  friend  Tom  Steeple 
met  the  butler,  whom  he  approached  with  a 
kind  of  wild  and  uncouth  anxiety. 

"Aha!  Mista  John,"  said  he,  "you  tall 
man  too,  but  not  tall  as  Tom  Steeple — ha, 
ha — you  good  man  too,  Mista  Jolm — give 
Tom  bully  dinners — Willy  Reilly,  Mista 
John,  w^ant  to  see  Willy  Eeilly." 

"  AVhat  do  you  want  \\'ith  liim,  Tom  ?  he's 
engaged  with  the  master." 

"  Must  see  him,  Mista  John ;  stitch  in 
time  saves  nine.  Hicko  !  hicko  !  God's 
sake,  Mista  John  :  God's  sake  !  Up  dere  ; ' 
and  as  he  spoke  he  pointed  towards  the  sky. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY 


17 


"  Well,  but  wliat  is  your  business,  then  ? 
What  have  you  to  tay  to  him?  He's  en- 
gag;ed,  I  tell  you." 

Tom,  api^rehensive  that  he  might  not  get 
an  opportunity  of  cominunicating  with 
Keilly,  bolted  in,  and  as  the  parlor  door 
stood  open,  he  saAv  him  standing  near  the 
lai-ge  cliinmey-piece. 

"  Willy  Reilly  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  voice 
that  trembled  with  earnestness,  "Willy 
Eeilly,  dere's  news  for  you — for  de  squire 
too — bad  news — God's  sake  come  wid  Tom 
— you  tall  too,  WiUy  Eeilly,  but  not  tall  as 
Tom  is." 

"What  is  the  matter,  Tom?"  asked 
Keilly  ;  "you  look  nlnrmcd." 

"God's  sake,  here,  Willy  Reill}',"  replied 
the  kind-hearted  fool,  "  come  wid  Tom. 
Bad  news." 

"  Hallo  !  "  exclaimed  the  squire,  "  what  is 
the  matter?  Is  this  Tom  Steei^lo?  Go  lo 
the  kitchen,  Tom,  and  get  one  of  your  '  bully 
dinners  ' — my  poor  fellov,- — oil  A\-ith  you — 
and  a  pot  of  beei',  Tom." 

An  exjDression  of  distress,  jorobably  height- 
ened by  his  vague  and  uncouscicufi  sense  of 
the  squire's  kindness,  was  depicted  strongly 
on  his  countenance,  and  ended  in  a  burst  of 
teai's. 

" Ha ! "  exclaimed  Reilly,  "poor  Tom,  sir, 
was  with  us  to-night  on  our  duck-shooting 
excursion,  and,  now  that  I  remember,  re- 
mained behind  us  in  the  old  niin — and  then 
he  is  in  teai-s.  What  can  this  mean  ?  I 
will  go  with  you,  Tom — excuse  me,  sir,  for 
a  few  minutes — there  can  bo  no  hai-m  in 
hearing  what  he  has  to  say." 

He  accompanied  the  fool,  with  whom  he 
remained  for  about  six  or  eight  minutes, 
after  which  he  re-entered  the  parlor  with  a 
face  which  strove  in  vain  to  maintain  its 
previous  expression  of  ease  and  serenity. 

"  Well,  Willy  ?  "  said  the  squire — "  you 
see,  by  the  way,  I  make  an  old  acquaintance 
of  you — " 

"  You  do  me  honor,  sir,"  replied  Eeilly. 

"Well,  what  was  this  mighty  matter? 
Not  a  fool's  message,  I  hojje  ?  eh ! " 

"No,  sii',"  said  the  other,  "but  a  matter 
of  some  importance." 

"John,"  asked  his  master,  as  the  butler 
entered,  "  did  you  give  those  worthy  fellows 
the  money  ?  " 

"  No,  your  honor,"  replied  the  other, 
'^'they  were  gone  before  I  went  out." 

"Well,  well,"  replied  his  master,  "it 
can't  be  helped.  You  will  excuse  me,  Mr. — 
a— a— yes— ]Mr.  Eeilly— Willy— WiUy— ay, 
that's  it — you  will  excuse  me,  Willy,  for  not 
bringing  you  to  the  drawing-room.  The 
fact  is,  neither  of  us  is  in  a  proper  trim  to 
go  there — both  travel-soiled,  as  tliey  say — 


you  wHth  duck-shooting  and  I  with  a  long 
ride — besides,  I  am  quite  too  much  fatigueo 
to  change  my  dress — John,  some  Madeira 
I'm  better  than  I  was — but  still  dreadfully 
exhausted — and  afterwards,  John,  tell  youi 
mistress  that  her  father  wishes  to  see  hei 
here.  Fii-st,  the  Madeira,  though,  till  I  re- 
cruit myself  a  httle.  A  glass  or  two  will  dc 
neither  of  us  any  harm,  Willy;  but  a  great 
deal  of  good.  God  bless  me !  wliat  an  es- 
cape I've  had  !  what  a  dreadful  fate  you  res- 
cued me  from,  my  young  friend  and  pre- 
server— for  as  such  I  will  ever  look  upor 
you." 

"Sir,"  rephed  Eeilly,  "I  will  not  den7 
that  the  appearance  of  myself  and  my  coRl  ■ 
panions,  in  all  probability,  saved  your  life." 

"  There  Avas  no  probabihty  in  it,  Willy — 
none  at  all ;  it  would  have  been  a  dead  cer- 
tainty in  every  sense.  My  God  !  here,  John — 
jDut  it  down  here — fill  for  that  gentleman 
and  me — thank  you,  Jolm — Willy,"  he  said 
as  he  took  the  glass  in  liis  trembling  hand — 
"  Willy — John,  Avithtb-aw  and  send  down  nay 
daughter — Wiily" — the  old  man  looked  at 
him,  but  was  too  full  to  utter  a  word.  At 
this  moment  his  daughter  entered  the  room, 
and  her  father,  laying  down  the  glass,  open- 
ed his  arms,  and  said  in  a  choking  voice, 
"  Helen,  my  daughter — my  cliild — come  to 
me  ;  "  and  as  she  threAv  herself  into  them  he 
embraced  her  tenderly  and  wept  aloud. 

"  L»sar  papa ! "  she  exclaimed,  after  the 
£rst  burst  of  his  gi-icf  Avas  over,  "  what  has 
affected  you  so  deeply  ?  Why  are  you  so 
agitated  ?  " 

"Look  at  that  noble  young  man,"  he  ex- 
claimed, directing  her  attention  to  Eeilly 
Avho  was  still  standing.  "  Look  at  him,  my 
life,  and  observe  him  Avell  ;  there  he  stands 
Avho  has  this  night  saved  your  loAong  father 
fi'om  the  deadly  aim  of  an  assassin — from  be- 
ing murdered  by  O'Donnel,  the  Eed  Eaj^iDa- 
ree,  in  the  lonely  moors." 

Eeilly,  from  the  moment  the  far-famed 
Cooleen  Bawn  entered  the  room,  heard  not  a 
syllable  the  old  man  had  said.  He  Avas  ab- 
sorbed, entranced,  stricic  Avith  a  sensation  of 
Avonder,  suii^rise,  agitation,  joy,  and  confu- 
sion, all  nearly  at  the  same  moment.  Such 
a  blaze  of  beauty,  such  elegance  of  person, 
such  tenderness  and  feeling  as  chastened 
the  radiance  of  her  countenance  into  some- 
thing that  might  be  termed  absolutely  di- 
vine ;  such  symmetry  of  fomi  ;  such  har- 
n.ony  of  motion  ;  such  a  seraphic  being  in 
the  shajDe  of  woman,  he  had,  in  fact,  never 
seen  or  dreamt  of.  She  seemed  as  if  sur- 
rounded by  an  atmosphere  of  hght,  of  dig- 
nity, of  goodness,  of  grace  ;  but  that  Avliich, 
above  all,  smote  his  heart  on  the  moment 
Avas  the  spirit  of  tenderness  and  profound 


18 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


sensibility  whieh  seemed  to  predominate  in 
her  whole  being.  "Why  did  his  manly  and 
intrepid  heiu-t  palpitate  ?  Why  did  such  a 
strange  confusion  seize  upon  him  ?  AMiy 
did  the  few  words  which  she  uttered  in  her 
father's  arms  tiJl  his  ears  with  a  melody  that 
chai-med  him  out  of  his  strengih  ?  Alas  !  is 
it  necessary  to  ask  ?  To  those  who  do  not 
understimd  this  myster}',  no  explanation 
could  be  of  any  avail ;  and  to  those  who  do, 
none  is  necessaiy. 

After  her  father  had  spoken,  she  raised 
herself  from  his  arms,  and  assuming  hei'  full 
height — and  she  was  taU — looked  for  a  mo- 
ment \AW\  her  dark,  deep,  and  ten-ible  eyes 
upon  EeHly,  who  in  the  meantime  felt  raj^t, 
speU-bound,  and  stood,  whilst  his  looks  were 
riveted  upon  tliese  in-esistible  orbs,  as  if  he 
had  been  attracted  by  the  influence  of  some 
dehghtful  but  supernatural  power,  under 
which  he  felt  himself  helpless. 

That  mutual  gaze  njid  that  delightful  mo- 
ment !  alas  !  how  many  hours  of  misery — of 
sorrow — of  suffeiing — and  of  madness  did 
they  not  occasion ! 

**Papa  has  imposed  a  task  upon  me,  sir," 
Ahe  said,  advancing  gi-acefull}'  towards  him, 
her  complexion  now  pale,  and  again  over- 
spread with  deep  blushes.  "  "What  do  I  say  ? 
A  /cf.'j/t — a  task  !  to  thank  the  preserver  of 
my  father's  hfe — I  know  not  what  I  say  : 
help  me,  sir,  to  papa — I  am  weak — I  am — " 
ReQly  flew  to  her,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms 
just  in  time  to  jireveut  her  fi'om  falling. 

"  My  God  !  "  exclaimed  her  father,  getting 
to  his  feet,  "what  is  the  matter?  I  was 
wrong  to  mention  the  cu-cumstance  so  ab- 
ruptly ;  I  ought  to  have  prepared  her  for  it. 
You  are  strong,  Eeilly,  you  are  strong,  and  I 
am  too  feeble— cany  her  to  the  settee.  There, 
God  bless  you  !— rGod  bless  you  ! — she  wiU 
soon  recover.  Helen  !  my  child  !  my  life  ! 
What,  Helen  !  Come,  dearest  love,  be  a  wo- 
man. I  am  safe,  as  you  may  see,  dearest. 
I  teU  you  I  sustained  no  injury  in  hfe — 
not  a  hair  of  my  head  was  hui-t ;  thanks  to 
Mr.  Reilly  for  it — thanks  to  this  gentleman. 
Oh  !  that's  right,  bravo,  Helen — bravo,  my 
girl !  See  that,  KeUly,  isn't  she  a  glorious 
creature  ?  She  recovers  now,  to  set  her 
old  lo\ing  father's  heai-t  at  ease." 

The  weakness,  for  it  did  not  amount  alto- 
gether to  insensibihty,  was  only  of  brief  du- 
ration. 

"  Dear  papa,"  »'id  she,  raising  herself, 
and  withdrawing  gently  and  modestly  from 
Reilly 's  support,  "I  was  unprepared  for  the 
account  of  this  dreadful  aftair.  Excuse  me, 
sii' ;  surely  you  -vviU  admit  that  a  murderous 
attack  on  dear  papa's  life  could  not  be  hs- 
tened  to  by  his  only  chOd  with  indifference. 
But  do  let  me  know  how  it  happened,  papa." 


"  You  ai-e  not  yet  equal  to  it,  darling  *,  you 
are  too  much  agitated." 

"I  am  equal  to  it  now,  papa !  Pray,  let  m€ 
hear  it,  and  how  this  gentleman — who  will 
be  kind  enough  to  imagine  my  thanks,  for, 
indeed,  no  limguage  coiild  express  them — 
and  how  this  gentleman  was  the  means  of 
saving  you." 

"Perhaps,  Miss  FoUiard,"  said  Reilly,  "it 
would  l)e  better  to  defer  the  explanation  un- 
til you  shall  have  gained  more  strength." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir,"  she  replied  ;  "  my  anxiety  to 
hear  it  "nill  occasion  me  greater  suliering,  I 
am  sure,  than  the  knowledge  of  it,  especially 
now  that  papa  is  safe." 

Eeilly  bowed  in  acquiescence,  but  not  in 
consequence  of  her  words  ;  a  glance  as  quick 
as  the  hghtning,  biit  full  of  entreaty  and 
gratitude,  and  fiomething  like  joy — for  who 
does  not  know  the  many  languages  which 
the  single  glance  of  a  lovely  woman  can 
sj^eak  ? — such  a  glance,  we  say,  accomj)anied 
her  words,  and  at  once  won  him  to  assent. 

"Miss  FoUiard  may  be  right,  sir,"  he  ob- 
sen^ed,  "  and  as  the  shock  has  passed,  per- 
haps to  make  her  briefly  acquainted  with  the 
circumstances  will  rather  relieve  her." 

"Eight,"  said  her  father,  "  so  it  will,  Willy, 
so  it  will,  especially,  thank  God,  as  there  has 
been  no  harm  done.  Look  at  this  now  !  Get 
away,  you  saucy  baggage  !  Youi'  2>oor  loving 
father  has  only  just  escaped  being  shot,  and 
now  he  runs  the  risk  of  being  strangled." 

"Dear,  dear  papa,"  she  said,  "who  could 
have  thought  of  injuring  you — you  •ndth  your 
angiy  tongue,  but  your  generous  and  chari- 
table and  noble  heart  ?  "  and  again  she  wound 
her  exquisite  and  lovely  arms  about  his  neck 
and  kissed  him,  whilst  a  fresh  gush  of  tears 
came  to  her  ej'es. 

"  Come,  Helen — come,  love,  be  quiet  now, 
or  I  shall  not  tell  you  any  tiling  more  about 
m}'  rescue  by  that  gallant  j^oung  feUow 
standing  before  you." 

This  was  followed,  on  her  part,  by  another 
glance  at  Eeilly,  and  the  glance  was  as 
speedily  followed  by  a  blush,  and  again  a 
host  of  tumultuous  emotions  crowded  ai'ound 
his  heart. 

The  old  man,  placing  her  head  upon  his 
bosom,  kissed  and  j^atted  her,  after  which 
he  related  briefly,  and  in  such  a  way  as  not, 
if  possible,  to  excite  her  afresh,  the  circum- 
stances with  which  the  reader  is  already  ac- 
cjuainted.  At  the  close,  however,  when  he 
came  to  the  part  wliich  Eeilly  had  bonie  in 
the  matter,  and  dwelt  at  more  length  on  his 
intrepidity  and  spirit,  and  the  energy  of 
character  and  courage  with  wliich  he  quelled 
the  terrible  Rappai-ee,  he  was  obliged  to  atop 
for  a  moment,  and  say, 

""Why,  Helen,  what  is   the   matter,  my 


WILLY  REILLY. 


19 


darling?  Are  you  getting  ill  again?  Your 
little  heart  is  going  at  a  gallop — bless  me, 
how  it  pit-a-pats.  There,  now,  you've  heai'd 
it  all — here  I  am,  safe — and  there  stands  the 
gentleman  to  whom,  under  God,  we  ai-e  both 
indebted  for  it.  And  now  let  us  have  dinner, 
darhng,  for  we  have  not  dined  ?  " 

Apologies  on  the  pai-t  of  Reilly,  who  really 
had  dined,  were  flung  to  the  ^\inds  by  the  old 
sqmre. 

"  ^\'hat  matter,  Willy  ?  what  matter,  man  ? 
— sit  at  the  table,  pick  something — curse 
it,  we  won't  eat  you.  Your  dress?  never 
mind  your  dress.  I  am  sui-e  Helen  here 
■will  not  find  fault  with  it.  Come,  Helen, 
use  your  influence,  love.  And  you,  sir, 
Willy  Reilly,  give  her  your  arm."  This  he 
added  in  consequence  of  dinner  having 
been  announced  while  he  sjioke  ;  and  so 
they  passed  into  the  dining-room. 


CHAPTER  m. 

Daring  Attempt  of  the  Red  Rapparee — Mysterious 
Disappearance  of  His  Gany^The  Avowal. 

We  must  go  back  a  httle.  ^\lien  Helen 
sank  under  the  dreadful  intelligence  of  the 
attempt  made  to  assassinate  her  fathei',  we 
stated  at  the  time  that  she  was  not  absolutely 
insensible  ;  and  this  was  the  fact.  Redly,  al- 
ready enraptiu'ed  by  such  wonderful  gi-ace 
and  beauty  as  the  highest  flight  of  his  imagi- 
nation could  never  have  conceived,  when  c^- 
ed  upon  by  her  father  to  carry  her  to  the  sofa, 
could  scarcely  credit  his  senses  that  such  a 
lovely  and  precious  burden  should  ever  be 
entrusted  to  him,  much  less  borne  in  his 
veiy  arms.  In  order  to  prevent  her  fi'om 
faUing,  he  was  Hterally  obhged  to  tkrow 
them  around  her,  and,  to  a  certain  extent, 
to  press  her — for  the  pui"pose  of  supporting 
her — against  his  heai't,  the  pulsations  of 
which  were  going  at  a  ti'emendous  speed. 
There  was,  in  fact,  something  so  soft,  so 
pitiable,  so  beautiful,  and  at  the  same  time 
so  exquisitely  pui-e  and  fragi'ant,  in  this 
lovely  creature,  as  her  head  lay  drooping  on 
his  shoulder,  her  pale  cheek  literally  lying 
against  his,  that  it  is  not  at  all  to  be  wonder- 
ed at  that  the  beatings  of  his  heart  wei*e  ac- 
celerated to  an  unusual  degree.  Now  she, 
fi'om  her  position  ujjon  his  bosom,  necessarily 
felt  this  rapid  action  of  its  tenant ;  when, 
therefore,  her  father,  after  her  recoveiy,  on 
reciting  for  her  the  feai-ful  events  of  the 
evening,  and  dwelling  upon  Reilly 's  determi- 
nation and  courage,  expressed  alai-m  at  the 
palpitations  of  her  heart,  a  glance  passed 
between  them  which  each,  once  and  forever, 


imderstood.  She  had  felt  the  agitation  ol 
his,  who  had  risked  his  life  in  defence  of  her 
father,  for  in  this  shape  the  old  man  had 
tiTily  put  it ;  and  now  she  knew  fi-om  her 
father's  ob.ser\ation,  hh  his  arm  lay  upon  her 
ovra,  that  the  interest  which  his  account  of 
Reilly's  chivalrous  conduct  thi'oughout  the 
whole  aftliir  had  excited  in  it  were  di.scovered. 
In  this  case  heart  sjxske  to  heai't,  and  by  the 
time  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  each  felt  con- 
scious that  their  passion,  brief  as  was  the 
period  of  theh-  acquaintance,  had  become, 
whether  for  good  or  evil,  the  uncontrollable 
destiny  of  their  lives. 

William  ReiUy  v?as  the  descendant  of  an 
old  and  noble  Ii'ish  family.  His  ancestors 
had  gone  through  all  the  vicissitudes  and 
trials,  and  been  engaged  in  most  of  the  civil 
broils  and  wars,  which,  in  Ireland,  had  char- 
acteiized  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  As  we  are 
not  disposed  to  enter  into  a  disquisition 
upon  the  histoiy  of  that  stormy  peiiod,  un- 
less to  say  that  we  beheve  in  oiu-  souls  both 
parties  were  equally  savage  and  inhuman, 
and  that  there  was  not,  hterally,  a  toss  up 
between  them,  we  have  only  to  add  that 
Reilly's  family,  at  least  that  branch  of  it  to 
which  he  belonged,  had  been  reduced  by  the 
ruin  that  resulted  fi'om  the  ci\al  wai"S,  and 
the  confiscations  jjecuhar  to  the  times.  His 
father  had  made  a  good  deal  of  money  abroad 
in  business,  but  feeling  that  melancholy 
longing  for  his  native  soil,  for  the  dark 
mountains  and  the  green  fields  of  his  be- 
loved country,  he  returned  to  it,  and  having 
taken  a  large  farm  of  about  a  thousand 
acres,  under  a  peculiar  tenui'e,  which  we 
shall  mention  ere  we  close,  he  devoted  him- 
self to  pasturage  and  agi'iculture.  Old 
ReiUy  had  been  for  some  yeai-s  dead,  and  his 
eldest  son,  WiUiam,  was  now  not  only  the 
head  of  his  immediate  family,  but  of  that 
great  branch  of  it  to  which  he  belonged, 
although  he  neither  claimed  nor  exercised 
the  honor.  In  Reilly,  many  of  those  ii-recon- 
cilable  points  of  character,  which  scai'cely 
ever  meet  in  the  disposition  of  any  but  an 
Ii-ishman,  were  united.  He  was  at  once  mild 
and  impetuous  ;  iiuder  peculiar  ciiTiunstan- 
ces,  humble  and  unassuming,  but  in  others, 
proud  almost  to  a  fault ;  a  bitter  foe  to  op- 
pression in  everj'  sense,  and  to  bigotry  in 
every  creed.  He  ^v■as  liiglily  educated,  and 
as  perfect  a  master  of  French,  Spanish,  and 
German,  as  he  was  of  either  Enghsh  or  Irish, 
both  of  wliich  he  spoke  with  equal  fluency 
and  pxuity.  To  his  personal  courage  we 
need  not  make  any  further  allusion.  On 
many  occasions  it  had  been  weU  tested  on 
:  the  Continent.  He  was  an  exjjert  and  un« 
j  rivalled  swordsman,  and  a  first-rate  shot, 
I  whether   with   the   pistol  or  fowling-piecet 


20 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8   WORKS. 


At  every  athletic  exercise  he  was  matcliless  ; 
and  one  preat  cause  of  his  extraordinaiy 
popularity  amonjjr  tlie  peasantry  was  the 
pleasiu-e  he  took  in  promoting:  the  exercise 
of  such  manly  spoi-ts  amgng  them.  In  his 
person  he  combined  gfi-eat  strength  with  re- 
markable gi-ace  and  ease.  The  wondei-ful 
sj-mmetiy  of  his  fonn  took  away  apparently 
from  his  size  ;  but  on  looking  at  and  exam- 
ining him  closely,  you  felt  siu-prised  at  the 
astonishmg  fvdness  of  his  propoi'tions  and 
the  prodigious  muscular  jDower  which  lay 
under  such  deceptive  elegance.  As  for  his 
features,  they  were  replete  with  that  manly 
expression  which  changes  with,  and  becomes 
a  candid  exponent  of,  eveiy  feeling  that  in- 
fluences the  heart.  His  mouth  was  fine,  and 
his  fuU  red  hps  exquisitely  chiselled  ;  his 
chin  was  full  of  firmness  ;  and  his  lai-ge  dark 
eyes,  though  soft,  melloAV,  and  insinuating, 
had  yet  a  sparkle  in  them  that  gave  exddence 
of  a  fieiy  spuit  when  provoked,  as  well  as  of 
a  high  sense  of  self-respect  and  honor.  His 
complexion  was  sHghtly  bronzed  by  resi- 
dence in  continental  chmates,  a  circumstance 
that  gave  a  waimth  and  mello^ATiess  to  his 
featvu'es,  which,  when  taken  into  considera- 
tion ^^•ith  his  black,  clusteiing  locks,  and  the 
snowy  whiteness  of  his  forehead,  placed  him 
in  the  veiy  highest  order  of  handsome  men. 

Such  was  our  hero,  the  fame  of  whose  per- 
sonal beauty,  as  well  as  that  of  the  ever- 
memorable  Cooleea  Baton,  is  yet  a  tradition 
in  the  coimtry. 

On  this  occasion  the  dinner-party  consisted 
only  of  the  squire,  his  daughter,  and  Eeilly. 
The  old  man,  on  reflecting  that  he  Avas  now 
safe,  felt  his  spirits  revive  apace.  His  habits 
of  life  were  joUy  and  conrivial,  but  not  ac- 
tually intemperate,  although  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted that  on  some  occasions  he  got  into 
the  debatable  ground.  To  those  who  did 
not  know  him,  and  who  were  acquainted 
through  common  report  only  with  his  un- 
mitigated abuse  of  Popery,  he  M'as  looked 
upon  as  an  oppressive  and  overbearing  ty- 
rant, who  would  enforce,  to  the  fui'thest  pos- 
sible stretch  of  severity,  the  penal  enact- 
ments then  in  existence  against  Roman 
Catholics.  And  this,  indeed,  was  time,  so 
far  as  any  one  was  concerned  from  whom  he 
imagined  himself  to  have  received  an  injury' ; 
against  such  he  was  a  vindictive  tjTant,  and 
a  most  implacable  persecutor.  By  many,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  was  considered  as  an  ec- 
centric man,  with  a  weak  head,  but  a  heart, 
that  often  set  all  his  anti-Catholic  prejudices 
at  complete  defiance. 

At  dinner  the  squire  had  most  of  the  con- 
versation to  loimself,  his  loquacity  and  good- 
humor  having  been  very  much  improved  by 
a  few  glasses  of  his  rich  old  Madeira.     His 


daughter,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed  fre- 
quently in  a  state  of  absti-action,  and,  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  found  herself  incap- 
able of  answeiing  several  questions  which  he 
put  to  her.    Ever  and  anon  the  timid,  blush- 
j  ing  glance  was  directed  at  Reilly,  by  whom 
it  was  retiHTied  ^\-ith  a  significance  that  went 
i  directly  to  her  heart.     Both,  in  fact,  appear- 
'  ed  to  be  influenced  by  some  secret  train  of 
thought  that  seemed  quite  at  variance  mth 
the  old  gentleman's  gaiiiihty. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  here  we  are,  thank  God, 
all  safe  ;  and  it  is  to  you,  Wdly,  we  owe  it. 
;  Come,  man,  take  off  your  wine.     Isn't  he  a 
fine  yoimg  fellow,  Helen  ?  " 

Helen's  heart,  at  the  moment,  had  followed 
her  eyes,  and  she  did  not  hear  him. 

"Hello!  what  the  deuce!  By  the  banks 
of  the  Boyne,  I  beHeve  the  gii-1  has  lost  her 
healing.  I  say,  Helen,  isn't  Willy  ReLUy 
here,  that  prevented  you  fi'om  being  an  or- 
phan, a  fine  young  fellow  ?  " 

A  sudden  rosy  blush  sufifused  her  whole 
neck  and  face  on  hearing  this  blunt  and  in- 
considerate question. 

"  "\i\'Tiat,  darling,  have  3'ou  not  heard  me  ?  " 

"  If  Ml'.  Reilly  were  not  present,  papa,  I 
might  give  an  opinion  on  that  subject ;  but 
I  ti-ust  you  will  excuse  me  now." 

"Well,  I  supiDose  so;  there's  no  getting 
women  to  sjDeak  to  the  point.  At  all  events, 
I  would  give  more  than  I'll  mention  that  Sii" 
Robert  t\Tiitecraft  was  as  good-looking  a 
specimen  of  a  man  ;  I'll  engage,  if  he  was, 
you  would  have  no  objection  to  say  yes,  my 
gii'l." 

"I  look  to  the  disposition,  papa,  to  the 
moral  feelings  and  piinciples,  more  than  to 
the  person. ' 

"  WeU,  Helen,  that's  right  too — all  right, 
darling,  and  on  that  account  Sir  Robert 
must  and  ought  to  be  a  favorite.  He  is  not 
yet  forty,  and  for  this  he  is  liimself  my  au- 
thority, and  forty  is  the  prime  of  hfe  ;  yet, 
with  an  immense  fortune  and  strong  temjita- 
tions,  he  has  never  launched  out  into  a  single 
act  of  imjjrudence  or  foil}'.  No,  Helen,  he 
never  sowed  a  peck  of  Avild  oats  in  his  life. 
He  is,  on  the  contrary,  sober,  grave,  silent — a 
little  too  much  so,  by  the  way — cautious, 
pinident,  and  saving.  No  man  knows  the 
value  of  money  better,  nor  can  contrive  to 
make  it  go  furtbei'.  Then,  as  for  managing 
a  bargain — upon  my  soul,  I  don't  think  he 
treated  me  weU,  though,  in  the  swop  of 
'  Hop-and-go-constant '  against  my  precious 
bit  of  blood,  'Pat  the  Spanker.'  He  made 
me  pay  him  twenty -five  pounds  boot  for  an 
old — But  you  shall  see  him,  Reilly,  you  shall 
see  him,  Willy,  and  if  ever  there  was  a 
greater  take  in — you  needn't  smile.  He' en, 
nor  look  at  Willy.     By  the  good  King  Wil- 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


21 


liam  that  saved  us  from  Pope,  and — ahem — 
I  beg  pardon,  "Willy,  but,  upon  my  soul,  he 
took  me  completely  in.  I  say,  I  shall  show 
you  Hop-and-go-constant,  and  when  you  see 
him  you'll  admit  the  'Hop,'  but  the  devil  a 
bit  you  will  find  of  the  '  Go-constant.' " 

"I  suppose  the  gentleman's  personal  ap- 
pearance, sir,"  obsen-ed  ReiUy,  glancing  at 
Miss  FoUiard,  "  is  equal  to  his  other  quah- 
ties." 

"  Why — a — ye — s.  He's  tall  and  thin  and 
serious,  with  something  about  him,  say,  of  a 
philosopher.     Isn't  that  tiiie,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  papa,"  she  rejjhed,  -svith  a  smile 
of  ai-ch  humor,  which,  to  Reilly,  placed  her 
chai-acter  in  a  new  light. 

"  Perfectly  tme,  papa,  so  far  as  you  have 
gone  ;  but  I  tiiist  you  will  finish  the  portrait 
for  Mr.  Reillv." 

'•  Well,  then,  I  will.  Where  was  I  ?  Oh,  yes 
— tall,  tliin,  and  serious  ;  like  a  philosopher. 
Ill  go  next  to  the  shoulders,  because  Helen 
seems  to  like  them — they  are  a  little  round 
or  so.  I,  myself,  wish  to  goodness  they  were 
somewhat  straighter,  but  Helen  says  the 
cun-e  is  dehghtful,  being  what  painters  and 
glaziers  call  the  line  of  beauty." 

A  sweet  hght  laugh,  that  rang  with  the 
melody  of  a  musical  bell,  broke  fi-om  Helen 
at  this  part  of  the  description,  in  which,  to 
tell  the  tiuth,  she  was  joined  by  Eerily.  The 
old  man  himself,  fi'om  sheer  happiness  and 
good-humor,  joined  them  both,  though  ut- 
terly ignorant  of  the  cause  of  theii'  mii'th. 

"  Aye,  aye,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  may  laugh 
— by  the  gi*eat  Bo^Tie,  I  knew  I  would  make 
you  laugh.  Well,  I'll  go  on  ;  his  complexion 
is  of  a — a — no  matter — of  a  good  standing 
color,  at  all  events  ;  his  nose,  I  gi-ant  you,  is 
as  thin,  and  much  of  the  same  color,  as 
pasteboard,  but  as  a  set-off  to  that  it's  a 
thorough  Wilhamite.  Isn't  that  true, 
Helen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa  ;  but  I  think  King  WiUiam's 
nose  was  the  worst  featru-e  in  liis  face, 
although  that  certainly  cannot  be  said  of 
Sii"  Eobei-t." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Reilly?  I  wish  Sir 
Robei-t  heard  it,  but  I'll  tell  him — there's  a 
comphment,  Helen — you're  a  good  girl — 
thank  you,  Helen." 

Helen's  face  was  now  radiant  with  mirth- 
ful enjoyment,  whilst  at  the  same  time 
Reilly  could  perceive  that  from  time  to  time 
a  deep  unconscious  sigh  would  escape  from 
her,  such  a  sigh  as  induced  him  to  infer  that 
some  hidden  care  was  at  work  ■with  her 
heart.  This  he  at  once  imputed  to  her 
fether's  determination  to  force  her  into  a 
marriage  with  the  worthy  biironet,  whom 
in  his  simpHcity  he  was  so  ludicrously  de- 
scribinsf. 


"Proceed,  papa,  and  finish  as  you  have 
begun  it." 

"I  will,  to  obhge  and  gratify  you,  Helen. 
He  is  a  little  close  about  the  knees,  Mr. 
Reilly — a  httle  close  about  the  knees,  WUly." 

"  And  about  the  heart,  papa,"  added  his 
daughter,  who,  for  the  life  of  her,  could  not 
restrain  the  obser\'ation. 

"  It's  no  fciult  to  know  the  value  of  money, 
my  dear  child.  However,  let  me  go  on — 
close  about  the  knees,  but  that's  a  proof  of 
strength,  because  they  support  one  another : 
every  one  knows  that." 

"  But  his  arms,  papa  ?  " 

"  You  see,  Reilly,  you  see,  Willy,"  said 
the  squire,  nodding  in  the  direction  of  his 
daughter,  "  not  a  bad  sign  that,  and  yet  she 
pretends  not  to  care  about  him.  She  is 
gi-atitied,  eridenth'.  Ah,  Helen,  Helen  !  it's 
hard  to  know  women." 

"But  his  amis,  papa?" 

"  Well,  then,  I  wish  to  goodness  you  would 
allow  me  to  skip  that  part  of  the  subject — 
they  are  an  a^^-ful  length,  WiUy,  I  grant  I 
allow  the  fact,  it  cannot  be  denied,  they  are 
of  an  awful  length." 

"  It  will  give  him  the  greater  advantage  in 
over-reaching,  papa." 

"Well,  as  to  his  arms,  upon  my  soul, 
Willy,  I  know  no  more  what  to  do  with 
them — " 

■*  Than  he  does  himself,  papa." 

"Just  so,  Helen;  they  hang  about  him 
hke  those  of  a  skeleton  on  wii*es  ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  has  a  neck  that  always 
betokens  tnae  blood,  long  and  thin  like  that 
of  a  racer.  Altogether  he's  a  devilish  inter- 
esting man,  steady,  prudent,  and  sober.  I 
never  saw  him  diink  a  third  glass  of — " 

"  In  the  meantime,  pajja,"  obsei*ved  Helen, 
"  in  the  enthusiasm  of  your  description  you 
are  neglecting  ^Ir.  ReiUy." 

Ah,  love,  love  !  in  how  many  minute  points 
can  you  make  yourself  understood  ! 

"By  the  gi'eat  Wilham,  and  so  I  am. 
Come,  Willy,  help  yourself  " — and  he  pushed 
the  bottle  towards  him  as  he  spoke. 

And  why,  gentle  reader,  did  Reilly  fill  his 
glass  on  that  pai'ticular  occasion  until  it 
became  Htei'ally  a  brimmer  ?  We  know — but 
if  you  ai'e  ignorant  of  it  we  simply  beg  yovj 
to  remain  so  ;  and  why,  on  putting  the  gltxsa 
to  his  Hps,  did  his  large  dark  eyes  rest  upon 
her  vrith  that  deep  and  meltitig  glance?; 
Why,  too,  was  that  glance  returned  with  the 
quickness  of  thought  before  her  hds  di'opped, 
and  the  conscious  blush  suffused  her  face  ? 
The  solution  of  this  we  must  also  leave  to 
your  own  ingenuity. 

"Well,"  proceeded  the  squire,  "steady, 
prudent,  sober — of  a  fine  old  family,  and 
with  an  estate  of  twelve  thousand  a  year— 


32 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


what  do  you  think  of  that,  WiDy  ?    Isn't  she 
a  fortvinate  }?irl  ?  " 

"  Tiikin;;  bis  viiiues  and  very  afrreeable  per- 
son into  cont-ideratiou,  sir,  I  think  so,"  rephed 
Eeilly  in  a  tone  of  shght  sai-casm,  which  wa-s 
only  calculated  to  reach  one  of  his  audience. 

"  You  hetu"  that,  Helen — you  hear  what 
Mr.  Eeilly — what  "NVilly — says.  The  fact  is, 
I'll  call  you  nothinp;  but  Willy  in  futui-e, 
Willy — you  heai-  what  he  says,  darling?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do,  papa — and  understand  it 
perfectly." 

"  That's  my  gii'l.  Twelve  thousand  a  year 
— and  has  money  lent  out  at  every  rate  of  in- 
terest from  .six  per  cent,  up." 

"And  yet  I  cannot  cou.sider  him  as  inter- 
esting on  that  account,  papa." 

"  You  do,  Helen — nonsense,  my  love — you 
do,  I  tell  you — it's  idl  make-beUeve  when  you 
speak  to  the  contraiy — don't  you  call  the 
curve  on  his  shoulders  the  line  of  beauty  ? 
Come — come — yaxx.  know  I  only  want  to  make 
you  happy." 

"  It  is  time,  papa,  that  I  should  withdraw," 
she  rephed,  rising. 

ReiUy  rose  to  open  the  door. 

"Good-night,  papa — deai-,  dear  jjapa," she 
added,  puttmg  her  snowy  arms  about  his 
neck  and  kis.siug  him  tenderly.  "  I  know," 
she  added,  "  that  the  gi'eat  object  of  yoiu'  hfe 
is  to  make  your  Cooken  Baton  hapj^y — and  in 
doing  so,  deal-  jjapa — there  now  is  another 
kiss  for  you — a  little  biibe,  papa — in  doing 
so,  consult  her  heart  as  well  as  your  own. 
Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  my  treasure." 

During  this  little  scene  of  afifectionate  ten- 
derness Eeilly  stood  holding  the  door  open, 
and  as  she  was  going  out,  as  if  recollecting 
herseK,  she  turned  to  him  and  said,  "  Pardon 
me,  Mr.  Eeilly,  I  feai-  you  must  think  me 
ungi-ateful ;  I  have  not  yet  thanked  you  for 
the  sei-vice — a  sen'ice  indeed  so  important 
that  no  Lmg-uage  could  find  expression  for  it 
— which  you  have  rendered  to  dear  pajia,  and 
to  me.  But,  Mi-.  Eeilly,  I  pray  you  do  not 
think  me  vmgi'ateful,  or  insensible,  for,  in- 
deed, 1  am  neither.  Suffer  me  to  feel  what 
I  owe  you,  and  do  not  blame  me  if  I  cannot 
express  it." 

"  If  it  were  not  for  the  value  of  the  life 
which  it  is  probable  I  have  saved,  and  if  it 
-were  not  that  yotu*  happiness  was  so  deeply 
involved  in  it,"  replied  Eeilly,  "  I  would  say 
that  you  overrate  what  I  have  done  this  even- 
ing. But  I  confess  I  am  myself  now  forced 
to  see  the  value  of  my  senices,  and  I  thank 
heaven  for  having  made  me  tlie  humble  in- 
strument of  stiving  your  father's  life,  not  only 
for  his  own  sake.  Miss  FoUiard,  but  for  yours. 
I  now  feel  a  double  debt  of  gratitude  to 
heaven  for  it" 


The  Cooleen  Bawn  did  not  speak,  but  thfi 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.  "  Good-night, 
sir,"  she  said.  "  I  am  utterly  incapable  oi 
thanking  you  as  j-ou  desei-ve,  and  as  I  ought 
to  thank  you.     Good-night !  " 

She  extended  her  small  snowy  hand  to 
him  as  she  spoke,  Eeilly  took  it  in  his,  and 
by  some  vohmtaiy  impulse  he  could  not 
avoid  giving  it  a  cerfaiu  degree  of  pressure. 
The  fact  is,  it  was  such  a  hand — so  white — 
so  small — so  soft — so  warm — so  provocative 
of  a  squeeze — that  he  felt  his  own  pressing 
it,  he  knew  not  how  nor  wherefore,  at  least 
he  thought  so  at  the  time  ;  that  is  to  say,  if 
he  were  capable  of  thinking  distinctly  of  any 
thing.  But  heaven  and  earth  !  Was  it  true ! 
No  delusion?  No  dream?  The  i^ressure 
returned !  the  shghtest,  the  most  gentle,  the 
most  dehcate  pressure — the  bai-ely  percepti- 
ble pressure  !  Yes  !  it  was  beyond  all  doubt ; 
for  although  the  act  itself  was  hght  as  deh- 
cacy  and  modesty  could  make  it,  yet  the 
spii-it — the  lightening  spirit — which  it  shot 
into  his  bounding  and  enraptured  heart  could 
not  be  for  a  moment  mistaken. 

As  she  was  rimning  uj)  the  stau'S  she  re- 
tui-ned,  however,  and  again  approaching  her 
father,  said — whilst  Eeilly  could  obsen'e  that 
her  cheek  was  flushed  Avith  a  feehng  that 
seemed  to  resemble  ecstasy — "  Papa,"  said 
she,  "what  a  stupid  gii-1  I  am!  I  scai'cely 
know  what  I  am  saying  or  doing." 

"By  the  great  Boyne,"  rei:>hed  her  father, 
"m  describe  liim  to  you  every  night  in  the 
week.  I  knew  the  curve — the  line  of  beauty 
— woidd  get  into  your  head ;  but  what  is  it, 
darhng  ?  " 

"  W^iU  you  and  IVIr.  Eeilly  have  tea  in  the 
drawing-room,  or  shiill  I  send  it  down  to 
you?" 

"I  am  too  comfortable  in  my  easy  chair, 
dear  Helen  :  no,  send  it  clown." 

"  After  the  shock  you  haAe  received,  papa, 
perhaps  you  might  wish  to  have  it  from  the 
hand  of  your  own  Cooleen  Bawn?" 

As  the  old  man  txu'ned  his  eyes  upon  hef 
they  literally  danced  Avith  delight.  "  Ah, 
Willy  !  "  said  he,  "  is  it  any  wonder  I  shovdd 
love  her  ?  " 

"I  have  often  heard,"  rejDhed  Eeilly, 
"  that  it  is  impossible  to  know  her,  and  noJ 
to  love  her.     I  now  believe  it." 

"  Thank  you,  PteiUy  ;  thank  you,  Willy , 
shake  hands.  Come,  Helen,  shake  hands 
with  him.  That's  a  compliment.  Shake 
hands  with  him,  dai-hng.  There,  now,  that's 
all  right.  Yes,  my  love,  by  all  means,  come 
doAvn  and  give  us  tea  here." 

Innocent  old  man — the  die  is  now  irrevo- 
cably cast !     That  mutujil  pressui*e,  and  that 
mutual   glance.      Alas !    alas  !  how   strange 
I  and  incomprehensible  is  human  destiny  ! 


WILLY  hElLLT. 


23 


After  she  had  gfone  upstairs  the  old  man 
said,  "  You  see,  Willy,  how  my  heart  and 
soul  are  in  that  angehc  creature.  The 
great  object,  the  great  delight  of  her  life,  is 
to  anticipate  all  my  wants,  to  study  whatever 
is  agreeable  to  me — in  fact,  to  make  me 
happy.  And  she  succeeds.  Every  thing  she 
does  pleases  me.  By  the  gi-ave  of  Schom- 
berg,  she's  beyond  all  price.  It  is  true  we 
never  had  a  baronet  in  the  family,  and  it 
would  gi'atif)-  me  to  hear  her  called  Lady 
\Miitecraft ;  still.  I  say,  I  don't  care  for  rank  or 
ambition ;  nor  would  I  sacrifice  my  child's  hap- 
piness to  either.  And,  between  you  and  mc, 
if  she  declines  to  have  him,  she  shan't,  that's 
all  that's  to  be  said  about  it.  He's  quite  round 
in  the  shoulders  ;  and  yet  so  inconsistent 
are  women  that  she  calls  a  protuberance  that 
resembles  the  letter  C  the  lino  of  beauty. 
Then  again  he  hit  me  in  '  Hoi>and-go-con- 
stant ; '  and  you  know  yourself,  Willy,  that 
no  person  likes  to  be  bit,  especially  by  the 
man  he  intends  for  his  son-in-law.  If  he 
gives  me  the  hile  before  man-iage,  what 
would  he  not  do  after  it  ?  " 

"  This,  sir,  is  a  subject,"  rephed  Reilly, 
"  on  which  I  must  decline  to  give  an  opin- 
ion ;  but  I  think  that  no  father  shoiold  sacri- 
fice the  happiness  of  his  daughter  to  his  o"5\ti 
incHnations.  However,  setting  this  matter 
aside,  I  have  something  of  deep  importance 
to  mention  to  you." 

"  To  me  !     Good  heavens !     "\i\niat  is  it  ?  " 

"The  Red  Rapparee,  sir,  has  formed  a 
plan  to  rob,  jjossibly  to  murder,  you,  and 
what  is  worse — " 

"Worse  !  Wliy,  what  the  deuce — worse  ! 
Why,  what  coxdd  be  woi*se  ?  " 

"The  dishonor  of  your  daughter.  It  is 
his  intention  to  carry  her  off  to  the  moun- 
tains ;  but  pardon  me,  I  cannot  bear  to  dwell 
upon  the  diabolical  project." 

The  old  man  fell  back,  pale,  and  almost 
insensible,  in  his  chair. 

"  Do  not  be  alainned,  sir,"  proceeded 
Reilly,  "  he  will  be  disappointed.  I  have 
taken  care  of  that." 

"  But,  Mr.  Reilly,  what — how— for  heaven's 
sake  teU  me  what  you  know  about  it.  Ai'e 
you  sure  of  tliis?  How  did  you  come  to 
hear  of  it  ?  Tell  me — teU  me  ever>'  thing 
about  it !  We  must  prepare  to  receive  the 
vilkiins — we  must  instantly  get  assistance. 
My  chilli — my  hfe — m}'  Helen,  to  fall  into 
the  hands  of  this  monster !  " 

"Hear  me,  sir,"  said  ReiUy,  "hear  me, 
and  you  •will  perceive  I  have  taken  measures 
to  frustrate  aU  his  designs,  and  to  have  him 
a  prisoner  befoi-e  to-morrow's  svm  arises." 

He  then  related  to  him  the  plan  laid  by 
the  Red  Rapparee,  as  overheard  by  Tom 
Steeple,  and  as  it  was  communicated  to  him- 


self by  the  same  individual  subsequently, 
after  which  he  proceeded  : 

"  The  fact  is,  .sir,  I  have  sent  the  poor  fool, 
who  is  both  fixithful  and  ■  trustworthy,  to 
summon  here  forty  or  fifty  of  my  laborers 
and  tenants.  They  must  be  placed  in  the 
out-houses,  and  whatever  arms  and  ammu- 
nition you  can  spare,  in  addition  to  the 
weapons  which  they  shall  biing  along  with 
them,  must  be  made  available.  I  sent  orders 
that  they  should  be  here  about  nine  o'clock. 
I,  myself,  \sSSS.  remain  in  this  house,  and  you 
may  rest  assured  that  your  life,  your  prop- 
erty, and  your  child  shall  be  all  safe.  I  know 
the  strength  of  the  ruffian's  band  ;  it  only 
consists  of  about  twelve  men,  or  rather  twelve 
devils,  but  he  and  they  will  find  themselves 
mistaken." 

Before  ]Miss  Folliard  came  down  to  make 
tea,  Reilly  had  summoned  the  servants,  and 
given  them  instinictions  as  to  their  conduct 
dux'ing  the  expected  attack.  Having  ar- 
ranged this,  he  went  to  the  yard,  and  found 
a  large  body  of  his  tenants  armed  with  such 
rude  weapons  as  they  could  procure  ;  for,  at 
this  period,  it  was  a  felony  for  a  Roman  Cath- 
ohc  to  have  or  carrj'  arms  at  all.  The  old 
squire,  however,  was  well  provided  in  that 
respect,  and,  accordingly,  such  as  could  be 
spared  from  the  house  were  distributed 
among  them.  IMi*.  FoUiard  himself  felt  his 
spirit  animated  by  a  sense  of  the  danger,  and 
bustled  about  with  uncommon  energy  and 
activity,  considering  what  he  had  suftered  in 
the  course  of  the  evening.  At  all  events, 
they  both  resolved  to  conceal  the  matter  from 
Helen  till  the  last  moment,  in  order  to  spare 
her  the  terror  and  ixlarm  wliich  she  must 
necessarily  feel  on  hearing  of  the  contem- 
plated riolence.  At  tea,  however,  she  could 
not  avoid  obsening  that  something  had  dis- 
turbed her  father,  who,  from  his  natvu-ally 
impetuous  character,  ejaculated,  fi-om  time 
to  time,  "  The  bloodthu'sty  scoundrel  I — 
murdering  ruffian  !  W^e  shall  hang  him, 
though  ;  we  can  hang  him  for  the  conspir- 
acy. Would  the  fool's,  Tom  Steeples',  evi- 
dence be  taken,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  I  fear  not,  sii',"  rephed  Reilly.  "In  the 
meantime,  don't  think  of  it,  don't  fui'ther 
distress  yourself  about  it." 

"  To  tiiink  of  attacking  my  hou.se,  though  ; 
and  if  it  were  only  I  myself  that — however, 
we  are  i)repared,  that's  one  comfort  ;  we  are 
prepared,  and  let  them — hem  ! — Helen,  my 
darling,  now  that  we've  had  our  tea,  wiU 
you  retire  to  your  o^^^l  room.  I  wish  to  talk 
to  Ml'.  Reilly  here,  on  a  particultu:  and  im- 
portant subject,  in  which  you  yourself  are 
deeply  concerned.  Withdraw,  my  love,  but 
don't  go  to  bed  until  I  see  you  again." 

Helen  went  upstairs  with  a  hght  foot  aa}f' 


S{4 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


a  Iwuiidinpc'  heart  A  certain  hope,  hke  a 
dream  of  ftu'-oft"  and  imexpected  liappiuess, 
rushed  into  and  lilled  her  bosom  with  a 
crowd  of  sensations  so  dehcious  that,  on 
reachiuj::  lier  o\\-n  room,  she  felt  completely 
overpowered  by  them,  and  was  only  reheved 
by  a  burst  of  teai-s.  Tliere  was  now  but  one 
iniage  before  her  imag^ination,  but  one  im- 
age impressed  upon  her  pure  and  fen'ent 
hefxrt ;  that  image  was  the  lirst  that  love  had 
ever  stamped  there,  and  the  last  that  suffer- 
ing, sorrow,  madness,  and  death  were  ever 
able  to  tear  from  it. 

"NMieu  the  night  had  advanced  to  the  usual 
hour  for  retiring  to  rest,  it  was  deemed  ne- 
cessai-y  to  make  Helen  acquainted  ^^■ith  the 
meditated  outrage,  in  order  to  jjreveut  the 
consequences  of  a  nocturnal  alarm  for  which 
she  might  be  altogether  unprepared.  This 
was  accordingly  done,  and  her  natural  ter- 
rors were  soothed  and  combated  by  Eeilly 
and  her  father,  who  succeeded  in  reviving 
her  courage,  and  in  enabling  her  to  contem- 
plate what  was  to  hapj^en  with  tolerable 
composure. 

Until  about  the  hour  of  two  o'clock  every 
thing  rer  ained  silent.  Nobody  went  to  bed 
—the  male  sei^ants  were  all  j^repared — the 
females,  some  in  tears,  and  others  sustaining 
and  comfoi'ting  those  who  were  more  feeble- 
hearted.  Miss  Folliard  was  in  her  own 
room,  dressed.  At  about  half  past  two  she 
heard  a  stealthy  foot,  and  having  extin- 
guished the  hght  in  her  apartment,  with 
great  j)resence  of  mind  she  rang  the  bell, 
whilst  at  the  same  moment  her  door  was 
broken  in,  and  a  man,  as  she  knew  by  his 
step,  entered.  In  the  meantime  the  house 
was  alaiTQcd  ;  the  man  having  hastily  pro- 
jected his  arms  about  in  several  du'ections, 
as  if  searching  for  her,  instantly  retreated,  a 
scuffle  was  heard  outside  on  the  lobbj',  and 
when  lights  and  assistance  appeared,  there 
were  found  eight  or  ten  men  variously 
aimed,  all  of  whom  proved  to  be  a  portion 
of  the  guard  selected  by  Reill}'  to  protect 
the  liouse  and  family.  These  men  main- 
tained that  they  had  seen  the  Red  Eapparee 
on  the  roof  of  the  house,  through  which  he 
had  descended,  and  that  having  procured  a 
ladder  fi'om  the  farmyard,  they  entei-ed  a 
back  -window,  at  a  distance  of  about  forty 
feet  from  the  ground,  in  hope  of  securing 
his  person — that  they  came  in  contact  with 
some  i)o\verful  man  in  tlie  dark,  who  disap- 
peared from  among  them — but  by  what 
means  he  had  contrived  to  escape  they  could 
not  guess.  This  was  the  sul)stance  of  all 
they  knew  or  understood  upcni  the  sub- 
ject. 

The  whole  house  was  immediately  and 
thoioughly  searched,  and  no  trace  of  him 


could  be  found  unto  they  came  to  the  sky- 
light, which  was  discovered  to  be  opened — 
■wTcnched  oil"  the  hinges — and  lying  on  the 
roof  at  a  distance  of  two  or  three  yards  from 
its  place. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  the  Rapparee 
and  his  party  had  taken  the  alarm.  In  an 
instant  those  who  were  outside  awaiting  to 
pounce  upon  them  in  the  moment  of  attack 
got  orders  to  scour  the  neighborhood,  and 
if  possible  to  secvire  the  Raj^paree  at  eveiy 
risk  ;  and  as  an  inducement  the  squire  him- 
self offered  to  jj^.y  the  sum  of  five  hundred 
pounds  to  any  one  who  should  bring  him  to 
Corbo  Castle,*  Avhicli  was  the  name  of  his 
residence.  This  was  accordingly  attemi^tcd, 
the  country'  far  and  wide  was  searched,  i)ur- 
suit  given  in  every  direction,  but  all  to  no 
pui-pose.  Not  only  was  the  failure  complete, 
but,  what  was  still  more  unaccountable  and 
mysterious,  no  single  mark  or  trace  of  them 
could  be  found.  This  escape,  however,  did 
not  much  surj^rise  the  inhabitants  of  the 
country  at  large,  as  it  was  only  in  keejiing 
with  many  of  a  far  more  diflicult  character 
which  the  Rapj^aree  had  often  effected.  The 
only  cause  to  which  it  coiald  be  ascribed  was 
the  supposed  fact  of  his  having  tal^en  such 
admirable  precautions  against  surjDrise  as 
enabled  his  gong  to  disappear  upon  a  j^re- 
concerted  plan  the  moment  the  friendly 
guards  were  discovered,  whilst  he  himself 
daringly  attempted  to  secure  the  squii'e's 
cash  and  his  daughter. 

Whether  the  supposition  w^as  right  or 
wrong  will  appear  subsequently  ;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  we  may  add  here,  that  the  event 
in  question,  and  the  disappearance  of  the 
burglars,  was  fatal  to  the  happiness  of  our 
lovers,  for  such  they  were  in  the  tenderest 
and  most  devoted  sense  of  that  strange  and 
ungovernable  passion. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  squire  was  so 
completely  exlaaxasted  by  the  consequences 
of  watching,  anxiety,  and  want  of  rest,  that 
he  felt  himself  overcome  by  sleep,  and  was 
obliged  to  go  to  bed.  Before  he  went,  how- 
ever, he  made  Reilly  promise  that  he  would 
not  go  until  he  had  breakfasted,  then  shook 
him  cordially  by  the  hand,  thanked  him 
again  and  again  for  the  deej)  and  important 
obligations  he  had  imposed  uj^on  him  and 
his  child,  and  concluded  by  giving  him  a 
general  iuAdtation  to  his  house,  the  doors  of 
which,  he  said,  as  weU  as  the  heart  of  its 
owner,  should  be  ever  ready  to  receive  him. 

"As  for  Helen,  here,"  said  he,  "I  leave 
her  to  thank  you  herself,  which  I  am  sure 
she  will  do  in  a  manner  becoming  the  ser 
vices  you  have  rendered  her,  before  you  go. 


*  This  name  is  fictitious. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


25 


She  then  kissed  him  tenderly  and  he  retired 
to  rest. 

At  breakfast,  EeUly  and  Miss  Folliard 
were,  of  course,  alone,  if  we  may  say  so. 
Want  of  rest  and  ajjprehension  had  given  a 
cast  of  paleness  to  her  featui'es  that,  so  far 
from  diminishing,  only  added  a  new  and 
tender  character  to  her  beauty.  Reilly  ob- 
served the  exquisite  lovehness  of  her  hand 
as  she  poured  out  the  tea  ;  and  when  he  re- 
membered the  gentle  but  significant  pressure 
which  it  had  given  to  his,  more  than  once  or 
twice,  on  the  preceding  night,  he  felt  as  if  he 
experienced  a  personal  interest  in  her  fate — 
as  if  their  destinies  were  to  be  united — as  if 
his  grooving  spirit  could  enfold  hers,  and 
mingle  with  it  forever.  The  love  he  felt  for 
her  pervaded  and  softened  his  whole  being 
with  such  a  feeling  of  tenderness,  timidity, 
and  ecstasy,  that  his  voice,  always  manly  and 
firm,  now  became  tremulous  in  its  tones  ; 
such,  in  ti-uth,  as  is  always  occasioned  by  a 
full  and  overflowing  heart  when  it  trembles 
at  the  veiy  opportunity  of  pouring  forth  the 
first  avowal  of  its  affection. 

"  Miss  FoUiai'd,"  said  he,  after  a  pause, 
and  with  some  confusion,  "do  you  beheve  in 
Fate?" 

The  question  appeared  to  take  her  some- 
what by  suiiirise,  if  one  could  judge  by  the 
look  she  bestowed  upon  him  with  her  dark, 
flashing  eyes. 

"  In  Fate,  Mr.  Eeilly  ?  that  is  a  subject,  I 
fear,  too  deei>  for  a  gii-1  like  me.  I  beheve 
in  Pi'ovidence." 

"All  this  morning  I  have  been  thinking  of 
the  subject.  Should  it  be  Fate  that  brought 
me  to  the  rescue  of  your  father  last  night,  I 
cannot  but  feel  glad  of  it ;  but  though  it  be 
a  Fate  that  has  presen'ed  him — and  I  thank 
Almighty  God  for  it — yet  it  is  one  that  I  fear 
has  destroyed  my  happiness." 

"  Destroyed  your  happiness,  Mr.  Reilly ! 
why,  how  could  the  senice  you  rendered 
papa  last  night  have  such  an  effect  ?  " 

"I  will  be  candid,  and  tell  you,  Miss  Fol- 
hard.  I  know  that  what  I  am  about  to  say 
will  offend  you — it  was  by  making  me  ac- 
quainted \vith  his  daughter,  and  by  bringing 
me  under  the  influence  of  beauty  which  has 
unmanned — districted  me — beauty  which  I 
could  not  resist — which  has  overcome  me — 
subdued  me — and  which,  because  it  is  be- 
yond my  reach  and  my  deserts,  \\ill  occasion 
me  an  unhappy  life — how  long  soever  that 
life  my  last." 

"IVL-.  Reilly,"  exclaimed  the  Cooleen  Bawn, 
"  this — this — is — I  am  quite  unprepared  for 
• — I  mean — to  hear  that  such  noble  and  gen- 
erous conduct  to  my  father  .should  end  in 
this.  But  it  cannot  be.  Nay,  I  will  not 
pretend  to  misundei-stand  you.     After  the 


service  you  have  rendered  to  him  and  to 
myself,  it  would  be  uncandid  in  me  and  un- 
worthy of  you  to  conceal  the  distress  which 
your  words  have  caused  me." 

"I  am  scarcely  in  a  condition  to  speak 
reasonably  and  calmly,"  rephed  Reilly,  "  hut 
I  cannot  regret  that  I  have  unconsciously  sao- 
lificed  my  happiness,  when  that  sacrifice  ha? 
saved  you  fi'om  distress  and  grief  and  soitow. 
Now  that  I  know  you,  I  would  offer — laj 
do\\Ti — my  life,  if  the  sacrifice  could  sava 
yours  fi'om  one  moment's  care.  I  have  ofteu 
heard  of  what  love — love  in  its  highest  and 
noblest  sense — is  able  to  do  and  to  suffei 
for  the  good  and  happiness  of  its  object,  bui 
now  I  know  it." 

She  spoke  not,  or  rather  she  was  unable  U 
speak  ;  but  as  she  pulled  out  her  snow-whit« 
handkerchief,  Reilly  could  observe  the  ex- 
traordinaiy  tremor  of  her  hands ;  the  face, 
too,  was  deadly  pale. 

"  I  am  not  making  love  to  you,  IVIiss  Fol- 
Hai-d,"  he  added.  "  No,  my  i-ehgion,  my  poi 
sition  in  hfe,  a  sense  of  my  owti  unworthi- 
ness,  would  prevent  that ;  but  I  could  not 
rest  unless  you  knew  that  there  is  one  heart 
which,  in  the  midst  of  unhappiness  and  de- 
spair, can  "understand,  appreciate,  and  love 
j'ou.     I  urge  no  claim.     I  am  ^rithout  hope." 

The  fair  girl  {Cooleen  Bawn)  could  not  re- 
strain her  teai's ;  but  wej)t — yes,  she  wept. 
"I  was  not  prepared  for  this,"  she  rephed. 
"  I  did  not  think  that  so  shori  an  acquaint- 
ance could  have — Oh,  I  know  not  what  to 
say — nor  how  to  act.  My  father's  prejudices. 
You  are  a  Cathohc." 

"  And  will  die  one.  Miss  FoUiard." 

"  But  why  should  you  be  vmhappy  ?  You 
do  not  desen-e  to  be  so." 

"  That  is  precisely  what  made  me  ask  you 
just  now  if  j-ou  believed  in  fate." 

"  Oh,  I  laiow  not.  I  cannot  answer  such 
a  question  ;  but  why  should  you  be  imhap- 
py,  with  your  brave,  generous,  and  noble 
heart  ?  Sui'ely,  sui-ely,  xou  do  not  deseiTe 
it." 

"  I  said  before  that  I  have  no  hope,  !Miss 
FoUiard.  I  shall  carry  with  me  my  love  of 
you  thi-ough  hfe  ;  it  is  my  first,  and  I  feel  it 
will  be  my  last — it  will  be  the  melancholy 
light  that  ^\•ill  bum  in  the  sepulchre  of 
my  heart  to  show  your  image  there.  And 
now.  Miss  FoUiard,  I  vnH  bid  you  farewell 
Your  father  has  proffered  me  hospitahty, 
but  I  have  not  strength  nor  resolution  to  ac- 
cept it.  You  now  know  my  secret — a  hope- 
less passion." 

"ReiUy,"  she  replied,  weeping  bitterly, 
"  oiu'  acquaintance  has  been  short — we  have 
not  seen  much  of  each  other,  yet  I  wiU  not 
deny  that  I  believe  you  to  be  all  that  any  fe- 
male heart  could — pai-don  me,  I  am  without 


26 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


experience — I  know  not  mucli  of  the  world. 
You  have  ti-avelled,  p!ii)a  tokl  me  last  night ; 
I  do  not  -wish  that  you  should  be  unhappy, 
and,  least  of  all,  that  I,  who  owe  you  so 
much,  should  be  the  occasion  of  it  No,  you 
talk  of  a  hopeless  passion.  I  know  not  what 
I  ought  to  say — but  to  the  preserver  of  my 
father's  life,  and,  probably  my  o^\^l  honor,  I 
will  say,  be  not — but  why  should  love  be 
sepai-ated  from  tnith  ?  "  she  said — "  No,  Eeil- 
ly,  be  not  hopeless." 

"  Oh,"  rephed  ReiUy,  wlio  had  gone  over 
near  her,  "  but  my  soul  -will  not  be  satisfied 
without  a  stronger  affirmation.  This  mo- 
ment is  the  gi-eat  crisis  ot  my  hfe  and  hap- 
piness. I  love  you  beyond  all  the  power  of 
language  or  expression.  You  tremble,  dear 
Miss  Folliai-d,  and  you  weej) ;  let  me  wipe 
those  precious  tears  away.  Oh,  would  to 
God  that  you  loved  me  !  " 

He  caught  her  hiind — it  was  not  with- 
drawn— he  pressed  it  as  he  had  done  the 
evening  before.  The  j^ressure  was  return- 
ed— his  voice  melted  into  tenderness  that 
was  contagious  and  irresistible  :  "  Say,  dear- 
est Helen,  star  of  my  life  and  of  my  i'ute,  oh, 
only  say  that  I  am  not  iudift'ereut  to  you.'' 

They  were  both  standing  near  the  chim- 
nej'-piece  as  he  spoke — "  only  say,"  he  re- 
peated, "that  I  am  not  indifferent  to  you." 

"Well,  then,"  she  rephed,  "you  ai-e  not 
indiflerent  to  me." 

"  One  admission  more,  my  dearest  life, 
and  I  am  hajjpy  forever.  You  love  me  ?  say 
it,  deai-est,  say  it — or,  stay,  whisper  it,  whis- 
per it — you  love  me  !  " 

"  I  do,"  she  whispered  in  a  btu-st  of  tears. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  Sapient  Project  for  our  Hero's  Conversion — His  Ri- 
val makes  his  Appearance,  and  its  Consequences. 

We  mil  not  attempt  to  describe  the  tu- 
mult of  dehght  which  agitated  Reilly's  heart 
on  his  way  home,  after  this  tender  intei-view 
with  the  most  celebrated  Ii'ish  beauty  of  that 
period.  The  term  Cooleen  JJaivn,  in  native 
Irish,  has  two  meanings,  both  of  Avhich  were 
justly  apphed  to  her,  and  met  in  her  person. 
It  signifies  /a  «r  loc/cs,  or,  as  it  may  be  jjro- 
nonnved  fair  f/irl ;  and  in  either  sense  is  pe- 
cuharly  applicable  to  a  blonde  beauty,  which 
she  was.  The  name  of  Cooleen  Baion  was 
applied  to  her  by  the  j)opulace,  whose  talent 
for  findmg  out  and  bestowing  ejDithets  indic- 
ative either  of  personal  beauty  or  deformit}', 
or  of  the  quahties  of  the  mind  or  chai'aeter, 
be  they  good  or  evil,  is,  in  Ii-eland,  singular- 
ly fehcitous.     In  the  higher  ranks,  however, 


she  was  known  as  "  The  Lily  of  the  Plain! 
of  Boyne,"  and  as  such  she  was  toasted  by 
all  pai'ties,  not  only  in  her  own  native  coun* 
ty,  but  tlu'oughout  Ii-eland,  and  at  the  vice- 
regal entertainments  in  the  Castle  of  Dub« 
hn.  At  the  time  of  which  we  ^mte,  the  pe- 
nal laws  were  in  operation  against  the  Ro- 
man Cathohc  i^opulatiou  of  the  country,  and 
her  father,  a  good-heai'ted  man  by  nature, 
was  wordy  and  violent  by  prejudice,  and  yet 
secretly  kind  and  fi'iendly  to  many  of  that 
unhappy  creed,  though  by  no  means  to  all 
It  was  Avell  known,  however,  that  in  eveiy 
thing  that  was  generous  and  good  in  hia 
character,  or  in  the  discharge  of  his  pubhc 
duties  as  a  magistrate,  he  was  chiefly  influ- 
enced by  the  benevolent  and  liberal  princi- 
ples of  his  daughter,  who  was  a  general  ad- 
vocate for  the  oi:)pressed,  and  to  whom,  more- 
over, he  could  deny  nothing.  Tliis  account- 
ed for  her  populai-ity,  as  it  does  for  the  ex- 
traordinaiy  veneration  and  afl'ection  with 
which  her  name  and  misfortunes  are  men- 
tioned down  to  the  present  day.  The  worst 
point  in  her  father's  character  was  that  he 
never  could  be  prevailed  on  to  forgive  an 
injui-y,  or,  at  least,  any  act  that  he  conceiv- 
ed to  be  such,  a  weakness  or  a  vice  which 
was  the  means  of  all  his  angelic  and  lovely 
daughter's  calamities. 

Reilly,  though  fuU  of  fervor  and  enthu- 
siasm, was  yet  by  no  means  deficient  in  strong 
sense.  On  his  way  home  he  began  to  ask 
liimself  in  what  this  ovei-whelming  passion 
for  Cooleen  Bawn  must  end.  His  religion, 
he  was  well  aware,  placed  an  impassable  gulf 
between  them.  ^Vas  it  then  generous  or 
honorable  in  him  to  abuse  the  confidence 
and  hosj^itahty  of  her  father,  by  engaging 
the  affections  of  a  daughter,  on  whose  wel- 
fare his  whole  hajDpiness  was  j^laced,  and  to 
whom,  moreover,  he  could  not,  without  com- 
mitting an  act  of  apostasy  that  he  abhon-ed, 
ever  be  imited  as  a  husband  ?  Reason  and 
j)nidence,  moveover,  suggested  to  him  the 
danger  of  his  position,  as  well  as  the  imgen- 
erous  nature  of  his  conduct  to  the  grateful 
and  trusting  father.  But,  away  "with  reason 
and  pmdence — away  -with  everything  but 
love.  The  rapture  of  his  heai-t  triumphed 
over  every  argument ;  and,  come  weal  or 
woe,  he  resolved  to  vrin  the  ftu'-famed  "Star 
of  Connaught,"  another  epithet  which  she 
derived  from  her  wonderful  and  extraordi- 
naiy  beauty. 

On  approaching  his  own  house  he  met  a 
woman  named  Mai-y  Mahon,  whose  character 
of  a  fortune-teller  was  extraordinary  in  the 
counti-y,  and  whose  predictions,  come  from 
what  source  they  might,  had  gained  her  a 
reputation  which  filled  the  common  mind 
with  awe  and  fear. 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


27 


"  "Well,  Mary,"  said  he,  "  what  news  from 
futurity  ?  And,  by  the  way,  where  t.s  futur- 
ity? Because  if  you  don't  know,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, laughin*^,  "I  think  I  could  tell  you." 

"Well,"  repMed  'Mary,  "let  me  hear  it. 
Where  is  it,  Mr.  Keilly?" 

"  Wliy,"  he  replied,  "just  at  the  point  of 
youi'  o^^^l  nose.  Mar}',  and  you  must  admit 
it  is  not  a  ver}'  long  one  ;  pure  ^Milesian, 
!MaiT ;  a  good  deal  of  the  saddle  in  its 
shape." 

The  woman  stood  and  looked  at  liim  for  a 
few  moments. 

"My  nose  may  be  short,"  she  repHed, 
"but  shoiler  will  be  the  course  of  your 
happiness." 

"  WeD,  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I  think  as  regards 
my  happiness  that  you  know  as  little  of  it  as 
I  do  myself.  If  you  tell  me  any  thing  that 
ha.s  passed,  I  may  give  you  some  credit  for 
the  future,  but  not  othei'wise." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  have  your  fortune  tould, 
then,"  she  asked,  "upon  them  terms?" 

"  Come,  then,  I  don't  care  if  I  do.  What 
has  happened  me,  for  instance,  within  the 
last  forty-eight  hours?" 

"  Tliat  has  happened  you  A\-ithin  the  last 
forty-eight  hours  that  ^^•ill  make  her  you  love 
the  pity  of  the  world  before  her  time.  I  see 
how  it  vrjll  happen,  for  the  complaint  I 
speak  of  is  in  the  family.  A  li\'ing  death  she 
will  have,  and  you  yourself  during  the  same 
time  will  have  little  less." 

"  But  what  hcH  happened  me,  Mai*^'?  " 

"I  needn't  tell  you — you  know  it.  A 
proud  heart,  and  a  joyful  heart,  and  a  lovin' 
heart,  you  cany  now,  but  it  will  be  a  broken 
heart  before  long." 

"  \Vliy,  ^Nlary,  this  is  an  evil  prophecy ; 
have  you  nothing  good  to  foretell  ?  " 

"  If  it's  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  know,  I  will 
tell  you  :  her  love  for  you  is  as  strong,  and 
stronger,  than  death  itself ;  and  it  is  the  suf- 
fering of  what  is  worse  than  death,  Willy 
Reilly,  that  will  vmite  you  both  at  last." 

Eeilly  storied,  and  after  a  pause,  in  which 
he  took  it  for  gi-anted  that  'Mary  spoke  mere- 
ly from  one  of  those  shrewd  conjectvu-es 
which  practised  impostors  are  so  frequently 
in  tlie  habit  of  hazarding,  replied,  "  That 
won't  do,  Maiy  ;  you  have  told  me  nothing 
yet  that  has  happened  witliin  the  Last  forty- 
eight  hovurs.  I  deny  the  truth  of  what  you 
say." 

"  It  won't  be  long  so,  then,  IMi*.  Reilly ; 
you  saved  the  life  of  the  old  lialf-mad  squire 
of  Corbo.  Yes,  you  saved  his  life,  and  you 
have  token  his  daughter's !  for  indeed  it 
would  be  better  for  her  to  die  at  wanst  than 
to  suflFer  what  will  happen  to  you  and  her." 

"  \\Tiy,  what  is  to  happen  ?  " 

"You'll  know  it  too  soon,"  she  replied. 


"  and  there's  no  use  in  making  you  imhappy. 
Good-by,  ^Ir.  Eeilly  ;  if  j'ou  take  a  friend's 
advice  youH  give  her  up  ;  think  no  more  of 
her.  It  may  cost  you  an  aching  heart,  to  da 
so,  but  by  doin'  it  you  may  save  her  from  a 
great  deal  of  sorrow,  and  both  of  you  from  a 
long  and  heavy  term  of  suffering." 

Reilly,  though  a  young  man  of  strong 
reason  in  the  ordinary  afifeirs  of  life,  and  of  ii 
highly  cultivated  intellect  besides,  yet  fell 
himself  influenced  by  the  gloomy  foreboding* 
of  this  notorious  woman.  It  is  true  he  saw, 
by  the  force  of  hisowTi  sagacity,  that  she  had 
uttered  nothing  which  any  person  acquainted 
with  the  relative  position  of  himself  and  Cof>- 
leen  Bawn,  and  the  political  circumstances  ot 
the  country,  might  not  have  inferred  as  a 
natural  and  i^robable  consequence.  In  fact 
he  had,  on  his  way  home,  ai-rived  at  nearly 
the  same  conclusion.  Marriage,  as  the  laws 
of  the  countiy  then  stood,  was  out  of  the 
question,  and  could  not  be  legitimately  ef- 
fected. \Miat,  then,  must  the  consequence 
of  this  u-resistible  but  ill-fated  passion  he'i 
An  elopement  to  the  Continent  would  not 
only  be  difficult  but  dangerous,  if  not  alto- 
gether impossible.  It  was  obriously  evident 
that  Mars'  Mahon  had  drawn  her  predictions 
fi'om  tlie  same  cu'cumstances  which  led  him- 
self to  similar  conclusions  ;  yet,  notwithstand- 
ing all  this,  he  felt  that  her  words  had  thrown 
a  foreshadowing  of  calamit}'  and  soitow  over 
his  spirit,  and  he  passed  up  to  his  own  house 
in  deep  gloom  and  heariuess  of  heart.  It  is 
true  he  remembered  that  this  same  Mary 
Mahon  belonged  to  a  family  that  had  been 
inimical  to  his  house.  She  was  a  woman 
who  had,  in  her  early  life,  been  degi^aded  by 
crime,  the  remembrance  of  which  had  been 
by  no  means  forgotten.  She  was,  besides,  a 
paramour  to  the  Red  Rapparee,  and  he  at- 
tributed much  of  her  dai*k  and  ill-boding 
prophecy  to  a  hostile  and  mahgnant  spirit. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  probably 
about  the  same  hour,  the  old  squire  having 
recmited  himself  by  sleep,  and  felt  refreshed 
and  inrigorated,  sent  for  liis  daughter  to  sit 
with  him  as  was  her  wont ;  for  indeed,  as 
the  reader  may  now  fully  understand,  his 
happiness  iiltogether  depended  upon  her  so- 
ciety, and  those  tender  attentions  to  him 
which  constituted  the  chief  solace  of  his  life. 

"Well,  my  girl,"  said  he.  when  she  entered 
the  dining-room,  for  he  seldom  left  it  unless 
when  they  had  company,  "  Well,  darhng, 
what  do  you  think  of  this  Mr.  ]Mahon — pooh  ! 
— no — oh,  Reilly — he  who  saved  m}'  life,  and, 
probably,  was  tlie  means  of  rescuing  you 
from  worse  than  death?  Isn't  he  a  fine — 9 
noble  young  fellow  ?  "• 

"  Lideed,  I  think  so,  papa  ;  he  appears  t« 
be  a  perfect  gentleman." 


28 


WILLIAM  OARLETON'8  WOIiKS. 


"Hiing  perfect  gentlemen,  Helen!  they 
are,  some  of  them,  the  most  contemptible 
whelps  upon  earth.  Hang  me,  but  any  fel- 
low with  a  long-bodied  coat,  tight-kneed 
breeches,  or  stockings  and  pantaloons,  with 
a  watch  in  each  fob,  and  a  fiizzled  wig,  is 
considered  a  perfect   gentleman — a  jierfect 

Euppy,  Helen,  tui  accomplished  trifle.  Reilly, 
owever,  is  none  of  these,  for  he  is  not  only 
a  perfect  gentleman,  but  a  brave  man,  who 
would  not  hesitate  to  lisk  his  life  in  order  to 
save  that  of  a  fellow-creatm-e,  even  although 
he  is  a  Papist,  and  that  fellow-creature  a 
Protestant." 

"  Well,  then,  j)apa,  I  gi-ant  you,"  she  re- 
phed  with  a  smile,  which  our  readers  will 
understand,  "I  gi*ant  you  that  he  is  a — 
ahem  ! — all  you  say." 

"  "What  a  pity,  Helen,  that  he  is  a  Papist." 

""NMiy  so,  papa?" 

"Because,  if  he  was  a  staunch  Protestant, 
by  the  gi-eat  Dehverer  that  saved  us  fi'om 
brass  money,  wooden  shoes,  and  so  forth,  I'd 
mjin-y  you  and  him  together.  I'll  tell  you 
what,  Helen,  by  the  memoiy  of  Schomberg, 
I  have  a  project,  and  it  is  you  that  must 
work  it  out." 

"Well,  papa,"  asked  his  daughter,  put- 
ting the  question  with  a  smile  and  a  blush, 
"  pray  what  is  this  speculation  ?  " 

"  ^Nliy,  the  fact  is,  I'll  put  him  into  your 
hands  to  convert  him — make  him  a  staunch 
Protestant,  and  take  him  for  your  pains. 
Accomjilish  this,  and  let  long-legged,  knock- 
kneed  ^^^litecraft,  and  his  twelve  thousand 
a  year,  go  and  bite  some  other  fool  as  he 
bit  me  in  'Hop-and-go-constant.'  " 

"  "What  ai'e  twelve  thousand  a  year,  papa, 
when  you  know  that  they  could  not  secure 
me  happiness  ^Wth  such  a  wi-etch  ?  Such  a 
union,  sir,  could  not  be — cannot  be — must 
not  be,  and  I  will  add,  whilst  I  am  in  the 
possession  of  will  and  reason,  shall  not  be." 

"  Well,  Helen,"  said  her  father,  "  if  you 
are  obstinate,  so  am  I ;  but  I  trust  we  shall 
never  have  to  fight  for  it.  We  must  have 
ReiUy  here,  and  you  must  endeavor  to  con- 
vert him  fi-om  Popery.  If  you  succeed,  I'll 
give  long-shanks  his  nunc  dimittis,  and  send 
him  home  on  a  trot." 

"  Papa,"  she  replied,  "  this  wiU  be  useless 
— it  will  be  i-uin — I  know  Reilly." 

"  The  devil  you  do  !  A\lien,  may  I  ask, 
did  you  become  acquainted  ?  " 

"  I  mean,"  she  rei)lied,  blushing,  "  that  I 
have  seen  enough  of  him  during  liis  short 
stay  here  to  feel  satisfied  that  no  eartlily 
persuasion,  no  argument,  could  induce  hini, 
at  this  moment  especially,  to  change  his  re- 
ligion. And,  sir,  I  will  add  myself —yes,  I 
will  say  for  myself,  dear  papa,  and  for  lieilly 
too,  that  if  from  any  unl^ecoming  motive — if 


will  sound  him  on 
l^erhaps,  you  "will, 
malce  the  attempt  ? 


for  the  sake  of  love  itself,  I  felt  satisfied  that 
he  could  give  up  and  abandon  his  religion, 
I  would  despise  him.  I  should  feel  at  once 
that  his  heai-t  was  hollow,  and  that  he  was 
unworthy  either  of  my  love  or  my  respect" 

"  Well,  by  the  great  Bo;)Tie,  Helen,  you 
have  knocked  my  intellects  up.  I  hope  in 
God  you  have  no  Papist  predilections,  girl. 
Howerer,  it's  only  fair  to  give  Eeilly  a  trial ; 
long-legs  is  to  dine  with  us  the  day  after  to- 
moiTOw — now,  I  will  ask  Eeilly  to  meet  him 
here — perhaps,  if  I  get  an  oiDjiortunity,  I 
the  i^oint  myself — or. 
Will  you  promise  to 
I'll  talve  care  that  you 
and  he  shall  have  an  opportunitj'." 

"Indeed,  papa,  I  shall  certainly  mention 
the  subject  to  him." 

"  By  the  soul  of  Schomberg,  Helen,  if  you 
do  you'll  convert  him." 

Helen  w\as  about  to  make  some  good- 
natured  rejily,  when  the  noise  of  carriage 
wheels  was  heai'd  at  the  haU-door,  and  her 
father,  going  to  the  Avindow,  asked,  ""NMiat 
noise  is  that  ?  A  carriage  ! — who  can  it  be  ? 
"NATiitecraft,  by  the  Boyne  !  Well,  it  can't  be 
helped." 

"  I  will  leave  you,  papa,"  she  said  ;  "  I  do 
not  wish  to  see  this  unfeeling  and  rej)ulsive 
man,  unless  when  it  is  unavoidable,  and  in 
your  presence." 

She  then  withdrew. 

Before  we  introduce  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft,  we  must  beg  oru'  readers  to  accom- 
pany us  to  the  residence  of  that  worthy 
gentleman,  wliich  was  not  more  than  three 
miles  fi'om  that  of  Reilly*.  Sir*  Robert  had 
large  estates  and  a  sumptuous  residence 
in  Ii-eland,  as  well  as  in  England,  and  had 
made  the  former  principally  his  place  of 
abode  since  he  became  enamored  of  the 
celebi'ated  Cooleen  Bawn.  On  the  occasion 
in  c[uestion  he  was  Avalking  about  through 
his  gi'ounds  when  a  female  approached  him, 
whom  we  beg  the  reader  to  recognize  as 
Mary  Mahon.  This  mischievous  woman, 
imjDlacable  and  without  j^rinciple,  had,  with 
the  utmost  secrec}',  sen'cd  Sir  Robert,  and 
many  others,  in  a  caj^acity  discreditable  ahke 
to  virtue  and  her  sex,  by  luring  the  weak  or 
the  innocent  within  their  toils. 

"  Well,  Mary,"  said  he,  "  what  news  in 
the  country  ?  You,  who  are  always  on  the 
move,  should  know." 

"  No  very  good  news  for  you,  Sir  Robert," 
she  rephed. 

"How  is  that,  Mary?" 

"  "Wliy,  sir,  Willy  Reilly— the  famous  Willy 
Reilly — has  got  a  footing  in  the  house  of  old 
Squire  FoUiai'd." 

"  And  how  can  that  be  bad  news  to  me, 
Mary?" 


WILLY  REILLY 


29 


"Well,  1  don't  know,"  said  she,  wath  a 
cvinning  leer  ;  "  but  ibis  I  know,  tbat  they 
bad  a  love  scene  togetber  tbis  very  morning, 
and  tbat  be  kissed  ber  very  sweetly  near  tbe 
cbimney-piece." 

Sir  Robei-t  Whitecraft  did  not  get  into  a 
rage  ;  be  neitber  cursed  nor  swore,  nor  even 
looked  angi-ily,  but  be  gave  a  pecubai-  smile, 
wbicb  sbould  be  seen  in  order  to  be  under- 
stood. ' '  "Wbere  is  yoiu'—  abem — y om*  Mend 
now  ?  "  be  asked  ;  and  as  be  did  so  be  began 
to  wbistle. 

"  Have  you  another  job  for  him  ?  "  she  in- 
quired, in  ber  turn,  with  a  pecubar  mean- 
ing. "  Whenever  I  fail  by  fair  play,  be  tries 
it  by  foul." 

"Well,  and  have  not  I  often  saved  his 
neck,  as  well  by  my  influence  as  by  allowing 
bi-m  to  take  shelter  vmder  my  roof  whenever 
be  was  baixl  joressed  ? " 

"  I  know  that,  yoiu*  honor  ;  and  hasn't  be 
and  I  often  saned  you,  on  tbe  other  band ? " 

"  I  gi'ant  it,  Molly  ;  but  that  is  a  matter 
known  only  to  ourselves.  You  know  I  have 
tbe  reputation  of  being  veiy  correct  and 
virtuous." 

"  I  know  you  have,"  said  Molly,  "  with 
most  people,  but  not  with  all." 

"  Well,  Moll}',  you  know,  as  fai*  as  we  are 
concerned,  one  good  timi  deserves  another. 
"NMiere  is  your  friend  now,  I  ask  again  ?  " 

"Why,  then,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  it's 
more  than  I  knoAv  at  the  present  speak- 
ing." 

"Follow  me,  then,"  repbed  tbe  wily  baro- 
net ;  "  I  wish  you  to  see  him  ;  be  is  now  con- 
cealed in  my  bouse  ;  but  first,  mark  me,  I 
don't  bebeve  a  word  of  what  j'ou  have  just 
repeated." 

"It's  as  true  as  Gospel  for  all  tbat,"  she 
repbed;  "and  if  you  ^-ish  to  beai-  bow  I 
found  it  out  I'U  tell  yovt." 

"Well,"  said  the  bai'onet  calmly,  "let  us 
hear  it." 

"  You  must  know,"  she  proceeded,  "  that 
I  have  a  cousin,  one  Betty  Beatty,  who  is  a 
liousemaid  m  tbe  squire's.  Now,  tbis  same 
Betty  Beatty  was  in  tbe  front  jjurlor — for 
tbe  squire  always  dines  in  tbe  back — and, 
fi'om  a  kind  of  natural  curiosity  she's  afflicted 
\ritb,  slie  puts  ber  ear  to  the  keyhole,  and 
afterwards  ber  eye.  I  happened  to  be  at  tbe 
squire's  at  the  time,  and,  as  blood  is  thicker 
tbat  watber,  and  as  she  knew  I  was  a  fi-iend 
of  yours,  she  tould  me  what  she  bad  both 
beai'd  and  seen,  what  they  said,  and  bow  he 
kissed  ber." 

Sir  Robert  seemed  very  calm,  and  merely 
said,  "Follow  me  into  the  bouse," wbicb  she 
accordingly  did,  and  remained  in  consulta- 
tion ^vitb  him  and  tbe  Red  Rapparee  for 
nearly  an  hour,  after  which  Sir  Rr.hert  or- 


dered his  carriage,  and  went  to  pay  a  visit, 
as  we  have  seen,  at  Corbo  Castle. 

Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  on  entering  the 
parlor,  shook  bands  as  a  matter  of  coiirse 
■with  tbe  squire.  At  this  particular  ciasis 
the  vehement  but  whimsical  old  man,  whose 
mind  was  now  full  of  another  project  with 
reference  to  bis  daughter,  experienced  no 
gi-eat  gratification  from  tbis  visit,  and,  as  the 
baronet  shook  bands  with  liim,  be  exclaimed 
somewhat  testily. 

"Hang  it,  Sir  Roberi,  why  don't  you 
shake  bands  like  a  man  ?  You  put  tbat  long 
yellow  paw  of  yoiu's,  all  skin  and  bones, 
into  a  man's  band,  and  there  you  let  it  be. 
But,  no  matter,  every  one  to  his  nature. 
Be  seated,  and  teU  me  what  news.  Ai'e  the 
Papists  quiet  ?  " 

"  There  is  bttle  news  stining,  sii* ;  at 
least  if  there  be,  it  does  not  come  my  way, 
■vv-ith  tbe  exception  of  tbis  report  about  your- 
self, which  I  hope  is  not  time  ;  that  there  waa 
an  attempt  made  on  your  life  yesterday 
evening  ?  "  TMiilst  Sir  Robert  spoke  be  ai> 
proached  a  looking-glass,  before  wbicb  be 
presented  himself,  and  commenced  adjusting 
bis  dress,  especially  his  wig,  a  piece  of  vanity 
which  nettled  tbe  quick  and  initable  feel- 
ings of  the  squire  exceedingly.  The  infer' 
ence  he  di-ew  was,  that  tbis  wealthy  suitor 
of  bis  daughter  felt  more  about  his  own  jDer- 
sonal  appearance  before  ber  than  about  tbe 
dreadful  fate  which  be  himself  bad  so  nar- 
rowly escaped. 

"t\Tiat  signifies  that,  my  dear  fellow, 
when  your  Arig  is  out  of  balance  ?  it's  a  Httle 
to  the  one  side,  like  the  ear  of  an  empty 
jug,  as  they  say." 

"  Why,  sir,"  repbed  tbe  baronet,  "  the 
fact  is,  tbat  I  felt — bum  ! — hum — so  much 
— so  much — a — anxiety — bum  ! — to  see  you 
and — a — a — to  laiow  all  about  it — that — a — "i 
didn't  take  tune  to — a — look  to  my  dress. 
And  besides,  as  I — bum  ! — expect  \.o  have — 
a — tbe  pleasure  of  an  interview  ^ritb  ]\Iisa 
Folbard — a — hum  ! — now  tbat  I'm  here — I 
feel  anxious  to  appeal'  to  the  best  advantage 
— a — hum  !  " 

While  speaking  be  proceeded  with  tbe  re- 
adjustment of  bis  toilet  at  the  lai'ge  miiTor, 
an  oj)eration  wbicb  appeared  to  constitute 
the  great  object  on  which  bis  mind  was  en- 
gaged, tlie  aJEiir  of  tbe  squire's  bfe  or  death 
coming  in  only  parenthetically,  or  as  a  con- 
sidei'ation  of  minor  impori^ance. 

In  height  Sir  Robert  '\^^litecraft  was  fuUy 
six  feet  two  ;  but  being  extremely  tliin  and 
lank,  and  to  all  appeanmce  utterly  devoid  of 
substance,  and  of  everv*  thing  bke  proportion, 
be  appeared  much  taller  than  even  nature 
had  made  him.  His  forehead  was  low,  and 
bis  whole  character  felonious  ;  bis  eyes  were 


30 


WILLIAM  CARLKTOJ^'S   WORKS. 


small,  deep  set,  and  cunninp; ;  his  nose  was 
hooked,  his  mouth  was  wide,  but  his  lips 
thill  to  a  miracle,  and  such  as  always  are 
to  be  found  under  the  nose  of  a  miser  ;  as 
for  a  chui,  we  could  not  conscientiously 
allow  him  luiy  ;  his  under-hp  sloped  off  until 
it  met  the  throat  A^th  a  cun'e  not  larger 
than  that  of  an  oyster-shell,  which  when 
open  to  the  tide,  his  mouth  veiy  much  re- 
sembled. As  for  his  neck,  it  was  so  long 
that  no  portion  of  di-ess  at  that  time  dis- 
covered was  capable  of  coveiing  more  than 
one  third  of  it ;  so  that  there  were  always 
two  parts  out  of  tlu-ee  left  stark  naked,  and 
helplessly  exposed  to  the  elements.  "SMien- 
ever  he  smiled  he  looked  as  if  he  was  about 
to  weep.  As  the  squire  said,  he  was  dread- 
fully round-shouldered — had  dangling  arms, 
that  kept  flapping  about  him  as  if  they  were 
moved  by  some  machinery  that  had  gone  out 
of  order — was  close-kneed — had  the  true 
telescojiic  leg — and  feet  that  brought  a  very 
lai'ge  portion  of  him  into  the  closest  possible 
contact  with  the  earth. 

"Ai-e  you  succeeding,  Sir  Robert?"  in- 
quii'ed  the  old  man  sarcastically,  "  because, 
if  you  are,  I  swear  you're  achie\dng  wonders, 
considering  the  shght  materials  you  have  to 
work  upon." 

"Ah!  su*,"  replied  the  baronet,  "I  per- 
ceive you  are  in  one  of  yoiu'  biting  humors 
to-day." 

"  Biting  !  "  exclaimed  the  other.  "  Egad, 
it's  veiy  well  for  most  of  your  sporting  ac- 
quaintances that  you're  free  from  hydropho- 
bia ;  if  you  were  not,  I'd  have  died  i)leasantly 
between  two  feather  beds,  leaving  my  child 
an  oi-phan  long  before  this.  Egad,  you  hit 
me  to  some  pui-pose." 

"  Oh,  a^',  you  allude  to  the  affiiir  of  '  Hop- 
and-go-constant '  and  *  Pat  the  Spanker  ; ' 
but  you  know,  my  dear  sir,  I  gave  you  heavy 
boot ; "  and  as  he  spoke,  he  pulled  up  the 
lapels  of  his  coat,  and  glanced  comjolacently 
at  the  profile  of  his  face  and  person  in  the 
glass. 

"  Pray,  is  Miss  Folliard  at  home,  sir  ?  " 

"  Again  I'm  forgotten,"  thought  the  squire. 
"Ah,  what  an  affectionate  son-in-law  he'd 
make  !  "\Miat  a  tender  husband  for  Helen  ! 
Why,  hang  the  fellow,  he  has  a  heart  for  no- 
body but  himself.  She  ?'.s  at  home.  Sir  Rob- 
ert, but  the  truth  is,  I  don't  think  it  would 
become  me,  as  a  father  anxious  for  the  hap- 
piness of  his  child,  and  that  child  an  only 
one,  to  sacrifice  her  happiness — the  hajDpi- 
ness  of  her  whole  life — to  wealth  or  ambition. 
You  know  she  herself  entertains  a  strong 
prejudice — no,  that's  not  the  word — " 

"  I  begj'our  pardon,  sir  ;  that?'.s'  the  word  ; 
her  distaste  to  me  is  a  prejudice,  and  nothing 
else." 


"  No,  Sir  Robert ;  it  is  not  the  word. 
Antipathy  is  the  word.  Now  I  tell  you,  once 
for  all,  that  I  will  not  force  my  child." 

"  This  change,  Mr.  FoUifird,"  obsei-ved  the 
bai'onet,  "is  somewhat  of  the  suddenest 
Has  any  thing  occinred  on  my  part  to  oc 
casion  it  ?  " 

"  Pei'liajis  I  may  have  other  views  for  her. 
Sir  Robert." 

"  That  may  be  ;  but  is  such  conduct  either 
fair  or  honorable  towards  me,  IVIi-.  Folliard  ? 
Have  I  got  a  rival,  and  if  so,  who  is  he  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  tell  you  that  for  tha 
world." 

"And  why  not,  pray?" 

"Because,"  replied  the  squire,  "if  you 
found  out  who  he  was,  you'd  be  hanged  for 
cannibahsm." 

"  I  reall}'  don't  understand  you,  Mr.  Folli- 
ai'd.  Excuse  me,  but  it  would  seem  to  me 
that  something  has  put  you  into  no  very 
agreeable  humor  to-da3\" 

"  You  don't  vuiderstand  me !  AAHiy,  Sir 
Robert,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  know  you  so 
well  that  if  you  heard  the  name  of  your  lival 
you  would  first  kill  him,  then  powder  him, 
and,  lastty,  eat  him.  You  are  such  a  terrible 
fellow  that  you  care  about  no  man's  life,  not 
even  about  mine." 

Now  it  was  to  this  very  point  that  the 
calculating  baronet  wished  to  bring  him. 
The  old  man,  he  knew,  was  whimsical,  ca- 
pricious, and  in  the  habit  of  talcing  all  his 
strongest  and  most  endimng  resolutions 
from  sudden  contrasts  produced  by  some 
mistake  of  his  OAvn,  or  ft'om  some  discovery 
made  to  him  on  the  part  of  others. 

"As  to  your  life,  Mr.  Folliard,  let  me 
fissui-e  you,"  replied  Sir  Robert,  "  that  there 
is  no  man  living  prizes  it,  and,  let  me  add, 
you  character  too,  more  highly  than  I  do ; 
but,  my  dear  su",  your  hfe  was  never  in  dan- 
ger." 

"  Never  iu  danger !  what  do  you  mean, 
Sir  Robert  ?  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  the  mur- 
dering miscreant,  the  Red  Rapparee,  had  a 
loaded  gun  levelled  at  me  last  evening,  after 
dark." 

"  I  know  it,"  replied  the  other  ;  "I  am  well 
aware  of  it,  and  3'ou  Avere  rescued  just  in  the 
nick  of  time." 

"Tiiie  enough,"  said  the  squire,  "just  in 
the  nick  of  time  ;  by  that  glorious  young 
feUow—a-a— yes— ReHly— Willy  Reiily." 

"  This  Wniy  Reilty,  sir,  is  a  very  accom- 
pHshed  person,  I  think." 

"A  gentleman,  Sii'  Robert,  every  inch  of 
him,  and  as  handsome  and  fine-looking  a 
j^oung  fellow  as  ever  I  laid  my  eyes  upon." 

"He  was  educated  on  the  Continent  by 
the  Jesuits." 

"  No ! "  repHed  the  squire,  dreadfully  alarm- 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


31 


ed  at  this  piece  of  infoiination,  "  he  was  not ; 
by  tbe  great  Boyne,  he  wasn't." 

This  mighty  asseveration,  however,  was  ex- 
ceedingly feeble  in  moral  strength  and  en- 
ergy, for,  in  point  of  fact,  it  came  out  of  the 
squire's  hps  more  in  the  shape  of  a  question 
than  an  oath. 

"  It  is  unquestionably  time,  sii-,"  said  the 
baronet;  "ask  himself,  and  he  will  admit 
it." 

"  Well,  and  granting  that  he  was,"  rephed 
the  squire,  "what  else  could  he  do,  when  the 
laws  would  not  permit  of  his  being  educated 
here  ?  I  speak  not  against  the  laws,  God  for- 
bid, but  of  his  individuid  case." 

"  We  are  travellmg  fi-om  the  jioint,  su-,"  re- 
turned the  baronet.  "I  was  obsei-ving  that 
Reilly  is  an  accomplished  person,  as  indeed 
every  Jesuit  is.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  again 
beg  to  assure  vou  that  your  life  stood  in  no 
risk." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Sir  Robert. 
You're  a  perfect  oracle  ;  by  the  great  De- 
hverer  from  Pope  and  Popery,  wooden  shoes, 
and  so  forth,  only  that  lleilly  made  his  ap- 
pearance at  that  moment  I  was  a  dead  man." 

"Not  the  shghtest  danger,  ]\Ir.  Foliiard. 
I  am  aware  of  that,  and  of  the  whole  Jesuiti- 
c;il  plot  from  the  beginning,  base,  ingenious, 
but  diabohcal  as  it  was." 

Tbe  squire  rose  up  and  looked  at  him  for 
a  minute,  without  speaking,  then  sat  down 
again,  and,  a  second  time,  was  partially  up, 
but  resumed  his  seat. 

"  A  i)lot ! "  he  exclaimed ;  "a  plot.  Sir 
Robei-t!  ^^^latplot?" 

"A  plot,  Mr.  FoUiard,  for  the  pui-pose  of 
creating  an  opportunity  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, and  of  ingi-atiatiug  himself  into 
the  good  graces  and  alfections  of  your  lovely 
daughter  ;  a  plot  for  the  puii^ose  of  marrj'-  I 
ing  her." 

The  Squire  seemed  for  a  moment  thunder- 
struck, but  in  a  httle  time  he  recovered. 
"Marrying  her  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  that,  you 
know,  could  not  be  done,  unless  he  turned 
Protestant." 

It  was  now  time  for  the  bai'onet  to  feel 
thunderstricken. 

"  He  turn  Protestant !  I  don't  understand 
you,  IMr.  Folliai'd.  Could  any  ch;inge  on 
ReiUy's  part  involve  such  a  probability  as  a 
marriage  between  him  and  youi*  daughter?  " 

"  I  can't  believe  it  was  a  plot,  Sir  llobei't," 
said  the  squu-e,  sliifting  the  question,  "nor 
I  won't  beheve  it.  There  was  too  much 
truth  and  sincerity  in  his  conduct.  And, 
what  is  more,  my  house  would  have  been 
attacked  last  night ;  I  myself  robbed  and 
murdered,  and  my  daughter — my  child,  car- 
ried ofl*  only  for  him.  Nay,  indeed,  it  was 
pai'tially  attacked,  but  when  the  villains  foimd 


us  prepared  they  decamped  ;  but,  as  for  mar« 
riage,  he  could  not  maiT\'  my  daughter,  1 
say  again,  so  long  as  he  remams  a  Papist." 

"Unless  he  might  prevail  on  her  to  turn 
Papist." 

"By  the  life  of  my  body.  Sir  Robert,  I 
won't  stand  this.  Did  you  come  here,  sir, 
to  insult  me  and  to  di-ive  me  into  madness  ? 
"SMiat  de\il  could  have  put  it  into  your  head 
that  my  daughter,  sir,  or  any  one  with  a 
di'op  of  my  blood  in  their  veins,  to  the  tenth 
generation,  could  ever,  for  a  single  moment, 
think  of  turning  Papist  ?  Sii",  I  hoped  that 
you  would  have  respected  the  name  both  of 
my  daughter  and  myself,  and  have  foreborne 
to  add  this  double  insult  both  to  her  and 
me.  The  insolence  even  to  dream  of  imput- 
ing such  an  act  to  her  I  cannot  overlook. 
You  yourself,  if  you  coidd  gain  a  pomt  oi 
feather  3-our  nest  by  it,  are  a  thousand  times 
much  more  hkely  to  turn  Papist  than  eithei 
of  us.  Apologize  instantly,  sir,  or  leave  my 
house." 

"I  can  cei-tainly  apologize,  JMr.  FoUiard," 
rephed  the  baronet,  "and  with  a  good  con- 
science, inasmuch  as  I  had  not  the  most  re- 
mote intention  of  offending  you,  much  less 
Miss  FoUiard — I  accordingly  do  so  promptly 
and  at  once ;  but  as  for  my  allegations 
against  ReiUy,  I  am  in  a  position  to  estal)- 
hsh  their  truth  in  the  clearest  manner,  mid 
to  prove  to  you  that  there  wasn't  a  single 
robber,  nor  Rapparee  either,  at  or  about 
your  house  last  night,  with  the  exce^jtion  of 
ReiUy  and  his  gang.  If  there  were,  why 
were  they  neither  heard  nor  seen  ?  " 

"One  of  them  was — the  Red  Rapparea 
himself." 

"  Do  not  be  deceived,  Mx.  FoUiard ;  did 
you  yourseK,  or  any  of  your  famUy  or  house- 
hold, see  him  ?  " 

"  AVhy,  no,  certainly,  we  did  not ;  I  admit 
that." 

"  Yes,  and  j'ou  wiU  admit  more  soon.  I 
shall  prove  the  whole  conspiracy." 

"  WeU,  why  don't  you  then?  " 

"  Simply  because  the  matter  must  be 
brought  about  with  great  caution.  You 
must  aUow  me  a  few  days,  say  three  or  four, 
and  the  proofs  shall  be  given." 

"  Very  weU,  Sir  Robert,  but  in  the  mean- 
time I  shaU  not  throw  ReiUy  overboai'd." 

"  Could  I  not  be  permitted  to  pay  my  re- 
spects to  Miss  Foliiard  before  1  go,  sir?"* 
asked  Sii-  Robert.  , 

"  Don't  insist  upon  it,"  rephed  her  father  ; 
"  you  know  perfectly  weU  that  she — that  you 
are  no  favorite  with  her." 

"  Nothing  on  earth,  sir,  grieves  me  so 
.much,"  said  the  baronet,  affecting  a  melan- 
choly expression  of  countenance,  which  wa/ 
luchcrous  to  look  at. 


32 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORICS. 


"Well,  well,"  said  the  old  man,  "as  you 
can't  see  her  now,  come  and  meet  Reilly  here 
at  dinner  the  day  after  to-mon-ow,  and  you 
shall  have  that  pleasure." 

"It  mil  be  with  jiain,  su-,  that  I  shall 
force  myself  into  that  person's  society  ;  how- 
ever, to  obhge  you,  I  shall  do  it." 

"Consider,  pray  consider.  Sir  Robert," 
replied  the  old  squire,  all  his  pride  of  family 
^lowing  strong  within  him,  "just  consider 
that  my  table,  sir,  and  my  countenance,  sir, 
and  my  sense  of  gratitude,  sir,  are  a  sufficient 
guarantee  to  the  worth  and  respectability  of 
any  one  whom  I  may  ask  to  my  house. 
And,  Sir  Robert,  in  addition  to  that,  just  re- 
flect that  I  ask  him  to  meet  my  daughter, 
and,  if  I  don't  mistake,  I  think  I  love,  honor, 
and  respect  her  nearly  as  much  as  I  do  you. 
Will  you  come  then,  or  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably,  sir,  I  shall  do  myself 
the  honor." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  old  squire,  clear- 
ing up  at  once — imdergoing,  in  fact,  one  of 
those  rapid  and  unaccoim table  changes  which 
constituted  so  prominent  a  portion  of  his 
chiu-acter.  "  Veiy  well,  Bobby  ;  good-by,  my 
boy  ;  I  am  not  angiy  with  you  ;  shake  hands, 
and  cvirse  Popery." 

Until  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  the 
two  rivcils  were  to  meet,  ]\Iiss  Folliard  began 
to  entertain  a  di-eadful  apprehension  that  the 
fright  into  which  the  Red  Rapparee  had 
throwTi  her  father  was  likely  to  terminate,  ere 
long,  in  insanity.  The  man  at  best  was  ec- 
centric, and  full  of  the  most  unaccoimtable 
changes  of  temjier  and  pui-pose,  hot,  pas- 
sionate, vindictive,  generous,  implacable,  and 
benevolent.  What  he  had  seldom  been  ac- 
customed to  do,  he  commenced  soliloquizing 
aloud,  and  talking  to  himseK  in  such  broken 
hints  loid  dark  mysterious  allusions,  dra-sving 
from  unknowai  premises  such  odd  and  ludi- 
crous inferences  ;  at  one  time  biaishing  him- 
self up  in  Scripture ;  at  another  moment 
questioning  his  daughter  about  her  opinion 
on  Popery — sometimes  dealing  about  politi- 
cal and  religious  allusions  Avith  gi'eat  sarcasm, 
in  which  he  was  a  master  when  he  wished, 
and  sometimes  with  considerable  humor  of 
illustration,  so  far,  at  least,  as  he  could  be 
understood. 

"  Confound  these  Jesuits,"  said  he  ;  "I -wish 
they  were  scoxu-ged  out  of  Europe.  Evei-y 
man  of  them  is  sure  to  put  his  linger  in  the 
pie  and  then  into  his  mouth  to  taste  what 
it's  like  ;  not  so  the  parsons — Hallo  !  where 
am  I?  Take  care,  old  Folliard;  take  (!are, 
you  old  dog ;  what  have  you  to  say  in  favor 
of  these  same  parsons— lazy,  negligent  fel- 
lows, who  snore  and  slumber,  feed  well, 
clothe  well,  and  thmk  first  of  number  one  ? 
Egiid,  I'm  in  a  meas  between  them.     One 


makes  a  slave  of  you,  and  the  other  allowa 
you  to  play  the  tyrant.  A  plague,  as  I  heard 
a  fellow  say  in  a  play  once,  a  plague  o'  both 
your  houses :  if  you  paid  more  attention  to 
your  duties,  and  scrambled  less  for  wealth 
and  power,  and  this  world's  honors,  you 
would  not  turn  it  upside  down  as  you  do. 
Helen ! " 

"  Well,  papa." 

"  I  have  doubts  whether  I  shall  allow  you 
to  sound  Reilly  on  Popery." 

"I  would  rather  decline  it,  sir." 

"  111  tell  you  what ;  I'll  see  Andy  Cum-. 
miskey — Andy's  opinion  is  good  on  any 
thing."  And  accordingly  he  proceeded  to  see 
his  confidential  old  sen'ant.  With  this  pur- 
pose, and  in  his  own  original  manner,  he 
went  about  consulting  every  sei^vant  imder 
his  roof  upon  their  respective  notions  of 
Popery,  as  he  called  it,  and  striring  to  allure 
them,  at  one  time  by  kindness,  and  at  an- 
other by  threatening  them,  into  an  avowal 
of  its  idolatrous  tendency.  Those  to  whom 
he  spoke,  however,  knew  very  little  about  it, 
and,  like  those  of  all  creeds  in  a  similar  pre- 
dicament, he  found  that,  in  proportion  to 
their  ignora^  r.  of  its  doctrines,  arose  the 
vehemence  an-  "rity  of  their  defence  of 

it.  This,  howevt^,  human  nature,  and  we 
do  not  see  how  thc.:>etirned  can  condemn  it. 
Upon  the  day  appointed,  for  dinner  only 
four  sat  do^\^l  to  it — that  is  to  say,  tli'^  "^uire, 
his  daughter.  Sir  Robert  W.liiteciaii,,  o^id 
Reilly.  They  had  met  in  the  di-awing-room 
some  time  before  its  announcement,  and  as 
the  old  man  introduced  the  two  latter,  Reil- 
ly's  bow  was  courteous  and  gentlemanly, 
whilst  that  of  the  baronet,  who  not  only  de- 
tested Reilly  with  the  hatred  of  a  demon,  but 
resolved  to  make  him  feel  the  superiority  of 
rank  and  wealth,  was  frigid,  supercilious,  and 
offensive.  Reilly  at  once  saw  this,  and,  as 
he  knew  not  that  the  baronet  was  in  posses- 
sion of  his  secret,  he  felt  his  ill-bred  inso- 
lence the  more  deeply.  He  was  too  much  of 
a  gentleman,  however,  and  too  well  acquaint- 
ed with  the  principles  and  forms  of  good 
breeding,  to  seem  to  notice  it  in  the  slight 
est  degree.  The  old  squire  at  this  time  had 
not  at  all  given  Reilly  up,  but  still  his  confi- 
dence in  him  was  considerably  shaken.  He 
saw,  moreover,  that,  notmthstanding  what 
had  occun-ed  at  their  last  interview,  the  bar- 
onet had  forgotten  the  respect  due  both  to 
himself  and  his  daughter  ;  and,  as  he  had, 
amidst  all  his  eccentr'icities,  many  strong 
touches  of  the  old  Ii-ish  gentleman  about 
him,  he  resolved  to  punish  him  for  his  un- 
gentlemanly  deportment.  Accordingly,  when 
dinner  was  announced,  he  said  : 

"Mr.  Reilly,  you  will  give  Miss  Folliard 
your  arm." 


WIZZY  REIZZY. 


33 


We  do  not  say  that  the  worthy  baronet 
squinted,  but  there  was  a  bad,  vindictive 
look  in  his  small,  cunning  eyes,  which,  as 
they  turned  upon  Reilly,  was  ten  times  more 
repulsive  than  the  worst  squint  that  ever 
disfigured  a  human  countenance.  To  add 
to  his  chagrin,  too,  the  squii-e  came  out  with 
a  bit  of  his  usual  sarcasm. 

"  Come,  baronet,"  said  he,  "  here's  my  arm. 
I  am  the  old  man,  and  you  are  the  old  lady  ; 
and  now  for  dinner." 

In  the  meantime  Reilly  and  the  Cooleen 
Bawn  had  gone  far  enough  in  advance  to 
be  in  a  condition  to  speak  without  being 
heard. 

"  That,"  said  she,  "  is  the  husband  my  fath- 
er intends  for  me,  or,  rather,  did  intend  ; 
for,  do  you  know,  that  you  have  found  such 
favor  in  his  sight  that— that — "  she  hesitat- 
ed, and  Reilly,  looking  into  her  face,  saw 
that  she  blushed  deeply,  and  he  felt  by  her 
arm  that  her  whole  fi-ame  trembled  with 
emotion. 

"  Proceed,  dearest  love,"  said  he  ;  "  what 
is  it?" 

"I  have  not  time  to  tell  ':>,<.  now,"  she  re- 
plied, "but  he  mentir  a-'project  tome 
which,  if  it  could  be  .-l  -i'miDlished,  wovdd 
seal  both  yoiu*  happines  and  mine  forever. 
Your  religion  is  tlie  only  obstacle." 

«/<■-■■»'  that,  my  love,"  he  rej)hed,  "is  an 
insurmountable  one." 

"  Alas !  I  feared  as  much,"  she  repHed, 
sighing  bitterly  as  she  spoke. 

The  old  squire  took  the  head  of  the  table, 
and  requested  Su'  Robert  to  take  the  foot ; 
his  daughter  was  at  his  right  hand,  and  Reil- 
ly opposite  her,  by  which  means,  although 
denied  any  confidential  use  of  the  tongue, 
their  eyes  enjoyed  very  gratifying  advan- 
tages, and  there  passed  between  them  occa- 
sionally some  of  those  rapid  glances  which, 
especially  when  lovers  are  under  surveillance, 
concentrate  in  their  hghtning  flash  more  sig- 
nificance, more  hope,  more  joy,  and  more 
love,  than  ever  was  conveyed  by  the  longest 
and  tenderest  gaze  of  affection  under  other 
circumstances. 

"IVli'.  Reilly,"  said  the  squire,  "  I'm  told 
that  you  are  a  very  well  educated  man  ;  in- 
deed, the  thing  is  evident.  WTiat,  let  me  ask, 
is  your  opinion  of  education  in  general  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  replied  Reilly,  "  I  think  there 
can  be  but  one  opinion  about  it.  Without 
education  a  people  can  never  be  moral,  pros- 
perous, or  happy.  Without  it,  how  ai-e  they 
to  learn  the  duties  of  this  hfe,  or  those  still 
more  important  ones  that  prepare  them  for  a 
better  ?  " 

"  You  would  entrust  the  conduct  and  con- 
trol of  it,  I  presume,  sir,  to  the  clergy  ? " 
asked  Sir  Robert  insidiously. 


"  I  would  give  the  priest  such  control  in 
education  as  becomes  his  position,  which  is 
■Qot  only  to  educate  the  youth,  but  to  in- 
struct the  man,  in  all  the  duties  enjoined  by 
rehgion." 

The  squire  now  gave  a  triumphant  look  at 
the  baronet,  and  a  veiy  kind  and  gracious 
one  at  Reilly. 

"  Pray,  sir,"  continued  the  baronet,  in  hi.i 
cold,  superciHous  manner,  "from  the  pecu- 
harity  of  j'oui*  views,  I  feel  anxious,  if  you 
will  pardon  me,  to  ask  where  you  yoiu-self 
have  received  your  very  accompHshed  edu- 
cation." 

"  Wliether  my  education,  sir,  has  been  an 
accomphshed  one  or  otherwise,"  rephed 
Reilly,  "  is  a  point,  I  apprehend,  beyond  the 
reach  of  any  opportunity  you  ever  had  to 
know.  I  received  my  education,  sir,  such  a? 
it  is,  and  if  it  be  not  better  the  fault  is  vd 
own,  in  a  Jesuit  seminary  on  the  Continent., 

It  was  now  the  baronet's  time  to  triumph  ; 
and  indeed  the  bitter  glancing  look  he  gave 
at  the  squire,  although  it  was  intended  for 
Reilly,  resembled  that  which  one  of  the  more 
cunning  and  ferocious  beasts  of  prey  makes 
previous  to  its  death-spring  upon  its  rictim. 
The  old  man's  countenance  instantly  fell. 
He  looked  with  siu-prise,  not  unmingled  Arith 
sorrow  and  distinist,  at  Reilly,  a  circumstance 
which  did  not  escape  his  daughter,  who  could 
not,  for  the  hfe  of  her,  avoid  fixing  her  eyes, 
loveher  even  in  the  disdain  they  expressed, 
with  an  indignant  look  at  the  baronet. 

The  latter,  however,  felt  resolved  to  biing 
his  rival  still  fiu'ther  within  the  toils  he  was 
preparing  for  him,  an  object  which  Reilly 's 
candor  veiy  much  facilitated. 

"Mr.  Reilly,"  said  the  squire,  "  I  was  not 
prepared  to  hear — a — a — hem  ! — God  bless 
me,  it  is  veiy  odd,  very  deplorable,  very 
much  to  be  regretted  indeed  !  " 

"What  is,  sii'?"  asked  Reilly. 

"WTiy,  that  you  should  be  a  Jesuit.  I 
must  confess  I  was  not — ahem  ! — God  bless 
me.  I  can't  doubt  your  oaati  word,  cer- 
tainly." 

"Not  on  this  subject,"  observed  the  bar- 
onet coolly. 

"On  no  subject,  sir,"  replied  Reilly,  look- 
ing him  stemty,  and  Arith  an  indignation  that 
was  kept  -ndthin  bounds  only  by  his  respect 
for  the  other  parties,  and  the  roof  that  cov- 
ered him  ;  "  on  no  subject.  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft,  is  my  word  to  be  doubted." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sii',"  replied  the 
other,  "I  did  not  say  so." 

"  I  will  neither  have  it  said,  sir,  nor  insin- 
uated," rejoined  JReilly.  "I  received  my 
education  on  the  Continent  because  the  laws 
of  this  country  prevented  me  fi'om  receiving 
it  here.     I  was  placed  in  a  Jesuit  seminaiy. 


34 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S   WOBKS. 


not  by  my  owti  choice,  but  by  that  of  my 
fatheiC  to'  whom  I  owed  obedience.  Your 
opjjressive  laws,  sir,  lirst  keep  us  ignorant, 
and  then  punish  us  for  the  crimes  w^hich  that 
ignorance  produces." 

"Do  vou  call  the  laws  of  the  country  op- 
pressive? '  asked  the  baronet,  ^vith  as  much 
of  a  sneer  as  cowardice  would  permit  him  to 
indulge  in. 

"  I  do,  sir,  and  ever  will  consider  them  so, 
at  least  so  long  as  they  deprive  myself  and 
my  Catholic  feUow-couutrymen  of  their  civil 
and  religious  rights." 

"That  is  strong  language,  though,"  ob- 
served the  other,   "  at  this  time  of  day." 

"  'Mi:  IleiU}',"  said  the  squii-e,  "  you  seem 
to  be  very  much  attached  to  yoiu'  religion." 

"  Just  as  much  as  I  am  to  my  life,  sir,  and 
would  as  soon  give  up  the  one  as  the  other." 

The  squire's  countenance  literally  became 
pale,  his  last  hope  was  gone,  and  so  gi-eat 
was  his  agitation  that,  in  bringing  a  glass  of 
wine  to  his  hjjs,  his  hand  trembled  to  such  a 
degi-ee  that  he  spilled  a  jDart  of  it.  Tliis,  how- 
ever, was  not  all.  A  settled  gloom — a  morose, 
dissatisfied  expression — soon  overshadowed 
his  features,  fi'om  which  disappeared  all 
trace  of  that  benignant,  open,  and  friendly 
hospitality  towards  Eeilly  that  had  hitherto 
"beamed  fi'om  them.  He  and  the  baronet 
exchanged  glances  of  whose  import,  if  Eeilly 
was  ignorant,  not  so  his  beloved  Cooleen 
Bawn.  For  the  remainder  of  the  evening 
the  scjuii'e  treated  Eeilly  with  great  coolness, 
always  addressing  him  as  ]\lister,  and  e'vi- 
dently  contemplating  him  in  a  spirit  which 
partook  of  the  feeling  that  animated  Sir 
Eobert  "VMiitecraft. 

Helen  rose  to  withdraw,  and  contrived,  by 
a  sudden  glance  at  the  door,  and  another  as 
quick  in  the  direction  of  the  drawing-room, 
to  let  her  lover  know  that  she  washed  him  to 
follow  her  soon.  The  hint  was  not  lost,  for 
in  less  than  half  an  hour  Eeilly,  who  was  of 
veiy  temperate  habits,  joined  her  as  she  had 
hinted. 

"Eeilly,"  said  she,  as  she  ran  to  him, 
"dearest  Eeilly!  there  is  httle  time  to  be 
lost.  I  perceive  that  a  secret  understanding 
respecting  you  exists  between  jDapa  and  that 
detestable  baronet.  Be  on  your  guard,  es- 
pecially against  the  latter,  who  has  evidently, 
ever  since  we  sat  dovra.  to  dinner,  contrived 
to  bring  papa  round  to  his  own  way  of 
thinking,  as  he  will  ultimately,  perhajjs,  to 
worse  designs  and  darker  j)urposes.  Above 
aU  things,  speak  nothing  that  can  be  con- 
strued against  the  existing  laws.  I  find  that 
danger,  if  not  positive  injmy,  awaits  you.  I 
shall,  at  any  risk,  give  you  warning." 

"  At  no  risk,  beloved  !  " 

"At    evei-y    risk — at    all    risks,    dearest 


Eeilly  !  Nay,  more — whatever  danger  maj 
encomjDass  you  shall  be  shared  by  me,  even 
at  the  risk  of  my  life,  or  I  shall  extricata 
you  out  of  it.  But  perhaps  you  vnW  not  be 
faithful  to  me.  If  so,  I  shudder  to  think 
what  might  happen." 

"Listen,"  said  ReiUy,  taking  her  by  the/ 
hand,  "In  the  jyresence  of  heaven,  I  am  yours,, 
and  yours  only,  \in(il  death  !  " 

She  repeated  his  words,  after  which  they 
had  scarcely  taken  their  seats  when  the- 
squire  and  Sir  Eobert  entered  the  drawing* 
room. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The.Plot  and  the  Victims. 

Sm  Robert,  on  entering  the  room  along- 
with  the  squii'e,  found  the  Cooleen  Baton  at 
the  sj)innet.  Taking  his  place  at  the  end  of 
it,  so  as  that  he  could  gain  a  full  \'iew  of  her 
countenance,  he  thought  he  could  obsei-ve^ 
her  complexion  considerably  heightened  in 
color,  and  from  her  his  glance  was  dii'ected 
to  EeiUy.  The  squire,  on  the  other  hand,, 
sat  dull,  silent,  and  unsociable,  unless  when, 
addressing  himself  to  the  baronet,  and  im- 
mediately his  genial  manner  retiu-ned  to/ 
him. 

With  his  usual  impetuosity,  however,, 
when  laboring  under  what  he  supposed  to- 
be  a  sense  of  iujiu-y,  he  soon  brought  mat-- 
ters  to  a  crisis. 

"  Sir  Eobert,"  said  he,  "  are  the  Papists', 
quiet  now  ?  " 

"They  are  qiiiet,  sir,"  replied  the  other,, 
"  because  they  dare  not  be  otherwise." 

"By  the  gi-eat  Deliverer,  that  saved  us 
from  Pope  and  Popery,  brass  money  and. 
w^ooden  shoes,  I  think  the  country  wiU  never 
be  quiet  tiU  they  are  banished  out  of  it." 

"Indeed,  jVli-.  FoUiard,  I  agree  with  you." 

"And  so  do  I,  Sir  Eobert,"  said  Eeilly. 
"  I  wish  fi'om  my  soul  there  was  not  a  Pa- 
pist, as  you  call  them,  in  this  unfortunate 
countiy  !  In  any  other  country  beyond  the 
bounds  of  the  British  dominions  they  could 
enjoy  fi'eedom.  But  I  wish  it  for  another 
reason,  gentlemen  ;  if  they  were  gone,  you 
would  then  be  taught  to  your  cost  the  value 
of  your  estates  and  the  soui-ce  of  youi-  in- 
comes. And  now,  Mr.  Folliard,  I  am  not 
conscious  of  having  given  you  any  earthly 
offence,  but  I  cannot  possibly  pretend  to 
misunderstand  the  object  of  your  altered 
conduct  and  language.  I  am  your  guest,  at 
your  own  exjDress  invitation.  You  knoAV 
I  am  a  Eoman  Catholic — Papist,  if  you  "will 
— yet,  with  the  knowledge  of  this,  you  have 
not  only  insulted  me  personally,  but  .also  m 


WILLY  REILLY. 


'6^ 


the  ctvsed  to  wtich  I  belong.  As  for  that 
gentleman,  I  can  only  say  that  this  roof  and 
the  i^resence  of  those  who  are  under  it  con- 
stitute his  protection.  But  I  envy  not  the 
man  who  could  avail  himself  of  such  a  posi- 
tion, for  the  purpose  of  insinuating  an  in- 
sult which  he  dare  not  otter  under  other 
circumstances.  I  will  not  apologize  for  tak- 
ing my  departure,  for  I  feel  that  I  have  been 
too  long  here." 

Cooleen  Bawn  arose  in  deep  agitation. 
"Dear  papa,  what  is  this?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  "What  can  be  the  cause  of  it  ?  Why  forget 
the  laws  of  hospitiility  ?  AVliy,  above  all 
things,  deliberately  insult  the  man  to  whom 
you  and  I  both  owe  so  much  ?  Oh,  I  can- 
not understand  it.  Some  demon,  equally 
cowardly  and  malignant,  must  have  poisoned 
your  ovm  natiu'ally  generous  mind.  Some 
villain,  equally  profligate  and  hj^^ocritical, 
has,  for  some  dark  purpose,  given  this  un- 
worthy bias  to  your  mind." 

"  You  know  nothing  of  it,  Helen.  You're 
altogether  in  the  dark,  gii'l ;  but  in  a  day  or 
two  it  will  all  be  made  clear  to* you." 

"  Do  not  be  discomjjosed,  my  dear  Miss 
Folhard,"  said  Sir  Robert,  striding  over  to 
her.  "Allow  me  to  jDrevail  upon  3'ou  to 
susijend  your  judgment  for  a  httle,  and  to 
return  to  the  beautiful  aii'  you  were  enchant- 
ing us  with." 

As  he  spoke  he  attempted  to  take  her 
hand.  Keilly,  in  the  meantime,  was  waiting 
for  an  opportunity  to  bid  his  love  good- 
night. 

"Touch  me  not,  sii',"  she  replied,  her 
glorious  eyes  flashing  with  indignation.  "I 
charge  you  as  the  base  cause  of  drawing 
down  the  disgrace  of  shame,  the  sin  of  in- 
gratitude, on  my  father's  head.  But  hei*e 
that  father  stands,  and  there  you,  sir,  stand  ; ' 
and  sooner  than  become  the  ^dfe  of  Sir 
Robert  "W^liitecraft  I  would  dash  myself  fi'om 
the  battlements  of  this  castle.  William 
Reilly,  brave  and  generous  young  man,  good- 
night !  It  matters  not  who  may  forget  the 
debt  of  gratitude  which  this  family  owe  you 
— /  ivill  not.  No  cowardly  slanderer  shall 
instil  his  poisonous  calumnies  against  you 
into  my  ear.  ]My  oijinion  of  you  is  un- 
changed and  \inchaugeable.  Farewell !  Wil- 
liam Reilly  ! " 

We  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  com- 
motions of  love,  of  happiness,  of  rapture, 
which  tilled  Reilly's  bosom  as  he  took  his 
leijarture.  As  for  Cooleen  Bawn,  she  had 
•low  j)assed  the  Rubicon,  and  there  remained 
nothing  for  her  but  constancy  to  the  truth 
of  her  affection,  be  the  result  what  it  might. 
'She  had,  indeed,  much  of  the  vehemence  of 
her  father's  character  in  her  ;  much  of  his 
unchangeable    pui-pose,   when    she    felt   or 


thought  she  was' right ;  but  not  one  of  his 
vmfounded  whims  or  prejudices ;  for  sho 
was  too  noble-minded  and  sensible  to  be 
influenced  by  unbecoming  or  inadequate 
'  motives.  With  an  indignant  but  beautiful 
scorn,  that  gave  grace  to  resentment,  she 
bowed  to  the  baronet,  then  kissed  her  father 
affectionately  and  retired. 

The  old  man,  after  she  had  gone,  sat  for  a 
I  considerable  time  silent.     In  fact,  the  supe- 
rior force  of  his  daughter's  character  had, 
not  only  surprised,  but  oveii^owered  him  for 
1  the  moment.     The  baronet  attempted  to  re- 
j  sume  the  conversation,  but  he  found  not  his 
'  his  intended  father-in-law  in  the  mood  for  it. 
I  The  light  of   truth,  as  it  flashed   fi'om   the 
i  spirit  of  his  daughter,  seemed  to  dispel  the 
darkness  of  his  recent  suspicions  ;  he  dwelt 
upon  the  possibility  of   ingratitude  with  a 
temjDorary  remorse. 

"  I  cannot  speak  to  you.  Sir  Robert,"  he 
said  ;  "I  am  confused,  disturbed,  distressed. 
If  I  have  treated  that  young  man  ungi-ate- 
fully,  God  may  forgive  me,  but  I  will  never 
forgive  mj'self." 

"Take  care,  sir,"  said  the  baronet,  "that 
you  are  not  under  the  spell  of  the  Jesuit 
and  your  daughter  too.  Perhaps  you  will 
find,  when  1 ':  is  too  late,  that  she  is  the  more 
spellbound  of  the  two.-  If  I  don't  mistake, 
the  sj)ell  begins  to  work  ah'eady.  In  the 
meantime,-  as  Miss  Folliard  will  have  it,  I 
withdraw  all  claims  upon  her  hand  and 
affections.  Good-night,  sh' ; "  and  as  he 
sj)oke  he  took  his  departiu-e. 

For  a  long  time  the  old  man  sat  looking 
into  the  fire,  where  he  began  gi-adually  to 
picture  to  himself  strange  forms  and  'objects 
in  the  glowing  embers,  one  of  whom  he 
thought  resembled  the  Red  Rapparee  about 
to  shoot  him  ;  another,  Willy  Reilly  m.iking 
love  to  his  daughter ;  and  behind  all,  a 
high  gallows,  on  which  he  beheld  the  said 
Willy  hanging  for  his  crime. 

In  about  an  hour  afterwards  IMiss  Folliard 
returned  to  the  di-awing-rooMi.  where  she 
found  her  father  asleep  in  his  ai'm-chair. 
Having  awakened  him  gently  fi'om  what  ap- 
peared a  disturbed  dream,  he  looked  about 
him,  and,  forgetting  for  a  moment  all  that 
had  happened,  inquired  in  his  usual  eager 
manner  where  Reilly  and  Whitecraft  were, 
and  if  they  had  gone.  Li  a  few  moments, 
however,  he  recollected  the  circinnstances 
that  had  taken  place,  and  after  heaving  a  deep 
sigh,  he  opened  liis  arms  for  his  daughter, 
and  as  he  embraced  her  burst  into  tears. 

"Helen,"  said  he,  "I  am  uuhapjn'  ;  I  am 
distressed  ;  I  know  not  what  to  do  ! — maj' 
God  forgive  me  if  I  have  treated  this  young 
man  with  ingi-atitude.  But,  at  all  events,  a 
few  days  will  cleai'  it  all  up." 


36 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


His  daughter  was  melted  by  the  depth  of 
his  son-ow,  and  the  more  so  as  it  was  seldom 
she  had  seen  him  shed  tears  before. 

"I  would  do  every  thing — anything  to 
make  you  happy,  my  dear  treasure,"  said  he, 
"if  I  only  knew  how." 

"Dear  pajxi,"  she  rephed,  "of  that  I  am 
conscious  ;  and  as  a  jiroof  that  the  heart  of 
your  daughter  is  incapable  of  veiling  a  single 
thought  that  jDasses  in  it  from  a  parent  who 
loves  her  so  well,  I  will  place  its  most  cher- 
ished secret  in  your  o\\ti  keeping.  I  shall 
not  be  outdone  even  by  yon,  dear  papa,  in 
generosity,  in  confidence,  in  affection.  Papa," 
she  added,  j^lacing  her  head  ujDon  his  bosom, 
whilst  the  tears  flowed  fast  down  her  cheeks, 
"  l^ajja,  I  love  William  Reilly — love  him  Avith 
a  jDvu'e  and  disinterested  passion  ! — with  a 
passion  which  I  feel  constitutes  my  des- 
tiny in  this  hfe — either  for  hajDpiness  or 
miseiy.  That  passion  is  irrevocable.  It  is 
useless  to  ask  me  to  control  or  suppress  it, 
for  I  feel  that  the  task  is  beyond  my  pow- 
er. My  love,  however,  is  not  base  nor  self- 
ish, papa,  but  fovmded  on  vii-tue  and  honor. 
It  may  seem  strange  that  I  should  make 
such  a  confession  to  you,  for  I  know  it  is  un- 
usual in  young  persons  like  me  to  do  so  ; 
but  remember,  dear  papa,  that  except  your- 
self I  have  no  fiiend.  If  I  had  a  mother, 
or  a  sister,  or  a  cousin  of  my  own  sex,  to 
whom  I  might  confide  and  unbui'den  my 
feehngs,  then  indeed  it  is  not  j)robable  I 
would  miike  to  you  the  confession  which  I 
have  made  ;  but  we  are  alone,  and  you  are 
the  only  being  left  me  on  whom  can  rest  my 
sorrow — for  indeed  my  heai-t  is  fvdl  of  sor- 
row." 

"  Well,  well,  I  know  not  what  to  say.  You 
ai*e  a  ti-ue  gii-1,  Helen,  and  the  very  eiTor,  if 
it  be  one,  is  diminished  by  the  magnanimity 
and  tiTith  M'hich  jirompted.  you  to  disclose  it 
to  me.  I  will  go  to  bed,  deai-est,  and  sleep 
if  I  can.  I  trust  in  God  there  is  no  calamity 
about  to  overshadow  o\xx  house  or  destroy 
our  happiness." 

He  then  sought  his  own  chamber  ;  and 
Cooleen  Bawn,  after  attending  him  thither, 
left  him  to  the  care  of  his  attendant  and  re- 
tii-ed  herself  to  her  apartment. 

On  reachmg  home  Keilly  found  Fergus, 
one  of  his  own  relatives,  as  Ave  have  said,  the 
same  who,  warned  by  his  remonstrances,  had 
abandoned  the  gang  of  the  Red  Eapparee, 
waiting  to  see  him. 

"  Well,  Fergus,"  said  he,  "  I  am  glad  that 
you  have  followed  my  advice.  You  have  left 
the  lawless  employment  of  that  blood-stained 
man?" 

"  I  have,"  replied  the  other,  "and  I'm  here 
to  tell  you  that  you  can  now  secure  him  if 
you  like.     I  don't  look  upon  sayin'  this  as 


treacheiy  to  him,  nor  would  I  mention  it 
only  that  Paudeen,  the  smith,  who  shoes  and 
doctors  his  horses,  tould  me  something  that 
you  ought  to  know." 

"  Well,  Fergus,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  There's  a  plot  laid,  su',  to  send  you  out 
o'  the  country,  and  the  Red  RapjDaree  has  a 
hand  in  it.  He  is  promised  a  pardon  fi-om 
government,  and  some  kind  of  a  place  as 
tliief-taker,  if  he'll  engage  in  it  against  you. 
Now,  you  know,  there's  a  price  upon  his 
head,  and,  if  you  hke,  you  can  have  it,  and 
get  an  enemy  put  out  of  your  way  at  the 
same  time." 

"  No,  Fergus,"  rephed  Reilly  ;  "  in  a  mo- 
ment of  indignation  I  threatened  him  in  order 
to  save  the  hfe  of  a  fellow-creature.  But  let 
the  laws  deal  A\ith  him.  As  for  me,  you  know 
what  he  desei*A-es  at  my  hands,  but  I  shall 
never  become  the  hound  of  a  government 
which  ojjpresses  me  unjustly.  No,  no,  it  is 
precisely  because  a  price  is  laid  upon  the  un- 
fortunate miscreant's  head  that  /  would  not 
betray  him." 

"He  AA-ill  betray  you,  then." 

"  And  let  him.  I  have  never  violated  any 
law,  and  even  though  he  should  betray  me, 
Fergus,  he  cannot  make  me  guilty.  To  the 
laws,  to  God,  and  his  owoi  conscience,  I  leave 
him.  No,  Fergus,  all  sympathy  between  me 
and  the  laws  that  oppress  us  is  gone.  Let 
them  Aondicate  themselves  against  thieves  and 
robbers  and  murderers,  with  as  much  vigi- 
lance and  energy  as  they  do  against  the  harm- 
less forms  of  religion  and  the  rights  of  con- 
science, and  the  countiy  will  soon  be  free 
from  such  hcentious  pests  as  the  Red  Rap- 
paree  and  his  gang." 

"You  speak  warmly,  IVIi'.  Reilly." 

"Yes,"  rephed  Reilly,  "I  am  warm,  I  am 
indignant  at  my  degiadation.  Fergus,  Fer- 
gus, I  never  felt  that  degi-adation  and  its  con- 
sequences so  deeply  as  I  do  this  unhappy 
night." 

"  Well,  will  you  Hsten  to  me  ?" 

"  I  AviU  strive  to  do  so  ;  but  you  know  not 
the — you  know  not — alas !  I  have  no  language 
to  express  what  I  feel.  Proceed,  however," 
he  added,  attempting  to  calm  the  tumult  that 
agitated  his  heart ;  "  what  about  this  jjlot  or 
plan  for  putting  me  out  of  the  country  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  it's  determined  on  to  send  you, 
by  the  means  of  the  same  laws  you  speak  of, 
out  of  the  countiy.  The  red  villain  is  to 
come  in  Avith  a  charge  against  you  and  sur- 
render himself  to  government  as  a  penitent 
man,  and  the  person  who  is  to  protect  him  is 
Sir  Robert  AMiitecraft." 

"It's  all  ti-ue,  Fergus,"  said  Reilly ;  "I  see 
it  at  a  glance,  and  understand  it  a  great  deal 
better  than  you  do.  They  may,  however,  be 
disappointed.     Fergus,  I  have  a  fiiend — a 


WILLY  REILL7. 


37 


ftiend — oh,  such  a  friend !  and  it  will  go  hard 
with  that  friend,  or  I  shjiU  hear  of  their  j)ro- 
ceedings.  In  the  meantime,  what  do  you 
intend  to  do  ?  " 

"I  scai-cely  know,"  rephed  the  other.  " I 
must  He  quiet  for  a  while,  at  any  rate." 

"Do  so,"  said  Reilly  ;  "and  hsten,  Fer- 
gus. See  Paudeen,  the  siaith,  fi'om  time  to 
time,  and  get  whatever  he  knows  out  of 
him.  His  father  was  a  tenant  of  ours,  and  he 
ought  to  remember  our  kindness  to  him  and 
his." 

"Ay,"  said  Fergus,  "and  he  does  too." 

"  Well,  it  is  clear  he  does.  Get  from  him 
all  the  information  you  can,  and  let  me  hear 
it.  I  would  give  you  shelter  in  my  house, 
but  that  now  would  be  dangerous  both  to 
you  and  me.  Do  you  want  money  to  sup- 
port you  ?  " 

"  WeU,  indeed,  ^Ix.  ReiUy,  I  do  and  I  do 
not.     I  can — " 

"  That's  enough,"  said  Reilly  ;  "you  want 
it.  Here,  take  this.  I  would  recommend 
you,  as  I  did  before,  to  leave  this  unhappy 
countiy  ;  but  as  cii'cumstances  have  tiu*ned 
out,  you  may  for  some  time  yet  be  useful  to  me. 
Good-night,  then,  Fei'gus.  Sei've  me  in  this 
matter  as  far  as  you  can,  for  I  stand  in  need 
of  it." 

As  nothing  like  an  organized  police  ex- 
isted in  Ii-eland  at  the  period  of  which  we 
speak,  an  outlaw  or  Rapparee  might  have  a 
price  laid  upon  his  head  for  months — nay, 
for  years — and  yet  continue  his  outrages  and 
defy  the  executive.  Sometimes  it  hajDj^ened 
that  the  authorities,  feehng  the  weakn(iss  of 
their  resources  and  the  inadequacy  of  their 
power,  did  not  hesitate  to  jDropose  tenns  to 
the  leaders  of  these  banditti,  and,  by  afford- 
ing them  personal  protection,  succeeded  in 
inducing  them  to  betray  their  former  asso- 
ciates. Now  Reilly  was  well  aware  of  this, 
and  our  readers  need  not  be  suii^i-ised  that 
the  communication  made  to  him  by  his  kins- 
man fiUed  him  not  only  with  anxiety  but 
alai-m.  A  veiy  slight  charge  indeed  brought 
forward  by  a  man  of  rank  and  property — 
such  a  charge,  for  instance,  as  the  possession 
of  firearms — was  quite  sufficient  to  get  a 
Roman  Catholic  banished  the  country. 

On  the  third  evening  after  this  our  friend 
Tom  SteejDle  was  met  by  its  jiroprietor  in 
the  avenue  leading  to  Corbo  Castle. 

"Well,  Tom,"  said  the  squu-e,  "  ai-e  you 
for  the  Big  House  ?  "  for  such  is  the  general 
term  appUed  to  all  the  ancestral  mansions  of 
the  country. 

Tom  stopped  and  looked  at  him — for  we 
need  scarcely  observe  here  that  with  poor 
Tom  there  was  no  respect  of  persons  ;  he 
then  shook  his  head  and  replied,  "  Me  don't 
know  whether  you  tall  or  not.     Tom  tall — 


will  Tom  go  to  Big  Housa  -get  bully  dinner 
— and  Tom  sleep  under  tne  stairs — eh  ?  Say 
ay,  an'  you  be  tall  too." 

"  To  be  sure,  Tom  ;  go  into  the  house, 
and  your  cousin  Larry  Lanigan,  the  cook, 
■nill  give  you  a  bully  dinner ;  and  sleep 
where  you  like." 

The  squire  walked  up  and  down  the 
avenue  in  a  thoughtful  mood  for  some 
moments  until  another  of  our  characters 
met  him  on  his  way  towards  the  enti'ance 
gate.  This  person  was  no  other  than  Molly 
Mahon. 

"  Ha  ! "  said  he,  "  hei-e  is  another  of  them 
— well,  poor  devils,  they  must  Hve.  This, 
though,  is  the  gTcat  fortune-teller.  I  will 
try  her." 

"  God  save  your  honor,"  said  Molly,  as 
she  api^roached  him  and  dropped  a  coui'tesy. 

"All,  Molly,"  said  he,  "  you  can  see  into 
the  future,  they  say.  Well,  come  now,  tell 
me  my  fortune  ;  but  they  say  one  must 
cross  your  palm  with  silver  before  you  can 
manage  the  fates  ;  here's  a  shilling  for  you, 
and  let  us  hear  what  you  have  to  say." 

"  No,  su',"  rephed  Molly,  putting  back  his 
hand,  "  imposthors  may  do  that,  because 
they  secure  themselves  fii"st  and  tell  you 
nothing  worth  kno^^■in'  afterwards.  I  take 
no  money  tiU  I  fii'st  teU  the  fortune." 

"  WeD,  Molly,  that's  honest  at  all  events ; 
let  me  hear  what  you  have  to  tell  me." 

"  Show  me  your  hand,  sir,"  said  she,  and 
taking  it,  she  looked  into  it  with  a  solemn 
aspect.  "  There,  six-,"  she  said,  "  that  will  do. 
I  am  sony  I  met  you  this  evening." 

"^Vhy  so,  MoUy?" 

"  Because  I  read  in  your  hand  a  great 
deal  of  soiTow." 

"  Pooh,  you  foohsh  woman — nonsense  !  " 

"  There's  a  misfortune  likely  to  happen  to 
one  of  your  family  ;  but  I  think  it  may  be 
prevented." 

"  How  will  it  be  prevented  ?  " 

"  By  a  gentleman  that  has  a  title  and 
gi'eat  wefilth,  and  that  loves  the  member  of 
3'Oiu-  family  that  the  misfortune  is  likely  to 
haj^pen  to." 

The  squire  paused  and  looked  at  the 
woman,  who  seemed  to  speak  seriously,  and 
even  with  pain. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  woi'd  of  it,  Molly  ;  but 
granting  that  it  be  true,  how  do  vou  know 
it  ?  " 

"That's  more  than  I  can  tell  myself,  sir," 
she  rephed.  "A  loelin'  comes  over  me,  and 
I  can't  help  speuidn'  the  words  as  they  rise 
to  my  lips." 

"  Well,  IMolly,  here's  a  shiUing  for  you 
now  ;  but  I  want  you  to  see  my  daughter'a 
hand  till  I  hear  what  you  have  to  say  for  her. 
Are  you  a  Papist,  Molly  ?  " 


38 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJ^'S  WORKS. 


"  No,  your  honor,  I  was  one  wanst ;  but 
the  moment  we  take  to  this  way  of  Hfe  we 
mustn't  belonf:f  to  any  rehgion,  otherwise  we 
coulihi't  tell  the  futui-e." 

"  Sell  yourself  to  the  devil,  eh?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  sir  ;  but — " 

"  But  what  ?     Out  A^ith  it." 

"I  can't,  sir  ;  if  I  did,  I  never  could  tell  a 
fortime  agin." 

"  "Well — well ;  come  up  ;  I  have  taken  a 
fancy  that  you  shall  tell  my  daughter's  for  all 
that'" 

"  Sui'ely  there  can  be  nothing  but  haj^pi- 
ness  before  her,  su* ;  she  that  is  so  good  to 
the  poor  and  distressed  ;  she  that  has  aU  the 
world  atlmirin'  her  wonderful  beauty.  Sure, 
they  say,  her  health  was  di'unk  in  the  Lord 
Lieutenant's  house  in  the  gTeat  Castle  of  Dub- 
hn,  as  the  Lily  of  the  Plains  of  Boyle  and  the 
Star  of  Ii-eland." 

"And  so  it  was,  Molly,  and  so  it  was; 
there's  another  shilling  for  you.  Come  now, 
come  up  to  the  house,  and  tell  Iter  fortxme  ; 
and  m;u-k  me,  Molly,  no  flattery  now — noth- 
ing but  the  truth,  if  you  know  it." 

"Did  I  flatter  you,  sir?" 

"Upon  my  honor,  any  thing  but  that, 
Molly  ;  and  all  I  ask  is  that  you  won't  flatter 
her.  Sj^eak  the  tnith,  as  I  said  before,  if  you 
know  it." 

Ivliss  FoUiard,  on  being  called  down  by  her 
father  to  have  her  foi-tune  told,  on  seeing 
Molly,  drew  back  and  said, 

"  I)o  not  ask  me  to  come  in  dii'ect  contact 
with  this  woman,  papa.  How  can  you,  for 
one  moment,  imagine  that  a  person  of  her 
Hfe  and  habits  could  be  gifted  with  that  which 
has  never  yet  been  communicated  to  mortal 
(the  holy  proj^hets  excej^ted) — a  knowledge 
of  futurity  ?  " 

"No  matter,  my  dai'hng,  no  matter;  give 
her  yovu'  hand  ;  you  will  obhge  and  gvntify 
me." 

"  Here,  then,  dear  papa,  to  jylease  you — 
certainly. " 

Moll}-  took  her  lovely  hand,  and  having 
looked  into  it,  said,  turning  to  the  squire, 
"It's  veiy  odd,  sir,  but  here's  nearly  the 
same  thing  that  I  tould  to  you  awhile 
ago." 

"Well,  Molly,"  said  he,  "let  us  hear  it." 

Miss  Folliard  stood  \\ith  her  sno^y  hand 
in  that  of  the  fortune-teller,  perfectly  indif- 
ferent to  her  art,  but  not  without  strong  feel- 
ings of  disgust  at  the  ordeal  to  which  she 
submitted. 

"  Now,  Molly,"  said  the  squii-e,  "  what  have 
you  to  say  ?  " 

"  Here's  love,"  she  rephed,  "  love  in  the 
wi'ong  direction — a  false  step  is  made  that 
will  end  in  misery — and — and — and — " 

"And  what,  woman  ?  "  asked  Miss  FoUiard, 


with  an  indignant  glance  at  the  fortime-tellel*. 
"  What  have  you  to  add  ?  " 

"  No ! "  said  she,  "  I  needn't  speak  it,  fof 
it  won't  come  to  jiass.  I  see  a  man  of  wealth 
and  title  who  wiR  just  come  in  in  time  to  save 
you  from  shame  and  destruction,  and  with 
him  you  wUl  be  happy." 

"  I  could  prove  to  you,"  replied  the  Cooleen 
Bawn,  her  face  manthng  with  blushes  of  in- 
digiiation,  "that  I  am  a  better  prophetess 
than  you  are.  Ask  her,  papa,  where  she  last 
came  from." 

"  Where  did  you  come  fi'om  last,  Molly?" 
he  asked. 

"'\Miy,  then,"  she  rephed,  "fi-om  Jemmy 
Hamilton's  at  the  foot  of  Cullamore." 

"  False  proj^hetess,"  replied  the  Cooleen 
Baton,  "  you  have  told  an  untruth.  I  know 
where  j'ou  came  from  last." 

"  Then  where  did  I  come  from,  Miss  Fol- 
hard  ? "  said  the  woman,  with  imexpected 
efli-onter}'. 

"From  Sir  Robert  ^liitecraft,"  rejDhed 
Miss  Folliard,  "and  the  wages  of  your  dis- 
honesty and  his  coriiiiDtion  are  the  soui'ces  of 
your  inspii'ation.  Take  the  woman  away, 
X3aj)a." 

"  That  \\ill  do,  MoUy— that  wiU  do,"  ex^ 
claimed  the  squire,  "there  is  something  ad- 
ditional for  you.  What  you  have  told  us  is 
very  odd — very  odd,  indeed.  Go  and  get 
your  dinner  in  the  kitchen." 

jVIiss  Folliard  then  mthdi'ew  to  her  ov^ti 
room. 

Between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock  that 
night  a  carriage  di'ew  up  at  the  gTand  en- 
trance  of  Corbo  Castle,  out  of  which  stepped 
Sii'  Robert  WTiitecraft  and  no  less  a  personage 
than  the  Eed  Rapparee.  They  ajiproached 
the  hall  door,  and  after  giving  a  single  knock, 
it  was  opened  to  them  by  the  squire  himself, 
who  it  would  seem  had  been  waiting  to  receive 
them  privately.  They  followed  him  in  silence 
to  his  study. 

IVIi-.  Folliard,  though  a  healthy-looking 
man,  was,  in  point  of  fact,  by  no  means  so. 
Of  a  neiTous  and  plethoric  habit,  though 
brave,  and  even  intrej^id,  yet  he  was  easily 
affected  by  anything  or  any  person  that  was 
disagreeable  to  him.  On  seeing  the  man 
whose  hand  had  been  raised  against  his  life, 
and  what  was  stiU  more  atrocious,  whose 
criminal  designs  upon  the  honor  of  his  daugh- 
ter had  been  proved  by  his  violent  irrui^tion 
into  her  chamber,  he  felt  a  suffocating  sen- 
sation of  rage  and  horror  that  nearly  ovei'- 
came  him. 

"Sir  Robert,"  he  said,  "excuse  me;  the 
sight  of  this  man  has  sickened  me.  I  got 
your  note,  and  in  your  society  and  at  youi 
request  I  have  suffered  him  to  come  here  ; 
under  your  protection,  too.     May  God  for 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


39 


give  me  for  it !     The  room  is  foo  close — I 
feel  imweU — i^ray  open  the  door." 

"  Will  thei-e  be  no  risk,  sir,  in  leaving  the 
door  open  ?  "  said  the  baronet. 

"None  in  the  world!  I  have  sent  the 
servants  all  to  bed  nearly  an  hour  ago.  In- 
deed, the  fact  is,  they  are  seldom  up  so  late, 
unless  Avhen  I  have  company." 

Sii'  Eobert  then  opened  the  door — that  is 
to  say,  he  left  it  a  httle  more  than  ajju',  and 
returning  again  took  his  seat. 

"  Don't  let  the  sight  of  me  fiighten  you, 
sir,"  said  the  Rapparee.  "  I  never  was  yom- 
enemy  nor  intended  you  harm." 

"Frighten  me!"  replied  the  coiu-ageous 
old  squire  ;  "  no,  sh*,  I  am  not  a  man  very 
easily  frightened  ;  but  I  will  confess  that  the 
sight  of  you  has  sickened  me  and  filled  me 
with  horror." 

"Well,  now,  ]Mr.  Folliard,"  said  the  baro- 
net, "  let  this  matter,  this  misunderstanding, 
this  mistake,  or  rather  this  deej)  and  diaboh- 
cal  plot  on  the  part  of  the  Jesuit,  Eeilly,  be 
at  once  cleared  vq).  We  wish,  that  is  to  say 
I  wish,  to  prevent  yoiu*  good  natui-e  fi'om 
being  played  upon  by  a  designing  villain. 
Now,  O'Donnel,  relate,  or  rather  disclose, 
candidly  and  tnily,  all  that  took  place  A\'ith 
respect  to  this  damnable  j)lot  between  you 
and  Reilly." 

"  TMi}',  the  thiaig,  sh-,"  said  the  Rapparee, 
addressing  himself  to  the  squire,  "  is  vfiry 
plain  and  simple  ;  but.  Sir  Robert,  it  was 
not  a  plot  between  me  and  Reilly — the  plot 
was  his  o-svn.  It  appears  that  he  saw  your 
daughter  and  fell  desperately  in  love  Avith 
her,  and  knowin'  your  strong  feeUng  against 
Catholics,  he  gave  up  all  hopes  of  being  made 
acquainted  with  J\Iiss  Folhard,  or  of  getting 
into  her  company.  Well,  sir,  aware  that  you 
were  often  in  the  habit  of  goin'  to  the  town 
of  Boyle,  he  comes  to  me  and  says  in  the 
early  part  of  the  day,  '  Randal,  I  will  give 
you  fifty  goolden  guineas  if  you  help  me 
in  a  plan  I  have  in  my  head.'  Now,  fifty 
goolden  guineas  isn't  easily  earned  ;  so  I,  not 
knowing  what  the  plan  was  at  the  time, 
tould  lum  I  could  not  say  nothing  till  I 
heard  it.  He  then  tould  me  that  he  was 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  your  daugh- 
ter, and  that  have  her  he  should  if  it  cost 
him  liis  Hfe.  '  Well,'  says  I,  '  and  how  can 
I  help  you?'  'Why,'  said  he,  'I'll  show 
you  that :  her  ould  persecuting  scoundrel  of 
a  father  ' — excuse  me,  sir — I'm  givin'  his 
a\yn  words—" 

"I  beheve  it,  ISIr.  FoUiard,"  said  the  baro- 
net, "  for  these  ai'e  the  identical  terms  in 
which  he  told  me  the  stoiy  before  ;  proceed, 
O'Donnel." 

"'The  ould  scomidrel  of  a  father,' says 
he,    'on  his  return  fi-om  Boyle,  generally 


comes  by  the  ould  road,  because  it  is  the 
shortest  cut.  Do  you  and  your  men  Ue  in 
wait  in  the  ruins  of  the  ould  chapel,  near 
Loch  na  Garran ' — it  is  called  so,  su-,  because 
they  say  there's  a  Avild  horse  in  it  that  comes 
out  of  moonhght  nights  to  feed  on  the 
patches  of  green  that  are  here  and  there 
among  the  moors — ' near  Loch  na  Gai^an* 
says  he  ;  '  and  when  he  get^  that  far  turn  out 
upon  him,  charge  him  -with  transportin' 
your  uncle,  and  when  you  are  leveUin'  your 
gun  at  him,  I  will  come,  by  the  way,  and 
save  him.  You  and  I  must  speak  angi-y  to 
one  another,  you  know  ;  then,  of  course,  I 
must  see  him  home,  and  he  can't  do  less 
than  ask  me  to  dine  with  him.  At  all  events, 
thinkin'  that  I  saved  his  life,  we  will  become 
acquainted.' " 

The  squire  paused  and  mused  for  some 
time,  and  then  asked,  "Was  there  no  more 
than  this  between  you  and  him  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more,  sir." 

"  And  tell  me,  did  he  pay  you  the  money  ?  " 

"Here  it  is,"  rej)lied  the  Rapi:)aree,  pull- 
ing out  a  rag  in  which  were  the  precise 
number  of  guineas  mentioned. 

"  But,"  said  the  squii'e,  "  we  lost  ovu'  way 
in  the  fog." 

"Yes,  SU',"  said  the  Rapparee.  "Every- 
thing turned  out  in  his  favor.  That  made 
very  httle  difference.  You  would  have  been 
attacked  in  or  about  that  place,  whether  or 
not." 

"Yes,  but  did  you  not  attack  my  house 
that  night?  Did  not  you  yourself  come 
do"^vn  by  the  skyhght,  and  enter,  by  vio- 
lence, into  my  daughter's  apartment  ?  " 

"  Well,  when  I  heard  of  that,  sir,  I  said, 
'I  give  Reilly  up  for  ingenuity.'  No,  sir, 
that  was  his  own  trick  ;  but  afther  all  it  was 
a  bad  one,  and  tells  aginst  itself.  ^Miy,  su', 
neither  I  nor  any  of  my  men  have  the  250wer 
of  makiu'  ourselves  in^dsible.  Do  you  think, 
sir — I  jDiit  it  to  youi'  own  common-sense — 
that  if  we  had  been  there  no  one  woidd  have 
seen  us?  Wasn't  the  whole  coimtrj'  for 
miles  round  searched  and  scoured,  and  I 
ask  you,  sir,  was  there  hilt  or  hair  of  me  or 
any  one  of  my  men  seen  or  even  heard  of? 
Sir  Robert,  I  must  be  going  now,"  he  added. 
"I  hope  Squire  Folliard  understands  what 
kind  of  a  man  Reilly  is.  As  for  myself,  J 
have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"Don't  go  yet,  O'Donnel,"  said  "VMiite- 
craft ;  "  let  us  determine  what  is  to  be  done 
with  him.  Yoii  see  clearly  it  is  necessaiy, 
!Mr.  Folliard,  that  this  deep-designing  Jes- 
uit should  be  sent  out  of  the  coimtry." 

"  I  would  give  half  my  estate  he  was  fairly 
out  of  it,"  said  the  squire.  "  He  has 
brought  calamity  and  misery  into  my  fam- 
ily.    Created  world  !   how  I  and  mine  have 


40 


WILLIAM  CARLETON  'S  WORKS. 


been  deceived  and  imiDOsed  upon !  Away 
w-itb  him — a  tlicnisiind  leagiies  away  with 
him  !  And  that  quickly  too !  Oh,  the  plaus- 
ible, deceitful  villain  !  My  child !  my  child  !  " 
and  here  the  old  man  bui'st  mto  teai'S  of 
the  bitterest  indignation.  "  Su*  Kobert,  that 
cui-sed  villain  was  bom,  I  feai',  to  be  the 
shame  and  destruction  of  my  house  and 
name." 

"Don't  dream  of  such  a  thing,"  said  the 
bai'onet.  "  On  the  day  he  dined  here — and 
you  cannot  forget  my  strong  disinclination 
to  meet  him — but  even  on  that  day  3'ou  will 
recollect  the  treasonable  language  he  used 
against  the  laws  of  the  realm.  After  my  re- 
tvuTi  home  I  took  a  note  of  them,  and  I  tnist 
that  you,  sir,  will  corroborate,  with  respect 
to  this  fact,  the  testimony  which  it  is  my 
pTui:)ose  to  give  against  him.  I  say  this 
the  rather,  jNIr.  FoUiard,  because  it  might 
seriously  compromise  your  own  character 
with  the  Government,  and  as  a  magistrate, 
too,  to  hear  treasonable  and  seditious  lan- 
guage at  youi*  oMTi  table,  fi'om  a  Papist  Jes- 
uit, and  yet  decline  to  report  it  to  the  au- 
thorities." 

"  Tlie  laws,  the  authoritier,  and  you  be 
hanged,  sii' !  "  rephed  the  squu-e  ;  "my  table 
is,  and  has  been,  and  ever  shall  be,  the  altar 
of  confidence  to  my  guests  ;  I  shall  never  vi- 
olate the  laws  of  hosj)itahty.  Treat  the  man 
fciirly,  I  say,  concoct  no  plot  against  him, 
bribe  no  false  witnesses,  and  if  he  is  just- 
ly amenable  to  the  law  I  will  spend  ten  thou- 
sand povmds  to  have  him  sent  anjTvhere 
out  of  the  countr)'." 

"  He  keeps  arms,"  obsen-ed  Sir  Eobert, 
"contraiw  to  the  penal  enactments." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  the  squire  ;  "  he  told 
me  he  was  on  a  duck-shooting  expedition 
that  night,  and  when  I  asked  him  where 
he  got  his  arms,  he  said  that  his  neighbor, 
Bob  Gosford,  always  lent  him  his  gun  when- 
ever he  felt  disposed  to  shoot,  and,  to  my  own 
knowledge,  so  did  many  other  Protestant 
magistrates  in  the  neighborhood,  for  this 
wily  Jesuit  is  a  favorite  with  most  of  them." 

"But  I  know  where  he  has  anns  con- 
cealed," said  the  Eapparee,  looking  signifi- 
cantly at  the  baronet,  "  and  I  will  be  able  to 
find  them,  too,  when  the  proper  time  comes." 

"  Ha  !  indeed,  O'Doimel,"  said  Sir  Rob- 
ert, with  well-feigned  sui-prise  ;  "then  there 
will  be  no  lack  of  proof  against  him,  you 
may  rest  assured,  5lr.  FoUiard  ;  I  charge 
myself  with  the  management  of  the  whole 
aflair.  I  trust,  sir,  you  will  leave  it  to  me, 
and  I  have  only  one  favor  to  ask,  and  that  is 
the  hand  of  your  fair  daughter  when  he  is 
disposed  of.  " 

"  She  shall  be  yours,  Sir  Robert,  the  mo- 
ment that  this  treacherous  villain  can  be  re- 


moved by  the  fair  operation  of  the  laws ;  but  I 
will  never  sanction  any  dishonorable  treat- 
ment towards  him.  By  the  laws  of  the  land 
let  him  stand  or  fall." 

At  this  moment  a  sneeze  of  tremendoua 
strength  and  loudness  was  heard  immedi- 
ately outside  the  door  ;  a  sneeze  wliich  made 
the  hair  of  the  baronet  almost  stand  on 
end. 

"What  the  dcAil  is  that?"  asked  the 
squire.  "  By  the  great  Bo;^aie,  I  fear  some 
one  has  been  hstening  after  all." 

The  Rapparee,  always  apprehensive  of  the 
"authorities,"  started  behind  a  screen,  and 
the  baronet,  although  unconscious  of  any 
cause  for  teiTor,  stood  rather  undecided. 
The  sneeze,  however,  was  repeated,  and  this 
time  it  was  a  double  one. 

"  Curse  it,  Sii'  Robert,"  said  the  squire, 
"havej'ou  not  the  use  of  yoiu*legs?  Go 
and  see  whether  there  has  been  an  eaves- 
dropper." 

"Yes,  IVIr.  FoUiard,"  repHed  the  doughty 
baronet,  "  but  youi*  house  has  the  character 
of  being  haunted ;  and  I  have  a  terror  of 
ghosts." 

The  squire  himself  got  up,  and,  seizing  a 
candle,  went  outside  the  door,  but  nothing 
in  human  shape  was  visible. 

"  Come  here.  Sir  Robert,"  said  he,  "  that 
sneeze  came  from  no  ghost,  I'll  swear.  "V\Tio 
ever  heard  of  a  ghost  sneezing?  Never 
mind,  though  ;  for  the  curiosity  of  the  thing 
I  will  examine  for  myself,  and  return  to  you 
in  a  few  minutes." 

He  accordingly  left  them,  and  in  a  short 

I  time  came   back,  assui'ing  them   that  eveiy 

I  one  in  the  house  was  in  a  state  of  the  most 

profound  repose,  and  that  it  was  his  opinion 

it  must  have  been  a  cat. 

"I  might  think  so  myself,"  observed  the 
baronet,  "  were  it  not  for  the  double  sneeze. 
I  am  afi-aid,  Mr.  FoUiard,  that  the  report  is 
too  tiaie — and  that  the  house  is  haunted. 
O'Donnel,  you  must  come  home  with  me 
to-night." 

O'Donnel,  who  entertained  no  apprehen- 
sion of  ghosts,  finding  that  the  "  authori- 
ties "  were  not  in  cpiestion,  agreed  to  go  with 
him,  although  he  had  a  smaU  matter  on  hand 
which  requu-ed  his  presence  in  another  part 
of  the  country. 

The  baronet,  however,  had  gained  his 
point.  Tlie  heart  of  the  hasty  and  xmreflect- 
ing  squire  had  been  jDoisoned,  and  not  one 
shadow  of  doubt  remained  on  his  mind  of 
ReUly's  treacheiy.  And  that  which  con 
rinced  him  beyond  all  arguments  or  asser- 
tions was  the  fact  that  on  the  night  of  the  pre- 
meditated attack  on  his  house  not  one  of  the 
Red  Rapparee's  gang  was  seen,  or  any  ti'ace 
of  them  discovered. 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


41 


CHAPTEK  VI 

The  Warning — an  Escape. 

Rehxy,  in  the  meantime,  was  not  insensi- 
ble to  his  danger.  About  eleven  o'clock  the 
next  day,  as  he  was  walking  in  his  garden, 
Tom  Steeple  made  his  apjiearance,  and  ap- 
proached him  with  a  look  of  caution  and  sig- 
nificance. 

"Well,  Tom,"  said  he,  "  what's  the  news  ?  " 
Tom  made  no  reply,  but  catching  him 
gently  by  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  said,  "  Come 
wid  Tom  ;  Tom  has  news  for  you.  Here  it 
is,  in  de  paper ; "  and  as  he  spoke,  he  hand- 
ed him  a  letter,  the  contents  of  which  we 
give: 

"  De.\eest  Redely  :  Tlie  di-eadful  discov- 
ery I  have  made,  the  danger  and  treachery 
and  vengeance  by  which  you  ai'e  suiTOunded, 
but,  above  all,  my  inexpressible  love  for 
you,  will  surely  justify  me  in  not  losing  a 
moment  to  wi-ite  to  you  :  and  I  select  this 
poor  creature  as  my  messenger  because  he  is 
least  hkely  to  be  suspected.  It  is  thi-ough 
him  that  the  discoveiy  of  the  accursed  plot 
against  you  has  been  made.  It  appeal's  that 
he  slej^t  in  the  castle  last  night,  as  he  often 
does,  and  ha-\ing  obsei-ved  Sir  Thomas 
"WTiitecraft  and  that  temble  man,  the  Ked 
Eajjpai'ee,  coming  into  the  house,  and  going 
along  with  pajoa  into  his  study,  e%idently  upon 
some  private  business,  he  resolved  to  hsten. 
He  did  so,  and  overheai-d  the  Rapparee  stat- 
ing to  papa  that  every  thing  which  took 
place  on  the  evening  you  saved  his  life  and 
fiiistrated  his  other  designs  upon  the  castle, 
was  a  plan  preconcerted  by  you  for  the  jiur- 
pose  of  making  papa's  acquaintance  and 
getting  introduced  to  the  faraily  in  order  to 
gain  my  affections.  Alas  !  if  you  have  re- 
sorted to  such  a  pkxn,  you  have  but  too  well 
succeeded.  Do  not,  however,  for  one  mo- 
ment imagine  that  I  ^'ield  any  credit  to  this 
atrocious  fidsehood.  It  has  been  concocted 
by  youi'  base  and  unmanly  rival,  A\Tiitecraft, 
by  whom  all  the  proceedings  against  you  are 
to  be  conducted.  Some  violation  of  the 
penal  laws,  in  connection  ■v\*ith  carmng  or 
keeping  arms,  is  to  be  brought  against  you, 
and  unless  you  are  on  your  guard  you  \\\]1 
be  aiTested  and  thi'0"ttTi  into  prison,  and  if 
not  convicted  of  a  capital  offence  and  execu- 
ted hke  a  felon,  you  will  at  least  be  sent  for- 
ever out  of  the  country.  "\Miat  is  to  be 
done  ?  If  you  have  arms  in  or  about  your 
house  let  them  be  forthwith  removed  to 
some  place  of  concealment.  The  liiipparee 
is  to  get  a  pardon  from  government,  at  least 
he  is  promised  it  by  Su-  Robert,  if  he  turns 
against  you.     In  one  word,  dearest  ReiUy, 


you  cannot,  with  safety  to  your  life,  remain 
in  this  covmtry.  You  must  fly  fi-om  it,  and 
immediately  too.  I  wish  to  see  you.  Come 
this  night,  at  half-past  ten,  to  the  back  gate 
of  our  gai'den,  which  you  will  find  shut,  but 
unlocked.  Something — is  it  my  heart? — 
tells  me  that  our  fates  are  henceforth  insep- 
arable, whether  for  joy  or  sorrow.  I  ought 
to  tell  you  that  I  confessed  my  affection  for 
you  to  papa  on  the  evening  you  dined  here, 
and  he  was  not  angiy  ;  but  this  morning  he 
insisted  that  I  should  never  think  of  you 
more,  nor  mention  your  name  ;  and  he  saya 
that  if  the  laws  can  do  it  he  will  lose  ten 
thousand  pounds  or  he  will  have  you  sent 
out  of  the  country.  Lanigan,  our  cook,  fi-om 
what  motive  I  know  not,  mentioned  to  me 
the  substance  of  what  I  have  now  ^vi-itten. 
He  is,  it  seems,  a  cousin  to  the  l>earer  of  this, 
and  got  the  information  fi'om  him  after  hav- 
ing had  much  difficulty,  he  says,  in  putting 
it  together.  I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  I  can 
assure  you  that  eveiy  sen-ant  in  the  castle 
seems  to  know  that  I  am  attached  to  you. 

"Ever,  my  dearest  Reilly,  yours,  and 
yours  only,  vmtil  death, 

"  Helen  Foujard." 

"We  need  not  attempt  to  describe  the  sen- 
sations of  love  and  inchgnation  produced  by 
this  letter.     But  we  shall  state  the  facts. 

"Here,  Tom,"  said  Reilly,  "is  the  reward 
for  your  fidehty,"  as  he  handed  him  some 
silver ;  "  and  mark  me,  Tom,  don't  breathe 
to  a  human  being  that  you  have  brought 
me  a  letter  fi-om  the  Cooleen  J'aicn.  Go 
into  the  house  and  get  something  to  eat ; 
there  now — go  and  get  one  of  youi-  bully 
dinners." 

"It  is  ti-ue,"  said  he,  "too  true  I  am 
doomed — devoted.  If  I  remain  in  this 
covmtry  I  am  lost.  Yes,  my  life,  my  love, 
my  more  than  hfe — I  feel  as  you  do,  that 
oiu"  fates,  whether  for  good  or  eril,  are  in- 
sepai'able.  Yes,  I  shall  see  you  this  night 
if  I  have  life." 

He  had  scarcely  concluded  this  soliloquy 
when  liis  namesake,  Fergus  Reilly,  disguised 
in  such  a  way  as  prevented  him  fi-om  being 
recognized,  approached  him,  in  the  lowly 
gai-b  of  a  baccah  or  mendicant. 

"Well,  my  good  fellow,"  siud  he,  "what 
do  you  want  ?  Go  up  to  the  house  and  you 
will  get  food." 

"  Keep  quiet,"  rephed  the  other,  disclos- 
ing himself,  "  keep  quiet  ;  get  aU  your 
money  into  one  purse,  settle  your  affairs  as 
quickly  as  yoU  can,  and  fly  the  countr}'  this 
night,  or  otherwise  sit  down  and  malvc  your 
^v^ll  and  your  peace  with  God  Almighty,  for 
if  you  are  found  here  by  to-morrow  night 
you  sleep  in  Shgo  jail     Thi-ow  me  a  few 


4ii 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


halfpence,  making  as  it  were  charity.  White- 
craft  has  spies  among  your  own  laborers, 
and  you  know  the  danger  I  iim  in  comin' 
to  you  by  daylight.  Indeed,  I  could  not  do 
it  ^^•ithout  this  cUsguise.  To-morrow  night 
you  ai-e  to  be  taken  upon  a  wan-ant  from 
Sii*  Robert  ^Miitecraft ;  but  never  mind  ;  as 
to  "Whiteeraft,  leave  Mm  to  me — I  have  a 
crow  to  pluck  NNith  him." 

•'  How  is  that,  Fergus  ?  " 

"  My  sister,  man  ;  did  you  not  heai-  of 
it?" 

"  No,  Fergus,  nor  I  don't  wish  to  hear  of 
it,  for  your  sake  ;  spare  your  feelings,  my 
poor  fellow  ;  I  know  perfectly  well  what  a 
h}"pocritical  scoundrel  he  is." 

"  Well,'"  rephed  Fergus,  "  it  wasonl}'  yes- 
terday I  heard  of  it  myself ;  and  are  we  to 
bear  this? — we  that  have  hands  and  ej-es 
and  limbs  and  hearts  and  coru-age  to  stand 
nobly  upon  the  gallows-tree  for  striking 
doMTi  the  \illain  who  does  whatever  he  likes, 
and  then  thi'eatens  us  with  the  laws  of  the 
land  if  we  murmui'  ?  Do  j'ou  think  this  is 
to  be  borne  ?  " 

"  Take  not  vengeance  into  yom*  own  hand, 
Fergus,"  i-eplied  Reilly,  "for  that  is  contrary 
to  tho  laws  of  God  and  man.  As  for  me,  I 
agi'ee  with  you  that  I  cannot  remain  in  this 
couutiy.  I  know  the  vast  influence  which 
Whiteeraft  possesses  "v\ith  the  government. 
Against  such  a  man  I  have  no  chance  ;  this, 
taken  in  connection  with  my  education 
abroad,  is  quite  sufficient  to  make  me  a 
mai'ked  and  susjiected  man.  I  ^vill  there- 
fore leave  the  coimtry,  and  ere  to-morrow 
night,  I  tinist,  I  shall  be  beyond  his  reach. 
But,  Fergus,  hsten :  leave  A\Tiitecraft  to 
God  ;  do  not  stain  youi*  soul  "uith  human 
blood  ;  keep  a  pvu'e  heart,  and  whatever  may 
happen  be  able  to  look  uj)  to  the  Almighty 
with  a  clear  conscience." 

Fergus  then  left  him,  but  with  a  resolu- 
tion, nevertheless,  to  have  vengeance  upon 
the  baronet  veiy  unequivocally  expressed  on 
his  countenance. 

Ha\-ing  seriously  considered  his  position 
and  all  the  circumstances  of  danger  con- 
nected with  it,  Eeilly  resolved  that  his  in- 
terview that  night  ^vith  his  beloved  Cooleen 
Bawn  should  be  his  last.  He  accordingly 
communicated  his  apprehensions  to  an  aged 
uncle*  of  liis  who  resided  with  him,  and  en- 
tnisted  the  management  of  his  property  to 
him  until  some  change  for  the  better  might 
take  i)lace.  Having  heard  from  Fergus 
Keilly  that  there  were  spies  among  his  own 
laborers,  he  kept  moving  about  and  makmg 
such  observ-^ations  as  he  could  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  day.  When  the  night  came  ' 
he  prepared  himself  for  his  appomtment,  ' 
and  at,  or  rather  before,  the  hoiu*  of  luilf- ; 


past  ten,  he  had  reached  the  back  gate,  ol 
rather  door  of  the  garden  attached  to  Corbo 
Castle.  HaAing  ascertained  that  it  was  im- 
locked,  he  entered  with  no  difficulty,  and 
traversed  the  gai'den  without  being  able  to 
perceive  her  wiiose  love  was  now,  it  might 
be  said,  all  that  life  had  left  him.  After 
having  satisfied  himself  that  she  was  not  in 
the  garden,  he  withdrew  to  an  arbor  or 
summer-house  of  evergi'eens,  where  he  re- 
solved to  await  until  she  should  come.  He 
did  not  w^ait  long.  The  latch  of  the  entrance 
gate  £fom  the  fi'ont  made  a  noise ;  ah,  how 
his  heart  beat !  w^hat  a  commotion  agitated 
his  whole  frame  !  In  a  few  moments  she 
was  with  him. 

"Eeilly,"  said  Cooleen  Bawn,  "1  have 
di'eadful  news  to  communicate." 

"I  know  all,"  said  he  ;  "I  am  to  be  ar- 
rested to-mori'ow  night." 

"  To-night,  dearest  Eeilly,  to-night.  Papa 
told  me  this  evening,  in  one  of  his  moods  of 
auger,  that  before  to-morrow  morning  you 
would  be  in  SUgo  jail." 

"Well,  dearest  Helen,"  he  rephed,  "that 
is  certainly  making  quick  work  of  it.  But, 
even  so,  I  am  jjrepared  this  moment  •  to  es- 
cape. I  have  settled  my  afl'airs,  left  the  man- 
agement of  them  to  my  uncle,  and  this  in- 
teniew  with  you,  my  beloved  gM,  must  be 
our  last." 

As  he  uttered  these  melancholy  words  the 
tears  came  to  his  eyes. 

"  The  last !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  no ;  it 
must  not  be  the  last.  You  shall  not  go  alone, 
dearest  WiUiam.  ]\Iy  mind  is  made  up.  Be 
it  for  hfe  or  for  death,  I  shall  accompany 
you." 

"Dearest  hfe,"  he  rephed,  "think  of  the 
consequences." 

"I  think  of  nothing,"  said  Cooleen  Bavtm, 
"  but  my  love  for  you.  If  you  were  not  sur- 
rounded by  danger  as  you  ai-e,  if  the  whpop 
of  vengeance  were  not  on  your  trail,  if  death 
and  a  gibbet  were  not  in  the  background,  I 
could  jDaii;  with  you  ;  but  now  that  danger, 
vengeance,  and  death,  ai'e  hovering  about 
you,  I  shall  and  must  partake  of  them  Avith 
yoii.  And  hsten,  EeiUy  ;  after  aU  it  is  the 
best  plan.  Paj^a,  if  I  accomjDany  you — sup- 
jjosing  that  we  are  taken — will  relent  for  my 
sake.  I  know  his  love  for  me.  His  afiection 
for  mewiU  overcome  all  his  prejudices  against 
you.  Then  let  us  fly.  To-night  you  will  be 
taken.  Your  nval  wiU  triumph  over  both  of 
us  ;  and  I — I,  oh  !  I  shaU  not  sui-vive  it.  Save 
me,  then,  Eeilly,  and  let  me  fly  with  you." 

"  God  knows,"  rephed  Eeilly,  with  deep 
emotion,  "  if  I  suftered  myself  to  be  guided 
by  the  impulse  of  my  heart,  I  would  yield  to 
wishes  at  once  so  noble  and  disinterested. 
I  cannot,  however,   suffer  my  affection,  al> 


fVIZZr  RE  ILLY. 


43 


Borbing  and  inexpressible  as  it  is,  to  pre- 
cipitate your  niin.  I  speak  not  of  myself, 
nor  of  what  I  may  suffer,  ^^^len  we  reflect, 
however,  my  beloved  girl,  upon  the  state  of 
the  country,  and  of  the  law,  as  it  operates 
against  the  liberty  and  j^roperty  of  Catholics, 
we  must  both  admit  the  pi-esent  impossibil- 
ity of  an  elopement  without  invohing  you  in 
disgrace.  You  know  that  until  some  relaxa- 
tion of  the  laws  aflfectiag  mai*riage  between 
Cathohcs  and  Protestants  takes  place,  an 
union  between  us  is  impossible  ;  and  this 
fact  it  is  which  would  attach  disgrace  to  you, 
and  a  want  of  honor,  princijile,  and  gratitude 
to  me.  We  should  necessaiily  lead  the  hves 
of  the  guilty,  and  seek  the  wildest  fastnesses 
of  the  mountain  sohtudes  and  the  oozy  cav- 
erns of  the  bleak  and  sohtary  hills." 

"  But  I  care  not.  I  am  willing  to  endure 
it  all  for  your  sake." 

"What! — the  shame,  the  misinterpreta- 
tion, the  imputed  guilt  ?  " 

"Neither  care  I  for  shame  or  imputed 
guilt,  so  long  as  I  am  innocent,  and  you 
safe." 

"  Concealment,  my  dearest  gii'l,  would  be 
impossible.  Such  a  hue  and  cry  would  be 
raised  after  us  as  would  render  nothing  snort 
of  positive  invisibihty  capable  of  protecting 
us  fi'om  our  enemies.  Then  yoiu*  father ! — 
such  a  step  might  possibly  break  his  heart ; 
a  calamity  which  would  fill  your  mind  with 
remorse  to  the  last  day  of  youi*  life  ! " 

She  burst  again  into  tears,  imd  repUed, 
"  But  as  for  you,  what  can  be  done  to  save 
you  fi'om  the  toUs  of  your  unscrupulous  and 
powerful  enemies  ?  " 

"  To  that,  my  beloved  Helen,  I  must  forth- 
with look.  In  the  meantime,  let  me  gather 
patience  and  await  some  more  favorable  re- 
laxation in  the  penal  code.  At  present,  the 
step  you  propose  would  be  utter  destniction 
to  us  both,  and  an  irretrievable  stain  upon 
our  reputation.  You  will  retura  to  j-our 
father's  house,  and  I  shall  seek  some  secui-e 
place  of  conceahnent  vmtn  I  can  safely  reach 
the  continent,  fi-om  whence  I  shall  contrive 
to  let  you  hear  fi'om  me,  and  in  due  time 
may  possibly  be  able  to  propose  some  mode 
of  meeting  in  a  country'  where  the  oppressive 
laws  that  separate  us  here  shall  not  stand  in 
the  way  of  our  happiness.  In  the  meanwhile 
let  oui*  heai'ts  be  guided  by  hope  and  con- 
stancy." After  a  mournful  and  tender  em- 
brace they  separated. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the 
agony  of  the  lovers  after  a  separation  wliich 
might  probably  be  theu-  last.  Our  readers, 
however,  may  very  weU  conceive  it,  and  it  is 
not  our  intention  to  describe  it  here.  At 
this  stage  of  our  stoiy,  Eeilly,  who  was,  as 
we  have  said,  in  consequence  of  his  gentle- 


manly manners  and  liberal  principles,  a  fa- 
vorite with  all  classes  and  all  parties,  and 
entertained  no  appreheusions  from  the  dom- 
inant party,  took  his  way  homewards  deeply 
impressed  with  the  generous  affections 
which  his  Cooleen  Bavon  had  expressed  for 
liim.  He  consequently  looked  upon  himself 
as  perfectly  safe  in  his  own  house.  The 
state  of  society  in  Ireland,  however,  was  at 
that  melancholy  period  so  uncertain  that  no 
Eoman  CathoHc,  however  popular,  or  how- 
ever innocent,  could  for  one  week  calculate 
uj^on  safety  either  to  his  property  or  person, 
if  he  haj^pened  to  have  an  enemy  who  pos- 
sessed any  influence  in  the  opi:)osing  Church. 
Kehgion  thus  was  made  the  stalking-horse, 
not  only  of  power,  but  of  persecution,  ra- 
l^acity,  and  selfishness,  and  the  unfortimate 
Roman  Cathohc  who  considered  himself 
safe  to-day  might  find  himself  laiined  to- 
morrow, owing  to  the  cujoidity  of  some  man 
who  turned  a  lustful  eye  upon  his  property, 
or  who  may  have  entertained  a  feehng  of 
jjersonal  ill-will  against  him.  Be  this  as 
it  ma}',  Eeilly  wended  his  melancholy  way 
homewards,  and  had  got  within  less  than  a 
quai'ter  of  a  mUe  of  his  own  house  when  he 
was  met  by  Fergus  in  his  mendicant  habit, 
who  startled  him  by  the  information  he  dis- 
closed. 

"  WTiere  ai-e  you  boimd  for,  !Mr.  Eeilly  ?  " 
said  the  latter. 

"  For  home,"  repHed  Eeilly,  "  in  order  to 
seciu'e  my  money  and  the  papers  connected 
Arith  the  famil}'  property." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  other,  "if  you  go 
home  now  you  are  a  lost  man." 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  asked  Eeilly. 

"  Your  house  at  this  moment  is  filled  with 
sogers,  and  suiTOunded  by  them  too.  You 
know  that  no  hvunan  being  covdd  make  me 
out  in  this  disguise  ;  I  had  heaixl  that  they 
were  on  their  way  to  yovu*  place,  and  afeered 
that  they  might  catch  you  at  home,  I  was 
goin'  to  let  you  know,  in  ordher  that  you 
might  escape  them,  but  I  was  too  late  ;  the 
■villains  were  there  before  me.  I  took  heart 
o'  gx-ace,  however,  and  went  up  to  beg  a  Ht- 
tle  chai-ity  for  the  love  and  honor  of  God- 
Seeiu'  the  kind  of  creature  I  was,  the)'  took 
no  notice  of  me  ;  for  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
they  were  too  much  bent  on  seai'chin'  for,  and 
findin'  you.  God  protect  us  fi'om  such  men, 
jVIr.  Eeilly," and  the  name  he  uttered  in  alow 
and  cautious  voice  ;  "but  at  all  events  this  is 
no  country  for  you  to  hve  in  now.  But  who 
do  you  think  was  the  busiest  and  the  bit- 
tberest  man  among  them  ?  " 

"  "WTiy  A\'hitecraft,  I  suppose." 

"  No  ;  he  wasn't  there  himself — no  ;  but 
that  double  distilled  traitor  and  villain,  the 
Eed  Eapparee,  and  bad  luck  to  him.      You 


<4 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


see,  then,  that  if  you  attempt  to  go  near  your 
own  house  you're  a  lost  mau,  as  I  said." 

"I  feel  the  tiiith  of  what  you  say,"  replied 
Reilly,  "but  ai-e  you  aware  that  they  com- 
mitted any  acts  of  "v-iolence  ?  Kxo,  you  awai-e 
that  they  distm-bed  my  property  or  ran- 
sacked my  house?" 

"  Well,' that 's  more  than  I  can  say,"  replied 
Fergus,  "for  to  tell  you  the  ti-uth,  I  was 
afraid  to  trust  myseli  inside,  in  regard  of 
that  scoundrel  the  Rapparee,  who,  bein'  him- 
self accustomed  to  all  sorts  of  disguises,  I 
dreaded  might  find  me  out." 

"Well,  at  all  events,"  said  Eeilly,  "with 
respect  to  that  I  disregai-d  them.  The  fam- 
ily papers  and  other  available  projDerty  are 
too  well  secreted  for  them  to  secm-e  them. 
On  discovermg  "\;\Tiitecraft's  jealousy,  and 
knowing,  as  I  did  before,  his  vindictive  spii-- 
it  and  power  in  the  country,  I  lost  no  time 
in  putting  them  in  a  safe  place.  Unless 
they  bum  the  house  they  coiold  never  come 
at  them.  But  as  this  fact  is  not  at  all  an 
improbable  one — so  long  as  Whitecraft  is 
my  unscnipulous  and  relentless  enemy — I 
shall  seize  uj^on  the  first  opportunity  of 
placing  them  elsewhere." 

"You  ought  t(^do  so,"  said  Fergus,  "for 
it  is  not  merely  "WTiitecraft  you  have  to  deal 
wid,  btit  ould  Folliard  himseK,  who  now 
swears  that  if  he  should  lose  half  his  fortune 
he  will  either  hang  or  transport  you." 

"  Ah  !  Ferg-us,"  replied  the  other,  "  there 
is  an  essential  difference  between  the  charac- 
ters of  these  two  men.  The  father  of  Cooleen 
Bawn  is,  when  he  thinks  himself  injured,  im- 
petuous and  unsparing  in  his  resentment ; 
but  then  he  is  an  open  foe,  and  the  man 
whom  he  looks  upon  as  his  enemy  always 
knows  what  he  has  to  expect  fi-om  him.  Not 
so  the  other  ;  he  is  secret,  cautious,  cowardly, 
and  consequently  doubly  \'indictive.  He  is 
a  combination  of  the  fox  and  the  tiger,  with 
all  the  treacherous  cunning  of  the  one,  and 
the  indomitable  ferocity  of  the  other,  when 
he  finds  that  he  can  make  his  spring  with 
safety." 

This  conversation  took  place  as  Eeilly  and 
his  companion  bent  theii-  steps  towards  one 
of  those  antiquated  and  obsolete  roads  which 
we  have  described  in  the  opening  portion  of 
this  narrative. 

"  But  now,"  asked  Fergus,  "  where  do  you 
intend  to  go,  or  what  do  you  intend  to  do 
with  yourself  ?  " 

"  l' scarcely  know,"  rephed  KeiUy,  "  but  on 
one  thing  my  mind  is  determined — that  I 
will  not  leave  this  country  until  I  know  the 
ultimate  fate  of  the  Cooleen  Baton.  Rather 
than  see  her  become  the  wife  of  that  diaboU- 
cal  scoundrel,  whom  she  detests  as  she  does 
heU,  I  would  lose  my  life.     Let  the  conse- 


quences then  be  w^hat  they  may,  I  will  not 
for  the  i^resent  leave  Ireland.  This  resolu- 
tion I  have  come  to  since  I  saw  her  to-night. 
I  am  her  only  fiiend,  and,  so  help  me  God, 
I  shall  not  suffer  her  to  be  sacri^ced — mu^^ 
dered.  In  the  cotu'se  of  the  night  we  shall 
return  to  my  house  and  look  about  us.  If 
the  coast  be  clear  I  wiU  secure  my  cash  and 
papers  as  I  said.  It  is  possible  that  a  few 
stragglers  may  lurk  behind,  under  the  ex- 
pectation of  securing  me  w^hile  making  a 
stolen  visit.  However,  we  shall  try.  We  are 
under  the  scourge  of  iiTesponsible  power, 
Fergus  ;  and  if  Whitecraft  should  bum  my 
house  to-night  or  to-morrow,  who  is  to  bring 
liim  to  an  account  for  it  ?  or  if  they  should, 
who  is  to  convict  him  ?  " 

The  night  had  now  become  veiy  dark,  but 
they  knew  the  coiuitry  well,  and  soon  found 
themselves  upon  the  old  road  they  were  seek- 
ing. 

"  I  win  go  up,"  said  Reilly,  "  to  the  cabin 
of  poor  widow  Buckley,  where  we  will  stop 
until  we  think  those  blood-hounds  have  gone 
home.  She  has  a  fi'ee  cottage  and  garden 
from  me,  and  has  besides  been  a  jDensioner 
of  mine  for  some  time  back,  and  I  know  I  can 
depend  ujdou  her  discretion  and  fidelity.  Her 
little  j^lace  is  remote  and  sohtary,  and  not 
more  than  thi'ee  quarters  of  a  mile  from  us." 
They  accordingly  kept  the  old  road  for 
some  time,  until  they  reached  a  point  of  it 
where  there  was  an  abrupt  angle,  when,  to 
their  utter  alarm  and  consternation,  they 
found  themselves  within  .about  twenty  or 
thii'ty  yards  of  a  military  party. 

"Fly,"  whispered  Fergus,  "and  leave  me 
to  deal  with  them — if  you  don't  it's  aU  up 
with  yovL.  They  won't  know  me  from  Adam, 
but  they'll  know  you  at  a  glance." 

"  I  cannot  leave  you  in  danger,"  said  Reilly. 

"You're  mad,"  replied  the  othei'.     "Is it 

an  ould  beggar  man  they'd  meddle  with? 

Off  with  you,  unless  you  wish  to  sleep  in 

SHgo  jail  before  momin'." 

Reilly,  who  felt  too  deeply  the  tnith  of 
what  he  said,  bounded  across  the  bank  which 
enclosed  the  road  on  the  right-hand  side,  and 
which,  by  the  way,  was  a  tolerably  high  one, 
but  fortunately  without  bushes.  In  the  mean- 
time a  voice  cried  out,  "Who  goes  there? 
Stand  at  your  peril,  or  you  will  have  a  dozen 
bullets  in  your  carcass." 

Fergus  advanced  towards  them,  wiiilst  they 
themselves  approached  him  at  a  rapid  pace, 
until  they  met.  In  a  moment  they  were  all 
about  him. 

"  Come,  my  customer,"  said  their  leader. 
"  who  and  what  are  you  ?  Quick — give  KO 
account  of  yourself." 

"  A  poor  creature  that's  lookin  formybi^ 
sir,  God  helj)  me." 


WILLY  REILLY. 


45 


"  What's  your  name  ?  " 

"One  Paddy  Brennan,  sir,  please  your 
honor." 

"  Ay — one  Paddy  Brennan  (hiccough),  and 
— and — one  Paddy  Brennan,  where  do  you 
go  of  a  Sunday  ?  " 

"  I  don't  go  out  at  all,  sir,  of  a  Sunda' ; 
whenever  I  stop  of  a  Saturday  night  I  always 
stop  until  Monday  mornin'." 

"  I  mean,  are  you  a  Papish  ?  " 

"  Troth,  I  oughtn't  to  say  I  am,  yoiu:  honor 
— or  at  least  a  verj'  bad  one." 

"  But  you  are  a  Papish."  _ 

"  A  kind  of  one,  sir." 

"  Cm-se  me,  the  fellow's  humbuggin'  you, 
sergeant,"  said  one  of  the  men  ;  "to  be  sure 
he's  a  Papish." 

"  To  be  sure,"  replied  several  of  the  others 
— "  doesn't  he  admit  he's  a  Paj)ish  ?  " 

"  Blow  me,  if — if — 1 11  bear  this,"  rephed 
the  sergeant.  "I'm  a  senior  off — off — offi- 
cer conduetin'  the  examination,  and  I'U  suf- 
fer no — no — man  to  intherfare.  I  must  have 
subor — or — ordination,  or  I'U  know  what  for. 
Leave  him  to  me,  then,  and  lU  work  him 
up,  never  fear.  George_Johnston  isn't  the 
blessed  babe  to  be  imposed  ujDon — that's 
what  I  sa}'.  Come,  my  good  fellow,  mai'k — 
mark  me  now.  If  you  let  but  a  quarter  of 
— of — an  inch  of  a  He  out  of  3-our  Hjds, 
you're  a  dead  man.  Are  you  all  charged, 
gentlemen  ?  " 

"All  charged,  sergeant,  "nith  loyalty  and 
poteen  at  any  rate  ;  hang  the  Pope." 

"Shovdder  arms — wejl  done.  Present 
arms.  Where  is — is — this  rascal  ?  Oh,  yes, 
here  he  is.     Well,  you  are  there — are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  here,  captain." 

"  Well  blow  me,  that's  not — not — bad,  my 
good  feUow  ;  if  I'm  not  a  captain,  worse  men 
have  been  so  (hiccough) ;  that's  what  I  say." 

"Hadn't  we  better  make  a  prisoner  of 
him  at  once,  and  bring  him  to  Sir  Robert's  ?  " 
observed  another. 

"  Simpson,  hold — old — yoiir  tongue,  I 
say.  Curse  me  if  I'll  suffer  any  man  to  in- 
therfere  with  me  in  the  discharge  of  my 
duty." 

"How  do  we  know,"  said  another,  "but 
he's  a  Riipparee  in  disguise  ? — for  that  mat- 
ter, he  may  be  Reilly  himself." 

"  Captain  and  gentlemen,"  said  Fergus, 
"  if  you  have  any  suspicion  of  me,  I'm  wilhn' 
to  go  an}T\'here  you  like  ;  and,  above  all 
things,  I'd  like  to  go  to  Su'  Robert's,  bekaise 
they  know  me  there — many  a  good  bit  and 
sup  I  got  in  his  kitchen." 

"  Ho,  ho  !  "  exclaimed  the  sergeant ;  "  now 
I  have  you — now  I  know  whether  you  can 
tell  tnith  or  not.  Answer  me  this.  Did 
ever  Su-  Robert  himself  give  you  charity? 
Come,  now." 


Fergus  perceived  the  drift  of  the  question 
at  once.  The  penurious  character  of  the 
baronet  was  so  well  known  throughout  the 
whole  barony  that  if  he  had  replied  in  the 
affirmative  every  man  of  them  would  have 
felt  that  the  assertion  was  a  lie,  and  he  wovdd 
consequently  have  been  detected.  He  was 
prepared,  however. 

"Throth  then,  gintlemen,"  he  replied, 
"  since  you  must  have  the  truth,  and  although 
maybe  what  I'm  goin'  to  say  won't  be  jilaisin' 
to  you,  as  Sir  Robert's  friends,  I  must  come 
out  wid  it ;  de\al  resave  the  color  of  his 
money  ever  I  seen  yet,  and  it  isn't  but  I 
often  axed  him  for  it.  No — but  the  sarvints 
often  sind  me  up  a  bit  from  the  kitchen  be- 
low." 

"  Well,  come,"  said  the  sergeant,  "  if  you 
have  been  \jm  all  j-our  life,  you've  spoke  the 
truth  now.     I  think  we  may  let  him  go." 

"  I  don't  think  we  ought,"  said  one  of 
them,  named  Steen,  a  man  of  about  fifty 
j'^ears  of  age,  and  of  Dutch  descent ;  "as 
Bamet  said,  'we  don't  know  what  he  is,' and 
I  agree  -vNith  him.  He  maij  be  a  Rajiparee 
in  disguise,  or,  what  is  worse,  ReiUy  him- 
seK." 

"What  Reilly  do  yez  mane,  gintlemen, 
M-id  submission  ?  "  asked  Fergus. 

"^Vhy,  Willy  Reilly,  the  famous  Papish," 
repHed  the  sergeant.  (We  don't  wish  to  fatigue 
the  reader  Avith  his  drunken  stutterlngs. ) 
"  It  has  been  sworn  that  he's  training  the 
Papishes  eveiy  night  to  prepare  them  for  re- 
bellion, and  there's  a  wan-ant  out  for  his  ap- 
prehension.    Do  you  know  Mm  ?  " 

"Throth  I  do,  weU  ;  and  to  tell  yez  the 
truth,  he  doesn't  stand  very  high  vAd  his  own 
sort." 

"  Why  so,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"  Bekaise  they  think  that  he  keeps  too 
much  company  wid  Prodestans,  an'  tb.tt  he's 
half  a  Prodestan  himself,  and  that  it's  only 
the  shame  that  prevents  him  fi-om  goin'  over 
to  them  altogether.  Indeed,  it's  the  general 
opinion  among  the  Catholics — " 

"Papishes-!  you  old  dog." 

"  Well,  then,  Papishes — that  he  will — an 
throth,  I  don't  think  the  Papishes  would  put 
much  ti-ust  in  the  same  man." 

"  AMiere  are  you  bound  for  now  ?  and 
what  brings  you  out  at  an  illegtd  hour  on 
this  lonely  road  ?  "  asked  Steen. 

"Troth,  then,  I'm  on  my  way  to  Mr. 
Graliam's  above  ;  for  sure,  whenever  I'm 
near  him,  poor  Paddy  Brennan  never  wants 
for  the  good  bit  and  suji,  and  the  comforta- 
ble straw  bed  in  the  barn.  May  GoJ  re- 
ward him  and  his  for  it !  " 

Now,  the  tnith  was,  that  Graham,  a 
wealthy  and  respectable  Protestant  f{U-mer, 
was  imcle  to  the  sergeant ;  a  fact  whicb 


i6 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Fergixs  well  knew,  in  consequence  of  La\ing 
been  a  liouse  sen-ant  with  him  for  two  or 
three  yeai-s. 

"  Sergeant,"  said  the  Wilhamite  settler,  "  I 
think  this  matter  may  be  easily  settled.  Let 
two  of  the  men  go  back  to  yoiu*  uncle's  with 
him,  and  see  whether  they  know  him  there 
or  not." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  sergeant,  "  let  you 
and  Simpson  go  back  with  him — I  have  no 
objection.  If  my  uncle's  people  don't  know 
him,  why  then  bring  him  down  to  Sir 
Roberts'." 

"  It's  not  fau-  to  put  such  a  task  upon  a 
man  of  my  age,"  rephed  Steen,  "when  you 
know  that  you  have  younger  men  here." 

"It  was  you  proposed  it,  then,"  said  the 
sergeant,  "  and  I  say,  Steen,  if  you  be  a  time 
man  you  have  a  right  to  go,  and  no  right  at 
all  to  shirk  your  duty.  But  stoj:) — I'll  settle 
it  in  a  word's  sj^eaking :  here  you — you  old 
PajDish,  where  are  you? — oh,  I  see — you're 
there,  ai"e  you?  Come  now,  gentlemen, 
shoulder  arms — all  right — present  arms. 
Now,  you  confounded  Papish,  you  say  that 
you  have  often  slej^t  in  my  uncle's  barn  ?  " 

"  Is  ]Mr.  Graham  your  uncle,  sir  ? — bekaise, 
if  he  is,  I  know  that  I'm  in  the  hands  of  a 
respectable  man." 

"Come  now — was  there  anything  par- 
ticular in  the  inside  of  that  barn  ? — Gentle- 
men, are  you  ready  to  slaj)  into  him  if  we 
find  him  to  be  an  imposther  ?  " 

"All  ready,  sergeant." 

"Come  now,  you  blasted  Papish,  answer 
me — " 

"Troth,  and  I  can  do  that,  sargin'.  You 
say  jMi".  Graham's  your  uncle,  an'  of  coorse 
you  have  often  been  in  that  barn  youi'self. 
Veiy  well,  su-,  don't  you  Icnow  that  there's  a 
prop  on  one  side  to  keep  up  one  of  the  cup- 
pies  that  gave  way  one  stormy  night,  and 
there's  a  round  hole  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
door  to  let  the  cats  in  to  settle  accounts  wid 
the  mice  and  rats." 

"Come,  come,  boys,  it's  all  right.  He  has 
described  the  bai*n  to  a  haii-.  That  will  do, 
my  Papish  old  cock.  Come,  I  say,  as  every 
man  must  have  a  rehgion,  and  since  the 
Papishes  won't  have  ours,  why  the  devil 
shovildn't  they  have  one  of  their  own  ?  " 

"That's  dangerous  talk,"  said  Steen,  "to 
proceed  fi-om  your  lips,  sergeant.  It  smells 
of  treason,  I  tell  you  ;  and  if  you  had  spoken 
these  words  in  the  days  of  the  great  and 
good  King  William,  you  might  have  felt  the 
consequences." 

"Treason  and  King  William  be  hanged  ! " 
replied  the  sergeant,  who  was  naturally  a 
good-L.dtured,  but  out-spoken  fellow — 
"  sooner  than  I'd  take  up  a  poor  deril  of  a 
beggar  that  has  enough  to  do  to  make  out  his 


bit  and  sup.  Go  on  about  3'our  business, 
poor  devH  ;  you  shan't  be  molested.  Go  to 
my  uncle's,  where  you'll  get  a  bellyfuU,  and  a 
comfortable  bed  of  straw,  and  a  winnow- 
cloth  in  the  barn.  Zounds  ! — it  would  be  a 
nice  night's  work  to  go  out  for  Willy  Reilly 
and  to  bring  home  a  beggar  man  in  his  place." 

This  was  a  narrow  escape  ujDon  the  part  of 
Fergus,  who  knew  that  if  they  had  made  a 
prisoner  of  him,  and  produced  him  before 
Sir  Eobert  WTiitecraft,  who  was  a  notorious 
j)ersecul<)r,  and  with  whom  the  Ked  Rapparee 
was  now  located,  he  would  unquestionably 
have  been  hanged  hke  a  dog.  The  ofl&cer  of 
the  party,  however — to  \ni,  the  worthy  ser- 
geant--was  one  of  those  men  who  love  a 
droiD  of  the  native,  and  whose  heai*t  besides 
it  expands  into  a  sort  of  surly  kindness  that 
has  something  comical  and  not  disagi'eeable 
in  it.  In  addition  to  this,  he  never  felt  a 
confidence  in  his  o\fn  authority  with  half  the 
swagger  which  he  did  when  three  quarters 
gone.  Steen  and  he  were  never  fi-iends,  nor 
indeed  was  Steen  ever  a  jDopular  man  among 
his  acquaintances.  In  matters  of  trade  and 
business  he  was  notoriously  dishonest,  and 
in  the  moral  and  social  relations  of  life, 
selfish,  uncandid,  and  treacherous.  The  ser- 
geant, on  the  other  hand,  though  an  out- 
spoiien  and  flaming  anti-Papist  in  theory, 
was,  in  point  of  fact,  a  good  fiiend  to  his 
Eoman  Cathohc  neighbors,  who  used  to  say 
of  him  that  his  bark  was  worse  than  his  bite. 

AVlien  his  party  had  passed  on,  Fergus 
stood  for  a  moment  uncertain  as  to  where  he 
should  dii'Bct  his  steps.  He  had  not  long  to 
wait,  however.  EeiUy,  who  had  no  thoughts 
of  abandoning  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  mili- 
tary, without  at  least  knowing  his  fate,  nor, 
we  may  add,  without  a  t\rm  determination  to 
raising  his  tenantry,  and  rescuing  the  gen- 
erous fellow  at  eveiy  risk,  immediately 
sprung  across  the  ditch  and  joined  him. 

"  WeU,  Fergus,"  said  he,  clasping  his  hand, 
"  I  heard  everything,  and  I  can  tell  you  that 
every  nerve  in  my  body  trembled  whilst  you 
were  among  them." 

"  AATiy,"  said  Fergus,  "  I  knew  them  at  once 
by  their  voices,  and  only  that  I  changed  my 
own  as  I  did  I  won't  say  but  they'd  have 
nabbed  me." 

"The  test  of  the  bam  was  frightful;  I 
thought  you  were  gone  ;  but  you  must  ex 
plain  that." 

"Ay,  but  before  I  do,"  repHed  Fergus, 
"  where  are  we  to  go  ?  Do  you  stiU  stand  for 
widow  Buckley's  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  that  woman  may  be  useful  to 
me." 

"  Well,  then,  we  may  as  well  jog  on  in  that 
direction,  and  as  we  go  I  will  tell  you." 

"  How  then  did  you  come  to  desi'ribe  tJbo 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


47 


bam — or  rather,  was  your  description  cor- 
rect ?  " 

"Ay,  as  Gospel.  You  don't  know  that  by 
the  best  of  luck  and  pro\-idence  of  God,  I  was 
two  yeai's  and  a  half  an  inside  laborer  with 
]Mr.  Graham.  As  is  usual,  all  the  inside  men- 
8er\'ants  slept,  winther  and  summer,  in  the 
bam  ;  and  that  accounts  for  oui*  good  fortune 
this  night.  Only  for  that  scoundi'el,  Steen, 
however,  the  whole  tiling  would  not  have 
signified  much  ;  but  he's  a  black  and  deep 
\-illain  that.  Nobody  likes  him  but  his  broth- 
er scoundrel,  Whitecraft,  and  he's  a  favorite 
with  him,  bekaise  he's  an  active  and  unscrupu- 
lous tool  in  his  hixnds.  Many  a  time,  when 
these  men — mihtarj' — militia — yeomen,  or 
whatever  they  call  them,  are  sent  out  by  this 
same  Su-  Robert,  the  poor  fellows  don't  wish  to 
catch  what  they  call  the  unfortunate  Papish- 
es,  and  before  they  come  to  the  house  they'll 
fire  oif  their  guns,  pretinding  to  be  in  a  big 
passion,  but  only  to  give  their  poor  neighbors 
notice  to  escape  as  soon  as  they  can." 

In  a  short  time  they  reached  widow  Buck- 
ley's cabin,  who,  on  undei'standing  that  it  was 
Reilly  who  sought  admittance,  lost  not  a 
moment  in  opening  the  door  and  letting  them 
in.  There  was  no  candle  ht  when  they  enter- 
ed, but  there  was  a  bright  tui-f  fii-e  "  blinkin' 
bonndie  "  in  the  fireplace,  fi-om  which  a  mel- 
low hght  emanated  that  danced  upon  the  few 
plain  plates  that  were  neatly  ranged  upon 
her  humble  dresser,  but  which  fell  still  more 
strongly  upon  a  clean  and  well-swept  hearth, 
on  one  side  of  which  was  an  humble  arm- 
chair of  straw,  and  on  the  other  a  grave,  but 
placid-looking  cat,  jDiuTing,  with  half-closed 
eyes,  her  usual  song  for  the  evening. 

"  Lord  bless  us  !  Mr.  Redly,  is  this  you? 
Sure  it's  httle  I  expected  you,  any  way  ;  but 
come  when  you  will,  you're  welcome.  And 
who  ought  to  be  welcome  to  the  poor  oidd 
widow  if  you  wouldn't  ?  " 

"  Take  a  stool  and  sit  down,  honest  man," 
she  said,  addi-essing  Fergus  ;  "  and  you,  ]Mr. 
Redly,  take  my  chair  ;  it's  the  one  you  sent 
me  yourself,  and  if  anybody  is  entitled  to  a 
sate  in  it,  surely  you  ai'e.  I  must  light  a 
msh." 

"  No,  Molly,"  rephed  Reilly,  "  I  woidd  be 
too  hea^'}'  for  your  fi-ad  chau*.  I  will  take 
one  of  those  stout  stools,  which  wiU  answer 
me  better." 

She  then  ht  a  msh-Hght,  which  she  pressed 
against  a  smaU  cleft  of  iron  that  was  driven 
into  a  wooden  shaft,  about  three  feet  long, 
which  stood  upon  a  bottom  that  resembled 
the  head  of  a  chum-staft'.  Such  are  the  hghts, 
and  such  the  candlesticks,  that  ai-e  to  be 
found  in  the  cabins  and  cottages  of  Ii-eland. 

"I  suppose,  Molly,"  said  Reilly,  "you  are 
surprised  at  a  visit  fit'om  me  just  now?  " 


"  You  know,  ]\Ii-.  Reilly,"  she  rephed, 
"  that  if  you  came  in  the  deadest  houi'S  of  the 
night  yoxid  be  welcome,  as  I  said — and  this 
poor  man  is  welcome  too — sit  over  to  the 
fii'e,  poor  man,  and  warm  youi'self.  Miybe 
you're  hungiy  ;  if  you  are  I'll  get  you  some- 
thing to  eat." 

."^Slany  thanks  to  you,  ma'am,"  rephed 
Fergus,  "  I'm  not  a  taste  hungry,  and  coidd 
ait  nothing  now  ;  I'm  much  obliged  to  you 
at  the  same  time." 

"  Mr.  Reilly,  maybe  you'd  hke  to  ait  a  bit. 
I  can  give  you  a  fcirrel  of  bread,  and  a  sup  o' 
nice  goat's  milk.  God  presei-ve  him  from 
evil  that  gave  me  the  same  goats,  and  that's 
your  four  quarthers,  ^Ir.  Redly.  But  sure 
eveiy  thing  I  have  either  came  or  comes  fi'om 
your  hand  ;  and  if  I  can't  thank  you,  God 
will  do  it  for  me,  and  that's  betther  still." 

"  No  more  about  that,  Molly— not  a  word 
more.  Your  long  residence  Arith  my  poor 
mother,  and  your  affection  for  her  in  all  her 
trials  and  troubles,  entitle  you  to  more  than 
that  at  the  hands  of  her  sou." 

'Oil's.  Buckley,"  obsen-ed  Fergus,  "this 
is  a  quiet-looking  httle  place  you  have  here." 

"  And  it  is  for  that  I  hke  it,"  she  replied. 
"I  have  pace  here,  and  the  noise  of  the 
wicked  world  seldom  reaches  me  in  it.  My 
only  fiiend  and  comjianion  here  is  the  Al- 
mighty— i^raise  and  glory  be  to  his  name  ! " — 
and  here  she  devoutly  crossed  herself — "bar- 
rin',  indeed,  when  the  light-hearted  gir^has* 
come  a  kailyee\  Arid  their  wheels,  to  keei?  the 
poor  ould  woman  comjDany,  and  rise  her  oidd 
heart  by  their  hght  and  merry  songs,  the 
cratui-es." 

"That  must  be  a  rehef  to  j-ou,  Molly," 
observed  Reilly,  who,  however,  could  with 
difficulty  take  any  jDart  in  this  httle  dia- 
logue. 

"And  so  indeed  it  is,"  she  rephed  ;  "  and, 
poor  tilings,  sure  if  then*  sweetheai'ts  do 
come  at  the  dusk  to  helj)  them  to  cany  home 
their  si^iiiuing-wheels,  who  can  be  angiy 
"s\ith  them  ?  It's  the  way  of  life,  siu*e,  and 
of  the  world." 

She  then  went  into  another  httle  room — 
for  the  cabin  was  dirided  into  two — in  order 
to  find  a  ball  of  woollen  thread,  her  piinciptd 
occupation  being  the  knitting  of  mittens 
and  stockings,  and  whde  bustling  about 
Fergus  obsei-ved  vAih  a  smde, 

"  Poor  Molly  !  little  she  thinks  that  it's 
the  bachelors,  rather  than  any  particidar 
love  for  her  company,  that  brings  the  thieves 
here." 


*  Toung'  girls. 

f  This  means  to  spend  a  portion  of  tbe  day.  or  a 
few  hours  ot  the  night,  iu  a  neighbor's  hoase,  in 
agre«able  and  amusing  conversation. 


iS 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Yer,  but,"  said  Keilly,  "  you  know  it's  the 
custom  of  the  country." 

•'^Iis.  Buckley,"  asked  Fergus,  "did  the 
sogers  ever  pay  you  a  visit  ?  " 

"They  did  ouce,"  she  rephed,  "about  six 
months  ago  or  more." 

"  "\\Tiat  in  the  name  of  wondher,"  he  re- 
peated, "  could  bring  them  to  you  ?  " 

"They  were  out  htmtin'  a  priest,"  she 
rephed,  "  that  had  done  something  contraiy 
to  the  law." 

"WTiat  did  they  say,  Mrs.  Buckley,  and 
how  did  they  behave  themselves  ?  " 

"  "VMiy,"  she  answered,  "  they  axed  me  if  I 
had  seen  about  the  country  a  tight-looking 
fat  httle  man,  wid  black  twinklin'  eyes  and  a 
rosy  face,  \i\A.  a  pair  o'  priest's  boots  upon 
him,  greased  wid  hog's  lai'd  ?  I  said  no,  but 
to  the  revarse.  They  then  searched  the 
cabin,  tossed  the  two  beds  about — poor 
Jemmy's — God  rest  my  boy's  sowl !  —  an' 
afterwards  my  own.  There  was  one  that 
seemed  to  hould  authority  over  the  rest, 
and  he  axed  who  was  my  landlord  ?  I  said 
I  had  no  landlord.  They  then  said  that 
surely  I  must  pay  rent  to  some  one,  but  I 
said  that  I  paid  rent  to  nobody ;  that  jVIi-. 
Reilly  here,  God  bless  him,  gave  me  this 
house  and  garden  free." 

"And  what  did  they  say  when  you  named 
^Ir.  Reilly?" 

"^^^ly,  they  said  he  was  a  dacent  Papish, 
I  think  they  called  it ;  and  that  there  wasn't 
sich  another  among  them.  They  then 
lighted  their  pipes,  had  a  smoke,  went  about 
their  business,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  them 
from  that  day  to  this." 

Eeiily  felt  that  this  conversation  was  sig- 
nificant, and  that  the  widow's  cabin  was  any 
thing  but  a  safe  place  of  refuge,  even  for  a 
few  houi's.  We  have  ah-eady  said  that  he  had 
been  popular  with  all  parties,  which  was  the 
fact,  until  his  acquaintance  with  the  old 
squire  and  his  lovely  daughter.  In  the 
meantime  the  loves  of  Willy  Reilly  and  the 
far-famed  Cooleen  Bawn  had  gone  abroad 
over  the  whole  country  ;  and  the  natiu-al 
result  was  that  a  large  majoiity  among  those 
who  were  anxious  to  exterminate  the  Cathohc 
Church  by  the  rigor  of  bigoted  and  inhuman 
laws,  looked  upon  the  fact  of  a  tolerated 
Papist  daring  to  love  a  Protestant  heiress, 
and  the  daughter  of  a  man  who  was  con- 
sidered such  a  stout  prop  of  the  Estaljlish- 
ment,  as  an  act  that  deserved  death  itself. 
Reilly's  affection  for  the  Cuoleen  Bawn  was 
considered,  therefore,  not  only  daring  but 
treasonable.  Those  men,  then,  he  reflected, 
who  had  called  upon  her  while  in  pursuit  of 
the  unfortunate  priest,  had  become  acquain- 
ted with  the  fact  of  her  dependence  upon 
his  bounty ;  and  he  took  it  for  granted,  very 


naturally  and  very  properly,  as  the  event  vnh 
show,  that  now,  while  "on  his  keeping,"  it 
would  not  be  at  all  extraordinary  if  they 
occasionally  searched  her  remote  and  sohtary 
cabin,  as  a  place  where  he  might  be  likely  to 
conceal  himself.  For  this  night,  however, 
he  experienced  no  apprehension  of  a  visit 
from  them,  but  with  what  correctness  of  cal- 
culation we  shall  soon  see. 

"  Molly,"  said  he,  this  poor  man  and  I 
must  sit  with  you  for  a  couple  of  hours, 
after  which  we  Arill  leave  you  to  yovu'  rest." 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Reilly,"  she  rephed,  "fit-om 
what  I  heard  this  day  I  can  make  a  purty 
good  guess  at  the  riiison  wh}'"  3'ou  are  here 
now,  instead  of  bein'  in  your  owti  comfort- 
able house.  You  have  bitther  enemies  ;  but 
God — blessed  be  his  name — is  stronger  than 
any  of  them.  However,  I  wish  you'd  let  me 
get  you  and  that  poor  man  son-ething  to 
eat." 

This  kind  offer  they  declined,  and  as  the 
short  rush-hght  was  nearly  biu-ned  out,  and 
as  she  had  not  another  ready,  she  got  what 
is  called  a  cam  or  gi'isset,  put  it  on  the 
hearth-stone,  "with  a  portion  of  hog's  lard  in 
it ;  she  then  placed  the  lower  end  of  the 
tongs  in  the  fire,  until  the  broad  portion  of 
them,  Arith  which  the  tui-f  is  giipped,  became 
red  hot ;  she  then  placed  the  lard  in  the  giis- 
set  between  them,  and  squeezed  it  vmtil  noth- 
ing remained  but  pure  oil ;  through  this  she 
slowly  di-ew  the  peeled  rushes,  which  were 
instantly  saturated  with  the  gi'ease,  after 
which  she  left  them  on  a  httle  table  to  cooL 
Among  the  poorer  classes — small  fai-mers 
and  others — this  process  is  performed  every 
evening  a  httle  before  dusk.  Having  thus 
supphed  them  with  these  hghts,  the  pious 
widoAV  left  them  to  their  own  conversation 
and  retired  to  the  httle  room  in  order  to  re- 
peat her  rosary.  We  also  will  leave  them  to 
entertain  themselves  as  best  they  can,  and 
request  our  readers  to  follow  us  to  a  dilierent 
scene. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

An  Accidental  Incident  favorable  to  Eeiily,  and  a 
Curious  Convermtion. 

We  return  to  the  party  fi-om  whom  Fer- 
gus Reilly  had  so  naiTow  an  escape.  As  oui 
readers  may  expect,  they  bent  their  steps  to 
the  magnificent  residence  of  Su-  Robert 
"WTiitecraft.  That  gentleman  was  alone  in 
his  library,  surrounded  by  an  immense  col 
lection  of  books  which  he  never  read.  He 
had  also  a  fine  collection  of  paintings,  of 
which  he  knew  no  more  than  his  butler,  nor 
perhaps  so  much.     At  once  sensual,  penuri 


WILLT  UEILLY. 


49 


nis,  and  bigoted,  lie  spent  Lis  whole  time 
jn  private  profligacy — for  he  was  a  hypocrite, 
too — in  racking  his  tenantry,  and  exhibiting 
himself  as  a  champion  for  Protestant  prin- 
ciples. WTienever  an  unfortunate  Romjm 
CathoHc,  whether  priest  or  layman,  happened 
to  infringe  a  harsh  and  cniel  law  of  which 
probably  he  had  never  heaixl,  who  so  active 
in  collecting  his  mjTmidons,  in  order  to  un- 
cover, hunt,  and  run  down  his  luckless  vic- 
tim ?  And  yet  he  was  not  poijular.  No 
one,  wliether  of  his  own  class  or  any  other, 
liked  a  bone  in  his  skin.  Nothing  could  in- 
fect him  Avith  the  genial  and  hospitable  spmt 
jf  the  country,  whilst  at  the  same  time  no 
man  living  was  so  anxious  to  partake  of  the 
hospitahty  of  others,  merely  because  it  saved 
him  a  meal.  All  that  sustained  his  character 
at  the  melancholy  period  of  which  we  write 
was  what  people  called  the  uncompromising 
energ}'  of  his  principles  as  a  sound  and  vig- 
orous Protestant. 

"  Sink  them  all  together,"  he  exclaimed 
upon  this  occasion,  in  a  kind  of  soliloquy — 
"  Chui-ch  and  bishop  and  parson,  what  are 
they  worth  unless  to  make  the  best  use  we 
can  of  them?  Here  I  am  prevented  fi'om 
going  to  that  giii  to-night — and  that  bar- 
bai'ous  old  blockhead  of  a  squii-e,  who  was 
so  neai"  throwing  me  off  for  a  beggarly  Papist 
rebel ;  and  doubly,  trebly,  quadruply  cursed 
be  that  same  rebel  fci'  crossing  my  path  as 
he  has  done.  The  cui'sed  hght-headed  jade 
loves  him  too — there's  no  doubt  uf  that>— but 
wait  until  I  get   him  in  my  clutches,  as  I 

certainly  shall,  and,  by ,  his  rebel  carcass 

shall  feed  the  crows.  But  what  noise  is  that  ? 
They  have  returned ;  I  must  go  do-n-n  and 
leara  their  success."        , 

He  was  right.  Our  fiiend  the  tipsy  ser- 
geant and  his  party  were  at  the  hiill-door, 
which  was  oj^ened  as  he  went  down,  and  he 
orde^'ed  lights  into  the  back  parlor.  In  a 
few  minutes  they  were  ushered  in,  where  they 
found  him  seated  as  magisterially  as  possible 
in  a  large  ann-chair. 

"Well,  Johnston,"  said  he,  assuming  as 
much  dignity  as  he  could,  "  what  has  been 
your  success  ?  " 

"  A  bad  evening's  spoii,  sir ;  we  bagged 
nothing — didn't  see  a  feather." 

"  Talk  sense,  Johnston,"  said  he  sternly, 
"  and  none  of  this  cant.  Did  3'ou  see  or  hear 
any  thing  of  the  rebel  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  we  did  ;  it  would  be  a  derihsh 
nice  business  if  a  paiiy  led  and  commanded 
by  George  Johnston  should  go  out  without 
heaiin'  and  seein'  something." 

"  Well,  but  what  did  you  see  and  hear,  sir  ?  " 

"  Wliy,  we  saw  Eeilly's  house,  and  a  very 
comfortable  one  it  is  ;  and  we  heard  from 
the  servants  that  he  wasn't  at  home." 


"  You're  dnmk,  Johnston." 

"No,  sir,  begging  yojr  pardon,  I'm  only 
hearty  ;*  besides,  I  never  discharge  my  duty 
half  so  weU  as  when  I'm  drunk  ;  I  feel  no 
colors  then." 

"  Johnston,  if  I  ever  know  you  to  get  dnink 
on  duty  again  I  shall  have  you  reduced." 

"  Reduced !  "  replied  Johiiston,  "  curse  the 
fig  I  care  whether  you  do  or  not ;  I'm  actin' 
as  a  volunteer,  and  I'll  resign." 

"Come,  sir,"  rephed  Sir  Robert,  "  be 
quiet ;  I  wiU  overlook  this,  for  you  ai'e  a  very 
good  man  if  3'ou  could  keep  yourself  sober." 

"  I  told  you  before,  Sii*  Robert,  that  I'm  a 
better  man  when  I'm  drunk." 

"  Silence,  sii",  or  I  shall  order  you  out  of 
the  room." 

"Please  j'oui-  honor,"  observed  Steen,  "I 
have  a  chai'ge  to  make  against  George  John- 
ston." 

"  A  charge,  Steen — what  is  it  ?  You  are 
a  staunch,  steady  fellow,  I  know  ;  what  is 
this  cliarge  ?  " 

"  ^\Tiy,  sir,  we  met  a  suspicious  character 
on  the  old  bridle  road  beyond  Reilly's,  and 
he  refused  to  talce  him  prisoner." 

"A  poor  half-PHi:)ist  beggarman,  sir,"  re- 
phed Johnston,  "  who  was  on  his  way  to  my 
uncle's  to  stop  there  for  the  night.  Divil  a 
scarecrow  in  Europe  would  exchange  clothee 
with  him  without  boot." 

Steen  then  related  the  circumstances  with 
which  our  readers  are  acquainted,  adding 
that  he  suggested  to  Johnston  the  necessity 
of  sending  a  couple  of  men  up  with  him  to 
ascertain  whether  what  he  said  was  true  or 
not ;  but  that  he  flatly  refused  to  do  so — ixnd 
after  some  nonsense  about  a  barn  he  let  him 

"  TU  teU  you  what,  sir,"  said  Johnston, 
"  I'll  hunt  a  priest  or  a  Papish  that  breaks 
the  law  -srith  any  man  hvin',  but  hang  me  ii 
ever  I'll  hunt  a  harmless  beggarman  lookin' 
for  his  bit." 

At  this  period  of  the  conversation  the  Red 
Rapi^aree,  now  in  mihtary  uniform,  entered 
the  paiior,  accompanied  by  some  others  of 
those  violent  men. 

"  Steen,"  said  the  baronet,  "  what  or  who 
do  i/oH  suppose  this  ragged  i-uffi;m  was?" 

"  Either  a  Riipparee,  sir,  or  Reilly  him- 
seK." 

"  O'Donnel,"  said  he,  addressing  the  Red 
Robber,  "  what  description  of  disguises  do 
these  villains  usually  assume  ?  Do  they  of- 
ten go  about  as  beggarmen  ?  " 

"  They  may  have  changed  their  hand,  sir, 
since  I  became  a  legjxl  subject,  but,  before 
that,  three-fourths  of  us — of  them — the  vil- 

*"  Hearty  "  means  when  a  man  is  slightly  affected 
by  drir-k  so  as  to  feel  his  spirits  elevated- 


30 


WILLIAM   CARLETOS'8  WOEKS. 


lains,  I  mane — went  about  in  the  shape  of 
beggars." 

"  That's  im25oi*tant,"  exclaimed  the  baronet. 
"  Steeu,  take  half  a  dozen  mounted  men — a 
cavaliT  piu-ty  have  arrived  here  a  httle  while 
ago,  and  are  waiting  fui-ther  orders — I 
thought  if  Eeilly  had  been  secm-ed  it  might 
have  been  necessaiy  for  them  to  escort  him 
to  Sligo.  WeU,  take  half  a  dozen  mounted 
men,  and,  as  you  very  j^roperly  suggested, 
proceed  with  all  haste  to  farmer  Gi'aham's, 
and  see  whether  this  mendicant  is  there  or 
not ;  if  he  is  there,  take  him  into  custody  at 
all  events,  and  if  he  is  not,  then  it  is  clear  he 
is  a  man  for  whom  we  ought  to  be  on  the 
lookout." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  -nith  them,  your  hon- 
or," said  the  Ked  Eapparee. 

"  O'Donnel,"  said  Sii"  Robert,  "I have  oth- 
er business  for  you  to-uight." 

"  Well,  plaise  yom*  honor,"  said  O'Don- 
nel, "  as  they're  goin'  in  that  direction,  let 
them  turn  to  the  left  after  j^assiii'  the  httle 
strame  that  crosses  the  road,  I  mane  on  their 
way  home  ;  if  they  look  shaii)  they'll  find  a 
'little  horeen  that — but  indeed  they'll  scarcely 
_aake  it  out  in  the  dark,  for  it's  a  good  way 
back  in  the  fields — I  mane  the  cabin  of 
widow  Buckley.  If  there's  one  house  more 
than  another  in  the  whole  coimtryside  where 
Reilly  is  likely  to  take  shelter  in,  that's  it. 
He  gave  her  that  cabin  and  a  large  garden 
fi*ee,  and  besides  allows  her  a  small  yearly 
pension.  But  remember,  you  can't  bring 
your  horses  wid  you — you  must  lave  some 
of  the  men  to  take  charge  of  them  in  the 
boreen  till  you  come  back,  I  -s\ish  you'd  let 
me  go  with  them,  sir." 

"  I  cannot,  O'Donnel ;  I  have  other  occu- 
pation for  you  to-night." 

Three  or  fom-  of  them  declai'ed  that  they 
knew  the  cottage  right  well,  and  could  find  it 
out  vrithout  much  difficulty.  "  They  had  been 
there,"  they  said,  "  some  six  or  eight  months 
before  upon  a  jDriest  chase."  The  matter  was 
so  arranged,  and  the  party  set  out  upon  their 
expedition. 

It  is  unnecessaiy  to  say  that  these  men 
had  their  journey  for  nothing  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  ope  fact  resulted  from  it,  which 
was,  that  the  ragged  mendicant  they  had 
met  must  have  been  some  one  well  worth 
looking  after.  The  deuce  of  it  was,  however, 
that,  o^\-ing  to  the  darkness  of  tlie  night, 
there  was  not  one  among  them  who  could 
have  known  Fergus  the  next  day  if  they  had  i 
met  liim.  They  knew,  however,  that  O'Don- 
nel, the  Rapparee,  was  a  good  authority  on 
the  subject,  and  the  discovery  of  the  pre- 
tended mendicant's  impostui-e  was  a  proof 
of  it.  On  this  account,  when  they  had 
reached  the  boreen  alluded  to,  on  their  re- ; 


tiu-n  fi'om  Graham's,  they  came  to  the  reso 
lution  of  learing  theii*  horses  in  charge,  aa 
had  been  suggested  to  them,  and  in  silence, 
and  with  ste:ilthy  stejis,  pounce  at  once  into 
the  widow's  cabin.  Before  they  arrived 
there,  however,  we  shall  take  the  hberty  of 
preceding  them  for  a  few  minutes,  and  once 
more  transport  our  readers  to  its  bright  but 
humble  heai'th. 

About  three  hom-s  or  better  had  elapsed, 
and  om-  two  fiiends  were  still  seated,  main- 
taining the  usual  chat  ^^•ith  j\Irs.  Buckley, 
who  had  finished  her  prayers  and  once  more 
rejoined  them. 

"Fergus,  like  a  good  fellow,"  whispered 
Eeilly,  "  slip  out  for  a  minute  or  two  ;  there's 
a  circumstance  I  wish  to  mention  to  MoUy 
— I  assure  you  it's  of  a  very  private  and  par- 
ticular natiu'e  and  only  for  her  o^ti  ear." 

"To  be  sui-e,"  replied  Fergus  ;  "I  want,  at 
all  events,  to  stretch  my  legs,  and  to  see 
what  the  night's  about." 

He  accordingly  left  ths  cabin. 

"]\Ii-s.  Buckley,"  said  Eeilly,  "it  was  not 
for  nothing  I  came  here  to-night.  I  have  a 
favor  to  ask  of  you." 

"Youi-  favor's  granted,  sh-,"  she  repHed— 
"  gi'anted,  'Mx.  Eeilly,  even  before  I  hear  it — 
that  is,  suj^posin'  alwaj's  that  it's  in  my  j^ower 
to  do  it  for  you." 

"Jt  is  simply  to  cany  a  letter — and  be 
certain  that  it  shall  be  delivered  to  the  proper 
person." 

"Well,"  she  rej^lied,  "sure  that's  aisily 
done.  And  where  am  I  to  dehver  it?" 
she  asked. 

"  That  I  shall  let  you  know  on  some  future 
occasion — perhaps  within  the  coui'se  of  a 
week  or  so." 

"Well,  sii',"  she  repHed,  "I'd  go  twenty 
miles  to  deHver  it — and  will  do  so  vrid  a 
heai-t  and  a  half." 

"  Well,  Molly,  I  can  teU  you  your  journey 
won't  be  so  far  ;  but  there  is  one  thing  you 
are  to  observe — you  must  never  breathe  it 
to  a  human  creature." 

"I  thought  you  knew  me  better,  IMr. 
EeiUy." 

"  It  would  be  impossible,  however,  to  be 
too  strict  here,  because  you  don't  know  how 
much  depends  upon  it." 

At  this  moment  Fergus  put  in  his  head, 
and  said,  "  For  Christ's  sake,  snuft"  out  the 
candle,  and  Reilly — fly  ! — There  ai'e  people 
in  the  next  field  ! — quick  ! — quick !  " 

Eeilly  snatched  up  liis  hat,  and  whispered 
to  the  Aridow,  "Deny  that  you  saw  me,  or 
that  there  was  any  one  here  ! — ^Put  out  the 
candle  !  —  they  might  see  our  figures  darken- 
ing the  light  as  we  go  out !  " 

Fergus  and  Eeilly  immediately  planted 
themselves  behind  a  whitethorn  hedge,  in  a 


WILLY  REILLY. 


51 


field  adjoining  the  cabin,  in  order  to  recon- 
noitre the  party,  whoever  they  might  be, 
which  they  could  do  in  safety.  This  act  of 
reconnoitering,  however,  was  pei-foi-med  by 
the  ear,  and  not  at  all  by  the  eye  ;  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  rendered  that  impossible. 
Of  course  the  search  in  the  widow's  cabin 
was  equally  fi'uitless. 

"Now,"  wliisi)ered  Reilly,  "well  go  in  a 
line  parallel  with  the  road,  "  but  at  a  safe 
distance  from  them,  until  they  reach  the 
cross-roads.  If  they  turn  towards  my  house, 
we  are  forewarned,  but  if  they  turn  towards 
Sir  Eobert's,  it  is  likely  that  I  may  have  an 
opportunity  of  securing  my  cash  and  papers." 

On  reaching  the  cross-roads  alluded  to, 
the  party,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  Reilly 
and  his  companion,  did  turn  towards  the 
residence  of  Sir  Robert  "\Miitecraft,  thus 
giving  the  fugitives  full  assurance  that  no- 
tliiug  further  was  to  be  apprehended  from 
them  that  night.  The  men  in  fact  felt 
fatigued  and  were  anxious  to  get  to  bed. 

After  approaching  ReQly's  house  very 
cautiously,  and  with  muclv  circumspection — 
not  an  outhouse,  or  other  i)lace  of  conceal- 
ment, having  been  left  unexamined — they 
were  about  to  enter,  when  Reilly,  thinking 
that  no  precaution  on  such  an  occasion 
ought  to  be  neglected,  said  : 

"  Fergus,  we  are  so  far  safe  ;  but,  under 
all  circumstances,  I  think  it  right  and  jditi- 
dent  that  you  should  keej)  watch  outside. 
Mark  me,  I  will  place  Tom  Comgan — you 
know  him — at  this  window,  and  if  you  hap- 
pen to  see  anything  in  the  shajje  of  a  hu- 
man being,  or  to  hear,  for  instance,  any 
noise,  give  the  shghtest  possible  tap  upon 
the  gkss,  and  that  ^\•ill  be  sufficient." 

It  was  so  arranged,  and  Reilly  entered  the 
house  ;  but,  as  it  happened,  Fergus's  office 
proved  a  sinecure ;  jdthough,  indeed,  when 
we  consider  his  care  and  anxiety,  we  can 
scarcely  say  so.  At  all  events,  ReiDy  returned 
in  about  half  an  hour,  bearing  under  his  aim 
a  large  dark  portfolio,  which,  by  the  way, 
was  securely  locked. 

"Is  all  right? "  asked  Fergus, 

"All  is  right,"  repHed  the  other.  "The 
servants  have  entered  into  an  arrangement  to 
sit  up,  two  in  turn  each  night,  so  as  to  be 
ready  to  give  me  instant  admittance  whenever 
I  may  chance  to  come." 

"But  now  where  are  you  to  place  these 
papers  ?  "  asked  his  companion.  "  That's  a 
difficulty." 

"It  is,  I  grant,"  rephed  Reilly,  "but  after 
what  has  happened,  I  think  ^vidow  Buckley's 
cabin  the  safest  place  for  a  day  or  two.  Only 
that  the  hour  is  so  unseasonable,  I  could 
feel  httle  difficulty  in  finding  a  proper  place 
of  security  for  them,  but  as  it  is,  we  must 


only  deposit  them  for  the  present  ■with  the 
widow." 

The  roads   of  Ireland  at  this   period- -if 
roads  they  could  be  called — were  not  only  in 
a  most  shameful,  but  dangerous,  state.     In 
summer  they  were  a  foot  deep  \i\\h.   dust, 
and  in  winter  at  least  eighteen  inches  with 
mud.     This,  however,  was  by  no  means  the 
worst  of  it.     They  were   studded,  at  due 
inten-als,  with  ruts  so  deep  that  if  a  horse 
I  happened  to  get  into  one  of  them  he  went 
I  down    to    the    saddle-skirts.       They    were 
j  treacherous,    too,  and  such   as   no   caution 
j  could    guard   against ;  because,    where   the 
[  whole  surface  of  the  road  was  one  mass  of 
mud,  it  was  inipossible  to  distinguish  these 
,  horse-traps   at   all.      Tlien,    in   atldition   tO' 
i  these,  were  deep   gullies  across  the  roads, 
I  worn  away  by  small  riUs,  proceeding  from 
!  rivulets  in  the  adjoining  uplands,  wliich  were 
;  principally  diy,  or  at  least  mere  threads  of 
\  water  in   summer,    but   in   winter  became 
I  pigmy  toiTents  that  tore  up  the  roads  across 
I  which  they  passed,  leaving  them  in  the  dan- 
gerous stite  we  have  described. 

As  Reilly  and  his  companion  had  got  out 
upon  the  road,  they  were  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised, and  not  a  Httle  alarmed,  to  see  a 
horse,  without  a  rider,  stniggUng  to  extri- 
cate himseK  out  of  one  of  the  ruts  in  ques- 
tion. 

"What  is  this?",  said  Fergus.  "Be  on 
yoiu'  guard." 

" The  horse,"  observed  Reilly,  "is  without 
a  rider  ;  see  what  it  means." 

Fergus  approached  with  aU  due  caution, 
and  on  examining  the  jilace  discovered  a  man 
Ijing  apparently  in  a  state  of  insensibiUty. 

"  I  fear,"  said  he,  on  returning  to  Reilly, 
"  that  his  rider  has  been  hurt ;  he  is  lying 
senseless  about  two  or  three  yards  before 
the  horse." 

"  My  God  ! "  exclaimed  the  other,  "  perhaps 
he  has  been  killed  ;  let  us  instantly  a.s.sist 
him.  Hold  this  jiortfolio  whil.st  I  render 
him  whatever  a.ssistance  I  can." 

As  he  spoke  they  heard  a  heavy  groan, 
and  on  approaching  found  the  man  sitting, 
but  still  vmable  to  rise. 

"You  have  unfortunately  been  throAvn, 
sir,"  said  Reilly  ;  "  I  trust  in  God  you  are  not 
seriously  hurt." 

"I  hope  not,  sir,"  repUed  the  man,  "  but  I 
was  stunned,  and  have  been  insensible  for 
some  time  ;  how  long  I  cannot  say." 

"Good  gracious,  sir!"  exclaimed  Reilly, 
"  is  this  ^Ir.  Brown  ?  " 

"It  is,  Mr.  Reilly;  for  heaven's  sake  aid 
me  to  my  limbs — that  is,  if  I  shall  be  able  to 
stand  upon  them." 

ReiUy  did  so,  but  found  that  he  could  not 
stand    or    walk   without    assistance.      The 


52 


WILLIAM   CARLETOR'S   WORKS. 


horse,  in  the  meantime,  had  extricated  him- 
self. 

"Come,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Eeilly,  "yoa 
must  allow  me  to  assist  you  home.  It  is 
veiy  fortunate  that  you  have  not  many  perches 
to  go.  This  poor  man  will  lead  your  horse 
up  to  the  stable." 

"Tliank  you,  I\Ii\  Eeilly,"  replied  the 
gentleman,  "  and  in  requital  for  yoiu*  kind- 
ness you  must  take  a  bed  at  my  house  to- 
night. I  am  aware  of  your  position,"  he 
added  in  a  confidential  voice,  "  and  that  you 
cannot  safely  sleep  in  your  own ;  with  me 
you  will  be  seciu-e." 

Reilly  thanked  him,  and  said  that  this 
kind  offer  was  most  welcome  and  accej^table, 
as,  in  point  of  fact,  he  scarcely  knew  that 
night  where  to  seek  rest  with  safety.  They 
accordingly  proceeded  to  the  parsonage — • 
for  Mr.  Brown  was  no  other  than  the  Prot- 
estant rector  of  the  jDarish,  a  man  "v^dth  whom 
Reilly  was  on  the  most  fi-iendly  and  intimate 
terms,  and  a  man,  we  may  add,  who  omitted 
no  opportunity  of  extending  shelter,  pro- 
tection, and  countenance  to  such  Roman 
Cathohcs  as  fell  under  the  suspicion  or  oj^er- 
ation  of  the  law.  On  this  occasion  he  had 
been  called  very  suddenly  to  the  deathbed  of 
a  parishioner,  and  was  then  on  his  return 
home,  after  having  administered  to  the  d^dng 
man  the  last  consolations  of  rehgion. 

On  reaching  the  parsonage,  Fergus  handed 
the  portfoho  to  its  o^mier,  and  withdrew  to 
seek  shelter  in  some  of  his  usual  haunts  for 
the  night ;  but  Mr.  Brown,  aided  by  his 
wife,  who  sat  up  for  him,  contrived  that 
Reilly  should  be  conducted  to  a  jDrivate  room, 
without  tke  knowledge  of  the  servants,  who 
were  sent  as  soon  as  possible  to  bed.  Before 
Reilly  withdrew,  however,  that  nighi,  he  re- 
quested ]VIi\  Brown  to  take  charge  of  his 
monej'  and  family  papers,  which  the  latter 
did,  assuring  him  that  they  should  be  forth- 
coming whenever  he  thought  j)roper  to  call 
for  them.  Mr.  Bro\ATi  had  not  been  seriously 
hurt,  and  was  able  in  a  day  or  two  to  pay 
the  usual  attention  to  the  discharge  of  his 
duties. 

Reilly,  having  been  told  where  to  find  his 
bedroom,  retired  ^\'ith  confidence  to  rest. 
Yet  we  can  scarcely  term  it  rest,  alter  con- 
sidering the  tumultuous  and  disagreeable 
events  of  the  evening.  He  began  to  ponder 
upon  the  life  of  j)ersecution  to  which  Miss 
FoUiai'd  must  necessarily  be  exposed,  in  con- 
sequence of  her  father's  impetuous  and  fierj' 
temper ;  and,  indeed,  the  fact  was,  that  he 
felt  this  reflection  infinitely  more  bitter 
than  any  that  touched  himself.  In  these 
affectionate  calculations  of  her  domestic  per- 
secution he  was  a  good  deal  mistaken, 
however.     Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  had  now 


gained  a  complete  ascendancy  over  the  di* 
position  and  passions  of  her  father.  Th« 
latter,  like  many  another  covmtry  squire — es- 
pecially of  that  day — when  his  word  and  wO] 
were  law  to  his  tenants  and  dependants,  was 
a  ver}'  great  man  indeed,  when  deahng  with 
them.  He  could  bluster  and  threaten,  and 
even  carry  his  threats  into  execution  with  a 
confident  SAvagger  that  had  more  of  magis- 
terial pride  and  the  pomp  of  property  in  it, 
than  a  sense  of  either  right  or  justice.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  let  him  meet  a  man  of  hia 
ovni  rank,  who  cared  nothing  about  his 
authority  as  a  magistrate,  or  his  assumption 
as  a  man  of  large  landed  propei'ty,  and  he 
was  nothing  but  a  poor  weak-minded  tool  in 
his  hands.  So  far  our  descriiDtion  is  correct ; 
but  when  such  a  knave  as  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft  came  in  his  way — a  knave  at  once  cal- 
culating, deceitful,  plausible,  and  ciinning — 
why,  our  worthy  old  squire,  who  thought 
himself  a  second  Solomon,  might  be  taken 
by  the  nose  and  led  round  the  whole  barony. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  he  had  sapiently 
laid  doviTi  his  j^lans  to  harass  and  persecute 
his  daughter  into  a  marriage  with  Sir  Robert, 
and  would  have  probably  driven  her  fi'om 
mider  his  roof,  hacl  he  not  received  the  pro- 
gramme of  his  conduct  fi-om  "Whitecrafi 
That  cowardly  caitiff  had  a  double  motive  in 
this.  He  found  that  if  her  father  should 
"  pepper  her  with  persecution,"  as  the  old 
fellow  said,  before  marriage,  its  consequences 
might  fall  ujDon  his  0"\ati  xmluck}-  head  after- 
wards— in  other  words,  that  Helen  would 
most  assuredly  make  him  then  suffer,  to  some 
l^ui'pose,  for  all  that  his  jDretensions  to  hei 
hand  had  occasioned  her  to  undergo  jire- 
vious  to  their  union  ;  for,  in  truth,  if  there 
was  one  doctrine  which  ^Miitecraft  detested 
more  than  another — and  with  good  reason 
too — it  was  that  of  Retribution. 

"  Mr.  FoUiard,"  said  AVhitecraft  in  the  very 
last  conversation  they  had  on  this  subject, 
"  you  must  not  persecute  your  daughter  on 
my  account." 

"Mustn't  I?  Wliy  hang  it.  Sir  Robert, 
isn't  persecution  the  order  of  the  day  ?  If 
she  doesn't  marry  you  quietly  and  willingly, 
we'll  tui-n  her  out,  and  hunt  her  hke  a 
piiest." 

"No,  IVIi*.  Folhard,  violence  wiU  never  do. 
On  the  contrary,  you  must  change  yoiu 
hand,  and  tiy  an  opj)osite  course.  If  you 
wish  to  rivet  her  affections  upon  that  Jes- 
uitical traitor  still  more  strongly,  persecut6 
her  ;  for  there  is  nothing  in  this  life  that 
strengthens  love  so  much  as  ojDposition  and 
violence.  The  fair  ones  begin  to  look  upon 
themselves  as  martyrs,  and  in  proportion  as 
you  are  severe  and  inexorable,  so  in  propor- 
tion are  they  resolved  to  win  the  crown  that 


WILLY  REILLY 


53 


is  before  them.  I  would  not  press  your 
daughter  but  that  I  beheve  love  to  be  a  thing 
that  exists  before  marriage  —  never  after. 
There's  the  honeymoon,  for  instance.  Did 
ever  mortal  man  or  mortal  woman  hear  or 
dream  of  a  second  lioneymoon  ?  No,  sir,  for 
Cupid,  like  a  large  blue-bottle,  fiills  into, 
and  is  drowned,  in  the  honey-pot." 

"  Confound  me,"  replied  the  squire,  "  if  I 
understand  a  word  you  say.  However,  I  dai'e 
say  it  may  be  very  good  sense  for  all  that, 
for  you  always  had  a  long  noddle.     Go  on." 

"  My  advice  to  you  then,  sir,  is  this — make 
as  few  allusions  to  her  maniage  with  me  as 
possiljle  ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  you  may 
praise  me  a  little,  if  you  wish  ;  but,  above  all 
tilings,  don't  run  do^\Ti  Reilly  immediately 
after  paying  either  my  mind  or  person  any 
comijliment.  Allow  the  young  lad}'  to  re- 
main quiet  for  a  time.  Treat  her  vdih  your 
usual  kindness  and  affection  ;  for  it  is  possi- 
ble, after  all,  that  she  may  do  more  from  her 
tenderness  and  affection  for  you  than  we 
could  expect  from  an}'  other  motive  ;  at  all 
events,  until  we  shall  succeed  in  hanging  or 
transporting -this  rebellious  scoundi-el." 

"Very  good — so  he  is.  Good  "Wilham  ! 
what  a  son-in-law  I  should  have  !  I  who 
transported  one  priest  already  !  " 

"Well,  sir,  as  I  was  sa^-ing,  until  we  shall 
have  succeeded  in  hanging  or  transporting 
him.  The  lirst  would  be  the  safest,  no 
doubt ;  but  until  we  shall  be  able  to  ac- 
complish either  one  or  the  other,  we  have  not 
much  to  exjDect  in  the  shape  of  comphance 
from  your  daughter.  AMien  the  A'iUain  is  re- 
moved, however,  hope,  on  her  part,  will  soon 
die  out — love  vnH  lose  its  j^abu  I  inn." 

"  Its  what  ?  "  asked  the  squire,  staring  at 
him  with  a  pau*  of  roimd  eyes  that  were  fuU 
of  peii^lexity  imd  wonder. 

"  ^\  hy,  it  means  food,  or  rather  fodder." 

"  Curse  you,  sir,"  rej^Ued  the  squu'e  in- 
dignantly ;  "  do  you  want  to  make  a  beast 
of  my  daughter  ?  " 

"  13ut  its  a  word,  sir,  appUed  by  the  poets, 
as  the  food  of  Cupid." 

"  Cupid !  I  thought  he  was  drowned  in 
the  honey-pot,  yet  he's  up  again,  and  as 
brisk  as  ever,  it  aj^pears.  However,  go  on — 
let  us  imderstand  fairly  what  you're  at.  I 
think  I  see  a  ghmpse  of  it  ;  and  kno^s'ing 
your  character  upon  the  subject  of  persecu- 
tion as  I  do,  its  more,  I  must  say,  than  I 
expected  from  you.     Go  on — I  bid  you." 

"I  say,  then,  sir,  that  if  ReiUy  were  either 
hanged  or  out  of  the  country,  the  conscious- 
ness of  this  would  soon  alter  matters  vrith. 
Miss  FoUiard.  If  you,  then,  su-,  will  enter 
into  an  agreement  with  me,  I  shall  under- 
take so  to  make  the  laws  bear  upon  Reilly 
ap  to  rid  either  the  world  or  the  country  of 


him  ;  and  you  shall  promise  not  to  press 
upon  yom-  daughter  the  subject  of  her 
marriage  mth  me  iintil  then.  Still,  there  is 
one  thing  you  must  do  ;  and  that  is,  to  keep 
her  under  the  strictest  surceillance." 

"  What  the  devil's  that  ?  "  said  the  sqiiire. 

"  It  means,"  returned  his  expected  son-in- 
law,  "  that  she  must  be  well  watched,  but 
without  feehng  that  she  is  so." 

"  Woidd  it  not  be  better  to  lock  her  up  at 
once  ?  "  said  her  father.  "  That  would  be 
malcing  the  matter  sure." 

"Not  at  aU,"  rephed  WTiitecraft.  "So 
sui-e  as  you  lock  her  up,  so  sure  she  wiU 
break  prison." 

"Well,  upon  my  soul,"  repHed  her  father, 
"I  can't  see  that.  A  strong  lock  and  key 
are  certainly  the  best  surety  for  the  due  ap- 
jDearance  of  any  young  woman  disposed  to 
run  away.  I  think  the  best  way  would  be  to 
make  her  feel  at  once  that  her  father  is  a 
magistrate,  and  commit  her  to  her  own  room 
untd  called  upon  to  appear." 

Whitecraft,  whose  object  was  occasionally 
to  jDuzzle  his  friend,  gave  a  cold  grin,  and 
added : 

"  I  suppose  your  next  step  wovild  be  to 
make  her  jDut  in  secui'ity.  No — no,  'Mr. 
FoUiard  ;  if  you  wiR  be  advised  by  me,  try 
the  soothing  system  ;  antiphlogistic  remedies 
ai'e  always  the  best  in  a  case  like  hers." 

"  Anti — what  ?  Ciu'se  me,  if  I  can  under- 
stand everv'  tenth  word  you  say.  However, 
I  give  you  credit,  \VTiitecraft  ;  for  uj^on  my 
soul  I  didn't  tliink  you  knew  half  so  much 
as  you  do.  That  last,  however,  is  a  tickler — 
a  nut  that  I  can't  crack.  I  \\-ish  I  could  only 
get  my  tongue  about  it,  till  I  send  it  among 
the  Grand  Jury,  and  maybe  there  wouldn't 
be  wigs  on  the  green  in  making  it  out." 

"  Yes,  I  fancy  it  would  teach  them  a  Httle 
supererogation. " 

"  A  little  what  ?  Is  it  love  that  has  made 
you  so  learned,  ^Miitecraft,  or  so  unintelligi- 
ble, which?  ^Miy,  man,  if  your  passion  in- 
creases, in  another  week  thei-e  won't  be  thi'ee 
men  out  of  Trinity  College  able  to  under- 
stand you.  You  vnH  become  a  jjerfect 
oracle.  But,  in  the  meantime,  let  us  see 
how  the  aiTangement  stands.  Imprimus, 
you  are  to  hang  or  transport  Reilly  ;  and, 
xintil  then,  I  am  not  to  annoy  my  daughter 
with  any  allusions  to  this  marriage  :  but, 
above  all  things,  not  to  compare  you  and 
Reilly  with  one  another  in  her  presence,  lest 
it  might  strengthen  her  prejudices  against 
you." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  jVIr.  FoUiai'd,  I  did 
not  say  so  ;  I  feai*  no  comparison  \rith  the 
feUow." 

"No  matter.  Sir  Robert,  if  you  did  not 
knock  it  do^\'n  you  staggered  it.      Omitting 


04 


WILLIA3I  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


the  comparison,  however,  I  suppose  that  so 
far  I  am  right." 

"I  think  so,  sir,"  repUed  the  other,  con- 
scious, after  all,  that  he  had  got  a  touch  of 
"Roland  for  his  Oliver." 

Then  he  j)roceeded :  "I'm  to  watch  her 
closely,  onl}'  she's  not  to  knoAv  it.  Now,  I'll 
tell  you  what.  Sir  Robert,  I  know  you  cany  a 
long  noddle,  with  more  hard  words  in  it  than 
I  ever  gave  you  credit  for— but  with  regard 
to  what  you  exjaect  from  me  now — " 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you  should  M'atch  her 
personally  yom-self,  ^\x.  FoUiard." 

"  I  suppose  you  don't ;  I  didn't  think  yoii 
did  ;  but  I'll  tell  you  what — place  the  twelve 
labors  of  Hercules  before  me,  and  I'll  under- 
take to  perform  them,  if  you  wish,  but  to 
watch  a  woman.  Sir-  Robert — and  that  wo- 
man keen  and  shai'p  ujDon  the  cause  of  such 
vigilance — without  her  knowing  it  in  one 
half  hour's  time — -that  is  a  task  that  never 
was,  can,  or  will  be  accomplished.  In  the 
meantime,  we  must  only  come  as  near  its 
accomplishment  as  we  can." 

"Just  so,  sir  ;  we  can  do  no  more.  Re- 
member, then,  that  you  perform  your  jDart 
of  this  arrangement,  and,  with  the  blessing 
of  God,  I  shall  leave  nothing  undone  to  jDcr- 
form  mine." 

Thus  closed  this  rather  extraordinaiy  con- 
versation, after  which  Sir  Robert  betook 
himself  home,  to  reflect  uj)on  the  best 
means  of  performing  his  part  of  it,  with 
what  quickness  and  dispatch,  and  with  what 
success,  oui'  readers  akeady  know. 

The  old  squire  was  one  of  those  characters 
who  never  are  so  easily  jiersuaded  as  when 
they  do  not  fully  comjDreJiend  the  argument 
used  to  convince  them.  "Whenever  the  squire 
found  himself  a  httle  at  fault,  or  confounded 
by  either  a  diflicult  word  or  a  hard  sentence, 
he  always  took  it  for  granted  that  there  was 
something  unusually  profound  and  clever  in 
the  matter  laid  before  him.  Sir  Robert 
knew  this,  and  on  that  account  played  him 
off  to  a  certain  extent.  He  was  too  cunning, 
however,  to  darken  any  part  of  the  main  ar- 
gument so  fai'  as  to  prevent  its  drift  fi-om 
being  fully  understood,  and  thereby  defeat- 
ing his  own  pmi^ose. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

.4  Conflagration — An  Escape— And  an  Adventure. 

We  have  said  that  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft 
was  anything  but  a  popular  man — and  we 
might  have  added  that,  unless  among  his 
own  clique  of  bigots  and  persecutors,  he 
was   decidedly    unpopular    among    Protes- 


tants in  general.  In  a  few  days  after  the 
events  of  the  night  Ave  have  described,  Reilly, 
by  the  advice  of  INIr.  Brown's  brother,  an 
able  and  distinguished  law  yer,  gave  up  the 
jjossession  of  his  immense  farm,  dwelling- 
house,  and  offices  to  the  l.mdlord.  In  point 
of  fact,  this  man  had  taken  the  fai'm  for 
Reilly 's  father,  in  his  own  name,  a  step 
which  many  of  the  liberal  and  generous 
Protestants  of  that  period  were  in  the  habit 
of  taking,  to  protect  the  j^roperty  for  the 
Roman  CathoHcs,  fi*om  such  rapacious  scoun- 
drels as  Whitecraft,  and  others  like  him,  who 
had  accumulated  the  gi'eater  portion  of  their 
wealth  and  estates  by  the  blackest  and  most 
iniquitous  jDolitical  profligacy  and  oj^pression. 
For  about  a  month  after  the  first  night  ol 
the  unsuccessful  pui-suit  after  Reilly,  the 
w^hole  country  was  overrun  with  miUtary 
parties,  and  such  miserable  inefficient  jDolice 
as  then  existed.  In  the  meantime,  Reilly 
escajjed  every  toil  and  snare  that  had  been 
laid  for  him.  Sir  Robert  "WTiitecraft,  seeing 
that  hitherto  he  had  set  them  at  defiance,  re- 
solved to  glut  his  vengeance  on  Jiis  property, 
since  he  could  not  arrest  himself.  A  de- 
scription of  his  person  had  been,  almost 
from  the  commencement  of  the  proceedings, 
pubhshed  in  the  Hue-and-Cry,  and  he  had 
been  now  outlawed.  As  even  this  failed,  Suf 
Robert,  as  we  said,  came  with  a  numerous 
jDart}'  of  his  m^Tmidons,  bringing  along  with 
them  a  lai'ge  number  of  horses,  carts,  and 
cars.  The  house  at  this  time  was  in  the  pos- 
session only  of  a  keeper,  a  poor,  feeble  man, 
with  a  wife  and  a  numerous  family  of  small 
children,  the  other  sein-ants  having  fled  from 
the  danger  in  wiiich  their  connection  with 
Reilly  involved  them.  Sir  Robert,  how^ever, 
very  deliberately  brought  up  his  cars  and 
other  vehicles,  and  haAing  di-agged  out  all 
the  most  valuable  part  of  the  furniture,  piled 
it  up,  and  had  it  conveyed  to  his  owti  out- 
houses, where  it  was  carefully  stowed.  This 
act,  however,  excited  comjDarativel}''  little  at- 
tention, for  such  outrages  w-ere  not  unfre- 
quently  committed  by  those  w^ho  had,  or  at 
least  who  thouglit  they  had,  the  law  in  their 
own  hands.  It  w^as  now-  dusk,  and  the  house 
had  been  gutted  of  all  that  had  been  most 
valuable  in  it — but  the  most  brilliant  part  of 
the  performance  was  yet  to  come.  We 
mean  no  contemptible  i^un.  The  yovmg 
man's  dwelling-house,  and  office-houses 
were  ignited  at  this  moment  by  this  man's 
mihtary  and  other  official  minions,  and  in 
about  twenty  minutes  thej^  were  all  wrapped 
in  one  red,  merciless  mass  of  flame.  The 
country  people,  on  obser\ing  this  fearful 
conflagration,  flocked  fi-om  all  quarters  ;  but 
a  cordon  of  outposts  was  stationed  at  some 
distance  around  the  premises,  to  prevent  tho 


WILLY  RElLir. 


65 


})e;ii5antiy  from  marking  the  chief  actors  in 
this  nefaiious  outrage.  Two  gentlemen, 
however,  ai)proached,  who,  ha\'ing  given  their 
names,  were  at  once  admitted  to  the  burning 
premises.  These  were  ]Mi\  Bro\\Ti,  the  cler- 
gyman, and  Ml*.  Hastings,  the  actual  and 
legal  propi'ietor  of  all  that  had  been  consid- 
ered lleilly's  property.  Both  of  them  ob- 
served that  Sii'  Kobert  was  the  busiest  man 
among  them,  and  upon  making  inquii-ies 
from  the  party,  they  were  informed  that  they 
acted  by  his  ordei's,  and  that,  moreover,  he  was 
himself  the  very  first  iudi\-idu;il  wlio  had  set 
fire  to  the  j^remises.  The  clergA^nau  made  liis 
way  to  Sir  Robert,  on  whose  villainous  coun- 
tenance he  could  read  a  dark  and  diabohcal 
triumph. 

"  Sir  Robert  ^Miitecraft,"  said  ]\Ir.  Brown, 
"how  comes  such  a  wanton  and  unneces- 
sary waste  of  property  ?  " 

'•Because,  su-,"  replied  that  gentleman,  "it 
is  the  property  of  a  i^opish  re'^el  and  outlaw, 
and  is  confiscated  to  the  State." 

"But  do  you  jiossess  authority  for  this 
conduct  ? — Are  you  the  State  '?  " 

"  In  the  spirit  of  our  Protestant  Constitu- 
tion, certainly.  I  am  a  loyal  Protestant  ma- 
gistrate, and  a  man  of  rank,  and  will  hold 
myself  accountable  for  what  I  do  and  have 
done.  Come  you,  there,"  he  added,  "who 
have  knocked  dowTi  the  pump,  take  some 
straw,  light  it  up,  and  put  it  Avith  pitcliforks 
upon  the  lower  end  of  the  stable  ;  it  has  not 
yet  caught  the  flames." 

This  order  was  accordingly  compHed  with, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  scene,  if  one  could 
dissociate  the  mind  from  the  heUish  spiiit 
which  created  it,  had  something  terribly  sub- 
lime in  it. 

]Mr.  Hastings,  the  gentleman  who  accom- 
panied the  clergyman,  the  real  owaier  of  the 
projDerty,  looked  on  with  apparent  indifier- 
ence,  but  uttered  not  a  word.  Indeed,  he 
seemed  rather  to  enjoy  the  novelty  of  the 
thing  than  otherwise,  and  passed  -with  ^Ir. 
Brown  fi*om  place  to  place,  as  if  to  obtain 
the  best  points  for  ■viewing  the  fire. 

Reilly's  residence  was  a  long,  large,  two- 
stor}'  house,  deeply  thatclied  ;  the  kitchen, 
containing  pantry,  laundry,  scullery,  and  all 
the  usual  appurtenances  connected  with  it, 
was  a  continuation  of  the  larger  house,  but 
it  was  a  story  lower,  and  a'  >o  i  -^eply  thatched. 
The  out-offices  ran  in  a  lon^'  are  behind  the 
dwelling  house,  so  that  l)oth  raa  pax-allel  with 
each  other,  and  stood  pretty  close  besides, 
for  the  yard  was  a  naiTow  one.  In  the  mean- 
time, the  night,  though  diy,  was  dark  and 
stormy.  The  wind  howled  through  the  ad- 
joining trees  like  thunder,  roared  along  the 
neighboiing  hills,  and  swept  down  in  savage 
whirlwinds  to  the  bottom  of  the  lowest  val- 


leys. The  gi-eater  portion  of  the  crowd  who 
were  standing  outside  the  cordon  we  have 
spoken  of  fled  home,  as  the  awful  gusts  grew 
stronger  and  stronger,  in  order  to  prevent 
their  own  houses  fi-om  being  stripped  or  im- 
roofed,  so  that  verj-  few  remained  to  witness 

j  the  rage  of  the  conflagi-ation  at  its  full  height. 

I  The  Irish  peasantiy  entertain  a  superstition 
that  whenever  a  strong  storm  of  wind,  with- 
out rain,  arises,  it  has  been  occasioned  by  the 
necromantic  spell  of  some  guilty  sorcerer, 
who,  first  ha\ing  sold  himself  to  the  deril, 
afterwards  raises  him  for  some  wicked  pur- 
pose ;  and  nothing  but  the  sacrifice  of  a  black 
dog  or  a  black  cock — the  one  without  a  white 
hair,  and  the  other  without  a  white  feather — 
can  jirevent  him  from  carrying  away,  body 
and  soul,  the  individuid  who  called  him  up, 
accompanied  by  such  teiTors.  In  fact  the 
night,  independently  of  the  tenible  accessor^' 
of  the  fire,  was  indescribably  awful.  Thatch 
portions  of  the  ribs  and  roofs  of  houses  were 
whirled  along  through  the  air ;  and  the 
sweeping  blast,  in  addition  to  its  own  bowl- 
ings, W'as  burdened  with  the  loud  screamings 
of  women  and  children,  and  the  stronger 
shoutings  of  men,  as  they  attemj)ted  to  make 
each  other  audible,  amidst  the  roaring  of  the 
tempest. 

Tliis  was  tenible  indeed ;  but  on  such  a 
night,  what  must  not  the  conflagration  have 
been,  fed  by  such  'pahxdum — as  Sii'  Robert 
liimself  would  have  said — as  that  on  which 
it  glutted  its  fiery  and  consuming  api:>etite. 
We  have  said  that  the  offices  and  dwelling- 
house  ran  parallel  with  each  other,  and  such 
was  the  fact.  Wliat  appeared  singular-,  and 
not  without  the  possibility  of  some  dark  su- 
pernatural causes,  according  to  the  imi:»res- 
sions  of  the  people,  was,  that  the  wind,  on  the 
night  in  question,  started,  as  it  were,  along 
with  the  tire  ;  but  the  tnith  is,  it  had  been 
gamboling  in  its  gigantic  play  before  the 
fire  commenced  at  aD.  In  the  meantime,  as 
we  said,  the  wiiole  premises  presented  one 
fieiT  mass  of  red  and  waving  flames,  that 
shot  and  drifted  iip,  fi"om  time  to  time,  to- 
waixls  the  sky,  with  the  rapidity,  and  more 
than  the  terror,  of  the  aurora  horealia.  As 
the  conflagration  proceeded,  the  high  flames 
that  arose  fi*om  the  mansion,  and  those  that 
leajjed  up  from  the  offices,  several  times  met 
across  the  yard,  and  mingled,  as  if  to  exult 
in  their  fearful  tjisk  of  destruction,  forming 
a  long  and  distinct  arch  of  flame,  so  exact 
and  regular,  that  it  seemed  to  proceed  from 
the  skill  and  eftbrt  of  some  powerful  demon, 
who  had  made  it,  as  it  were,  a  fieiy  arbor 
for  his  kind.  The  whole  coimtry  was  vis- 
ible to  an  astonishing  distance,  and  over- 
head, the  evening  sky,  into  which  the  up- 
nishing  pyramids  seemed  to  pass,  looked  aa 


^0 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


'1  it  had  caught  the  conflagration,  and  was 
one  red  mass  of  glowing  and  burning  cop- 
per. Ai'ound  the  house  and  premises  the 
eye  coula  distinguish  a  pin  ;  but  the  strong 
Hght  was  so  feiu'tulxy  red  that  the  deep  tinge 
it  communicated  to  the  earth  seemed  hke 
blood,  and  made  it  appear  as  if  it  had  been 
spiinkled  w>th  it. 

It  is  impossible  to  look  upon  a  large  and 
extensive  coaflagration  A^ithout  feeling  the 
mind  filled  r\-ith  imageiy  and  compai'isons, 
dra^\^l  from  mortxl  and  actual  life.  Here, 
for  instance,  is  a  tjTant,  in  the  unrestrained 
exercise  of  1ms  power — he  now  has  his  en- 
emy in  his  g'  ip,  and  hear  how  he  exvdts  ;  hs- 
ten  to  the  n^  ii-thful  and  crackling  laughter 
with  which  the  fiendish  despot  rejoices,  as 
he  gains  th  ^  Aictory  ;  mark  the  diabohcal 
gambols  witii  which  he  sports,  and  the  de- 
mon glee  with  which  he  performs  his  capri- 
cious but  frightful  exultations.  But  the  ty- 
rant, after  all,  will  become  exhausted— his 
strength  and  power  will  fail  him  ;  he  "nill 
destroy  his  own  subjects  ;  he  will  become 
feeble,  and  when  he  has  nothing  fiu'ther  on 
which  to  exercise  his  power,  he  will,  like 
many  another  tjTant  before  him,  sink,  and 
be  lost  ii  the  min  he  has  made. 

Again  :  "Would  you  behold  Industry  ? 
Here  have  its  terrible  spirits  been  apjDointed 
theu'  tasks.  Obseiwe  the  energj',  the  activ- 
ity, the  persevering  fuiy  A^'ith  which  they 
discharge  their  separate  duties.  See  how 
that  eldest  son  of  AjDolIyon,  with  the  appe- 
tite of  hell,  hcks  into  his  burning  maw  every 
thing  that  comes  in  contact  with  his  tongue 
of  fire.  "WTiat  quickness  of  execution,  and 
how  rapidly  they  pass  fi-om  place  to  jDlace  ! 
how  they  run  about  in  quest  of  employment ! 
how  diligently  and  eft'ectually  they  search 
everj'  nook  and  comer,  lest  anything  might 
escape  them !  Mark  the  activity  "^dth  which 
that  strong  fellow  leaps  across,  fi'om  beam 
to  beam,  seizing  upon  each  as  he  goes.  A  dif- 
ferent task  has  iDeen  assigned  to  another  :  he 
attacks  the  rafters  of  the  roof — he  fails 
at  first,  but,  like  the  constrictor,  he  first 
licks  over  his  victim  before  he  destroys  it — 
bravo  ! — he  is  at  it  again — it  gives  way — 
he  is  upon  it,  and  about  it ;  and  now  his 
difficulties  are  over — the  red  wood  glows, 
splits  and  crackles,  and  flies  off  in  angiy 
flakes,  in  order  to  become  a  minister  to  its 
active  and  devouring  master.  See  !  ob- 
serv^e  !  "What  business  —  what  a  coil  and 
tm-moil  of  industiy !  Eveiy  flame  at  work 
— no  idle  hand  here — no  lazy  lounger  re- 
posing. No,  no — the  industry  of  a  hive 
of  bees  is  nothing  to  this.  Running  up 
— running  down — running  in  all  directions  : 
now  they  unite  together  to  accomplish 
some  general  task,  and  again  disperse  them- 


selves to  perform  their  individual  appoint* 
ments. 

But  hark  !  what  comes  here  ?  Eoom  foi 
another  element.  'Tis  the  wind-storm,  that 
comes  to  partake  in  the  triumph  of  the 
victory  which  his  ministers  have  assisted  to 
gain.  But  lo  !  here  he  comes  in  person  \ 
and  now  they  unite — or  how  ? — Do  they  op- 
pose each  other  ?  Here  does  the  wind-stonn 
drive  back  the  god  of  fire  from  his  victim  ; 
again  the  fiery  god  attempts  to  reach  it ; 
and  again  he  feels  that  he  has  met  more 
than  his  match.  Once,  twice,  thrice  he  has 
failed  in  getting  at  it.  But  is  this  conflict 
real — this  fierce  battle  between  the  ele- 
ments ?  Alas,  no  ;  they  are  both  tyi'ants, 
and  what  is  to  be  expected  ? 

The  "UTnd  god,  always  unsteady,  wheels 
round,  comes  to  the  assistance  of  his  op- 
ponent, and  gives  him  new  courage,  new 
rigor,  and  new  strength.  But  his  inferior 
ministers  must  have  a  shai'e  of  this  dreadful 
repast.  Off  go  a  thousand  masses  of  burn- 
ing material,  whiiiing  along.  Off  go  the 
glowing  timbers  and  rafters,  on  the  "w^nd, 
by  which  they  are  bome  in  thousands  of 
red  meteors  across  the  sky.  But  hark, 
again  !  Boom  for  the  whii'h\-ind  !  Here  it 
comes,  and  addi-esses  itself  to  yon  tali  and 
waring  p}Tamid  ;  they  embrace  ;  the  pyra- 
mid is  twisted  into  the  figure  of  a  gigantic 
corkscrew — round  they  go,  rajiid  as  thought ; 
the  thunder  of  the  wind  supphes  them  with 
the  appropriate  music,  and  continues  until 
this  terrible  and  gigantic  waltz  of  the  ele- 
ments is  concluded.  But  now  these  fearful 
ravagers  ai*e  satisfied,  because  they  have 
nothing  more  on  which  they  can  glut  them- 
selves. They  appear,  however,  to  be  seated. 
The  "«-ind  has  become  low,  and  is  only  able 
to  work  up  a  feeble  effort  at  its  former 
strength.  The  flames,  too,  are  subsiding — 
their  power  is  gone  ;  occasional  jets  of  tire 
come  forth,  but  they  instantly  disappear. 
B}'  degTees,  and  one  after  another,  they 
vanish.  Nothing  now  is  risible  but  smoke, 
and  eveiy  thing  is  considered  as  over — when 
lo  !  hke  a  great  general,  who  has  achieved  a 
triumiDhant  victoiw,  it  is  deemed  right  to 
take  a  last  look  at  the  position  of  the  enemy. 
Up,  therefore,  starts  an  unexpected  burst  of 
flame — blazes  for  a  while  ;  looks  about  it,  as 
it  were  ;  sees  that  the  rictoiw  is  complete, 
and  drops  do^vn  into  the  darkness  from 
which  it  came.  The  conflagTation  is  over  ; 
the  M-ind-storm  is  also  apjieased.  Small 
hoUow  gusts,  amongst  the  trees  and  else- 
where, are  now  all  that  are  heard.  By  de- 
grees, even  these  cease  ;  and  the  wind  ia 
now  such  as  it  was  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  when  the  elements  were  compara- 
tively quiet  and  still. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


57 


Mr.  Brown  and  his  fi-iend,  Mr.  Hastings, 
fckftving  waited  until  they  saw  the  last  rafter 
of  unfortiinate  Reilly's  house  and  premises 
sink  into  a  black  mass  of  smoking  ruins, 
turned  their  steps  to  the  parsonage,  which 
they  had  no  sooner  entered  than  they  went 
immediately  to  Reilly's  room,  who  was  still 
there  under  concealment.  jNIi-.  Bro-mi,  how- 
ever, went  out  again  and  returned  with 
some  wine,  which  he  j^laced  upon  the  table. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Keilly,  "this  has  be- 
come an  awful  night  ;  the  wmd  has  been 
tremendous,  and  has  done  a  good  deal  of 
damage,  I  fear,  to  your  house  and  premises, 
]Mr.  Brown.  I  heard  the  slates  falhng  about 
in  great  numbers  ;  and  the  inmates  of  the 
house  were,  as  fai'  as  I  could  judge,  exceed- 
ingly alarmed." 

"  It  was  a  dreadful  night  in  more  senses 
than  one,"  repHed  ]Mi\  Brown. 

"By  the  by,"  said  Reilly,  "was  there  not 
a  fire  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  ?  I 
obseiTed  through  the  windows  a  strong  hght 
flickering  and  ^-ibratuig,  as  it  were,  over 
the  whole  comitry.  "\\Tiat  must  it  have 
been  ?  " 

"My  dear  Reilly,"  rej^hed  'Six.  Brown, 
"be  calm  ;  yoiu*  house  and  premises  are,  at 
this  moment,  one  dark  heap  of  smouldeiing 
ruins." 

"Oh,  yes — I  understand,"  rephed  Eeilly 
/— "  Sii'  Robert  "Wliitecraft." 

"  Sir  Robert  AMiitecraft,"  rephed  ilr. 
Brown  ;  it  is  too  ti-ue,  Reilly — you  are  now 
houseless  and  homeless  ;  and  may  God  for- 
give him  !  " 

Reilly  got  up  and  paced  the  room  several 
times,  then  sat  down,  and  filling  himself  a 
glass  of  wine,  drank  it  ofi' ;  then  looking  at 
each  of  them,  said,  in  a  voice  rendered 
hoiu'se  by  the  indignation  and  resentment 
which  he  felt  himself  compelled,  out  of  re- 
spect for  his  kind  fiiends,  to  restrain,  "  Gen- 
tlemen," he  repeated,  "what  do  you  call 
this?" 

' '  Mahce  —  persecution  —  vengeance, "  re- 
plied jMr.  Brown,  whose  resentment  was 
scarcely  less  than  that  of  Reilly  himself. 
"In  the  presence  of  God,  and  before  all  the 
world,  I  would  pronounce  it  one  of  the  most 
diabolical  acts  ever  committed  in  the  his- 
toiT  of  civil  society.  But  you  have  one  con- 
solation, Reilly  ;  your  money  and  papers  are 
safe." 

"  It  is  not  that,"  rephed  Reilly  ;  "  I  tliink 
not  of  them.  It  is  the  vindictive  and  per- 
secuting spirit  of  that  man — that  monster — 
and  the  personal  motives  fi'om  which  he 
acts,  that  torture  me,  and  that  plant  in  my 
heart  a  principle  of  vengeance  more  feai'ful 
than  his.  But  yon  do  not  understand  me, 
gentlemen  ;  I  could  smile  at  all  he  has  done 


to  myself  yet.  It  is  of  the  serpent-tooth 
which  will  destroy  the  peace  of  others,  that 
I  think.  All  these  motives  being  considered, 
what  do  you  think  that  man  deserves  at  my 
hand  ?  " 

"  My  dear  ReiUy,"  said  the  clergyman, 
"  recollect  that  there  is  a  Providence  ;  and 
that  we  cannot  assume  to  ovu'selves  the  dis- 
position of  His  judgments,  or  the  knowledge 
of  His  wisdom.  Have  patience.  Youi-  situ- 
ation is  one  of  great  distress  and  almost  un- 
exampled difficulty.  At  all  events,  you  are, 
for  the  present,  safe  under  this  roof ;  and 
although  I  grant  you  have  much  to  suffer, 
still  you  have  a  fi'ee  conscience,  and,  I  dare 
say,  would  not  exchange  your  position  for 
that  of  your  persecutor." 

"  No,"  said  Reilly  ;  "  most  assuredly  not — 
most  assui'edly  not ;  no,  not  for  worlds.  Yet 
is  it  not  strange,  gentlemen,  that  that  man 
will  sleep  soimd  and  happily  to-night,  whilst 
I  will  he  upon  a  bed  of  thorns  ?  " 

At  this  moment  ]\Ii's.  Brown  tapped  gently 
at  the  door,  which  was  cautiously  opened  by 
her  husband. 

"John,"  said  she,  "here  is  a  note  which 
I  was  desired  to  give  to  you  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay." 

"  Thank  you,  my  love  ;  I  will  read  it  in- 
stantly." 

He  then  bolted  the  door,  and  coming  to 
the  table  took  up  one  of  the  candles  and 
read  the  letter,  which  he  handed  to  ^Mi-. 
Hastings.  Now  we  have  ah-eady  stated  that 
this  gentleman,  whilst  looking  on  at  the  de- 
struction of  ReiUy's  property,  never  once 
opened  his  lips.  Neither  did  he,  from  the 
moment  they  entered  Reilly "s  room.  He  sat 
like  a  dumb  man,  occasionally  helping  him- 
self to  a  glass  of  wine.  After  having  pe- 
inised  the  note  he  merely  nodded,  but  s;xid 
not  a  word ;  he  seemed  to  have  lost  the 
faculty  of  speech.  At  length  ^Ir.  Brown 
spoke  : 

"  This  is  really  too  bad,  my  dear  ReiUy  ; 
here  is  a  note  signed  '  H.  F.,'  which  informs 
me  that  your  residence,  concejihnent,  or 
whatever  it  is,  has  been  discovered  by  Sir 
Robert  Wliitecraft,  and  that  the  militaiw  ai-e 
on  theii'  way  here  to  aiTCst  you  ;  you  must 
instantly  fly." 

Hastings  then  got  up,  and  taking  Keilly's 
hand,  Siiid : 

"Yes,  Reilly,  you  must  escape — disguise 
youi-seK — take  all  shapes — since  you  will 
not  leave  the  coimtrv  ;  but  there  is  one  fact 
I  wish  to  impr^s  upon  you  :  meddle  not 
with — injure  not — Sii'  Robert  "Wliitecraft 
Leave  nni  to  me." 

"Go  out  by  the  back  w^ay,"  said  !Mr. 
Brown,  "  and  fly  into  the  fields,  lest  they 
should  siuTound  the  house  and  render  ea- 


68 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'b>    WORKS. 


cape  impossible.  God  bless  you  and  pre- 
serve you  from  the  ^^olence  of  your  ene- 
mies ! " 

It  is  unnecessaiy  to  relate  what  subsequent- 
ly occtuTed.  jMi".  Brown's  premises,  as  he  had 
anticipated,  were  completely  siuTounded  ere 
the  jiarty  in  search  of  Eeilly  had  demanded 
admittance.  ITie  whole  house  was  searched 
from  top  to  bottom,  but,  as  usual,  without 
success.  Su*  liobert  Whitecraft  himself 
was  not  A\ith  them,  but  tlie  party  were  all 
but  intoxicated,  and,  were  it  not  for  the 
calm  and  unshi-inking-  fiimness  of  j\Ir.  Bro-mi, 
would  have  been  guilty  of  a  very  offensive 
degree  of  insolence. 

Eeilly,  in  the  meantime,  did  not  j)ass  far 
from  the  house.  On  the  contrary,  he  re- 
solved to  watch  from  a  safe  place  the  mo- 
tions of  those  who  were  in  pursuit  of  him. 
In  order  to  do  this  more  secui'ely,  he 
mounted  into  the  branches  of  a  magnificent 
oak  tree  that  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  field 
adjoining,  a  kind  of  back  laA\Ti  that  sti-etched 
from  the  walled  gai-den  of  the  parsonage. 
The  fact  is,  that  the  clergy-man's  house 
had  two  hall-doors — one  in  fr'ont,  and  the 
other  in  the  rear — and  as  the  rooms  com- 
manded a  Aiew  of  the  scenery  behind  the 
house,  Avhich  was  much  finer  than  that  in 
fr'ont,  on  this  account  the  back  hall-door  was 
necessaiy,  as  it  gave  them  a  fr'ee  and  easy 
egress  to  the  IviVfo.  we  have  mentioned,  fr'om 
which  a  magnificent  j^rospect  was  visible. 

It  was  obvious  that  the  party,  though  un- 
successful, had  been  verj-  accurately  in- 
formed. Finding,  however,  that  the  bii'd 
had  floAA-n,  several  of  them  galloped  across 
the  lawTi — it  was  a  cavahy  party,  having 
been  sent  out  for  speed — and  passed  into 
the  field  where  the  tree  gi-ew  in  which 
Eeilly  was  concealed.  After  a  useless  search, 
however,  they  returned,  and  pulled  up  their 
horses  under  the  oak. 

"  Well,"  said  one  of  them,  "  it's  a  clear 
case  that  the  scoundi'el  can  make  himself  in- 
visible. We  have  orders  fr'om  Sir  Eobert  to 
shoot  him,  and  to  put  the  matter  uj^on  the 
principle  of  resistance  against  tbe  law,  on 
his  side.  Sfr  Eobert  has  been  most  credi- 
bly informed  that  that  disloyal  parson  has 
concealed  him  in  his  house  for  nearly  the 
last  month.  Now  who  could  ever  think  of 
looking  for  a  Popish  rebel  in  the  house  of  a 
Protestant  parson  ?  What  the  deuce  is 
keeping  those  fellows  ?  I  hope  they  won't 
go  too  far  into  the  country." 

"  Any  man  that  says  ]VI».  BroAvn  is  a  dis- 
loyal parson  is  a  Hai',"  said  one  of  them  in  a 
btem  voice. 

"And  I  say,"  said  another,  with  a  hiccough, 
'*  that,  hang  me,  but  I  think  this  same 
heiily  is  as  loyal  a  man  as  e'er  a  one  amongst 


us.  My  name  is  George  Johnston,  and  I'nj 
not  ashamed  of  it ;  and  the  truth  is,  that  onlj 
Miss  FoUiard  fell  in  love  with  Eeilly,  and 
refused  to  many  Sfr  Eobert,  Eeilly  would 
have  been  a  loyal  man  still,  and  no  ill-will 

against  him.     But,  by .  it  was  too   bad 

to  buna  his  house  and  place — and  see  whether 
Su'  Eobert  will  come  off  the  better  of  it.  I 
myself  am  a  good  Protestant — show  me  the 
man  that  will  deny  that,  and  I'll  become  his 
schoolmaster  only  for  five  minutes.  I  do  say, 
and  I'U  teU  it  to  Sir  Eobei*t's  face,  that  there's 
something  WTong  somewhere.  Give  me  a 
Papish  that  breaks  the  law,  let  him  be  priest 
or  layman,  and  I'm  the  boy  that  will  take  a 
gi'ip  of  him  if  I  can  get  him.  But,  confound 
me,  if  I  like  to  be  sent  out  to  hunt  innocent, 
inoffensive  Papishes,  who  commit  no  crime 
except  that  of  having  property  that  chapa 
hke  Su-  Eobert  have  their  eye  on.  Now  sup- 
pose the  Papishes  had  the  upper  hand,  and 
that  they  treated  us  so,  what  would  you  say  ?  " 

"All  I  can  say  is,"  replied  another  of  them, 
"that  I'd  wish  to  get  the  reward." 

"Curse  the  reward,"  said  Johnston,  "I 
like  fair  play." 

"  But  how  did  Sir  Eobert  come  to  know  ?  " 
asked  another,  "  that  Eeilly  was  veith  the 
parson  ?  " 

"  AVho  the  deuce  here  can  tell  that  ?  "  re- 
plied several. 

"  The  thing  was  a  hoax,"  said  Johnston, 
"  and  a  cursed  uncomfortable  one  for  us. 
But  here  comes  these  fellows,  just  as  they 
went,  it  seems.  Well,  boys,  no  trail  of  this 
cunning  fox?  " 

"  Ti-ail !  "  exclaimed  the  others.  "  Gad, 
you  might  as  well  hunt  for  your  grand- 
mother's needle  in  a  bottle  of  straw.  The 
truth  is,  the  man's  not  in  the  country,  and 
whoever  gave  the  information  as  to  the  par- 
son keej)ing  him  was  some  enemy  of  the 
pai'son's  more  than  of  Eeilly 's,  I'll  go  bail. 
Come,  now,  let  us  go  back,  and  give  an 
account  of  oru*  luck,  and  then  to  our  bar- 
racks." 

Now  at  this  jDeriod  it  was  usual  for  men 
who  were  prominent  for  rank  and  loyalty, 
and  whose  attachment  to  the  Constitution 
and  Government  was  indicated  by  such  acta 
and  jtrinciples  as  those  which  we  have 
hitherto  read  in  the  life  of  Sir  Eobert  "\^'^lite- 
craft — we  saj',  it  was  usual  for  such  as  him 
to  be  aUowecl  a  smaU  detachment  of  military, 
whose  numbers  were  mostly  rated,  according 
to  the  sendees  he  requfred  of  them,  by  the 
zeal  and  activit}'  of  their  emjDloyer,  as  well 
as  for  his  protection  ;  and,  in  order  to  their 
accommodation,  some  uninhabited  house  in 
the  neighborhood  was  converted  into  a  bar- 
rack for  the  ptupose.  Such  was  the  case  in 
the  instance  of  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  whok 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


independently  of  his  zeal  for  the  public  good, 
was  supposed  to  have  an  e^'e  in  this  dispo- 
sition of  things,  to  his  owti  personal  safety. 
He,  consequently,  had  his  little  bairack  so 
closely  adjoining  his  house  that  a  notice  of  five 
minutes  could  at  any  time  have  its  inmates 
at  his  premises,  or  in  his  jn-esence. 

After  these  men  went  away,  Reilly,  having 
waited  a  few  minutes,  until  he  was  satisfied 
that  they  had  actually,  one  and  aU  of  them, 
disappeared,  came  do^vn  fi-om  the  tree,  and 
once  more  betook  himself  to  the  road. 
Whither  to  go  he  knew  not. .  In  consequence 
of  having  received  his  education  abroad,  his 
personal  know'ledge  of  the  inhabitants  be- 
longing to  the  neighborhood  was  very  limited. 
Go  somewhere,  however,  he  must.  Accox'd- 
ingly,  he  resolved  to  advance,  at  all  events, 
as  far  as  he  might  be  able  to  travel  before 
bed-time,  and  then  resign  himself  to  chance 
for  a  night's  shelter.  One  might  imagine, 
indeed,  that  his  position  as  a  w' ealthy  Roman 
Cathohc  gentleman,  suffering  j^ersecution 
fi'om  the  tool  and  scourge  of  a  hostile  gov- 
ernment, might  have  calculated  upon  shelter 
and  secrecy  from  those  belonging  to  his  o^Ti 
creed.  And  so,  indeed,  in  nineteen  cases 
out  of  tw^enty  he  might ;  but  in  w'hat  pre- 
dicament should  he  find  himself  if  the 
twentieth  proved  treacherous  ?  And  against 
this  he  had  no  guarantee.  That  age  was 
pecuharly  marked  by  the  foulest  personal 
perfidy,  precipitated  into  action  by  raj^acity, 
ingi'atitude,  and  the  blackest  ambition.  The 
son  of  a  Roman  Catholic  gentleman,  for 
instance,  had  nothing  more  to  do  than  change 
his  creed,  attach  himself  to  the  government, 
become  a  spy  and  informer  on  his  family, 
and  he  ousted  his  own  father  at  once  out  of 
his  hereditary  property — an  ungrateful  and 
heinous  jwoceeding,  that  was  too  common  in 
the  time  of  which  we  -wi'ite.  Then,  as  to 
the  people  themselves,  they  w-ere,  in  general, 
steeped  in  poverty  and  ignorance,  and  this 
is  certainly  not  suiprising  when  we  consider 
that  no  man  durst  educate  them.  The  gov- 
ernment rewards,  therefore,  assailed  them 
with  a  double  temptation.  Li  the  first,  the 
amount  of  it — taking  their  poverty  into  con- 
sideration— was  calculated  to  grapple  wdth 
and  overcome  theu-  sciaiples  ;  and  in  the 
next,  they  were  certain  b}'  their  treachery  to 
secure  the  protection  of  government  for 
themselves. 

Such,  exactly,  w\as  the  state  of  the  country 
on  the  night  when  Reilly  found  himself  a 
solitary  traveller  on  the  road,  ignonmt  of 
his  destiny,  and  imcertain  where  or  m  what 
quai'ter  he  might  seek  shelter  imtil  morning. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  overtook 
another  traveller,  with  whom  he  entered  into 
conversation. 


"God  save  you,  my  friend." 

"God  save  you  kindly,  sir,"  repHed  the 
other  ;  "  was  not  this  an  awful  night  ?  " 

"If  you  may  say  so,"  retiuTied  Reilly  un- 
consciously, and  for  the  moment  forgetting 
himself,  "  AveU  may  I,  my  friend." 

Indeed   it   is   probable   that    Reilly    was 
thro\vn  somewhat  oft'  his  guard  by  the  accent 
!  of  his  comjDanion,  from  which  he  at  once  in- 
ferred that  he  was  a  Cathohc. 

"  Why,  su*,"  rephed  the  man,  "  how  could 
it  be  more  aAvful  to  you  than  to  any  other 
man  ?  " 

"  Suppose  my  house  was  blown  down," 
said  Reilly,  "and  that  yours  was  not,  would 
not  that  be  cause  sufficient  ?  " 

"  J/v  house  !  "  exclaimed  the  man  with  a 
deejjsigh;  "but  sure  you  ought  to  know, 
sii',  that  it's  not  every  man  lian  a  house." 

"  And  perhaps  I  do  know  it." 

"  Wasn't  that  a  temble  act,  su- — the  burn- 
ing of  Mr.  Reilly 's  house  and  place  ?  " 

"Who  is  iMi'.'ReiUy?"  asked  the  other. 

"A  Catholic  gintleman,  su',  that  the  sol- 
diers are  afther,"  rephed  the  man. 

"  And  perhaps  it  is  right  that  they  should 
be  after  him.  Wliat  did  he  do?  The 
Cathohcs  are  too  much  in  the  habit  of  violat- 
ing the  law,  especially  their  priests,  who 
i:)crsist  in  marrying  Protestants  and  Papists 
together,  although  they  know  it  is  a  hanging 
matter.  If  they  dehberately  put  their  necks 
into  the  noose,  who  can  jDity  them  ?  " 

"  It  seems  they  do,  then,"  rejihed  the  man 
in  a  subdued  voice  ;  "  and  what  is  stiU  more 
strange,  it  very  often  hapjoens  that  persons 
of  their  own  creed  are  somewhat  too  ready 
to  come  do^Ti  wid  a  harsh  word  upon  'em." 

"WeU,  my  friend,"  responded  ReiU}',  "let 
them  not  deserve  it ;  let  them  obey  the 
law." 

"  And  are  yoxi  of  oijinion,  sir,"  asked  the 
man  with  a  significant  emphasis  upon  the  per- 
sonal pronoun  which  we  have  put  in  italics  ; 
"  are  yon  of  opinion,  su-,  that  obedience  to  the 
law  is  always  a  security  to  either  person  or 
'property  ?  " 

The  cUrect  force  of  the  question  could  not 
be  easily  paii-ied,  at  least  by  Reilly,  to  whose 
circumstances  it  apphed  so  powerfuDy,  and 
he  consequently  paused  for  a  httle  to  shape 
his  thoughts  mto  the  language  he  wished  to 
adopt ;  the  man,  however,  proceeded  : 

"  I  wonder  what  j\Ir.  Reilly  would  say  if 
such  a  question  was  put  to  him  ?  " 

"I  suppose,"  replied  Reilly,  "he  would 
say  much  as  I  say — that  neither  innocence 
nor  obedience  is  always  a  security  imder  any 
law  or  any  constitution  either." 

His  companion  made  no  reply,  and  they 
walked  on  for  some  time  in  silence.  Such 
indeed  was  the  precarious  state  of  the  country 


60 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


then  that,  although  the  stranger,  from  the 
opening  -woixls  of  their  conversation,  sus- 
pected his  companion  to  be  no  other  than 
Willy  Keilly  himself,  yet  he  hesitated  to 
avow  the  susj^icions  he  entertained  of  his 
identity,  although  he  felt  anxious  to  repose 
the  fullest  confidence  in  him  ;  and  Keilly,  on 
the  other  hand,  though  perfectly  aware  of  the 
true  character  of  his  companion,  was  influ- 
enced in  their  conversation  by  a  similai- 
feeling.  Distrast  it  could  not  be  termed  on 
either  side,  but  simply  the  operation  of  that 
general  caution  which  was  generated  by  the 
state  of  the  times,  when  it  was  extremely 
difficiilt  to  know  the  individual  on  whom  you 
could  place  dependence.  Reilly's  generous 
natiu'e,  however,  could  bear  tlus  miserable 
manoeu\Ting  no  longer. 

*'  Come,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "  we  have  been 
beating  about  the  bush  with  each  other  to 
no  pui-pose  ;  although  I  know  not  your 
name,  yet  I  think  I  do  yoiu'  profession." 

"And  I  would  hold  a  wager,"  rej)lied  the 
other,  "that  Mr.  Eeilly,  whose  house  was 
burned  down  by  a  -villain  this  night,  is  not 
a  thousand  miles  from  me." 

"And  supjDose  you  are  right?  " 

"  Then,  upon  my  veracity,  you're  safe,  if  I 
am.  It  would  ill  become  my  cloth  and 
character  to  act  dishonorably  or  contrary  to 
the  spirit  of  my  religion. 

'  Non  ignara  mali  miseris  succurrere  disco.' 

You  see,  jMi'.  Reilly,  I  couldn't  make  use  of 
any  other  gender  but  the  feminine  without 
violating  prosody  ;  for  although  I'm  not  so 
shai-p  at  my  Latin  as  I  was,  still  I  couldn't 
use  ignart<.s-,  as  you  see,  without  fairly  com- 
mitting myself  as  a  scholar  ;  and  indeed,  if  I 
went  to  that,  it  would  surely  be  the  first 
time  I  have  been  mistaken  for  a  diuice." 

The  honest  priest,  now  that  the  ice  was 
broken,  and  conscious  that  he  was  in  safe 
hands,  fell  at  once  into  his  easy  and  natural 
manner,  and  rattled  away  veiy  much  to  the 
amusement  of  his  companion.  "  Ah  !  "  he 
proceeded,  "  manj'  a  character  I  have  been 
forced  to  assume." 

"How  is  that?"  inquired  Eeilly.  "How 
did  it  happen  that  you  were  forced  into  such 
a  variety  of  characters  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  see,  Mr.  Reilly — troth  and 
maybe  I  had  better  not  be  naming  you  aloud  ; 
waUs  have  ears,  and  so  may  hedges.  How, 
you  ask  ?  WTiy,  you  see,  I'm  not  registered, 
and  consequently  have  no  jiermission  from 
government  to  exercise  my  functions." 

"  "NMiy,"  said  Reilly,  "  you  labor  under  a 
mistake,  my  friend  ;  the  bill  for  registering 
Cathohc  priests  did  not  pass  ;  it  was  lost  by 
a  majority  of  two.  So  far  make  your  mind 
easy.     The  consequence  is,  that  if  you  labor 


under  no  ecclesiastical  censure  you  may 
exercise  all  the  functions  of  your  office — that 
is,  as  well  as  you  can,  and  as  far  as  you  dare." 

"Well,  that  same's  a  comfort,"  said  the 
priest ;  "  but  the  report  was,  and  is,  that  we 
are  to  be  registered.  However,  be  that  as  it 
may,  I  have  been  a  perfect  Proteus.  The 
metamoi'phoses  of  Ovid  were  nothing  to 
mine.  I  have  rej)resented  eveiy  character  in 
society  at  large  ;  to-day  I've  been  a  farmer, 
and  to-moiTOw  a  poor  man,*  sometimes  a 
fool — a  rare  character,  you  know,  in  this 
world — and  sometimes  a  fiddler,  for  I  play 
a  little." 

"And  which  character  did  you  prefer 
among  them  aU  ?  "  asked  Reilly,  with  a  smile 
which  he  could  not  repress. 

"  Oh,  in  troth,  you  needn't  ask  that,  ISIr. 
R — hem — you  needn't  ask  that.  The  first 
morning  I  took  to  the  fiddle  I  was  about  to 
Qi\e  myself  ujd  to  government  at  once.  As 
for  my  part,  I'd  be  ashamed  to  teU  you  how 
I  sent  those  that  were  unlucky  enough  to 
hear  my  music  scampering  across  the  coun- 
tiy." 

"And,  j)ray,  how  long  is  that  since?  " 

"  Why,  something  better  than  three  weeks, 
the  Lord  pity  me  !  " 

"And  what  description  of  dress  did  you 
wear  on  that  occasion  ?  "  asked  Reilly. 

"  Dress — why,  then,  an  old  yellow  caubeen, 
a  blue  fr'ieze  coat,  and — movrone,  oh !  a 
strijDed  breeches.  And  the  worst  of  it  was, 
that  big  Paddy  Mullin,  fr'om  MuUaghmore, 
having  met  me  in  old  Darby  Doyle's,  poor 
man,  where  I  went  to  take  a  little  refresh- 
ment, ordered  in  something  to  eat,  and  began 
to  make  me  play  for  him.  There  was  a 
Protestant  in  the  house,  too,  so  that  I  couldn't 
tell  him  who  I  was,  and  I  accordingly  began, 
and  soon  cleared  the  house  of  them.  God 
bless  you,  sir,  you  could  httle  dream  of  aU  1 
went  through.  I  was  one  day  ^et  in  the 
house  I  was  concealed  in,  in  the  town  of 
Ballyrogan,  and  only  for  the  town  fool.  Art 
M'Kenna,  IsujDpose  I'd  have  SMTing  before 
this." 

"  How  was  that  ?  "  asked  Reilly. 

"  \\Tiy,  sii",  one  day  I  got  the  hard  word 
that  they  would  be  into  the  house  where  I 
was  in  a  few  minutes.  To  escape  them  in  my 
own  dress  I  knew  was  impossible  ;  and  what 
Avas  to  be  done  ?  The  poor  fool,  who  was  as 
true  as  steel,  came  to  my  rehef.  '  Here,' 
said  he,  '  exchange  wid  me.  I'll  jjut  on  your 
black  clothes,  and  you'll  put  on  my  red  ones* 
— he  was  dressed  like  an  old  soldier — '  then 
I'll  take  to  my  scrapers,  and  while  they  ai'e  in 
pursuit  of  me  you  can  escape  to  some  friend's 
house,  where  you   may  get  another   dress* 

*  A  mendicant. 


WILLY  REILLY. 


61 


God  Knows,'  said  he,  with  a  grin  on  him  I 
didn't  hke,  '  it's  a  poor  exchange  on  my  part. 
You  can  play  the  fool,  and  cock  your  cap, 
without  imy  one  to  ask  you  for  authority,' 
says  he,  '  and  if  I  only  mai-ry  a  wrong  couple 
I  may  be  hanged.  Go  off  now.'  Well,  sir, 
out  I  walked,  di'essed  in  a  red  coat,  mihtaiy 
hat,  white  knee-breeches,  and  black  leggings. 
As  I  was  going  out  I  met  the  soldiers.  '  Is 
the  priest  inside.  Art  ? '  they  asked.  I  pointed 
in  a  wTong  dii-ection.  '  Up  by  Ivilclay  ?  '  I 
nodded.  They  first  searched  the  house,  how- 
ever, but  found  neither  priest  nor  fool  ;  only 
one  of  them,  something  sharper  than  the 
rest,  went  out  of  the  back  door,  and  saw  un- 
fortunate Ai-t,  dressed  in  bLack,  iimning  for 
the  bai'e  life.  Of  coui-se  they  thought  it  was 
me  they  had.  Off  they  stalled  ;  and  a  tol- 
erable chase  Ai't  put  them  to.  At  last  he 
■was  caught,  after  a  run  across  the  countrj'  of 
about  four  miles  ;  but  ne'er  a  word  came  out 
of  his  hps,  tin  a  keen  fellow,  on  looking 
closely  at  him,  discovered  the  mistake.  Some 
of  them  were  then  going  to  kill  the  poor  fool, 
but  others  interfered,  and  wouldn't  allow 
him  to  be  touched ;  and  many  of  them 
laughed  heartily  when  they  saw  Ai't  tunaed 
into  a  clergyman,  as  they  said.  Ai*t,  how- 
ever, was  no  cowiuxl,  and  thi-eatened  to  read 
ever}'  man  of  them  out  fi'om  the  altai\  ' lU. 
exkimnicate  eveiy  mother's  son  of  you,'  said 
he.  '  I'm  a  reverend  clargy  ;  and,  by  the 
contents  of  my  soger's  caj),  I'U  close  the 
mouths  on  youi*  faces,  so  that  a  blessed 
pratie  or  a  boult  of  fat  bacon  will  never  go 
do-mi  one  of  your  villainous  thi'oats  again  ; 
and  then,'  he  added,  '  I'll  sell  you  for  scare- 
crows to  the  Pope  o'  Room,  who  wants  a 
dozen  or  two  of  you  to  sweep  out  his  palace.' 
It  was  then,  sir,  that,  while  I  was  getting  out 
of  my  red  clothes,  I  was  transformed  again  ; 
but,  indeed,  the  most  of  us  are  so  now,  God 
help  us ! " 

They  had  now  an-ived  at  a  nan-ow  part  of 
the  I'oad,  when  the  priest  stood. 

"  Mr.  Eeilly,"  said  he,  "I  am  very  tired  ; 
but,  as  it  is,  we  must  go  on  a  couple  of  miles 
fui'ther,  until  we  reach  Glen  Dhu,  where  I 
think  I  can  promise  you  a  night's  lodging, 
such  as  it  wiU  be." 

"  I  am  easily  satisfied,"  rephed  his  com- 
panion ;  "  it  would  be  a  soft  bed  that  would 
win  me  to  repose  on  this  night,  at  lea.st." 

"  It  will  certainly  be  a  nide  and  a  rough 
one,"  said  the  priest,  "and  there  'O'ill  be  few 
heai'ts  there  fi-ee  fi'om  care,  no  more  than 
yours,  ]Mr.  Eeilly.  Alas  I  that  I  should  be 
obhged  to  say  so  in  a  Christian  country." 

"You  say  you  are  fatigued,"  said  Reilly. 
"  Take  my  arm  ;  I  am  strong  enough  to 
yield  you  some  support." 

The  priest  did  so,  and  they  j^roceeded  at  a 


slower  pace,  imtil  they  got  over  the  nest  two 
miles,  when  the  priest  stopped  again. 

"I  must  re.st  a  little,"  said  he,  "although 
we  are  now  within  a  hundred  yards  of  owx 
berth  for  the  night.  Do  you  know  where 
you  are  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  rephed  Reilly;  "but,  good 
mercy  .  sure  there  is  neither  house  nor 
home  within  two  miles  of  us.  We  are  in 
the  moors,  at  the  veiy  mouth  of  Glen  Dhu." 

"Yes,"  rei:)Hed  his  companion,  and  I  am 
glad  we  are  here." 

The  poor  hunted  priest  felt  himself,  in- 
deed, veiy  much  exhausted,  so  much  so' 
that,  if  the  teimination  of  his  journey  had 
been  at  a  much  longer  distance  fi'om  thence, 
he  would  scai'cely  have  been  able  to  reach  it 

"  God  help  our  vmhappy  Chiu'ch,"  said  he, 
"for  she  is  suffeiing  much  ;  but  still  she  ia 
suffering  nobly,  and  with  such  Christian 
fortitude  as  will  make  her  days  of  trial  and 
endurance  the  brightest  in  her  annals.  All 
that  power  and  persecution  can  direct  against 
us  is  put  in  force  a  thousand  ways  ;  but  we 
act  vmder  the  consciousness  that  we  have 
God  and  truth  on  our  side,  and  this  gives  us 
strength  and  courage  to  suffer.  And  if  we 
fly,  ;Mr.  Reilly,  and  hide  om-selves,  it  is  not 
fi'om  any  moral  cowai'dico  we  do  so.  It  cer- 
tainly is  not  time  courage  to  expose  our  hves 
wantonly  and  unnecessarily  to  the  vengeance 
of  oui-  enemies.  Read  the  Old  Testament 
and  histon,  and  you  "s\ill  find  how  many 
good  and  pious  men  have  sought  shelter  in 
wildernesses  and  caves,  as  we  have  done. 
The  truth  is,  we  feel  ourselves  called  uj^on, 
for  the  sake  of  our  suft'ering  and  neglected 
flocks,  to  remain  in  the  countiy,  and  to  af- 
ford them  aU  the  consolation  and  religious 
support  in  our  power,  God  help  them." 

"I  admii-e  the  justice  of  yom*  sentiments," 
rephed  Reilly,  "and  the  spuit  in  which  they 
are  expressed.  Indeed  I  am  of  opinion 
that  if  those  wno  foster  and  stimukte  this 
detestable  spirit  of  pei*secution  against  you 
only  knew  how  certainly  and  surely  it  de- 
feats their  purpose,  by  cementing  your 
hearts  and  the  heai-ts  of  your  flocks  together, 
they  would  not,  fi'om  principles  even  of  world- 
ly pohcy,  persist  in  it.  Tlie  man  who  attempt- 
ed to  break  down  the  arch  by  heaping  ad- 
ditional weight  upon  it  ultimately  found 
that  the  gi-eater  the  weiglit  the  stronger  the 
arch,  and  so  I  tinast  it  will  be  ^^•ith  us." 

"It  would  seem,"  stxid  the  priest,  "to  be 
an  attempt  to  exterminate  the  religion  of  the 
people  by  depriring  them  of  their  pastors, 
and  consequently  of  their  Church,  in  order 
to  bring  them  to  the  impression  that,  upon 
the  principle  of  any  Church  being  better 
than  no  Church,  they  may  gradually  be  ab- 
sorbed into  Protestantism.      This  seems  to 


62 


W/ZL/AJf  CARLETON'S  WOUK^. 


be  their  policy ;  but  how  can  any  pohcy, 
based  ujDon  such  persecution,  and  so  grossly 
at  variance  with  human  hberty,  ever  suc- 
ceed ?  As  it  is,  we  go  out  in  the  dead  hoiu's 
of  the  night,  when  even  persecution  is  asleep, 
ajid  administer  the  consolations  of  rehgion 
to  the  sick,  the  djing,  and  the  destitute. 
Now  these  stolen  ^dsits  are  sweeter,  perhaps, 
and  more  efficacious,  than  if  the}'  took  place 
in  fi-eedom  and  the  ojjen  day.  Again,  we 
educate  theii"  children  in  the  principles  of 
their  creed,  dvuing  the  same  lonely  houj's,  in 
waste  houses,  where  we  are  obliged  to  keep 
■  the  windows  stuffed  \A\h  straw,  or  covered 
■with  bhnds  of  some  sort,  lest  a  chance  of 
discoveiy  might  ensue.  Such  is  the  Ufe  we 
lead — a  Ufe  of  want  and  miseiy  and  suffer- 
ing, but  we  complain  not ;  on  the  contrary, 
we  submit  ourselves  to  the  will  of  God,  and 
receive  this  severe  \'isitation  as  a  chastise- 
ment intended  for  oiir  good." 

The  necessities  of  our  narrative,  however, 
compel  us  to  leave  them  here  for  the  present; 
but  not  without  a  hojDe  that  they  found 
shelter  for  the  night,  as  we  tnist  we  shall  be 
ftble  to  show. 


CHAPTEK  IX. 

Beilly^s  Adventure  Continued — A  Prospect  of  By- 
gone Times — Eeilly  gets  a  Bed  in  a  Curious 
Establishment. 

We  now  beg  our  readers  to  accomj^any  us  to 
the  hbrary  of  Sir  Robert  "\Miitecraft,  where 
that  woi*thy  gentleman  sits,  wdth  a  bottle  of 
Madeira  before  him  ;  for  Su'  Robert,  in  ad- 
dition to  his  many  other  good  quahties,  pos- 
sessed that  of  being  a  jDrivate  diinker.  The 
bottle,  we  say,  was  before  him,  and  with  a 
smUe  of  triumph  and  satisfaction  on  his  face, 
he  arose  and  rang  the  bell.  In  a  few  minutes 
a  Hveried  sei*vant  attended  it. 

"  Carson,  send  O'Donnel  here." 

Carson  bowed  and  retired,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  Red  Rapparee  entered. 

"  How  is  this,  O'Donnel  ?  Have  you  thrown 
aside  your  uniform  ?  " 

"I  didn't  think  I'd  be  called  out  on  duty 
again  to-night,  sir." 

"It  doesn't  matter,  O'Donnel — it  doesn't 
matter,     "^^^lat  do  you  think  of  the  bonfire  ?  " 

"Begad,  it  was  a  beauty,  sir,  and  well 
managed." 

"  Ay,  but  I  am  afraid,  O'Donnel,  I  went  a 
httle  too  far — that  I  stretched  my  authority 
somewhat." 

"  But  isn't  he  a  rebel  and  an  outlaw.  Sir 
Kobert  ?   and  in  that  case — " 

"Yes,  O'Donnel ;  and  a  rebel  and  an  out- 
law of  my  own  making,  which  is  the  best  of 


it.  The  fellow  might  have  lain  ther«,  .xm* 
cocting  his  treason,  long  enough,  only  fcr  my 
vigilance.  However,  it's  all  right.  The 
government,  to  which  I  have  rendered  uuch 
important  services,  will  stand  by  me,  and 
fetch  me  out  of  the  bm-niug — that  is,  if  there 
has  been  any  transgression  of  the  law  in  it. 
The  Pajjists  are  privately  reci-uiting  for  the 
French  sei-vice,  and  that  is  felony  ;  Reilly 
also  was  recruiting  for  the  French  service — 
was  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  offered  me  a  commission,  sir." 
"Veiygood;  that's  all  right,  but  can  you 
prove  that  ?  " 

"  "V\^iy,  I  can  sioear  it.  Sir  Robert." 
"  Better  still.     But  do  you  think  he  is  in 
the  country,  O'Donnel  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  SAvear  he  is,  sir,  than  that 
he  is  not.     He  won't  lave  her  aisily." 
"  ^Vho  do  5'ou  mean  by  her,  sir?" 
"  I  wotdd  rather  not  name  her,  your  honor, 
in  connection  with  the  vagabond." 

"  That's  deHcate  of  you,  O'Donnel ;  I  highly 
aj)prove  of  yoxu-  sentiment.  Here,  have  a 
glass  of  wine." 

"  Th!\nk  you,  Sir  Robert ;  but  have  you 
any  brandy,  sir  ?  My  tongue  is  as  diy  as  a 
stick,  wid  that  glorious  bonfire  we  had  ;  but, 
besides,  sir,  I  wish  to  di'ink  success  to  you 
in  all  yoiu'  undertakings.  A  happ}--  marriage, 
sir ! "  and  he  accompanied  the  words  with  a 
ferocious  grin. 

"You  shall  have  one  glass  of  brandy, 
O'Donnel,  bvit  no  more.  I  wish  you  to  de- 
hver  a  letter  for  me  to-night.     It  is  to  the 

sheriff,  w"ho  dines  with  Lord ,  a  friend 

of  mine  ;  and  I  wish  you  to  deliver  it  at  his 
lordship's  house,  where  you  will  be  siu*e  to 
find  him.  The  letter  is  of  the  greatest  im- 
portance, and  you  will  take  care  to  deliver  it 
safety.  No  answer  by  you  is  required.  He 
was  out  to-day,  levying  fines  from  Pojiish 
priests,  and  a  heavj'-  one  fx-om  the  Pojjish 
bishojj,  and  I  do  not  think,  with  a  lai'ge  sum 
of  money  about  him,  that  he  will  go  home 
to-night.  Here  is  the  letter.  I  expect  he 
win  call  on  me  in  the  morning,  to  breakfast 
— at  least  I  have  asked  him,  for  w'e  have 
very  serious  business  to  discuss." 

The  Rapparee  took  the  letter,  finished  his 
glass  of  brandy,  and  disapjDeared  to  fulfil  his 
commission. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  on  that  veiy  even- 
ing, before  the  premises  had  been  set  on  fire, 
Maiy  IMahon,  by  O'Donnel  s  order,  had  en- 
tered the  house,  and  undei',  as  it  were,  the 
protection  of  the  military,  gathered  up  as 
much  of  Reilly's  clothes  and  linen  as  she 
could  conveniently  carry  to  her  cottage, 
which  was  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  'Wliite- 
craft's  residence — it  being  the  interest  of  this 
hj'jDocritical  voluptuary  to  have  the  corrupt 


WILLY  li BILLY. 


63 


wretch  near  him.  The  Rapparee,  haviufrleft 
Whiteeraft  to  his  reflections,  immediately  di- 
rected his  steps  to  her  house,  and,  with  her 
connivance,  changed  the  dress  he  had  on  for 
one  which  she  had  taken  from  Reilly's  ward- 
robe. He  then  went  to  the  house  of  the 
nobleman  where  the  sheriff  was  dining,  but 
arrived  only  in  time  to  hear  that  he  was  about 
to  take  horse  on  his  return  home.  On  see- 
ing him  preparing  to  mount,  bearing  a  lan- 
tern in  his  hand,  as  the  night  was  dark  and 
the  roads  bad,  he  instantly  changed  his  pur- 
pose as  to  the  letter,  and  came  to  the  resolu- 
tion of  not  delivering  it  at  all. 

"  I  can  easily  say,"  thought  he,  "  that  the 
sheriff  had  gone  home  before  I  came,  and 
that  will  be  a  very  sufficient  excuse.  In  the 
meantime,"  he  added,  "  I  will  cross  the  coim- 
try  and  be  out  on  the  road  before  him." 

The  sheriff  was  not  unanned,  however,  and 
felt  himself  tolerably  well  pi-epared  for  any 
attack  that  might  be  made  on  him  ;  and,  be- 
sides, he  was  no  coward.  After  a  ride  of 
about  two  miles  he  found  himself  stopped, 
and  almost  at  the  same  instant  the  lantern 
that  he  carried  was  knocked  out  of  his  hand 
and  extinguished,  but  not  until  he  caught  a 
faint  glimpse  of  the  robber's  person,  who, 
from  his  di-es.s,  appeared  to  be  a  man  much 
above  the  common  class.  Quick  as  hghtuing 
he  pulled  out  one  of  his  pistols,  and,  cocking 
it,  held  himself  in  readiness.  The  night  was 
dark,  and  this  preparation  for  seK-defence 
was  unkno^\-n  to  his  assailant.  On  feeling 
the  reins  of  his  horse's  bridle  in  the  hands  of 
the  robber,  he  snapped  the  pistol  at  his 
lead,  but  alas !  it  only  flashed  in  the  pan. 
The  robber,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  seem 
anxious  to  take  his  hfe,  for  it  was  a  principle 
among  the  Rapparees  to  shed,  while  exercis- 
ing their  rajjacious  functions,  as  httle  blood 
as  possible.  They  have  frequently  taken  hfe 
from  a  feehug  of  private  vengeance,  but  not 
often  while  robbing  on  the  king's  highway. 
The  sheriff",  now  finding  that  one  pistol  had 
missed,  was  about  to  draw  out  the  second, 
when  he  was  knocked  insensible  off  his  horse, 
and  on  recovering  found  himself  minus  the 
fines  which  he  had  that  day  leried — all  the 
private  cash  about  him — and  liis  case  of 
pistols.  This  indeed  was  a  bitter  incident  to 
him  ;  because,  in  addition  to  the  loss  of  his 
private  purse  and  fireanns — which  he  valued 
as  nothing — he  knew  that  he  was  responsible 
to  government  for  the  amount  of  the  fines. 

With  considerable  difficulty  he  was  able  to 
remount  his  horse,  and  with  a  sense  of  «tupor, 
which  was  very  painful,  he  recommenced  his 
journey  home.  After  a  ride  of  about  two 
miles  he  met  three  horsemen,  who  immedi- 
ately challenged  him  and  demanded  his  name 
jind  residence, 


"  I  am  the  sheriff  of  the  county,"  he  re- 
phed,  "  and  have  been  robbed  of  a  large  sum 
of  money  and  my  pistols  ;  and  now,"  he  add- 
ed, "  may  I  beg  to  know  who  you  are,  and 
by  what  authority  you  demand  my  name  and 
residence  ?  " 

"  Excuse  us,  ]\Ii'.  Sheriff,"  they  replied ; 
"  we  belong  to  the  mihtarj'  detachment  which 
government  has  placed  under  the  control  of 
Sir  Eobert  "SMiitecraft." 

"Oh,  indeed,"  exclaimed  the  sheriff;  "I 
wish  to  heaven  you  had  been  a  httle  more 
advanced  on  your  journey  ;  you  might  have 
saved  me  fi'om  being  plundered,  as  I  have 
been,  and  probably  secured  the  robber." 

"  Could  you  observe,  sir,  what  was  the  vil- 
lain's appearance  ?  " 

"I  had  a  small  lantern,"  rephed  the  fimc- 
tionarj',  "  by  which  I  caught  a  brief  but  un- 
certain glance  of  him.  I  am  not  quite  certain 
that  I  could  recognize  his  features,  though, 
if  I  saw  him  agaui — but  perhaps  I  might ; 
certainly  I  could  his  dress." 

"  How  was  he  dressed,  sir  ?  "  they  inquirea. 

"  Quite  beyond  the  common,"  said  the 
sheriff ;  "I  think  he  had  on  a  brown  coat,  oi 
superior  cloth  and  make,  and  I  think,  too, 
the  buckles  of  his  shoes  were  silver." 

"And  his  features,  'Mx.  Sheriff?" 

"I  cannot  exactly  say,"  he  returned  ;  "I 
was  too  much  agitated  to  be  able  to  recollect 
them  ;  but  indeed  the  dim  glimpse  I  got 
was  too  brief  to  afford  me  an  opportunity  of 
seeing  them  with  any  thing  like  distinct- 
ness." 

"From  the  description  you  have  given, 
sir,"  said  one  of  them,  "  the  man  who  robbed 
you  must  have  been  EeQly  the  Outlaw.  That 
is  the  very  di-ess  he  has  been  in  the  habit  of 
wearing.  Was  he  tall,  sir,  and  stout  in  per- 
son ?  " 

"  He  was  a  very  large  man,  certainly,"  re- 
phed the  sheriff;  "and  I  regret  I  did  not 
see  his  face  more  distinctly." 

"  It  can  be  no  other,  ^Ii*.  Sheriff,"  obser\'ed 
the  man  ;  "  the  fellow  has  no  means  of  living 
now,  unless  by  levring  contributions  on  the 
road.  For  my  part,  I  think  the  scoundrel 
can  make  himself  invisible  ;  but  it  must  go 
hard  with  us  or  we  will  secure  him  yet. 
Would  you  wish  an  escort  home,  Mr. 
Sheriff  ?  because,  if  you  do,  we  shall  accom- 
jjany  you." 

"No,"  rephed  the  other,  "  I  thank  you.  I 
would  not  have  ventured  home  unattended 
if  the  Red  Rapparee  had  still  been  at  his 
vocation,  and  his  gang  imdis2Dei*sed  ;  but  as 
he  is  now  on  the  safe  side,  I  apprehend  no 
danger." 

"  It's  not  at  aU  impossible  but  ReiUy  may 
step  into  his  shoes,"  said  the  cavalry-man. 

"  I  have  now  neither  money  nor  arms," 


64 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


continued  the  sheriff ;  "  nothing  the  villain 
robbers  could  covet,  and  what,  then,  have  I 
to  fear  ?  " 

'You  have  a  hfe,  sir,"  obsei-ved  the  man 
respectfully,  "  and  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say 
it — the  Hfe  of  a  man  who  is  not  veiw  well 
hked  in  the  countiw,  in  consequence  of  certain 
duties  you  ai-e  obhged  to  perform.  Come, 
then,  sii',  we  shall  see  you  home." 

It  was  so  arranged,  and  the  sheriff  reached 
his  OAvn  residence,  under  their  escoi-t,  -vsith 
perfect  safety. 

This  indeed  was  a  night  of  adventure  to 
Reilly — hunted,  as  he  was,  like  a  beast  of 
prey.  After  what  had  taken  place  ah'eady  m 
the  eai'ly  portion  of  it,  he  aj^prehended  no 
further  piu-suit,  and  in  this  respect  he  felt 
his  mind  comparatively  at  ease — for,  in 
addition  to  any  other  con^iction  of  his  safety, 
he  knew  that  the  night  was  far  advanced, 
and  as  the  country  was  unsettled,  he  was  not 
ignorant  that  the  small  mihtary  parties  that 
were  in  the  habit  of  scoiu'ing  the  countrj' 
generally — unless  when  in  the  execution  of 
some  express  duty — retired  to  their  quarters 
at  an  early  horn-,  in  order  to  avoid  the  severe 
retaliations  which  were  fi'equently  made  upon 
them  by  the  infuriated  peasantiy  whom  they 
— or  rather  the  government  which  emj)loyed 
them — had  almost  driven  to  madness,  and 
would  have  driven  to  insurrection  had  the 
peojDle  possessed  the  means  of  rising.  As  it 
was,  however,  he  di-eaded  no  further  pursuit 
this  night,  for  the  reasons  which  we  have 
stated. 

In  the  meantime  the  sheriff,  feeling  obhged 
by  the  ciAihty  of  the  thi-ee  dragoons,  gave 
them  refi'eshments  on  a  veiy  hberal  scale,  of 
which — rather  exhausted  as  they  were — they 
made  a  verj^  liberal  use.  Feehng  themselves 
now  considerably  stimulated  by  hquor,  they 
mounted  their  horses  and  proceeded  towards 
their  bai-racks  at  a  quick  pace.  In  conse- 
quence of  the  locahty  in  which  the  sheriff 
lived,  it  was  necessary  that  they  should  travel 
in  a  direction  opposite  to  that  by  which  Reilly 
and  the  priest  wei'e  going.  At  all  events, 
after  riding  a  couple  of  miles,  they  overtook 
thi'ee  infantiy  soldiers  who  were  also  on  their 
way  to  quarters.  The  blood,  however,  of  the 
troopers  was  up — thanks  to  the  sheriff ;  they 
mentioned  the  robbeiy,  and  requested  the 
three  infantry  to  precede  them  as  an  advanced 
guard,  as  quietly  as  possible,  stating  that 
there  might  still  be  a  chance  of  coming  across 
the  villain  who  had  plundered  the  sheriff,  in- 
timating their  impression,  at  the  same  time, 
that  Reilly  was  the  man,  and  adding  that  if 
they  could  secure  him  their  fortvme  was  made. 
As  has  always  been  usual  in  executing  cases 
of  the  law  attended  with  peculiar  difficulty, 
these  men- — the  infantry — like  our  present 


detectives,  had  gone  out  that  night  in  colored 
clothes.  On  perceiving  two  individuals  ap- 
l^roaching  them  in  the  dim  distance,  they 
immediately  thi-ew  their  guns  into  the  ditch, 
lest  they  should  put  our  fiiends  upon  their 
guard  and  cause  them  to  escape  if  they  could. 
Reilly  could  have  readily  done  so  ;  but  hav- 
ing, only  a  few  minutes  befoi'e  heard  fi'om 
the  poor  old  priest  that  he  had,  for  some 
months  past,  been  branded  and  pursued  aa 
a  felon,  he  could  not  think  of  abandoning 
him  now  that  he  was  feeble  an(\  jaded  with 
fatigue  as  well  as  with  age.  Now  it  so  hap- 
l^ened  that  one  of  these  fellows  had  been  a 
Roman  Catholic,  and  having  committed  some 
breach  of  the  law,  found  it  as  snfe  as  it  was 
convenient  to  change  liis  creed,  and  as  he 
spoke  the  Lish  language  fluenUy — indeed 
there  were  scarcely  any  other  then  spoken  by 
the  peasantry — he  commenced  clapping  his 
hands  on  seeing  the  two  men,  and  expressing 
the  deepest  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  his  wife, 
fi'om  whose  funeral,  it  appeared  from  his 
lamentations,  he  was  then  returnine;. 

"We  have  nothing  to  apprehend  here," 
said  Reilly  ;  "  this  poor  fellow  is  in  soitow, 
it  seems — God  help  him  !    Let  us  proceed." 

"Oh!  "  exclaimed  the  treacherous  villain, 
clapping  his  hands — [we  translate  his  words] 
— "  Oh,  Yeeali  !  Yeeah  !  *  Avhat  a  bitther  loss 
you'll  be,  my  darlin'  Madge,  to  me  and  your 
oi'phan  childher,  now  and  for  evermore  !  Oh, 
where  was  there  sicli  a  wife,  neighbors  ?  who 
ever  heard  her  harsh  word,  or  her  loud  voice  ? 
And  fi'om  mornin'^till  night  ever,  ever  busy 
in  keepin'  eveiy  thing  tight  and  clane  and 
reg"ulai' !  Let  me  alone,  will  yez  ?  I'll  go  back 
and  sleep  upon  her  grave  this  night — so  I 
will ;  and  if  all  the  blasted  sogers  in  Ireland 
— may  sweet  bad  luck  to  them  ! — were  to 
come  to  prevent  me,  I'd  not  allow  them. 
Oh,  Madge,  darlin',  but  I'm  the  lonely  and 
heartbroken  man  widout  you  this  night !  " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  jiriest,  "  have  firm- 
ness, poor  man ;  other  people  have  these 
calamities  to  bear  as  well  as  yourself.  Be  a 
man." 

"Oh,  ai'e  you  a  priest,  sii'?  bekase  if  you 
are  I  want  consolation  if  ever  a  sorrowful  man 
did." 

"I  am  a  priest,"  rephed  the  unsuspecting 
man,  "  and  any  thing  I  can  do  to  calm  your 
mind,  I'll  do  it." 

He  had  scax'cely  uttered  these  words  when 
Reilly  felt  his  two  arms  strongly  pinioned, 
and  as  the  men  who  had  seized  him  were 
powerful,  the  sti-uggle  between  him  and 
them  was  dreadful.  The  poor  priest  at  the 
same  moment  found  himself  also  a  prisoner  id 
the  hands  of  the  bereaved  widower,  to  whoM 

*  God,  God. 


TF/ZZr  REILLY. 


65 


he  proved  an  easy  victim,  as  he  was  incapable 
of  m.iking  resistance,  which,  indeed,  he  de- 
cUned  to  attempt.  If  he  did  not  possess 
bodily  strength,  however,  he  was  liot  without 
presence  of  mind.  For  whilst  Reilly  and  his 
captors  were  engaged  in  a  tierce  and  power- 
ful conflict,  he  placed  his  fore-linger  and 
thumb  in  his  mouth,  fi'om  which  proceeded 
a  whistle  so  jiiercingly  loud  and  shrill  that  it 
awoke  the  midnight  echoes  around  them. 
This  was  considered  by  the  dragoons  as  a 
sij,'m  1  fi'om  theii*  friends  in  advance,  and, 
without  the  loss  of  a  moment,  tliey  set  spui-s 
to  their  horses,  and  dashed  up  to  the  scene 
of  struggle,  just  as  Reilly  had  got  his 
right  arm  extricated,  and  knocked  one  of  his 
cajitors  down.  In  an  instant,  however,  the 
three  dragoons,  aided  by  the  other  men,  were 
upon  him,  and  not  less  than  three  cavixlry 
pistols  were  levelled  at  his  head.  Unfortu- 
nately, at  this  moment  the  moon  began  to 
rise,  and  the  dragoons,  on  looking  at  him 
more  closely,  observed  that  he  was  di-essed 
precisely  as  the  sheriff  had  described  the  per- 
son who  robbed  him — the  brown  coat,  light- 
colored  breeches,  and  silver  buckles — for  in- 
deed this  was  his  usual  dress. 

"You  are  Willy  Redly,"  said  the  man  who 
had  been  spokesman  in  their  interview  with 
the  sheriff :  "  you  needn't  deny  it,  sir — I 
know  you ! " 

"If  you  know  me,  thei»,"  replied  Reilly, 
"  where  is  tht^  necessity  for ;  .sking  my  name  V  " 

"I  ask  again,  sir,  wh5 1  is  your  name? 
If  you  be  the  man  I  suspejt  you  to  be,  you 
will  deny  it." 

"  My  name,"  rephed  the  other,  "  ts  William 
Reilly,  and  as  I  am  conscious  of  no  crime 
against  society — of  no  offence  against  the 
State — I  shall  not  deny  it." 

"I  knew  I  was  right,"  said  the  dragoon. 
"  Mr.  Reilly,  you  are  our  prisoner  on  mmy 
charges,  not  the  least  of  which  is  your  rob- 
beiy  of  the  sheriff  this  night.  You  must 
come  with  us  to  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft ;  so 
must  this  other  person  who  seems  your  com- 
panion." 

"  Not  a  foot  I'll  go  to  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft's  to-night,"  replied  the  priest.  "  I  have 
made  my  mind  up  against  such  a  stretch  at 
such  an  hour  as  this  ;  and,  with  the  help  of 
God,  I'll  stick  to  my  resolution." 

•'Why  do  you  refuse  to  go? "asked  the 
man,  a  good  deal  surpi-ised  at  such  language. 

"  Just  for  a  reason  I  have  :  as  for  that  fel- 
low being  Willy  Reilly,  he's  no  more  Willy 
Reilly  than  I  am  ;  whatever  he  is,  however, 
he's  a  good  man  and  true,  but  must  be  guided 
by  wiser  heads  than  his  own  ;  and  I  now  tell 
him — ay,  and  you  too — that  he  won't  see  Sir 
Robert  Wliit^craft's  treacherous  face  to-night, 
no  more  than  myself." 


"  Come,"  said  one  of  them,  "  drag  the 
idolatrous  old  rebel  #long.  Come,  my  old 
couple-beggar,  there's  a  noose  before  you." 

He  had  scai-cely  uttered  the  words  when 
twenty  men,  armed  with  strong  pikes,  jumped 
out  on  the  road  before  them,  and  about  the 
same  number,  with  similar  weapons,  behind 
them.  In  fact,  they  were  completely  hem- 
med in  ;  and,  as  the  road  was  narrow  and 
the  ditches  high,  they  were  not  at  all  in  a 
capacity  to  make  resistance. 

"SuiTender  your  prisoners,"  said  a  huge 
ma,n  in  a  voice  of  thunder — "  suiTender 
your  prisoners — here  are  we  ten  to  one 
against  you  ;  or  if  you  don't,  I  swear  there 
won't  be  a  living  man  amongst  you  in  two 
minutes'  time.  Mai-k  us  well — we  are  every 
man  of  us  armed — and  I  will  not  ask  you  a 
second  time." 

As  to  numbers  and  weapons  the  man 
spoke  truth,  and  the  military  party  saw  at 
once  that  their  prisoners  must  be  given 
up. 

"  Let  us  have  fuU  revenge  on  them  now, 
boys,"  exclaimed  several  voices;  "down 
with  the  tyrannical  villains  that  are  parse- 
cuting  and  murdherin'  the  country  out  of 
a  face.  This  night  closes  their  black  work  ; " 
and  as  the  words  were  uttered,  the  mihtaiy 
felt  themselves  envij-oned  and  pressed  in 
upon  by  upwards  of  tive-and-twenty  sharp 
and  bristling  pikes. 

"  It  is  true,  you  may  murder  us,"  replied 
the  dragoon  ;  "but  we  are  soldiers,  and  to 
die  is  a  soldier's  duty.  Stand  back,"  said 
he,  "  for,  by  idl  that's  sacred,  if  you  approach 
another  step,  William  Reilly  and  that  rebel 
priest  A\all  fall  dead  at  youi-  feet.  We  may 
die  the.)x ;  but  we  will  sell  our  lives  dearly. 
Cover  the  priest,  Robinson." 

"Boys,"  said  the  priest,  addressing  the 
insurgent  pai-ty,  "  hold  back,  for  God's  sake, 
and  for  mine.  Remember  that  these  men 
are  only  doing  their  duty,  and  that  whoever 
is  to  be  blamed,  it  is  not  they — no,  but  the 
wicked  men  and  cruel  laws  that  set  them 
ujDon  us.  AMiy,  now,  if  these  men,  out  of 
compassion  and  a  feeUng  of  kindness  to 
poor  persecuted  creatures,  as  we  are,  took 
it  into  their  heads  or  their  hearts  to  let  that 
man  and  me  off,  they  would  have  been,  pi'ob- 
ably,  treated  like  dogs  for  neglecting  their 
duty.  I  am,  as  you  know,  a  minister  of 
God,  and  a  man  of  peace,  whose  duty  it  is 
to  prevent  bloodshed  whenever  I  can,  and 
save  human  life,  Avhether  it  is  that  of  a 
Catholic  or  a  Protestant.  Recollect,  my 
fi-iehds,  that  you  will,  every  one  of  you,  have 
to  stand  before  the  judgment  t'lrone  of  God 
to  seek  for  mercy  and  salvation.  As  you 
hope  for  that  mercy,  then,  at  the  moment  of 
your  utmost  need,  I  implore,  1  entreat  you 


66 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


to  show  these  men  mercy  now,  and  allow 
them  to  go  their  wayia  safety." 

"  I  agree  with  every  word  the  priest  has 
said,"  added  Eeilly  ; "  not  from  any  apprehen- 
sion of  the  thi-eat  held  out  against  myself, 
but  from,  I  trust,  a  higher  principle.  Here 
ai'e  onl;y  six  men,  who,  as  his  Reverence 
justly  said,  are,  after  all,  only  in  the  dis- 
charge of  their  public  duty.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  are  at  least  forty  or  fifty  of  you 
against  them.  Now  I  appeal  to  yourselves, 
whether  it  would  be  a  manly,  or  generous, 
or  Christian  act,  to  slaughter  so  poor  a 
handful  of  men  by  the  force  of  numbers. 
No  :  there  would  be  neither  credit  nor  honor 
in  such  an  act.  I  assure  you,  my  fr'iends, 
it  would  disgrace  your  common  name,  your 
common  credit,  and  your  common  coimtry. 
Nay,  it  would  seem  lie  cowardice,  and  only 
give  a  handle  to  yoiu'  enemies  to  tax  you 
with  it.  But  I  know  you  are  vot  cowards, 
but  brave  and  generous  men,  whose  hearts 
and  spirits  are  above  a  mean  action.  If  you 
were  cowardly  butchers,  I  know  we  might 
speak  to  you  in  vain  ;  but  we  know  you  are 
incapable  of  imbi'uing  your  hands,  and 
steejDing  yoiu'  souls,  in  the  guilt  of  umresist- 
ing  blood — for  so  I  may  term  it,  where 
there  are  so  few  against  so  many.  My 
fi-iends,  go  home,  then,  in  the  name  of  God, 
and,  as  this  reverend  gentleman  said,  allow 
these  men  to  pass  their  way  without  in- 
jury." 

"But  who  are  you?"  said  their  huge 
leader,  in  his  terrible  voice,  "  who  presumes 
to  lecture  us  ?  " 

"  I  am  one,"  rephed  Reilly,  "  who  has  suf- 
fered more  deeply,  probably,  than  any  man 
here.  I  am  without  house  or  home,  pro- 
scribed by  the  vengeance  of  a  ^allain — a  vil- 
lain who  has  left  me  without  a  shelter  for 
my  head — who,  this  night,  has  reduced  my 
habitation,  and  all  that  appertained  to  it,  to 
a  heap  of  ashes — who  is  on  my  trail,  night 
and  day,  and  who  will  be  on  my  trail,  in 
order  to  glut  his  vengeance  with  my  blood. 
Now,  my  fr'iends,  listen — I  take  God  to  wit- 
ness, that  if  that  man  were  here  at  this  mo- 
ment, I  would  plead  for  his  life  with  as 
much  earnestness  as  I  do  for  those  of  the 
men  who  are  here  at  your  mercy.  I  feel 
that  it  would  be  cowardly  and  inhuman  to 
take  it  imder  such  circumstances  ;  yes,  and 
imworthy  of  the  name  of  William  Reill}'. 
Now,"  he  added,  "these  men  will  pass  safely 
to  their  quarters." 

As  they  wei-e  about  to  resume  their  jour- 
ney, the  person  who  seemed  to  have  the  com- 
mand of  the  military  said  : 

"  IMr.  Reilly,  one  word  with  you  :  I  feel 
that  you  have  saved  our  Hves  ;  I  may  requi*.e 
you  for   that  generous  act  jet ; "   an<i  iUe 


pressed  his  hand  warmly  as  he  spoke,  aftei 
which  they  proceeded  on  their  way. 

That  the  person  of  Reilly  was  not  recog- 
nized by  any  of  these  men  is  accounted  for 
by  a  well-knowTi  custom,  pec\iliar  to  such 
meetings,  both  then  and  now.  The  individ- 
uals before  and  around  him  were  all  stran- 
gers, fr'om  distant  pai'ts  of  the  country  ;  for 
whenever  an  outrage  is  to  be  committed,  or 
a  nocturnal  diilling  to  take  place,  the  peas- 
antiy  start  across  the  country,  in  twos  and 
threes,  until  they  quietly  reach  some  lonely 
and  remote  spot,  where  their  persons  are  not 
known. 

No  sooner  had  he  mentioned  Ms  name, 
however,  than  there  arose  a  pecuhar  mur- 
mur among  the  insvu'gents — such  a  murmur 
indeed  as  it  was  difficult  to  understand ; 
there  was  also  a  rapid  consultation  in  Irish, 
which  was  closed  by  a  general  determination 
to  restrain  their  vengeance  for  that  night,  at 
least,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  celebrated 
young  martyr — for  as  such  they  looked  upon 
him — to  allow  the  military  to  pass  on  with- 
out injury.  Reilly  then  addressed  them  in 
Irish,  and  thanked  them,  both  in  his  own 
name  and  that  of  the  priest,  for  the  respect 
evinced  by  their  observation  of  the  advice 
they  had  given  them.  The  priest  also  ad- 
dressed them  in  Iiish,  aware,  as  he  was,  that 
one  sentence  in  that  language,  especially 
from  a  person  in  a  superior  rank  of  life,  car- 
ries more  weight  than  a  whole  oration  in  the 
language  of  the  Sassenagh.  The  poor  old 
man's  mind  was  once  more  at  ease,  and  after 
these  rough,  but  not  intractable,  men  had 
given  three  cheers  for  "  bould  Willy  Reilly," 
three  more  for  the  Cooleen  Baton,  not  forget- 
ting the  priest,  the  latter,  while  retui-ning 
thanks,  had  them  in  convulsions  of  laughter. 

"May  I  never  do  harm,"  proceeded  his 
reverence  humorously,  "  but  the  first  Chris- 
tian duty  that  every  true  Cathohc  ought  to 
learn  is  to  whistle  on  his  fingers.  The  mo- 
ment ever  your  children,  boys,  are  able  to 
give  a  squaU,  clap  thefr  forefinger  and  thumb 
in  their  mouth,  and  leave  the  rest  to  nature. 
Let  them  talk  of  their  spinnet  and  sinnet, 
their  fiddle  and  their  diddle,  their  dancing 
and  their  prancing,  but  there  is  no  genteel 
accomphshment  able  to  be  compai-ed  to  a 
rousing  whistle  on  the  fingers.  See  what  it 
did  for  us  to-night.  My  soul  to  glory,  but 
only  for  it,  Mr.  Reilly  and  I  would  have 
soon  taken  a  jouniey  with  oiu*  heels  fore- 
most ;  and,  what  is  worse,  the  villains  would 
have  forced  us  to  take  a  bfrd's-eye  view  of 
our  own  funei*al  from  the  three  sticks,  mean- 
ing the  two  that  stand  up,  and  the  third  that 
goes  across  them.*      However,  God's  good, 


•  Xhe  gallowa. 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


&l 


and,  after  all,  boys,  you  see  there  is  nothing 
like  an  accomplished  education.  As  to  the 
soldiers,  I  don't  think  myself  that  they'll  re- 
cover the  bit  of  flight  they  got  until  the  new 
potatoes  come  in.  Troth,  while  you  were 
gathering  in  about  them,  I  felt  that  the  un- 
fortunate vagabonds  were  to  be  pitied  ;  but. 
Lord  help  us,  when  men  are  in  trouble — es- 
pecially in  fear  of  their  lives — and  with  twelve 
inches  of  shai-p  iron  near  their  breasts,  it's 
wonderful  what  effect  fear  will  have  on  them. 
Troth,  I  wasn't  far  from  feeling  the  same 
thing  myself,  only  I  knew  there  was  rehcf  at 
hand  ;  at  all  events,  it's  well  you  kept  your 
hands  oif  them,  for  now,  thank  goodness, 
you  can  step  home  without  the  guilt  of  mur- 
der on  3'our  souls." 

Father  Maguire,  for  such  was  his  name, 
possessed  the  art  of  adapting  his  language 
and  dialect  to  those  whom  he  addressed,  it 
mattered  not  wiiether  they  wei*e  South, 
West,  or  North  ;  he  was,  in  fact,  a  priest 
who  had  never  been  in  any  college,  but  re- 
ceived ordination  in  consequence  of  the  se- 
verity of  the  liiws,  whose  operation,  by  ban- 
ishing so  many  of  that  class  from  the  coun- 
try, rendered  the  services  of  such  men  in- 
dispensable to  the  spiritual  wants  of  the 
people.  Father  Maguii'e,  previous  to  his  re- 
ceiving holy  orders,  had  been  a  school- 
mastei',  and  exercised  his  functions  on  that 
capacity  in  holes  and  comers  ;  sometimes  on 
the  sheltery  or  sunny  side  of  a  hedge,  as  the 
case  might  be,  and  on  other  occasions  when 
and  where  he  could.  In  his  magisterial  ca- 
pacity, "  the  accomphshment "  of  whistling 
was  absolutely  necessary  to  him,  because  it 
often  happened  that  in  stealing  in  the  morn- 
ing from  his  retreat  during  the  preceding 
night,  he  knew  no  more  where  to  meet  his 
Httle  flock  of  scholars  than  they  did  where 
to  meet  him,  the  ti^uth  being  that  he  seldom 
found  it  safe  to  teach  two  days  successively 
in  the  same  place.  Having  selected  the  lo- 
cality for  instruction  during  the  day,  he  put 
his  forefinger  and  thumb  into  his  mouth, 
and  emitted  a  whistle  that  went  over  half 
the  country.  Having  thus  given  the  signal 
three  times,  his  scholars  began  gradually 
and  cautiously  to  make  their  appearance, 
radiating  towards  him  from  all  directions, 
reminding  one  of  a  hen  in  a  farm-yard,  who, 
having  fallen  upon  some  wholesome  crumbs, 
she  utters  that  peculiar  sound  which  imme- 
diately collects  her  eager  Httle  flock  about 
her,  in  order  to  dispense  among  them  the 
good  things  she  has  to  give.  Poor  Father 
Maguire  was  simplicity  itself,  for,  although 
cheerful,  and  a  good  deal  of  a  humorist,  yet 
he  was  pious,  inoffensive,  and  charitable. 
True,  it  is  not  to  be  imagined  that  he  could 
avoid  beai'ing  a  very  strong  feeling  of    en- 


mity against  the  Establishment,  as,  indeed, 
we  do  not  see,  so  long  as  human  nature  is 
what  it  is,  how  he  could  have  done  other- 
wise ;  he  hated  it,  however,  in  the  aggregate, 
not  in  detail,  for  the  truth  is,  that  he  received 
shelter  and  protection  nearly  as  often  from 
the  Protestants  themselves,  both  lay  and 
clerical,  as  he  did  from  those  of  his  own 
creed.  The  poor  man's  crime  against  the 
State  proceeded  naturally  from  the  simph- 
city  of  his  character  and  the  goodness  of  his 
heai-t.  A  Protestant  peasant  had  seduced  a 
Catholic  young  woman  of  considerable  at- 
tractions, and  was  prevailed  upon  to  marry 
her,  in  order  to  legitimize  the  infant  which 
she  was  about  to  bear.  Our  j)oor  priest, 
anxious  to  do  as  much  good,  and  to  prevent 
as  much  evil  as  he  could,  was  prevailed  up- 
on to  perform  the  ceremony,  contrary  to  the 
law  in  that  case  made  and  provided.  Ever 
I  since  that,  the  poor  man  had  been  upon  his 
keeping  like  a  felon,  as  the  law  had  made 
him  ;  but  so  well  known  were  his  harmless 
Hfe,  his  goodness  of  heart,  and  his  general 
benevolence  of  disposition — for,  alas !  he 
was  incapable  of  being  benevolent  in  any 
practical  sense — that,  unless  among  the  big- 
oted officials  of  the  day,  there  existed  no  vei-y 
strong  disposition  to  hand  him  over  to  the 
clutches  of  the  terrible  statute  which  he  had, 
good  easy  man,  been  prevailed  on  to  violate. 

In  the  meantime,  the  formidable  body  who 
had  saved  Reilly's  hfe  and  his  own  dispersed, 
or  disappeared  at  least ;  but  not  until  they 
had  shaken  hands  most  cordially  with  ReiDy 
and  the  priest,  who  now  found  themselves 
much  in  the  same  position  in  which  they 
stood  previous  to  their  surprise  and  arrest. 

"  Now,"  said  Reilly,  "  the  question  is, 
what  are  we  to  do  ?  where  are  we  to  go  ? 
and  next,  how  did  you  come  to  know  of  the 
existence  in  this  precise  locality  of  such  a 
body  of  men  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  set  my  face  against  such 
meetings,"  rephed  the  priest.  "  One  of 
those  who  was  engaged  to  be  present  hap- 
pened to  mention  the  fact  to  me  as  a  clergy- 
man, but  you  know  that,  as  a  clergyman,  I 
can  proceed  no  further." 

"I  understand,"  said  Reilly,  "I  perfectly 
understand  you.  It  is  not  necessaiy.  And 
now  let  me  say — " 

"  Always  ti-ust  in  God,  my  friend,"  rephed 
the  priest,  in  an  accent  quite  different  from 
that  which  he  had  used  to  the  peasantry'.  "  1 
told  you,  not  long  ago,  that  you  would  have 
a  bed  to-niglit :  follow  me,  and  I  vvill  lead 
you  to  a  erj'ptof  nature's  own  making,  which 
was  not  known  to  mort:d  man  three  months 
ago,  and  which  is  now  knowii  only  to  those 
whose  interest  it  is  to  keep  the  knowledge 
of  it  silent  as  the  grave." 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


Tliey  tlien  proceeded,  and  soon  came  to  a 
gap  or  openinjT  on  the  left-Land  side  of  tlie 
road  through  which  they  passed,  the  priest 
leading.  Next  they  found  themselves  in  a 
wild  gnlly  or  ravine  that  was  both  deep  and 
narrow.  This  they  crossed,  and  arrived  at  a 
ledge  of  precipitous  rocks,  most  of  which 
were  overhung  to  the  very  ground  with  long 
luxuriant  heather.  The  priest  went  along 
this  until  he  came  to  one  particular  sjsot, 
when  he  stooped,  and  observed  a  particular 
romid  stone  bedded  naturally  in  the  earth. 

"God — blessed  be  his  name — has  made 
nothing  in  vain,"  he  whisjDered  ;  "I  must 
go  foremost,  but  do  as  I  do."  He  then 
raised  up  the  long  heath,  and  entered  a  low, 
narrow  fissure  in  the  rocks,  Eeilly  following 
him  closely.  The  entrance  was  indeed  so 
naiTow  that  it  was  capable  of  admitting  but 
one  man  at  a  time,  and  even  that  by  his 
working  himself  in  upon  his  knees  and 
elbows.  In  this  manner  they  advanced  in 
utter  darkness  for  about  thirty  yards,  when 
they  reached  a  second  opening,  about  three 
feet  high,  which  bore  some  resemblance  to 
a  Gothic  ai*ch.  This  also  it  was  necessaiy  to 
enter  consecutively.  Having  passed  this  they 
were  able  to  proceed  ujoon  their  legs,  still 
stooping,  however,  until,  as  they  got  onwards, 
they  found  themselves  able  to  walk  erect.  A 
third  and  larger  opening,  however,  was  still 
before  them,  over  which  hung  a  large  thick 
winnow-cloth. 

"Now,"  said  the  jiriest,  "leave  every  thing 
to  me.  If  we  were  to  put  our  heads  in 
rashly  here  we  might  get  a  pair  of  bullets 
through  them  that  would  have  as  httle 
mercy  on  us  as  those  of  the  troopers,  had  we 
got  them.  No  clergy-man  here,  or  an;N^vhere 
else,  ever  carries  firearms,  but  there  are 
laymen  inside  who  are  not  bound  by  our 
regulations.  The  only  arms  we  are  allowed 
to  carry  are  the  truths  of  our  religion  and 
the  integi'ity  of  our  lives." 

He  then  advanced  a  step  or  two,  and 
shook  the  winnow-cloth  three  times,  when  a 
deep  voice  from  behind  it  asked,  "  Quis 
venitf"  "  Inli-oibo  ad  altare  Dei,"  replied 
the  priest,  who  had  no  sooner  uttered  the 
words  than  the  cloth  was  partially  removed, 
and  a  voice  exclaimed,  "  Jienedicile,  dilecle 
frate.r;  healaa  qui  veml  in  nomine  Domini  et 
sacrom  nctiv  Fa  rlem  e. " 

Reilly  and  his  companion  then  entered  the 
cave,  which  they  liad  no  sooner  done  than 
the  former  was  seized  with  a  degree  of  won- 
der, astonishment,  and  awe,  such  as  he  had 
never  experienced  in  his  life  before.  The 
whole  cavern  was  one  flasliing  scene  of  light 
and  beauty,  and  reniinded  him  of  the  gor- 
geous descriptions  that  were  to  be  found  in 
Arabian   literatm-e,  or   the  brillianc}'  of  the 


fairy  palaces  as  he  had  heard  of  them  in  the 
meUow  legends  of  his  own  country.  From 
the  roof  depended  gorgeous  and  immense 
stalactites,  some  of  them  reaching  half  way 
to  the  earth,  and  others  of  them  resting  upon 
the  earth  itself.  Several  torches,  composed 
of  dried  bog  fir,  threw  their  strong  light 
among  them  with  such  effect  that  the  eye 
became  not  only  dazzled  but  fatigued  and 
overcome  by  the  radiance  of  a  scene  so  un- 
usual. In  fact,  the  whole  scene  appeared, 
to  be  out  of,  or  beyond,  nature.  There  were 
about  fifteen  individuals  present,  most  of 
them  in  odd  and  peculiar  disguises,  which 
gave  them  a  grotesque  and  supernatural 
api^earance,  as  they  passed  about  with  their 
strong  torches  —  some  bright  and  some 
flashing  red  ;  and  as  the  light  of  either  one  or 
other  fell  upon  the  stalactites,  giving  them  a 
hue  of  singular  brilliancy  or  deej)  purple, 
Reilly  could  not  utter  a  word.  The  cos- 
tumes of  the  individuals  about  him  were  so 
strange  and  varied  that  he  knew  not  what  to 
think.  Some  were  in  the  dress  of  clergy- 
men, others  in  that  of  ill-clad  peasants,  and 
nearly  one-third  of  them  in  the  garb  of 
mendicants,  who,  fi'om  their  careworn  faces, 
apjDeared  to  have  sufiered  severely  from  the 
persecution  of  the  times.  In  a  few  min- 
utes, however,  about  half  a  dozen  diminutive 
beings  made  their  appearance,  busied,  as  far 
as  he  could  guess,  in  employments,  which  liis 
amazement  at  the  whole  spectacle,  unpre- 
pared as  he  was  for  it,  prevented  him  fi'om 
understanding.  If  he  had  been  a  man  of 
weak  or  superstitious  mind,  uuacc[uainted 
wdth  life  and  the  world,  it  is  impossible  to 
say  what  he  might  have  imagined.  Inde- 
pendently of  this— strong-minded  as  he  was 
— the  impression  made  upon  him  by  the  elf- 
hke  sprites  that  ran  about  so  busily,  almost 
induced  him,  for  a  few  moments,  to  surrender 
to  the  illusion  Hiat  he  stood  among  individ- 
uals w'ho  had  little  or  no  natural  connection 
with  man  or  the  external  world  which  he  in- 
habited. Reflection,  however,  and  the  state 
of  the  country,  came  to  his  aid,  and  he  rea- 
sonably inferred  that  the  cavern  in  which  he 
stood  was  a  place  of  concealment  for  those 
unfortunate  individuals  who,  like  himself, 
felt  it  necessary  to  evade  the  vengeance  of 
the  laws. 

Whilst  ReiUy  was  absorbed  in  the  novelty 
and  excitement  of  this  strange  and  all  but 
sui^eniatural  spectacle,  the  j)riest  held  a  short 
conversation,  at  some  distance  from  him, 
Avith  the  strange  figures  which  had  surprised 
him  so  much.  Whenever  he  felt  himself 
enabled  to  take  his  eyes  fi'om  the  sjjlendor 
and  magnificence  of  all  he  saw  around  him, 
to  follow  the  motions  of  Father  Maguire,  he 
could  observe  that  that  gentleman,  fi'om  the 


WILLY  REILLY. 


m 


peculiar  vehemence  of  liis  attitudes  and  the 
evident  rapidity  of  his  language,  had  made 
either  himself  or  his  presence  there  the 
topic  of  very  earnest  discussion.  In  fact  it 
appeared  to  him  that  the  priest,  from  what- 
ever cause,  api^eared  to  be  rather  hard  set  to 
defend  him  and  to  justify  his  presence  among 
them.  A  tall,  stern-looking  man,  with  a 
lofty  forehead  and  pale  ascetic  features — 
from  wliich  all  the  genial  impulses  of 
humanity,  that  had  once  characterized  them, 
seemed  almost  to  have  been  banished  by  the 
spirit  of  relentless  persecution — appeared  to 
bear  hard  upon  him,  whatever  the  charge 
might  be,  and  by  the  severity  of  his  manner 
and  the  solemn  but  unyielding  emphasis  of 
his  attitudes,  he  seemed  to  have  wrought 
himself  into  a  state  of  deep  indignation. 
But  as  it  is  better  that  our  readers  should 
be  made  acquainted  with  the  topic  of  their 
discussion,  rather  than  their  attitudes,  we 
think  it  necessary  to  commence  it  in  a  new 
chapter. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Scenes  that  took  place  in  the  Mountain  Cave. 

"I  WILL  not  hear  your  apolog;\',  brother," 
said  the  tall  man  with  the  stern  voice  ;  "  your 
conduct,  knowing  our  position,  and  the  state 
of  this  unhappy  and  persecuted  couutiy,  is 
not  only  indiscreet,  but  foohsh,  indefensible, 
mad.  Here  is  a  young  man  attached — may 
God  pardon  him — to  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  most  persecuting  heretics  in  the  king- 
dom. She  is  beautiful,  by  eveiy  report  that 
we  have  heard  of  her,  even  as  an  angel ;  but 
reflect  that  she  is  an  heiress— the  inheritress 
of  immense  property — and  that,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  the  temptations  ai'e  a  thousand  to 
one  against  him.  He  Avill  yield,  I  tell  you,  to 
the  heretic  syren  ;  and  as  a  passport  to  her 
father's  favor  and  her  afiection,  he  will,  like 
too  many  of  his  class,  abandon  the  faith  of  his 
ancestors,  and  become  an  apostate,  for  the 
sake  of  wealth  and  sensual  alfection." 

"I  question,  my  lord,"  replied  the  priest, 
"whether  it  is  consistent  Avith  Christian 
charity  to  impute  motives  of  such  heinous 
guilt,  when  we  are  not  in  a  condition  to  bear 
out  our  suspicions.  The  character  of  this 
young  gentleman  as  a  Catholic  is  firm  and 
faithful,  and  I  will  stfike  my  life  upon  his 
tnith  and  attachment  to  our  Church." 

"  You  know  him  not,  father,"  replied  the 
bishop,  for  such  he  was  ;  "  I  tell  you,  and  I 
speak  from  better  information  than  you 
possess,  that  he  is  already  susi^ected.  ^Aliat 
has  been  his   conduct?     He  has  associated 


himself  more  with  Protestanis  than  with  those 
of  his  own  Church  ;  he  has  dined  with  them, 
partaken  of  their  hospitality,  joined  in  theil 
amusements,  slept  in  their  houses,  and  been 
with  them  as  a  familiar  friend  and  boon  com- 
panion. I  see,  father,  what  the  result  will 
r^ecessarily  be  ;  first,  an  apostate — next,  an 
informer — and,  lastly,  a  persecutor ;  and  all 
for  the  sake  of  wealth  and  the  seductive 
charms  of  a  rich  heiress.  I  say,  then,  that 
deeji  in  this  cold  cavern  shall  be  his  gi-ave, 
rather  than  have  an  opportunity  of  betraying 
the  shepherds  of  Christ's  persecuted  flock, 
and  of  hunting  them  into  the  caverns  of  the 
earth  like  beasts  of  prey.  Our  retreat  here 
is  known  only  to  those  who,  for  the  sake  of 
truth  and  their  own  lives,  will  never  disclose 
the  knowledge  of  it,  bound  as  they  are,  in 
addition  to  this,  by  an  oath  of  the  deepest 
and  most  dreadful  solemnity — an  oath  the 
violation  of  which  would  constitute  a  fearful 
sacrilege  in  the  eye  of  God.  As  for  these 
oi*phans,  whose  parents  were  victims  to  the 
cniel  laws  that  are  grinding  us,  I  have  so* 
trained  and  indoctrinated  them  into  a  knowl- 
edge of  their  creed,  and  a  sense  of  their  duty, 
that  they  ai-e  thorouglily  trustworthy.  On 
this  very  day  I  administered  to  them  the 
sacrament  of  confirmation.  No,  brother,  we 
cannot  sacrifice  the  interests  and  welfare  of 
our  holy  Chui'ch  to  the  safety  of  a  single  life 
— to  the  safety  of  a  person  who  I  foresee  will 
be  certain  to  betray  us." 

"M}'  lord,"  replied  the  priest,  "I  humbly 
admit  your  authority  and  superior  sanctity, 
for  in  what  does  your  precious  life  fall  short 
of  martyrdom  but  by  one  step  to  the  eleva- 
tion which  leads  to  glory  ?  I  mean  the  sur- 
rendering of  that  hfe  for  the  true  faith.  I 
feel,  my  lord,  that  in  your  presence  I  am 
nothing ;  still,  in  our  holy  Church  there  is 
the  humble  as  well  as  the  exalted,  and  your 
lordship  will  admit  that  the  gradations  of 
piety,  and  the  disi:)ensations  of  the  higher  and 
the  lower  gifts,  proceed  not  only  fi'om  the 
wisdom  of  God  but  fi-om  the  necessities  of 
man." 

"  I  do  not  properly  understand  you,  father," 
said  the  bishop  in  a  voice  whose  stem  tones 
were  miilgled  with  something  like  contempt. 

"I  beg  your  lordship  to  hear  me,"  jiro- 
ceeded  Father  oNIaguire.  "You  say  that 
Reilly  has  associated  more  frequently  with 
Protestants  than  he  has  with  persons  of  our 
own  religion.  That  may  be  true,  and  I  gi-ant 
that  it  is  so  ;  but,  my  lord,  are  you  awai*e 
that  he  has  exercised  the  influence  which  he 
has  possessed  over  them  for  the  protection 
and  advantage  and  s;xfety  of  his  Catholic 
fi'iends  and  neighbors,  to  tlie  very  utmost  of 
his  ability,  and  fre(]ueDtly  with  success  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  they  obliged  him  because  they  cal- 


70 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


culated  upon  his  accession  to  their  creed  and 
piinciples." 

"My  lord,"  replied  the  priest  with  firm- 
ness, "I  am  an  humble  but  independent 
jnan  ;  if  humanity  and  generosity,  exercised 
is  I  have  seen  them  this  night,  guided  and 
directed  by  the  spirit  of  peace,  and  of  the 
word  of  God  itself,  can  afford  your  loi'dship 
a  guai'antee  of  the  high  and  Chi-istian  prin- 
ciples by  which  this  yoimg  man's  heart  is 
actuated,  then  I  may  with  confidence  recom- 
mend him  to  your  clemency." 

"  What  would  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  bishop. 

"  My  lord,  he  was  the  princij^al  means  of 
saving  the  lives  of  six  Protestants — heretics, 
I  mean — fi-om  being  cut  off  in  their  iniquities 
and  sins  this  night." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  rephed  the  stern 
bishop  ;  "  explain  yourself !  " 

The  good  priest  then  gave  a  succinct 
account  of  the  circumstances  with  which  the 
reader  is  already  acquainted;  and,  after  having 
finished  his  brief  nai-rative,  the  unfortunate 
man  perceived  that,  instead  of  having  ren- 
dei-ed  Reilly  a  sendee,  he  had  strengthened 
the  suspicions  of  the  prelate  against  him. 

"  So  !  "  said  the  bishop,  "you  advance  the 
history  of  this  dastaixUy  conduct  as  an  argu- 
ment in  his  favor !  " 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  his  ej^es,  which 
had  actually  become  bloodshot,  blazed  again  ; 
his  breath  went  and  came  strongly,  and  he 
gi'ound  his  teeth  with  rage. 

Father  Maguire,  and  those  who  were 
present,  looked  at  each  other  with  eyes  in 
which  might  be  read  an  expression  of  deep 
sorrow  and  compassion.  At  length  a  mild- 
looking,  pale-faced  man,  with  a  clear,  benig- 
nant eye,  a^jproached  him,  and  lading  his 
hand  in  a  gentle  manner  upon  his  arm,  said, 
"Pray,  my  dear  lord,  let  me  entreat  3-our 
lordship  to  remember  the  precepts  of  our 
great  Master  :  '  Love  yo\ir  enemies  ;  bless 
them  that  curse  you  ;  do  good  to  them  that 
hate  you,  and  pray  for  them  that  despitefully 
use  you,  and  persecute  you.'  And  surely, 
my  lord,  no  one  knows  better  than  you  do 
that  this  is  the  spirit  of  our  religion,  and 
<hat  whenever  it  is  violated  the  fault  is  not 
(that  of  the  creed,  but  the  man." 

"  Under  any  circumstances,"  said  the  bish- 
op, declining  to  reply  to  this,  and  placing 
nis  open  hand  across  his  forehead,  as  if  he  felt 
confusion  or  pain — "  under  any  circumstan- 
ces, this  ijerson  must  take  the  oath  of  secrecy 
with  respect  to  the  existence  of  this  cave. 
Call  him  up." 

Eeilly,  as  we  have  said,  saw  at  once  that 
an  angry  discussion  had  taken  place,  and  felt  \ 
all  but  certain  that  he  was  himseK  involved  ; 
in  it.     The  piiest,  in  obedience  to  tlie  wish  I 
expressed    ^>y    the   bishop,    went    down   to ' 


where  he  stood,  and  whispering  to  hiir^ 
said : 

"  Salvation  to  me,  but  I  had  a  hard  battle 
for  you.  I  fought,  however,  like  a  trump. 
The  strange,  and — ahem — kind  of  man  you 
are  called  upon  to  meet  now  is  one  of  oui 
bishops — but  don't  you  pretend  to  know  that 
— he  has  heai'd  of  your  love  for  the  Cooleen 
Baivn,  and  of  her  love  for  you — be  easy  now 
— not  a  thing  it  will  be  but  the  meeting  of 
two  thunderbolts  between  you — and  he's 
afi-aid  3'ou'll  be  deluded  by  her  charms — turn 
apostate  on  our  hands — and  that  the  first 
thing  you're  likely  to  do,  when  you  get  out 
of  this  subterranean  palace  of  oui-s,  will  be 
to  betray  its  existence  to  the  heretics.  I 
have  now  put  you  on  your  guard,  so  keep  a 
sharp  lookout ;  be  mild  as  mother's  milk. 
But  if  you  '  my  lord  '  him,  I'm  dished  as  a 
traitor  beyond  redemption." 

Now,  if  the  simple-hearted  priest  had  been 
tempted  by  the  enemy  himself  to  place  these 
two  men  in  a  position  where  a  battle-royal 
between  them  was  most  Hkely  to  ensue,  he 
could  not  have  taken  a  more  successful  course 
for  that  object.  Keilly,  the  firm,  the  high- 
minded,  the  honorable,  and,  though  last  not 
least,  the  most  indignant  at  any  imputation 
against  his  integrity,  now  accompanied  the 
priest  in  a  state  of  indignation  that  was 
nearly  a  match  for  that  of  the  bishop. 

"This  is  IMi'.  Eeilly,  gentlemen;  a  firm 
and  an  honest  Catholic,  w'ho,  hke  ourselves, 
is  suffering  for  his  rehgion." 

"ISIr.  Reilly,"  said  the  bishop,  "it  is  good 
to  suffer  for  our  rehgion." 

"It  is  our  duty,"  rephed  Reilly,  "when 
we  are  called '  ujion  to  do  so  ;  but  for  my 
pai't,  I  must  confess,  I  have  no  relish  what- 
soever for  the  honors  of  martyrdom.  I 
would  rather  aid  it  and  assist  it  than  suffer 
for  it." 

The  bishop  gave  a  stern  look  at  his  friends, 
as  much  as  to  say  :  "  You  hear  !  incipient 
heresy  and  treachery  at  the  first  step." 

"  He's  more  mad  than  the  bishop,"  thought 
Father  Maguire  ;  "in  God's  name  what  will 
come  next,  I  wonder  ?  ReiUy's  blood,  some- 
how%  is  u-p  ;  and  there  they  are  looking  at 
each  other,  like  a  pair  o'  game  cocks,  with 
their  necks  stretched  out  in  a  cockpit — Avhen 
I  was  a  boy  I  used  to  go  to  see  them — ready 
to  dash  upon  one  another." 

"  Are  you  not  now  suffering  for  your  re- 
hgion ?  "  asked  the  prelate. 

"No,"  replied  Reilly,  "it  is  not  for  tlie 
sake  of  my  religion  that  I  have  suffered  any 
thing.  Religion  is  made  only  a  pretext  for 
it ;  but  it  is  not,  in  truth,  on  that  account  that 
I  have  been  persecuted." 

"  Pray,  then,  sir,  may  I  inquire  the  cause 
of  your  persecution  ?  " 


W/LLT  RFJLJ.Y. 


"You  may,"  replied  Reilly,  "but  I  shall 
decline  to  answer  you.  li;  comes  not  within 
your  jurisdiction,  but  is  a  matter  altogether 
personal  to  myself,  and  with  which  you  can 
have  no  concern." 

Here  a  groan  from  the  priest,  which  he 
could  not  suppress,  was  shivered  off,  by  a 
tremendous  effort,  into  a  scries  of  broken 
coughs,  got  up  in  order  to  conceal  his  alarm 
at  the  fatal  progress  which  Eeilly,  he  thought, 
was  unconsciously  making  to  his  own  ruin. 

"  Troth,"  thought  he,  "  the  soldiers  were 
nothing  at  all  to  what  this  will  be.  There 
his  fi'iends  would  have  found  the  body  and 
given  him  a  decent  burial  ;  but  here  neither 
friend  nor  fellow  will  know  where  to  look  for 
him.  I  was  almost  the  first  man  that  took 
the  oath  to  keep  the  existence  of  this  place 
secret  from  all  unless  those  that  were  suffer- 
ing for  their  religion  ;  and  now,  by  denjTing 
that,  he  has  me  in  the  trap  along  with  him- 
self." 

A  second  gi'oan,  shaken  out  of  its  con- 
tinuity into  another  comical  shower  of  fi'ag- 
mental  coughs,  closed  this  dreaiy  but  silent 
soliloquy. 

The  bishop  proceeded  :  "  You  have  been 
inveigled,  young  man,  by  the  chai-ms  of  a 
deceitful  and  heretical  syren,  for  the  piu-pose 
of  alienating  you  from  the  creed  of  your  fore- 
fathers." 

"It  is  fixlse,"  replied  Keilly  ;  "false,  if  it 
proceeded  fi'om  the  hps  of  the  Pope  himself ; 
and  if  his  hjDS  uttered  to  me  what  you  now 
have  done,  I  would  fling  the  falsehood  in  his 
teeth,  as  I  do  now  in  yours — yes,  if  my  life 
should  pay  the  forfeit  of  it.  What  have  you 
to  do  with  my  private  concerns  ?  " 

Reilly's  indignant  and  impetuous  reply  to 
the  prelate  struck  all  who  heard  it  with  dis- 
may, and  also  with  horror,  Avhen  they  be- 
thought themselves  of  the  consequences. 

"  You  are  a  heretic  at  heai't,"  said  the  other, 
knitting  his  brows  ;  "  fi'om  your  ovnx  language 
you  stand  confessed — a  heretic." 

"I  know  not,"  repUed  Keilly,  "by  what 
right  or  authority  you  adopt  this  ungentle- 
manly  and  iUiberal  conduct  towards  me  ;  but 
so  long  as  youi-  language  applies  only  to  my- 
self and  my  reUgiou,  I  shall  answer  you  in  a 
different  sjDirit.  In  the  first  place,  then,  you 
are  gi-ievously  mistaken  in  supposing  me  to 
be  a  heretic.  I  am  time  and  faithful  to  my 
creed,  and  wiU  live  and  die  in  it." 

Father  Maguire  felt  reUeved,  and  breathed 
more  fi'eely  ;  a  gi'oan  was  coming,  but  it  ended 
in  a  "hem." 

"Before  we  proceed  any  fiirther,  su-,"  said 
tliis  sti-ange  man,  "you  must  take  an  oath." 

"For  what  pm-pose,  sir?"  inquu-ed  Reil- 
Iv. 

"An  oath  of  secrecy  as  to  the  existence  of 


this  place  of  our  retreat.  There  are  at  pres- 
ent here  some  of  the —  "  he  checked  himselt 
as  if  afraid  to  proceed  farther.  "  In  fact, 
every  man  who  is  admitted  amongst  us  must 
take  the  oath." 

Reilly  looked  at  him  with  indignation. 
"  Surely,"  thought  he  to  himself,  "  this  man 
must  be  mad  ;  his  looks  ai*e  wild,  and  the  fire 
of  insanity-  is  in  his  eyes  ;  if  not,  he  is  noth- 
ing less  than  an  incarnation  of  ecclesiasticai 
bigotry  and  folly.  The  man  must  be  mad,  or 
worse."     At  length  he  addressed  him. 

"You  doubt  my  integritj'  and  my  honor, 
then,"  he  rej^lied  haughtily. 

"  We  doubt  every  man  until  he  is  bound 
by  his  oath." 

"You  must  continue  to  doubt  me,  then," 
replied  Reilly  ;  "  for,  most  assuredly,  I  will 
not  take  it." 

"  You  must  take  it,  sir,"  said  the  other, 
"  or  you  never  leave  the  cavern  which  covers 
you,"  and  his  eyes  once  more  blazed  as  he 
uttered  the  words. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Reilly,  "  there  appear 
to  be  fifteen  or  sixteen  of  you  present :  may 
I  be  jDermitted  to  ask  why  you  suffer  this  un- 
happy man  to  be  at  large  ?  " 

"Will  you  take  the  oath,  sir?"  persisted 
the  insane  bishop  in  a  voice  of  thunder — 
"heretic  and  devd,  Avill  you  take  the  oath?" 

"Unquestionably  not.  I  -will  never  take 
any  oath  that  would  imply  want  of  honor  in 
myself.  Cease,  then,  to  trouble  me  ■^'ith  it 
I  shall  not  take  it." 

This  last  reply  affected  the  bishop's  reason 
so  deeply  that  he  looked  about  him  strangely, 
and  exclaimed,  "We  are  lost  and  betrayed. 
But  here  are  angels — I  see  them,  and  will 
join  in  their  blessed  society,"  and  as  he 
spoke,  he  rushed  towards  the  stalactites  in 
a  manner  somewhat  wild  and  violent,  so 
much  so,  indeed,  that  from  an  apprehension 
of  his  receiving  injury  in  some  of  the  dark 
interstices  among  them,  they  found  it  neces- 
sary, for  his  sake,  to  grapple  with  him  for  a 
few  moments. 

But,  alas  I  they  had  very  httle  indeed  to 
grapi^le  -vrith.  The  man  was  but  a  shadow, 
and  they  found  him  in  their  hands  as  feeble 
as  a  child.  He  made  no  resistance,  but  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  managed  precisely  as 
they  wished.  Two  of  the  persons  present 
took  charge  of  him,  one  sitting  on  each  side 
of  him.  Reilly,  who  looked  on  with  am:ize- 
ment,  now  strongly  blended  with  pity — for 
the  malady  of  the  unhapi^y  ecclesiastic  could 
no  longer  be  mistaken — Reilly,  we  say,  was 
atldi-essed  by  an  intelligent-looking  indi- 
vidual, with  some  jDortion  of  the  clerical 
costume  about  him. 

"  Alas  !  sir,"  said  he,  "  it  was  not  too  much 
learning,    but  too   much   pei*secution,    thiit 


T2 


]VILi./AJI   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


has  made  him  matl.  That  and  the  ascetic 
habits  of  his  hfe  have  clouded  or  destroyed 
a  great  intellect  and  a  good  heart.  He  has 
eaten  only  one  sparing  meal  a  day  during 
the  last  month  ;  and  though  severe  and  seK- 
denying  to  himself,  he  was,  until  the  last 
week  or  so,  like  a  father,  and  an  indulgent 
one,  to  us  till." 

At  this  moment  the  pale,  mild-looking 
clergyman,  to  whom  we  have  alluded,  went 
over  to  where  the  bishop  sat,  and  thi'owing 
himself  upon  his  bosom,  burst  into  tears. 
The  sorrow  indeed  became  infectious,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  there  were  not  many  dry 
eyes  around  him.  Father  Maguire,  who 
was  ignorant  of  the  progressive  change  that 
had  taken  place  in  him  since  his  last  visit  to 
the  cave,  now  wept  hke  a  child,  and  Eeilly 
himself  experienced  something  that  amount- 
ed to  remorse,  when  he  reflected  on  the  ir- 
reverent tone  of  voice  in  which  he  had  re- 
phed  to  him. 

The  paroxysm,  however,  appeared  to  have 
passed  awfty  ;  he  was  quite  feeble,  but  not 
jjroperly  collected,  though  calm  and  qmet. 
.Ifler  a  httle  time  he  requested  to  be  put  to 
bed.  And  this  leads  us  to  the  descrii^tion 
of  another  portion  of  the  cave  to  which  we 
have  not  yet  referred.  At  the  upper  end  of 
the  stalactite  apartment,  which  we  have 
already  described,  there  was  a  large  projec- 
tion of  rock,  which  nearly  divided  it  from 
the  other,  and  which  discharged  the  office 
of  a  wall,  or  partition,  between  the  two 
apartments.  Here  there  was  a  good  fire 
kept,  but  only  during  the  hours  of  night, 
inasmuch  as  the  smoke  which  issued  from 
a  rent  or  cleft  in  the  top  of  this  apart- 
ment would  have  discovered  them  by  day. 
Through  this  slight  chasm^  which  was  strictly 
concealed,  they  received  provisions,  water, 
and  fuel.  In  fact,  it  would  seem  as  if  the 
whole  cave  had  been  expressly  designed  for 
the  purpose  to  which  it  was  then  apjolied, 
or,  at  least,  for  some  one  of  a  similar  nature. 

On  entering  this,  Eeilly  found  a  good  fire, 
on  which  was  placed  a  lax'ge  pot  with  a  mess 
in  it,  which  emitted  a  very  savory  odor. 
Around  the  sides,  or  waUs  of  this  rock,  were 
at  least  a  score  of  heather  shake-down  beds, 
the  fragrance  of  which  was  delicious.  Pots, 
pans,  and  other  simple  culinary  articles  were 
there,  Avith  a  tolerable  stock  of  provisions, 
not  omitting  a  good-sized  keg  of  mountain 
dew,  which  their  secluded  position,  the 
dampness  of  the  place,  and  their  absence 
from  free  air,  rendered  very  necessary  and 
gratifying. 

"  Here  !  "  exclaimed  Father  Maguire,  after 
the  feeble  prelate  had  been  assisted  to  this 
r<H;ess,  "here,  now,  put  his  lordship  to  bed  ; 
J  «ip.ve  tossed  it  up  for  him  in  gi'eat  style  ! 


I  assure  you,  my  dear  friends,  it's  a  shake- 
down fit  for  a  i^rince  ! — and  better  than  most 
of  the  thieves  desei^ve.  What  bed  of  down 
ever  had  the  sweet  fragrance  this  flowery 
heather  sends  forth  ?  Here,  my  lord — easy, 
now — lay  him  down  gently,  just  as  a  mother 
would  her  sleej^ing  child — for,  indeed,  he  is 
a  child,"  he  whispered,  "and  as  weak  as  a 
child  ;  but  a  sound  sleej)  will  do  him  good, 
and  he'll  be  a  new  man  in  the  morning, 
please  God." 

UiDon  this  rough,  but  wholesome  and 
aromatic  couch,  the  exhausted  prelate  was 
placed,  where  he  had  not  been  many  minutes 
until  he  fell  into  a  profound  sleep,  a  fact 
which  gratified  them  verj'  much,  for  they 
assured  Eeill}-  and  the  priest  that  he  had 
slept  but  a  few  hours  each  night  during  the 
last  week,  and  that  such  slumber  as  he  did 
get  was  feverish  and  unquiet. 

Oxu*  good-humored  fiiend,  however,  was 
now  cordially  welcomed  b}'  these  unfortunate 
ecclesiastics,  for  such,  in  fact,  the  majority 
of  them  were.  His  presence  seemed  to  them 
hke  a  ray  of  Hght  fi-om  the  sun.  His  good 
humor,  his  excellent  spirits,  which  nothing 
could  repress,  and  his  drollery  kejDt  them 
alive,  and  nothing  was  so  much  regi'etted  by 
them  as  his  temporary  absences  fi'om  time  to 
time  ;  for,  in  truth,  he  was  their  messenger, 
their  steward,  and  their  newsman — in  fact, 
the  only  link  that  connected  them  with 
external  hfe,  and  the  ongoings  of  the  world 
abroad.  The  bed  in  which  the  bishop  now 
slept  was  in  a  distant  comer  of  this  inner 
apartment,  or  dormitory,  as  it  might  be 
termed,  because  the  situation  was  higher  and 
drier,  and  consequently  more  healthy,  as  a 
sleeping-place,  than  any  other  which  the  rude 
apartment  aftbrded.  The  fire  on  which  the 
large  pot  simmered  was  at  least  a  distance  of 
twenty-five  3-ards  fi'om  his  bed,  so  that  they 
could  indulge  in  conversation  without  much 
risk  of  disturbing  him. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  Eeilly  and  his 
friend  Father  Maguu-e  felt,  by  this  time,  a 
tolerably  strong  relish  for  something  in  the 
shape  of  sustenance — a  rehsh  which  was  ex- 
ceedingly sharpened  by  the  savory  smell  sent 
forth  throughout  the  aj^artment  by  the  con- 
tents of  whatsoever  was  contained  in  the  im- 
mense pot. 

"  My  dear  brethren,"  said  the  priest,  "  let 
us  consider  this  cavern  as  a  rich  monastery ; 
such,  alas  !  as  existed  in  the  good  days  of  okl, 
when  the  larder  and  refectory  were  a  credit 
to  rehgion  and  a  i-elief  to  the  destitute,  but 
which,  alas  ! — and  alas  !  again — we  can  only 
think  of  as  a — in  the  meantime,  I  can  stand 
this  no  longer.  H  I  possess  judgment  or 
penetration  in  re  cuHnaria,  I  am  of  opinion," 
he   added   (stii'ring  up  the  contents  of  it), 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


73 


"  that  it  is  fit  to  be  operated  on  ;  so,  in  God's 
name,  let  us  have  at  it." 

In  a  few  minutes  two  or  three  immense 
pewter  dishes  were  heaped  with  a  stew  made 
up  of  mutton,  bacon,  liung  beef,  onions,  and 
potatoes,  forming  indeed  a  most  dehcious 
mess  for  any  man,  'uuch  less  the  miserable 
men  who  were  making  it  disappeai*  so  rajjid- 

Reilly,  the  very  picture  of  health,  after 
maintaining  a  pace  inferior  to  tliat  of  none, 
although  there  wei'e  decidedly  some  handy 
workmen  there,  now  was  forced  to  pvdl  up 
and  hidt.  In  the  meantime  some  slow  but 
steady  operations  went  on  with  a  perseverance 
that  was  highly  creditable  ;  and  it  was  now 
that,  having  a  little  agi-eeable  leisure  to 
observe  and  look  about  him,  he  began  to 
examine  the  extraordinary  costumes  of  the 
incongi'uous  society  in  which,  to  his  astonish- 
ment, he  found  himself  a  part}-.  We  must, 
however,  first  account  for  the  oddness  and 
incongniity  of  the  aj^parent  characters  which 
they  were  forced  to  assume. 

At  this  period  the  Catholics  of  Ireland  were 
indeed  frightfully  oppressed.  A  proclama- 
tion had  recently  been  issued  by  the  Govern- 
ment, who  dreaded,  or  jDrctended  to  dread, 
an  insurrection — by  which  document  con- 
vents and  monasteries  were  suppressed — 
rewards  offered  for  the  detection  and  appre- 
hension of  ecclesiastics,  and  for  the  iiunish- 
ment  of  such  humane  magistrates  as  were 
reluctant  to  enforce  laws  so  unsjjaring  and 
oppressive.  Increased  rewards  were  also 
ottered  to  spies  and  informers,  with  whom 
the  country  unfortunately  abounded.  A 
general  disarming  of  all  Catholics  took  place  ; 
domiciUary  \asits  were  made  in  quest  of 
bishops,  priests,  and  friars,  and  all  the  chapels 
in  the  country  were  shut  up.  Many  of  the 
clergy  flew  to  the  metropolis,  where  they 
imagined  they  might  be  more  safe,  and  a  vast 
number  to  caverns  and  mountains,  in  order 
to  avoid  the  common  danger,  and  especicilly 
from  a  wholesome  terror  of  that  class  of  men 
called  priest-hunters.  The  Catholic  peasantry 
having  discovered  their  clergy  in  these  -wild 
retx'eats,  flocked  to  them  on  Sundays  and 
festivals,  in  order  to  join  in  j^rivate — not 
public — woi-ship,  and  to  partake  of  the  rites 
and  sacraments  of  their  Church. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  countiy  at  the 
period  when  the  unfortunate  men  whom  we 
are  about  to  describe  were  pent  up  in  this 
newly  discovered  caveni. 

Now,  Eeilly  himself  was  perfectly  ac- 
quainted with  all  this,  and  knew  very  well 
that  these  unhappj'  men,  having  been  fre- 
quently compelled  to  put  on  the  first  dis- 
guise that  came  to  hand,  had  not  means,  nor 
indeed  disjjosition,  to  change  these  disguises, 


unless  at  the  risk  of  being  recognized,  taken 
into  custody,  and  svu*rendered  to  the  mere} 
of  the  law. 

When  their  savory  meal  was  concluded, 
Father  Maguire,  who  never  forgot  any  duty 
connected  with  his  position — be  that  v/here 
it  might — now  went  over  to  the  large  pot, 
exclaiming : 

"  It  would  be  too  bad,  my  friends,  to  for- 
get the  creatures  here  that  have  been  so 
faithful  and  so  steady  to  us.  Poor  things,  I 
could  see,  by  the  way  they  fixed  their  long- 
ing eyes  upon  us  while  we  were  doing  the 
handy-work  at  the  stew,  that  if  the  matter 
had  been  left  to  themselves,  not  a  spoon- 
ful ever  went  into  our  mouths  but  they'd 
have  practised  the  docti'ine  of  tithe  upon. 
Come,  darhngs — here,  now,  is  a  little  race 
for  you — every  one  of  you  seize  a  spoon, 
keep  a  hospitable  mouth  and  a  sujiple  wrist. 
These  creatures,  ^Ir.  ReiUy,  are  so  many  lit- 
tle brands  plucked  out  of  the  burning.  They 
are  the  cliildren  of  parents  who  suttiered  for 
their  faith,  and  were  brought  here  to  avoid 
being  put  into  these  new  trajDs  for  young 
Catholics,  called  Charter  Schools,  into  which 
the  Govennnent  wishes  to  hook  in  our  ris- 
ing generation,  under  pretence  of  support- 
ing and  educating  them  ;  but,  in  point  of 
fact,  to  ahenate  them  from  the  aftection  of 
their  parents  and  relations,  and  to  train 
them  up  in  the  State  rehgion,  poor  things. 
At  all  events,  they  are  very  handy  to  us  here, 
for  the}-  slip  out  by  turns  and  bring  us  al- 
most every  thing  we  want — and  not  one  of 
them  ever  opened  his  Hps  as  to  the  exist- 
ence of  this  -^prlunca." 

The  meal  of  the  poor  things  was  abun- 
dant, but  they  soon  gave  over,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  tumbled  themselves  into  their 
heather  beds,  and  wei*e  soon  sunk  in  their 
innocent  slumbers. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,  that  we  have  eaten  a 
better  meal  than  we  could  expect  in  this 
miserable  place,  thanks  to  the  kindness  of 
our  faithful  flocks,  what  do  you  think  of  a 
sup  of  what's  in  the  keg  ?  Good  eating  de- 
serves a  drop  of  mixture  after  it,  to  aid  in 
carrying  on  the  process  of  digestion  !  Father 
Hennessy,  what  are  you  at?"  he  exclaimed, 
ad(b'essing  an  exceedingly  ill-looking  man, 
with  heavy  brows  and  a  sinister  a.spect.  "  You 
forget,  sir,  that  the  management  of  the  keg 
is  my  duty,  whenever  I  am  here.  You  are 
the  only  person  here  who  violates  our  regula- 
tions in  that  rer.pect.  Walk  back  and  w:\it 
till  you  are  helpetl  like  another.  Do  you 
call  that  being  spiritually  inclined  ?  If  so, 
there  is  not  a  doubt  of  it  but  you  ought 
to  be  a  bishop  ;  and  if  you  come  to  that.  111 
stake  my  credit  on  it  that  you'll  never  let 
much  wind  into  your  stomach  so  long  as  you 


74 


WILLIAM   CAltLETON'S  ^YORKS. 


can  get  plentj'  of  the  solids  and  fluids  to 
keep  it  out." 

"  I'm  weak  in  the  stomach,"  replied  Hen- 
nessy,  vdi\\  a  seusujil  grin,  "and  require  it." 

"But  I  say,"  replied  ra,ther  Maguire, 
"  that  it  would  require  stronger  proof  than 
any  your  outward  man  jiresents  to  confirm 
the  trutli  of  that.  As  for  bearing  a  load 
either  of  the  liquids  or  solids  aforesaid,  111 
bade  yoiu'  bit  of  abdomen  there  against  those 
of  any  three  of  us." 

CujDs  and  noggins,  and  an  indescribable  va- 
riety of  small  vessels  that  were  never  designed 
for  drinking,  were  now  called  into  requisi- 
tion, and  a  modei-atc  portion  of  the  keg  was 
distributed  among  them.  EeiUy,  Avhile  en- 
joying his  cup,  which  as  well  as  the  others 
he  did  with  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction, 
could  not  help  being  amused  by  the  comical 
peculiarity  of  their  disguises. 

The  sii^ister-looking  clergyman,  whom  we 
have  named  Hennessy,  subsequently  became 
a  spy  and  informer,  and,  we  may  add,  an 
enemy  equally  formidable  and  treacherous 
to  the  Catholics  of  the  time,  in  consequence 
of  having  been  dei:)rived  of  his  clerical  func- 
tions by  his  bishop,  who  could  not  overlook 
his  immoral  and  irregTilar  conduct.  He  is 
mentioned  by  Matthew  O'Connor,  in  his  "  His- 
tory of  the  Ii'ish  Catholics,"  and  consigned 
to  infamy  as  one  of  the  greatest  scourges, 
against  both  the  priesthood  and  the  people, 
that  ever  disgraced  the  counti-y.  But  it  must 
be  admitted  that  he  stands  out  in  dark  re- 
lief against  the  great  body  of  the  Catholic 
priests  at  that  j^eriod,  whose  firmness,  pa- 
tience, and  fidelity  to  their  ti-ust,  places 
them  above  all  praise  and  all  suspicion.  It  is, 
howeve)-,  very  reasonable,  that  men  so  hunted 
and  i)ersecuted  should  be  forced,  not  only  in 
defence  of  their  own  lives  and  liberties,  but  al- 
so for  the  sake  of  their  fiocks,  to  assume  such 
costumes  as  might  most  effectually  disguise 
them,  so  that  they  would  be  able  still,  even 
in  secret  and  by  stealth,  to  administer  the 
rites  of  their  religion  to  the  poor  and  neg- 
lected of  their  own  creed.  Some  were 
dressed  in  common  frieze,  some  in  servants' 
cast-oflf  liveries — however  they  came  by 
them — and  not  a  few  in  military  uniform, 
that  served,  as  it  were,  to  mark  tliem  staunch 
supiDorters  of  the  very  Government  that 
persecuted  them.  A  reverend  archdeacon, 
somewhat  comely  and  corpulent,  had,  by 
some  means  or  other,  procured  the  garb  of 
a  recruiting  sergeant,  which  fitted  him  so 
admirably  that  the  illusion  was  complete  ; 
and,  what  bore  it  out  still  more  forcibly,  was 
the  presence  of  a  smart-looking  little  friar, 
who  kept  the  sergeant  in  countenance  in  the 
uniform  of  a  drummer.  Mass  was  celebrat- 
ed every  day,  hymns  were  sung,  and  pi-ayers 


offered  up  to  the  Almighty,  that  it  mighi 
please  him  to  check  the  flood  of  persecution 
which  had  overwhelmed  or  scattered  them. 
StiU,  in  the  intervals  of  devotion,  thej'  in- 
dulged in  that  reasonable  cheerfulness  and 
harmless  muih  which  were  necessary  to  sup- 
l^ort  their  spirits,  depressed  as  they  must 
have  been  by  this  dreadful  and  melancholy 
confinement^ — a  confinement  where  neither 
the  light  of  the  blessed  sun,  nor  the  fresh 
breezes  of  heaven,  nor  the  air  we  breathe, 
in  its  usual  purity,  could  reach  them.  Sii 
Thomas  More  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
however,  were  cheerful  on  the  scaffold  ;  and 
even  here,  as  we  have  already  said,  many  a 
rustic  tale  and  legend,  peculiar  to  those 
times,  went  pleasautl}-  around  ;  many  a  the- 
ological debate  took  place,  and  many  a  thesis 
was  discussed,  in  order  to  enable  the  un- 
hapjDy  men  to  pass  away  the  tedious  monotony 
of  their  imprisonment  in  this  strange  lurk- 
ing-place. The  onty  man  who  kept  aloof  and 
took  no  part  in  these  amusing  recreations 
was  Henness}^  who  seemed  moody  and  sul- 
len, but  who,  nevertheless,  was  frequently 
detected  in  making  stolen  visits  to  the  bai'reL 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  however,  the 
sight  was  a  melancholy  one ;  and  whatever 
disposition  Reilly  felt  to  smile  at  what  he 
saw  and  heard  was  instantly  changed  on 
perceiving  their  unaffected  piet}',  which  was 
evident  by  their  manner,  and  a  rude  altar  in 
a  remote  end  of  the  cave,  which  was  laid  out 
night  and  day  for  the  purjDose  of  celebrating 
the  ceremonies  and  mysteries  of  their 
Church.  Before  he  went  to  his  couch  of 
heather,  however,  he  called  Father  Maguii-e 
aside,  and  thus  addressed  him  : 

"I  have  been  a  good  deal  struck  to-night, 
my  friend,  by  all  that  I  have  witnessed  in 
this  singular  retreat.  The  poor  prelate  I 
pity  ;  and  I  regret  I  did  not  understand  him 
sooner.     His  mind,  I  fear,  is  gone." 

"Why,  I  didn't  understand  him  myself," 
rephed  the  priest ;  "  because  this  was  the 
first  symptom  he  has  shown  of  any  derange- 
ment in  his  intellect,  otherwise  I  Avould  no 
more  have  contradicted  him  than  I  would 
have  cut  my  left  hand  off." 

"There  is,  however,  a  man — a  clergyman 
here,  called  HennQSpy  ;  who  is  he,  and  what 
has  been  his  life  ?  " 

"Why,"  replied  the  other,  "I  have  heard 
nothing  to  his  disadvantage.  He  is  a  quiet, 
and,  it  is  said,  a  pious  man — and  I  think  he 
is  too.  He  is  naturally  silent,  and  seldom 
takes  any  part  in  om*  conversation.  He  says, 
however,  that  his  concealment  here  beai's 
hard  upon  him,  and  is  depressing  his  spirits 
every  day  more  and  more.  The  only  thing 
1  ever  could  observe  in  him  is  what  you  saw 
yourself  to-night — a  sUght  relish  for  an  ac 


WILLY  REILLY. 


75 


qiiaintance  \vith  the  barrel.  He  sometimes 
(Iraius  a  drop — indeed,  sometimes  too  much— 
out  of  it,  when  he  gets  our  backs  turned  ;  but 
then  he  pleads  low  spirits  three  or  four  times 
a  day — indeed,  so  often  that,  upon  my  word, 
be'll  soon  have  the  barrel  pleading  the  same 
complaint." 

"Well,"  replied  Reilly,  after  Hstening 
attentively  to  him,  "  I  desire  you  and  your 
fiieuds  to  watch  that  man  closely.  I  know 
something  about  him  ;  and  I  tell  you  that  if 
ever  the  laws  become  more  lenient,  the  mo- 
ment this  man  makes  his  appeai'ance  his 
bishop  will  deprive  him  of  all  spiritual  juris- 
diction for  life.  Mark  me  now,  Father 
Maguu-e  ;  if  he  pleads  any  necessity  for 
lea\'ing  this  retreat  and  going  abroad  again 
into  the  world,  don't  let  a  single  individual 
of  you  remain  here  one  hour  after  him. 
Provide  for  youi-  safety  and  your  shelter 
elsewhere  as  well  as  you  can  ;  if  not,  the 
worst  consequences  may — nay,  will  follow." 

Tlie  priest  promised  to  communicate  this 
intelligence  to  his  companions,  one  by  one, 
after  which,  both  he  and  Reilly,  feeling 
fatigued  and  exhausted  by  Avhat  they  had 
undergone  in  the  course  of  the  night,  threw 
themselves  each  upon  his  couch  of  heather, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  not  only  they,  but  all 
their  companions,  were  sunk  in  deep  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XL 

The  Squires  Dinner  and  his  Guests. 

We  now  return  to  Cooleen  Baton,  who, 
after  her  sejDaration  from  Reilly,  retired  to 
her  own  room,  where  she  indulged  in  a 
paroxysm  of  deep  grief,  in  consequence  of 
her  apprehension  that  she  might  never  see 
him  again.  She  also  calculated  upon  the 
certainty  of  being  obhged  to  sustain  a 
domestic  warfare  with  her  father,  as  the 
result  of  having  made  him  the  confidant  of 
her  love.  In  this,  however,  she  was  agi-eeably 
disappointed  ;  for,  on  meeting  him  the  next 
morning,  at  breakfast,  she  was  a  good  deal 
surprised  to  observe  that  he  made  no  allu- 
sion whatsoever  to  the  circumstance — if,  in- 
deed, an  occasional  muttering  of  some  unin- 
telligible words,  s(Ato  voce,  might  not  be 
sujDposed  to  aUude  to  it.  The  tiiith  was, 
the  old  man  found  the  promise  he  had  made 
to  Sir  Robert  one  of  such  difficulty  to  his 
testy  and  violent  disposition,  that  his  lan- 
guage, and  the  restraint  which  he  felt  him- 
self under  the  necessity  of  putting  on  it, 
rendered  his  conversation  rather  ludicrous. 

"Well,  Helen,"  he  said,  on  entering  the 
breakfast-parlor,    "how  did    you  rest  kst 


night,  my  love?  Rested  sound — eh?  Bui 
you  look  rather  pale,  darling.  (Hang  the 
rascal !)  " 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  slept  as  well  as  usual, 
sir.     I  felt  headache." 

"  Ay,  headache — was  it  ?  (heartache,  rather. 
The  villain.)  Well  come,  let  me  have  a  cup 
of  tea  and  a  mouthiul  of  that  toast." 

"  Will  you  not  have  some  chicken,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear — no  ;  just  what  I  said — a 
mouthful  of  toast,  and  a  cup  of  tea,  with 
plenty  of  cream  in  it.  Thank  you,  love.  (A 
good  swing  for  him  will  be  delightful.  I'U 
go  to  see  it.)  Helen,  my  dear,  I'm  going  to 
give  a  dinner-party  next  week.  Of  course 
we'll  have  yoiu-  future — hem — I  mean  we'll 
have  Sii'  Robert,  and — let  me  see — who  else  ? 
Why,  Oxley,  the  sheriti",  ]Mi\  Brown,  the 
parson — I  wish  he  didn't  lean  so  much  to  the 
cursed  Papists,  though — Mr.  Hastings,  who 
is  tarred  with  the  same  stick,  it  is  whispered. 
Well,  who  next  ?  Lord  Deilmacare,  a  good- 
natured  jackass-^a  fellow  who  would  eat  a 
jacketful  of  cai-rion,  if  jjlaced  before  him, 
with  as  much  gout  as  if  it  were  venison.  He 
went  home  one  night,  out  of  this,  with  the 
parson's  outside  coat  and  shovel  hat  upon 
him,  and  did  not  retm-n  them  for  two  days.'" 

"  Does  this  habit  proceed  from  stupicUty, 
papa?" 

"Not  at  all;  but  from  mere  carelessness. 
The  next  two  days  he  was  out  with  his 
laborers,  and  if  a  cow  or  pig  chanced — (the 
villain !  we'll  hang  him  to  a  certainty) — 
chanced,  I  say,  to  stray  into  the  field,  he 
would  shy  the  shovel  hat  at  them,  without 
remorse.  Oh  !  v/e  must  have  him,  by  aU 
means.  But  who  next  ?  Sir  Jenkins  Joram. 
Give  him  plenty  to  diink,  and  he  is  satis- 
fied." 

"But  what  are  his  pohtical  principles, 
papa?" 

"  They  ai-e  to  be  found  in  the  bottle, 
Helen,  which  is  the  only  creed,  political  oi 
religious,  to  which  I  ever  knew  him  to  be 
attached  ;  and  I  tell  you,  girl,  that  if  every 
Pi'otestant  in  Ireland  were  as  deeply  devoted 
to  his  Church  as  he  is  to  the  bottle,  we  would 
soon  be  a  happy  people,  uncomipted  by 
treacherous  scoundrels,  who  privately  harbor 
Papists  and  foster  Popery  itself.  (The  in- 
fernal scoundrel. )  " 

"  But,  i^apa,"  replied  liis  daugliter,  with  a 
melancholy  smile,  "I  think  I  know  .so»?<? 
persons,  who,  although  very  loud  and  vehe- 
ment in  theii'  outcry  against  Popery,  have, 
nevertheless,  on  more  than  one  or  two  oc- 
casions, harbored  Papists  in  their  house,  and 
concealed  even  priests,  when  the  minions  of 
the  law  were  in  search  of  them." 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  of  this  cursed  crew  of  hol- 
low Pi-otestixnts  that  I  now  speak — ahem-  — a  j 


te 


WILLIAM  CARLETON-'S  WORKS. 


— ha— well,  what  the  de\il — hem.  To  be 
sure  I — I — I — Dut  it  doesn't  signify  ;  we 
can't  be  wise  at  all  times.  But  after  all, 
Helen  (she  has  me  there),  after  all,  I  say, 
there  cu-e  some  good  Papists,  and  some  good 
— ahem — priests,  too.  There  now,  I've  got 
it  out.  However,  Helen,  those  foohsh  days 
ire  gone,  and  we  have  nothing  for  it  now 
Dut  to  hunt  Popery  out  of  the  country.  But 
to  proceed  as  to  the  dinner." 

"  I  think  Popery  is  suliering  enough,  sii-, 
and  more  than  enougli." 

"Ho,  ho,"  he  exclaimed  with  triumph, 
"  here  comes  the  next  on  my  list — a  hue  fel- 
low, who  will  touch  it  up  still  more  vigor-, 
ously — I  mean  Captain  ISmeUpriest." 

"I  have  lieai'd  of  that  inhuman  man,"  re- 
pUed  Helen  ;  "  I  wish  you  would  not  ask  him, 
papa.  I  am  told  he  equals  Sii"  Robert  White- 
craft  in  both  cowardice  and  cn;elty.  Is  not 
that  a  nickname  he  has  got  in  consequence 
of  Lis  activity  in  pursuit  of  the  vmfortunate 
priests  ?  " 

"It's  a  nickname  he  has  given  himself,"  re- 
plied her  father  ;  "  and  he  has  become  so 
proud  of  it  that  he  wiU  allow  himself  to  be 
called  by  no  other.  He  swears  that  if  a  priest 
(";ets  on  the  windy  side  of  him,  he  will  scent 
iim  as  a  hound  would  a  fox.  Oh  !  by  my 
honor,  Smehj^riest  must  be  here.  The  scoun- 
di'el  like  "Whitecraft ! — eh — what  am  I  saying? 
Smellpriest,  I  say,  first  began  his  career  as  a 
friend  to  the  Papists  ;  he  took  large  tracts  of 
(and  in  theii"  name,  and  even  pui'chased  a 
couple  of  estates  with  theii*  money  ;  and  in 
due  time,  according  as  the  tide  continued  to 
get  strong  agamst  them,  he  thought  the  best 
plan  to  cover  his  villany — ahem — his  pohcy, 
I  mean — was  to  come  out  as  a  tierce  loyalist ; 
and  as  a  mark  of  his  repentance,  he  claimed 
the  property,  as  the  real  purchaser,  and  ar- 
rested those  who  were  fools  enough  to  tnist 
him." 

"I  think  I  know  another  gentleman  of  my 
acqiiaiutance  who  holds  property  in  eome 
similar  trust  for  Papists,"  observed  Helen, 
"  but  who  certainly  is  incapable  of  imitating 
the  villany  of  that  most  unprincipled  man." 

"  Come,  come,  Helen  ;  come,  my  girl  ;  tut 
— ahem  ;  come,  you  are  getting  into  poUtics 
now,  and  that  will  never  do.  A  girl  hke  you 
ought  to  have  nothing  to  do  \\dth  pohtics  or 
religion." 

"  Religion  !  papa." 

"  Oh — hem — I  don't  mean  exactly  that. 
Oh,  no  ;  I  except  religion  ;  a  girl  may  be  as 
religious  as  she  pleases,  only  she  must  say  as 
httle  upon  the  subject  as  possible.  Come, 
another  cup  of  tea,  with  a  little  more  sugar, 
for,  I  give  you  my  honor,  you  did  not  m;ike 
the  Inst  one  of  \h.e>  sweetest ; "  and  so  say- 
jn;,',  he  put  over  his  cup  with  a  giimace, 


which  resembled  that  of  a  man  detected  in 
a  bad  action,  instead  of  a  good  one. 

At  this  moment  John,  the  butler,  came  in 
with  a  plate  of  hot  toast ;  and,  as  he  was  a 
privileged  old  man,  he  addressed  his  master 
without  much  hesitation. 

"  That  was  a  quare  business,"  he  observed, 
using  the  word  quare  as  an  equivocal  one. 
until  he  should  see  what  views  of  the  circum- 
stance his  master  might  take  ;  "  a  quare  busi- 
ness, sir,  that  happened  to  Mr.  Reilly." 

"  What  business  do  you  jillude  to,  j-ou  old 
sinner  ?  " 

"  The  burning  of  his  house  and  place,  sir. 
All  he  has,  or  had,  is  in  a  heap  of  ashes." 

Helen  felt  not  for  the  burning,  but  her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  features  of  tlie  old 
man,  as  if  the  doom  of  her  life  depended  on 
his  words  ;  whilst  the  paper  on  which  we 
write  is  not  whiter  than  were  her  cheeks. 

"What — what — how  v/as  it?"  asked  his 
master  ;  "  who  did  it  ? — and  by  whose  au- 
thority was  it  done  ?  " 

"  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  and  his  men  did 
it,  sir." 

"  Ay,  but  I  can't  conceive  he  had  any  au 
thority  for  such  an  act." 

"  Wasn't  j\Ir.  Reilly  an  outlaw,  su'  ?  Didn't 
the  Red  Paij^paree,  who  is  now  a  good  Protest- 
ant, swear  insurrection  against  him  ?  " 

"  The  red  deril,  sirra,"  rephed  the  old 
squire,  forgetting  his  animosity  to  Reilly  in 
the  atrocity  and  ojDpression  of  the  deed — 
"  the  red  devil,  sirra  !  would  that  justify  such 
a  cowardly  scoundrel  as  Sir  Rob — eh  ? — ugh 
— ugh — ugh— that  went  against  my  breath, 
Helen.  Well,  come  here,  I  say,  you  old  sin- 
ner ;  they  biu'ned  the  place,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Sir  Robert  and  his  men  did,  sir." 

"I'm  not  doubting  that,  you  old  house- 
leek.  I  know  Sii'  Roberi  too  well — I  know 
the  infernal — ahem ;  a  most  excellent  loyal 
gentleman,  with  two  or  three  fine  estates, 
both  here  and  in  England  ;  but  he  prefers 
living  here,  for  reasons  best  known  to  him- 
self and  me,  and — and  to  somebody  else. 
Well,  they  burned  Reilly  out — but  tell  me 
this  ;  did  thej'  catch  the  rascal  himself  ?  eh  r 
here's  five  pounds  for  you,  if  you  can  say  they 
have  him  safe." 

"  That's  rather  a  loose  bargain,  your  honor," 
replied  the  man  -with  a  smile  ;  "  for  saying 
it  ? — why,  what's  to  jDrevent  me  fi'om  saving 
it,  if  I  wished  ?  " 

"  None  of  your  mumping,  you  old  snai> 
dragon  ;  but  tell  me  the  tinith,  have  they  se- 
cui'ed  him  hard  and  fast  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  he  escaped  them,  and  as  report 
goes  they  know  nothing  about  him,  except 
that  they  h.aven't  got  him." 

Deep  and  speechless  was  the  agony  in 
which  Helen  sat  during  this  short  dialogue, 


WILLY  RE  ILLY, 


77 


her  eyes  having  never  once  been  withdra^vn 
from  the  butler's  countenance  ;  but  now  that 
she  had  heard  of  her  lover's  personal  safety, 
a  thick,  smothered  sob,  which,  if  it  v/ere  to 
kill  her,  she  could  not  repress,  burst  from 
her  bosom.  Unwilling  that  either  her  father 
or  the  sei'vant  should  witness  the  ecstasy 
which  she  could  not  conceal,  and  feeling  that 
another  minute  Avould  disclose  the  delight 
which  convulsed  her  heart  and  frame,  she 
arose,  and,  with  as  much  composure  as  she 
could  assume,  went  slowly  out  of  the  room. 
On  entering  her  apartment,  she  signed  to  her 
maid  to  withdraw,  after  which  she  closed 
and  bolted  the  door,  and  wejot  bitterly.  The 
poor  girl's  emotion,  in  fact,  was  of  a  twofold 
chai'acter  ;  she  wept  with  joy  at  Eeilly's  es- 
cape, from  the  hands  of  his  cruel  and  relent- 
less enemy,  and  with  bitter  grief  at  the  im- 
possibility which  she  thought  there  existed 
that  he  should  ultimately  be  able  to  keep 
out  of  the  meshes  which  she  knew  White- 
craft  would  spread  for  him.  The  tears,  how- 
ever, which  she  shed  abundantly,  in  due  [ 
time  relieved  her,  and  in  the  course  of  an  ■ 
hour  or  two  she  was  able  to  appear  as  usual 
in  the  family.  I 

The  reader  may  perceive  that  her  father,  ' 
though  of  an  abrupt  and  cynical  temper,  was 
not  a  man  naturally  of  a  bad  or  unfeeling 
heart.     Whatever  mood  of  temper  chanced 
to  be  uppermost  influenced  him  for  the  time  ; 
and  indeed  it  might  be  said  that  one  half  of 
his  feelings  were  usually  in  a  state  of  conflict , 
with  the  other.     In  matters  of  business  he  | 
was  the  very  soul  of  integrity  and  honor,  but  { 
in  his  views  of  pubhc  affairs  he  was  uncertain 
and  inconsistent ;  and  of  course  his  whole  i 
hfe,  as  a  magistrate  and  public  man,  was  a  i 
pei^etual  series  of  conti-adictions.     I'he  con-  j 
sequence  of  all  this  was,  that  he  possessed  : 
but  small  influence,  as  arising  fi-om  his  per- 
sonal character  ;  but  not  so  from  his  immense 
property,  as  well  as  fi'om  the  fact  that  he  was 
father  to  the  wealthiest  and  most  beautiful 
heu'ess  in  the  province,  or  perhaps,  so  far  as 
beauty  was  concerned,  in  the  kingdom  itself.  ' 

At  length  the  day  mentioned  for  the  din-  j 
ner  arrived,  and,  at  the  appointed  hour,  so  ' 
also  did  the  guests.     There  w^ere  some  ladies 
asked  to  keep  Helen  in  countenance,  but  we 
need  scarcely  say,  that  as  the  list  of  them 
was  made  out  by  her  thoughtless  father,  he 
paid   in  the  selection  of  some  of  them,  very  J 
little  attention  to  her  feelings.     There  was  ' 
the  sheriff,  Mr.  Oxley,  and  his  lady — the  lat-  ! 
ter  a  compound  in  whom  it  was  difiicult  to  \ 
determine  whether  pride,vulganty,  or  obesity  ; 
prevailed.     AMiere  the  sheriff  had  made  his 
captui'e  of  her  was  never  properly  known,  as 
neither  of  them  belonged  origuially  to  that ' 
neighborhood  in  which  he  had,  several  years 


ago,  purchased  large  property.  It  was  said 
he  had  got  her  in  Loudon  ;  and  nothing  was 
more  certain  than  that  she  issued  forth  the 
English  language  clothed  in  an  inveterate 
cockney  accent.  She  was  a  high  moralist, 
and  a  merciless  castigator  of  all  females  who 
manifested,  or  who  were  supposed  to  mani- 
fest, even  a  tendency  to  w;ilk  out  of  the  line 
of  her  own  peculiar  theory  on  female  conduct. 
Her  weight  might  be  about  eighteen  stone, 
exclusive  of  an  additional  stone  of  gold  chains 
and  bracelets,  in  which  she  moved  like  a 
walking  gibbet,  only  with  the  felon  in  it ; 
and  to  crown  all,  she  wore  on  her  mountainous 
bosom  a  cameo  nearly  the  size  of  a  fnung- 
pan. .  Sir  Jenkins  Joram,  who  took  her  down 
to  dinner,  declared,  on  feeling  the  size  of  the 
bracelets  which  encircled  her  wrists,  that  he 
labored  for  a  short  time  under  the  impression 
that  he  and  she  were  literally  handcuffed  to- 
gether ;  an  impression,  he  added,  fi-om  w^hich 
he  was  soon  reUeved  by  the  consoling  re- 
flection that  it  was  the  sheriff  himself  whom 
the  clergyman  had  sentenced  to  stand  in  that 
pleasant  predicament.  Of  Mrs.  Brown  and 
Mrs.  Hastings  we  have  only  to  say  that  they 
were  modest,  sensible,  unassuming  women, 
without  either  parade  or  pretence,  such,  in 
fact,  as  you  will  generally  meet  among  our 
well-bred  and  educated  countrj'^vomen.  Lord 
Deilmacai-e  was  a  widower,  without  family, 
and  not  a  marrying  man.  Indeed,  when 
pressed  uj)on  this  subject,  he  was  never 
known  to  deviate  fi'om  the  one  reply. 

"Why  don't  you  many  f^gain,  my  lord? — : 
will  you  ever  marry  ?  " 

"  No,  madam,  I  got  enough  of  it,"  a  reply 
which,  somehow,  generally  checked  any 
further  inquiry  on  the  subject.  Between 
Lady  Joram  and  Mrs.  Smelli^riest  there  sub- 
sisted a  singular  analog}'  with  respect  to  their 
conjugal  attachments.  It  was  hinted  that 
her  ladyship,  in  those  secret  but  delicious 
moments  ot  matrimonial  felicity  which  make 
up  the  sugar-candy  morsels  of  domestic  life, 
used  to  sit  with  Sir  Jenkins  for  the  jDurpose, 
by  judicious  exercise,  of  easing,  by  convivial 
exercise,  a  rheumatic  affection  wiiich  she 
complained  of  in  her  right  ann.  There  is 
nothing,  however,  so  delightful  as  a  general 
and  loving  sympathy  between  husband  and 
wife ;  and  here  it  was  said  to  exist  in  per- 
fection. Mrs.  Smellpriest,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  said  to  have  been  equally  attached  to  the 
pohtical  princijiles  of  the  noble  captioin,  and 
to  wonder  why  any  clergyman  should  be 
suffei'ed  to  live  in  the  countiy  but  those  ol 
her  own  Chui-ch  ;  such  delightful  men,  for 
instance,  as  their  curate,  the  Kev.  Samson 
Strong,  who  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
a  divine  bonfire  in  the  eyes  of  the  Christian 
world.     Such  was  his  zeal  against  Papists, 


78 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


she  said,  as  well  as  against  Popery  at  large, 
that  she  never  looked  on  him  withovit  think- 
ing that  there  was  a  priest  to  be  burned. 
Indeed  Captain  SmeDpriest,  she  added,  was 
under  great  obUgations  to  him,  for  no  sooner 
had  his  reverence  heard  of  a  priest  taking 
earth  in  the  neighborhood,  than  he  lost  no 
time  in  communicating  the  fact  to  her  hus- 
band ;  after  which  he  would  kindly  sit  with 
and  comfort  her  whilst  fi'etting  lest  any  mis- 
chief might  befall  her  dear  captain. 

The  dinner  passed  as  all  dinnei*s  usually 
do.  They  hobnobbed,  of  course,  and  in- 
dulged in  that  kind  of  promiscuous  conver- 
sation which  cannot  well  be  reported.  From 
a  feeling  of  respect  to  Helen,  no  allusion  was 
made  either  to  the  burning  of  Reilly's 
property  or  to  Reilly  personally.  The  only 
person  who  had  any  difficiilty  in  avoiding  the 
subject  was  the  old  squire  himself,  who  more 
than  once  found  the  topic  ujDon  his  lips,  but 
with  a  kind  of  short  cough  he  gulped  it  down, 
and  got  rid  of  it  for  the  time.  In  what  man- 
ner he  might  treat  the  act  itself  was  a  matter 
which  excited  a  good  deal  of  sjieculation  in 
the  minds  of  those  who  were  present.  He 
was  known  to  be  a  man  who,  if  the  whim 
seized  him  to  look  upon  it  as  a  cowardly  and 
vindictive  proceeding,  would  b}'  no  means 
scruple  to  express  his  opinions  strongly 
against  it ;  whilst,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he 
measured  it  in  connection  with  his  daughter's 
forbidden  attachment  to  Reilly,  he  would,  of 
course,  as  vehemently  express  his  approba- 
tion of  the  outrage.  Indeed,  they  were  in- 
duced to  conclude  that  this  latter  \dew  of  it 
was  that  which  he  was  most  Hkely  to  take,  in 
consequence  of  the  following  proposal,  which, 
from  any  other  man,  would  have  been  an 
extraordinaiT  one : 

"  Come,  ladies,  before  you  leave  us  we 
must  have  one  toast ;  and  I  shall  give  it  in 
order  to  ascertain  whether  we  have  any  fair 
traitresses  among  us,  or  any  who  are  secretly 
attached  to  Popery  or  Papists." 

Tlie  proposal  was  a  ciniel  one,  but  the  squire 
was  so  utterly  destitute  of  consideration  or 
delicacy  of  feehng  that  we  do  not  think  he 
ever  once  reflected  upon  the  painful  position 
in  which  it  placed  his  daughter. 

"  Come,"  he  proceeded,  "  here  is  prosperity 
to  Captain  Smellpriest  and  priest-hvmting ! "  * 

•  We  have  been  charged  by  an  able  and  accom- 
plished writer  with  an  incapacity  of  describing,  with 
trnth.  any  state  of  Irish  society  above  that  of  our 
peasantry  ;  and  the  toast  proposed  by  the  eccentric 
old  squire  is.  we  presume,  the  chief  ground  upon 
which  this  charge  is  rested.  We  are,  however,  just 
as  well  aware  as  our  critic,  that  to  propose  toasts 
before  the  female  portion  of  the  company  leave  the 
dinner-table,  is  altogether  at  variance  with  the 
usages  of  polite  society.  But  we  really  thought  we 
biid  guarded  our  readers  against  any  aucb  inlereoce 


"  As  a  Christian  minister,"  rephed  Mr. 
Brown,  "and  an  enemy  to  persecution  in 
every  sense,  but  especially  to  that  which 
woiild  punish  any  man  for  the  great  principle 
which  we  ourselves  claim — the  rights  of  con- 
science— I  decline  to  di'ink  the  toast ; "  and 
he  turned  down  his  glass. 

"  And  I,"  said  ]\Ii-.  Hastings,  "  as  a  Protes- 
tant and  a  Christian,  refuse  it  on  the  same 
principles;"  and  he  also  tui-ned  down  his 
glass. 

"  But  you  forget,  gentlemen,"  proceeded 
[  the  squire,  "  that  I  addressed  myself  princi- 
pally to  the  ladies." 

"But  you  know,  su',"  replied  Mrs.  Brown, 
■v\ath  a  smile,  "  that  it  is  quite  unusual  and 
out  of  character  for  ladies  to  drink  toasts  at 
all,  especially  those  which  involve  rehgious 
or  pohtical  opinions.  These,  I  am  sure,  you 
know  too  well,  INIr.  FoUiard,  are  matters  with 
which  ladies  have,  and  ought  to  have,  nothing 
to  do.  I  also,  therefore,  on  behalf  of  oar  sex, 
decline  to  diink  the  toast ;  and  I  trust  that 
every  lady  who  respects  herself  will  turn 
down  her  glass  as  I  do." 

lull's.  Hastings  and  Helen  immediately  fol- 
lowed her  example,  whilst  at  the  same  time 
poor  Helen's  cheeks  and  neck  were  scarlet. 

"You  see,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  good- 
humoredly,  "  that  the  sex — at  least  one-half 
of  them — are  against  you." 

"  That's  because  they're  Papists  at  heart," 
repUed  the  squu-e,  laughing. 

Helen  felt  eased  at  seeing  her  father'? 
good  humor,  for  she  now  knew  that  the  pro- 
posal  of  the  toast  was  but  a  jest,  and  did 
not  aim  at  any  thing  calculated  to  distress 
her  feelings. 

"But,  in  the  meantime,"  proceeded  the 
squire,  "I  am  not  without  sujDport.  Here 
is  Lady  Joram  and  IVIrs.  Smellpriest  and 
IVIi's.  Oxley — and  they  are  a  host  in  them- 
selves— each  of  them  willing  and  ready  tc 
support  me." 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Lady  Joram,  "  why  a 
lady,  any  more  than  a  gentleman,  should  re- 
fuse to  di'ink  a  pi-oper  toast  as  this  is  ;  Sir 
Jenkins  has  not  t\imed  down  his  glass,  and 
neither  shall  I.  Come,  then,  ]\Ir.  Folliard, 
please  to  fiU  mine  ;  I  shall  drink  it  in  a 
bumper." 

"And  I,"  said  Mrs.  Oxley,  "always  diinks 
my  'usband's  principles.  In  Lunnon,  where 
true  'igh  hfe  is,  ladies  don't  refuse  to  drink 
toasts.  I  know  that  fei^-ther,  both  before 
and  after  his  removal  to  Lunnon,  used  to 
make  us  all  drink  the  ''Ard  ware  of  Old 

of  our  own  ignorance  by  the  character  which  we  had 
drawn  of  the  squire,  as  well  as  by  the  words  with 
which  the  toast  isintroduced — where  we  said,  * '  from 
any  other  man  would  have  been  an  extraordinary 
ooe."    I  nifty  also  refer  to  ilrs.  Prowo's  reply. 


f\ 


WILLY  RETLLY. 


79 


Hingland ' — by  witch,"  she  proceeded,  cor- 
recting lierself  by  a  reproving  glance  from 
the  sheriff — "  by  witch  he  meant  what  he 
called  the  glorious  sinews  of  the  countiy  at 
large,  lestwise  in  the  manufacturing  districts. 
But  upon  a  subject  hke  this" — and  she 
boked  with  something  hke  disdain  at  those 
who  had  tunied  do^vn  their  glasses — "  every 
lady  as  is  a  lady  ought  to  'ave  no  objection 
to  herplain  her  principles  by  drinking  the 
toast ;  but  p'raps  it  ain't  fair  to  press  it  upon 
some  of  'em." 

"  Well,  then,"  proceeded  the  squire,  with 
a  laugh  that  seemed  to  have  more  than  mirth 
in  it,  "  are  all  the  loyal  subjects  of  the  crown 
ready  ?  Lord  Deilmacare,  your  glass  is  not 
filled  ;  won't  you  drink  it  ?  " 

"To  be  sure,"  rephed  his  lordship;  "I 
have  no  hatred  against  Papists  ;  I  get  my 
rent  by  their  labor ;  but  I  never  wish  to 
spoil  sport — get  along — I'll  do  anj-thing." 

With  the  exceptions  already  mentioned, 
the  toast  was  drank  immediately,  after  which 
the  ladies  retired  to  the  drawing-room. 

"Now^  gentlemen,"  said  the  squire,  "fill 
your  glasses,  and  let  us  enjoy  ourselves. 
You  have  a  right  to  be  proud  of  your  wife. 
Ml'.  Sheriff,  and  you  too.  Sir  Jenkins — for, 
upon  my  soul,  if  it  had  been  his  Majesty's 
health,  her  lad^'ship  couldn't  have  honored 
it  with  a  fuller  bumper.  And,  Smellpriest, 
your  "^ife  did  the  thing  handsomely  as  well 
as  tjie  rest.  Upon  my  soul,  you  ought  to 
be  happy  men,  with  three  women  so  deeply 
imbued  with  the  tiTie  spirit  of  our  glorious 
Constitution." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  FoDiard,"  said  Smellpriest, 
"you  don't  know  the  value  of  that  woman. 
When  I  return,  for  instance,  after  a  hunt, 
the  first  question  she  puts  to  me  is — Well, 
my  love,  how  many  priests  did  you  catch  to- 
day ?  And  out  comes  Mr.  Strong  with  the 
same  question.  Strong,  however,  between 
ourselves,  is  a  goose  ;  he  will  beheve  any 
thing,  and  often  sends  me  upon  a  cold  trail. 
Now,  I  pledge  you  my  honor,  gentlemen, 
that  this  man,  who  is  all  zeal,  has  sent  me 
out  dozens  of  times,  A\dth  the  strictest  in- 
structions as  to  where  I'd  catch  my  priest ; 
but,  hang  me,  if  ever  I  caught  a  single  priest 
upon  his  instructions  yet !  still,  although 
unfortunate  in  this  kind  of  sport,  his  heart 
is  in  the  right  place.  "Wliitecraft,  my  worthy 
brother  sportsman,  how  does  it  happen  that 
Reilly  continues  to  escape  you  ?  " 

"  A\Tiy  does  he  continue  to  escape  yoci"- 
self,  captain  ?  "  repHed  the  bai'onet. 

"  Why,"  said  the  other,  "  because  I  am 
more  in  the  ecclesia-stical  line,  and,  besides, 
he  is  considered  to  be,  in  an  especial  man- 
ner, your  game." 

"I    will    have    him    yet,   though,"    said 


Whitecraft,  "  if  he  should  assume  as  many 
shapes  as  Proteus." 

"  By  the  way,  ^\'hitecraft,"  observed  Fol- 
Hard,  "they  tell  me  you  burned  the  unfor — 
— you  burned  the  scoundrel's  house  and 
ofiices." 

"  I  wish  you  had  been  present  at  the  bon- 
fire, sir,"  rephed  his  intended  son-in-law  ; 
"  it  would  have  done  your  heart  good." 

"I  daresay,"  said  the  squire  ;  "  but  still, 
what  harm  did  his  house  and  place  do  you  ? 
I  know  the  fellow  is  a  Jesuit,  a  rebel,  and 
an  outlaw — at  least  you  tell  me  so  ;  and  you 
must  know.  But  upon  what  authority  did 
you  bum  the  rascal  out  ?  " 

"As  to  that,"  returned  the  baronet,  "  the 
present  laws  against  Poperj'  and  the  general 
condition  of  the  times  are  a  sufficient  justi- 
fication ;  and  I  do  not  think  that  I  am  likely 
to  be  brought  over  the  coals  for  it ;  on  the 
contran.',  I  look  upon  myself  as  a  man  who, 
in  burning  the  ■villain  out,  have  rendered  a 
verj'  important  sendee  to  Government." 

"I  regret.  Sir  Robert,"  obseiwed  ISIr. 
Brown,  "that  you  should  have  disgraced 
yourself  by  such  an  oppressive  act.  I  know 
that  throughout  the  countiy  your  conduct  to 
this  yovmg  man  ir:  attributed  to  personal 
malice  rather  than  to  loyalty." 

"  The  countiT  may  put  what  construction 
on  my  conduct  it  pleases,"  he  rephed,  "but 
I  know  I  shaU  never  cease  till  I  hang  him." 

!Mr.  Hastings  was  a  man  of  very  few  words  ; 
but  he  had  an  eye  the  expression  of  which 
could  not  be  mistaken — keen,  manly,  and 
firm.  He  sat  sipping  his  wine  in  silence, 
but  turned  fi-om  time  to  time  a  glance  upon 
the  baronet,  which  was  not  only  a  searching 
one,  but  seamed  to  have  something  of  tri- 
vunph  in  it. 

"  ^Miat  do  you  say,  Hastings  ? "  asked 
Whitecraft ;  "  can  you  not  praise  a  loyal  sub- 
ject, man  ?  " 

"  I  say  nothing,  Sir  Robert,"  he  rephed ; 
"  but  I  think  occasionally." 

"  WeU,  and  what  do  vou  think  occasion- 
aUy?" 

"  WTiy,  that  the  times  may  change." 

"Whitecraft,"  said  Smellpriest,  "I  work 
upon  higher  principles  than  they  say  you 
do.  I  hunt  priests,  no  doubt  of  it ;  but 
then  I  have  no  personal  malice  against  them  ; 
I  proceed  upon  the  broad  and  genera)  prin- 
ciple of  hatred  to  Poperj' :  but,  at  the  same 
time,  observe  it  is  not  the  man  but  the  priest 
I  pursue." 

"  And  when  you  hang  or  ti*ansport  the 
priest,  what  becomes  of  the  man  ?  "  asked  the 
baronet,  with  a  diabohcal  sneer.  "  As  for 
me,  Smellpriest,  I  make  no  such  distinctions  ; 
they  are  unworthy  of  you,  and  I'm  soiTy  to 
hear  you  express  them,     I  say,  the  man." 


so 


JVIZL7A3r  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"And  I  sa}',  the  priest,"  replied  the  other. 

"  ^Vhat  do  you  say,  my  lord  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Folliai-d  of  the  j^eer. 

"I  don't  much  care  which,"  replied  his 
lordship  ;  "  man  or  priest,  be  it  as  you  can 
determine  ;  only  I  siy  that  Avhen  you  hang 
the  priest,  I  agree  with  A\'hitecraft  there,  that 
it  is  all  up  with  the  man,  and  when  you  hang 
the  man,  it  is  all  up  with  the  priest.  By  the 
way,  Whitecraft,"he  proceeded,  "  how  would 
you  hke  to  swing  yourself  ?  " 

"I  am  sure,  my  lord,"  replied  the  bai'onet, 
"you  wouldn't  Avish  to  see  me  hanged." 

"Well,  I  don't  know — j^erhaps  I  might, 
and  perhaps  I  might  not ;  but  I  know  you 
would  make  a  long  corjjse,  and  I  think  you 
woidd  dangle  handsomely  enough  ;  you  have 
long  Hmbs,  a  long  body,  and  half  a  mile  of 
neck  ;  upon  my  soul,  one  would  think  you 
were  made  for  it.  Yes,  I  dare  say  I  should 
like  to  see  you  hanged — I  am  rather  inclined 
to  think  I  would — it's  a  subject,  however,  on 
which  I  am  jjerfectly  indiflerent  ;  but  if  ever 
you  should  be  hanged.  Sir  Eobert,  I  shall 
certainh'  make  it  a  point  to  see  you  thrown 
off  if  it  were  only  as  a  mark  of  respect  for 
your  humane  and  excellent  character." 

"  He  would  be  a  sevei'e  loss  to  the  coun- 
try," obseiwed  Sir  Jenkins  ;  "  the  want  of  his 
hospitality  would  be  deei^ly  felt  by  the  gen- 
try of  the  neighborhood  ;  for  which  reason," 
he  observed  sarcastically,  "  I  hoj^e  he  will 
be  spared  to  us  as  long  as  his  hospitality 
lasts. " 

"In  the  meantime,  gentlemen,"  obseiwed 
the  sheriff,  "  I  wush  that,  with  such  keen 
noses  for  priests  and  rebels  and  criminals, 
you  could  come  upon  the  trail  of  the  scoun- 
drel who  robbed  me  of  tlxree  hiindred  and 
fifty  pounds." 

"  Would  you  know  him  again,  Mr.  Sher- 
iff?" asked  Sir  Robert,  "and  coiild  you 
describe  his  appearance  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  turning  the  matter  over,"  re- 
plied the  sheriff,  "and  I  feel  satisfied  that  I 
would  know  him  if  I  saw  him.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  broadcloth  brown  coat,  light- 
colored  breeches,  and  had  silver  buckles  in 
his  shoes.  The  fellow  was  no  common  rob- 
ber. Stuart — one  of  your  dragoons,  Sir 
Robert,  who  came  to  my  relief  when  it  was 
too  late — insists,  from  my  description  of  the 
dress,  that  it  w-as  Reilly." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  was  not  dressed  in 
black?"  asked  Smellpriest.  "Did  you  ob- 
serve a  beads  or  crucifix  about  him  ?  " 

"I  have  described  the  dress  accurately," 
replied  the  sheritt" ;  "but  I  am  certain  that 
it  was  not  Reilly.  On  bringing  the  matter 
to  my  recollection,  after  I  had  got  rid  of  the 
pain  and  agitation,  I  was  able  to  remember 
that  the  niffian  had  a  coarse  face  and  red 


whiskers.  Now  Reilly's  hair  and  whisker* 
ai-e  black." 

"It  was  a  reverend  Papist,"  said  Smell- 
priest  ;  "  one  of  those  fi-om  whom  you  had 
levied  the  fines  that  day,  and  who  thought  it 
no  harm  to  tnmsfer  them  back  again  to  holy 
Church.  You  know  not  how  those  rascals 
can  disguise  themselves." 

"And  you  blame  them,  Smellpriest,"  said 
the  squire,  "  for  disguising  themselves  ? 
Now,  suppose  the  tables  were  tui-ned  upon 
us,  that  Popeiy  got  the  ascendant,  and  that 
Papists  started  upon  the  same  piinciples 
against  us  that  we  put  in  practice  against 
them  ;  sujDpose  that  Popish  soldiers  were 
halloed  on  against  our  parsons,  and  all  other 
Protestants  conspicuous  for  an  attachment 
to  their  religion,  and  anxious  to  put  down 
the  persecution  under  which  we  suffered  • 
why,  hang  it,  could  30U  blame  the  parsons, 
when  hunted  to  the  death,  for  disguising 
themselves  ?  And  if  you  could  not,  how  can 
you  blame  the  priests  ?  Would  you  have  the 
poor  devils  w^alk  into  j'our  hands  and  say, 
'  Come,  gentlemen,  be  good  enougii  to  hang 
or  transjDort  us  ? '  I  am  anxious  to  secure 
Reilly,  and  either  to  hang  or  transfiort  him. 
I  would  say  the  latter,  though." 

"  And  I  the  former,"  observed  Sir  Robert 

"  Well,  Bob,  that  is  as  may  happen  ;  but 
in  the  meantime,  I  say  he  never  robbed  the 
sheriff  here ;  and  if  he  were  going  to  the 
gallows  to-morrow,  I  would  maintain  i1#" 

Neither  the  clergyman  nor  Mr.  Hastings 
took  much  part  in  the  conversation  ;  but  the 
eye  of  the  latter  w^as,  during  the  greater  por- 
tion of  the  evening,  fixed  upon  the  bai'onet, 
like  that  of  a  basilisk,  accompanied  by  a 
hidden  meaning,  which  it  was  impossible  to 
penetrate,  but  w^hich,  nevertheless,  had  such 
an  effect  upon  Whitecraft  that  he  could  not 
help  obser\-ing  it. 

"  It  would  seem,  Mr.  Hastings,"  said  he, 
"  as  if  you  had  never  seen  me  before.  Your 
eye  has  scarcely  been  off  me  during  the 
whole  evening.  It  is  not  j^leasant,  sii*,  nor 
scarcely  gentlemanly." 

"  You  should  feel  proud  of  it,  Sii'  Robert,'" 
replied  Hastings  ;  "I  only  admire  3'ou." 

"Well,  then,  I  wish  you  would  express 
your  admiration  in  some  other  manner  than 
by  staring  at  me." 

"  Gadzooks,  Su*  Robert,"  said  the  squire, 
"don't  you  know  that  a  cat  may  look  at  a 
king  ?  Hastings  must  be  a  man  of  devilish 
good  taste.  Bob,  and  you  ought  to  thank 
him." 

Mr.  Brown  and  Mr.  Hastings  soon  after^ 
w^ards  went  upstairs,  and  left  the  other 
gentlemen  to  their  hquoi-,  w^liich  they  now 
began  to  enjoy  with  a  more  conviAial  sjiirit. 
The  old  squii-e's  loyalty  rose  to  a  very'  high 


WILLY  HE  ILLY. 


81 


pitch,  as  indeed  did  that  of  his  companioBS, 
aU  of  whom  entertained  the  same  principles, 
with  the  exception  of  Lord  Deilmacare, 
whose  opinions  never  could  be  got  at,  for 
the  very  sufficient  reason  that  he  did  not 
know  them  himself. 

"  Come,  Whitecraft,"  said  the  squire, 
"  help  yourself,  and  push  the  bottle  ;  now 
that  those  two  half-Papists  are  gone,  we  can 
breathe  and  speak  a  little  more  freely.  Here's 
our  glorious  Constitution,  in  Church  and 
State,  and  curse  all  priests  and  Papists — 
barring  a  few,  that  I  know  to  be  honest." 

"I  drink  it.  but  I  omit  the  exception," 
said  Sir  Robert,  "  and  I  wonder,  sir,  you 
would  make  an}'  exception  to  such  a  toast." 

"I  cb'ink  it,"  s.iid  Smellpriest,  "  including 
the  rascal  priests." 

"And  I  drink  it,"  said  the  sheriff,  "as  it 
has  been  proposed." 

"  What  was  it  ?  "  said  Lord  Deilmacare  ; 
"  come,  I  drink  it — it  doesn't  matter.  I  sup- 
pose, coming  h'om  our  excellent  host,  it 
must  be  righl.  and  proper." 

They  caroused  deej^ly,  and  in  proportion 
as  the  hquor  affected  their  brains,  so  did 
their  determination  to  rid  the  squire  of  the 
rebel  Reilly  form  itself  into  an  express  reso- 
lution to  that  effect. 

"  Hang  Reilly  —  hang  the  villain  —  the 
gallows  for  him — hurra  !  "  and  in  this  chari- 
table sentiment  their  voices  all  joined  in  a 
fierce  and  drunken  exclamation,  uttered 
with  their  hands  all  clasped  in  each  other 
with  a  strong  and  firm  grip.  From  one 
mouth  {done,  however,  proceeded,  amidst  a 
succession  of  hiccups,  the  word  "  transpor- 
tation," which,  when  Lord  Deilmacare  heard, 
he  changed  his  principle,  and  joined  the  old 
squire  in  the  same  mitigation  of  feeling. 

"I  say,  Deilmacare,"  shouted  Sir  Robert, 
"we  must  hang  him  high  and  dry." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  his  lordship,  "  with 
all  my  heart,  Sir  Robert ;  we  must  hang  you 
high  and  dry." 

"But,  Deilmacare,"  said  the  squire,  "we 
shall  only  transport  him." 

"  Very  good,"  exclaimed  his  lordship, 
emptying  a  bumper  ;  "  we  shall  only  trans- 
port you.  Sir  Robert." 

"  Hang  him,  Deilmacare  !  " 

"  Very  well,  hang  him  !  " 

"Transport  him,  I  say,  Deilmacare,"  from 
the  squire. 

"  Good  again,"  said  his  lordship  ;  "  trans- 
port him,  say  L" 

And  on  went  the  dininken  revel,  imtil  they 
scarcely  knew  what  the}'  said. 

The  clergj-man  and  Mr.  Hastings,  on 
reaching  the  dra^ving-room,  found  Helen  in 
a  state  of  inexpressible  disti*ess.  A  dispute 
upon   the  prevailing  morals  of  all  modei'n 


young  ladies  had  been  got  up  by  Lady 
Joi'am  and  Mrs.  Oxley,  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  venting  their  petty  malice  against 
the  gii*l,  because  they  had  taken  it  into  their 
heads  that  she  paid  more  attention  to  Mra 
Brown  and  ]\Ii's.  Hastings  than  she  did  to 
them.  This  dispute  was  tantamount  to 
what,  in  the  piize  ring,  is  cjilled  vrom,  when 
the  fight  is  only  a  mock  one,  and  terminates 
by  the  voluntary  defeat  of  one  of  the  par- 
ties, upon  a  preconcerted  arrangement. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,  my  lady  ;  nor 
can  I  think  that  the  monils  of  young  ladies 
in  'igh  life,  by  ^vitch  I  mean  the  daughters 
and  heiresses  of  wealthy  squires — " 

"  But,  my  dear  ]\Ii's.  Oxley,"  said  her  lady- 
shijD,  interrupting  her,  and  placing  her  hand 
gently  i;pou  her  arm,  as  if  to  solicit  her 
consent  to  the  observation  she  was  about  to 
make,  "you  know,  my  dear  ]\Irs.  Oxley, 
that  the  daughter  of  a  mere  country'  squire 
can  have  no  pretensions  to  come  under  the 
definition  of  high  life." 

"Wy  not?"  replied  Mrs.  Oxley;  "the 
squires  are  often  wealthier  than  the  haris- 
tocracy  ;  and  I  don't  at  tdl  see,"  she  added, 
"  ^y  the  daughter  of  such  a  man  should  not 
be  considered  as  moving  in  'igh  life — always, 
of  course,  provided  that  she  forms  no  dis- 
gr:iceful  attachments  to  Papists  and  rebels 
and  low  persons  of  that  'ere  class.  No,  my 
lady,  I  don't  at  all  agree  with  you  in  your 
view  of  'igh  life." 

"You don't  appear,  madam,  to  entertain  a 
sufficiently  accurate  estimate  of  high  hfe." 

"  I  beg  pai'don,  ma'am,  but  I  tliink  I  can 
understand  'igh  life  as  well  as  those  that 
don't  know  it  better  nor  myself.  I've  seen 
a  great  deal  of  'igh  life.  Feyther  'ad  a  willar 
at  'Igate,  and  'Igate  is  kno^\-n  to  be  the  'igh- 
est  place  about  the  metropolis  of  Lminon — 
it  and  St.  Paul's  ai-e  uj^on  a  bevel." 

"Level,  perhaps,  you  mean,  ma'am?" 

"  Level  or  bevel,  it  doesn't  much  diversify 
— but  I  prefer  the  bevel  to  the  level  on  all  oc- 
casions. All  I  knows  is,"  she  proceeded, 
"  that  it  is  a  shame  for  any  young  lady,  as  is  a 
young  lady,  to  take  a  liking  to  a  Papist,  be- 
cause  we  know  the  Papists  ai-e  all  rebels  and 
would  cut  our  thi-oats,  only  for  the  protec- 
tion of  our  generous  and  merciful  laws." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  merci- 
ful laws,"  observed  Mrs.  Brown.  "They 
surely  cannot  be  such  laws  as  oppress  and 
persecute  a  portion  of  the  people,  and  give 
an  unjust  license  to  one  class  to  persecute 
another,  and  to  prevent  them  fi'om  exercis- 
ing the  duties  which  their  rehgion  imposes 
upon  them." 

"Well,"  said  Lady  Joram,  "all  I  wish  is, 
that  the  Papists  were  exterminated ;  we 
should  theu  have  no  apprehensions  that  our 


82 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


daughters  would  disgrace  themselves  by  fall- 
ing in  love  with  tliem." 

This  conversation  was  absolutely  cniel, 
and  the  amiable  ]Mrs.  Brown,  from  compas- 
sion to  Helen,  withdrew  her  into  a  corner 
of  the  room,  and  entered  into  conversation 
with  her  upon  a  diflferent  topic,  assuring  her 
previously  that  she  wovdd  detail  their  offen- 
sive and  imgenerous  remarks  to  her  father, 
who,  she  trusted,  would  never  see  them  un- 
der his  roof  again,  nor  give  them  an  oj^jjor- 
tunity  of  indulging  in  their  vulgar  malignity 
a  second  time.  Helen  thanked  hei',  and  said 
their  hints  and  observations,  though  rude 
and  ungenerous,  gave  her  but  little  pain.  The 
form  of  language  in  which  they  were  ex- 
pressed, she  added,  and  the  indefensible 
violation  of  all  the  laws  of  hospitaUty, 
blunted  the  seventy  of  what  they  said. 

"I  am  not  ashamed,"  she  said,  "of  my 
attachment  to  the  brave  and  generous  young 
man  who  saved  my  father's  life.  He  is  of 
no  vulgar  birth,  but  a  highly  educated  and 
a  highl}'  accompHshed  gentleman — a  man,  in 
fact,  my  dear  Mrs.  Bro'mi,  whom  no  woman, 
be  her  rank  in  life  ever  so  high  or  exalted, 
might  blush  to  love.  /  do  not  blush  to 
make  the  avowal  that  I  love  him  ;  but,  un- 
fortunately, in  consequence  of  the  existing 
laws  of  the  country,  my  love  for  him,  which 
I  will  never  conceal,  must  be  a  hoj)eless 
one." 

"  I  regret  the  state  of  those  laws,  my  dear 
ISIiss  Folliard,  as  much  as  you  do  ;  but  still 
their  existence  puts  a  breach  between  you 
and  Reilly,  and  under  those  circumstances 
my  advice  to  you  is  to  overcome  your  affec- 
tion for  him  if  you  can.  MaiTiage  is  out  of 
the  question." 

"  It  is  not  mamage  I  think  of — for  that  is 
out  of  the  question— but  Reilly 's  life  and 
safety.  If  he  were  safe,  I  should  feel  com- 
paratively happy ;  happiness,  in  its  full  ex- 
tent, I  never  can  hope  to  enjoy ;  but  if  he 
were  only  safe— if  he  were  only  safe,  my 
dear  Mrs.  BroAvn !  I  know  that  he  is  hunted 
like  a  beast  of  prey,  and  under  such  circum- 
stances as  disturb  and  distract  the  countiy, 
how  can  he  escape  ?  " 

The  kind-heai'ted  lady  consoled  her  as 
well  as  she  could  ;  but,  in  fact,  her  grounds 
for  consolation  wex-e  so  slender  that  her 
arguments  only  amounted  to  those  general 
obsei-vations  which,  commonplace  as  they 
are,  we  are  in  the  habit  of  hearing  from  day 
to  day.  Helen  was  too  high-minded  to  shed 
tears,  but  ]\irs.  Brown  could  plainly  perceive 
the  depth  of  her  emotion,  and  feel  the  extent 
of  what  she  suffered. 

We  shall  not '  detail  at  further  length  the 
conversation  of  the  other  ladies — if  ladies 
tboj'  can  be  called  ;  nor  that  of  the  gentle- 


men, after  they  entered  the  drawing-room. 
Sir  Robert  "Whitecraft  attempted  to  enter 
into  conversation  with  Helen,  but  found 
himself  firmly  and  decidedly  repulsed.  In 
point  of  fact,  some  of  the  gentlemen  were 
not  in  a  state  to  grace  a  drawing-room,  and 
in  a  short  time  they  took  their  leave  and 
retired. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

Sir  Robert  Meets  a  Brother  Sportamnn — Draws  M 
Nets,  but  Catches  Nothing. 

"  'Tis  conscience  that  makes  cowards  of  us 
all,"  said  Shakespeare,  ^vith  that  wonderful 
wisdom  which  enlightens  his  glorious  pages  ; 
and,  in  fact,  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  in  his 
own  person,  fully  corroborated  the  truth  of 
the  poet's  apoj^hthegm.  The  man,  besides, 
was  naturally  a  coward  ;  and  when  to  this 
we  add  the  consciousness  of  his  persecutions 
and  cruelties,  and  his  apprehensions  from 
the  revenge  of  Reilly — the  destruction  of 
whose  jDroperty,  without  any  authority  from 
Government  for  the  act,  he  felt  himself  guilty 
of — the  reader  may  understand  the  nature 
and  extent  of  his  terrors  on  liis  way  home. 
The  distance  between  his  oa\ti  house  and 
that  of  his  intended  father-in-laAV  was  about 
thi-ee  miles,  and  there  lay  a  long  space  of 
level  road,  hedged  in,  as  was  then  the  custom, 
on  both  sides,  from  behind  which  hedges  an 
excellent  aim  could  be  taken.  As  Sir  Robert 
proceeded  along  this  lonely  path,  his  horse 
stumbled  against  some  stones  that  were  in 
his  way,  or  perhaps  that  had  been  pui-posely 
placed  there.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  baronet 
fell,  and  a  small  man,  of  compact  size  and 
vigorous  frame,  was  found  aiding  him  to 
rise.  Having  helped  him  into  the  saddle, 
the  baronet  asked  him,  with  an  infii'm  and 
alarmed  voice,  who  he  was. 

"."N\Tiy,  Sir  Robert,"  he  repHed,  "  you  must 
know  I  am  not  a  Paj^ist,  or  I  wouldn't  be 
apt  to  render  you  any  assistance ;  I  am 
somewhat  of  your  own  kidney — a  bit  of  a 
priest-hunter,  on  a  small  scale.  I  used  to  set 
them  for  Caj^tain  Smellpriest,  but  he  paid 
me  badly,  and  as  there  was  gi-eat  risk  among 
the  bloody  Papists,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
TvithdraAV  out  of  his  sei'A'ice  ;  but  you  are  a 
gentleman.  Sir  Robert,  what  Captain  Smell- 
priest  is  not,  and  if  you  want  an  active  and 
useful  enemy  to  Popery,  I  am  your  man." 

"I  want  such  a  person,  certainly,"  replied 
the  baronet,  who,  in  consequence  of  the  bad- 
ness of  the  road  and  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  was  obhged  to  walk  his  horse  with 
caution.  "By  the  way,"  said  he,  "didyoix 
not  hear  a  noise  beliind  the  hedge  ?  " 


WILLY   n HILLY. 


85 


"I  did,"  replied  the  other,  "but  it  was 
the  Qoise  of  cattle." 

"I  am  not  aware,"  replied  Sir  Robert, 
"what  the  devQ  cattle  can  have  to  do  imme- 
diately behind  the  hedge.  I  rather  think 
they  are  some  of  our  own  species  ;  "  and  as 
he  ceased  si^eaking  the  tremendous  braying 
of  a  jackass  came  upon  their  ears. 

"You  were  right,  Sii'  Robert,"  rephed  his 
companion  ;  "I  beg  pardon,  I  mean  that  / 
was  right ;  you  know  now  it  was  cattle." 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  asked  Sir  Robert. 

"  Rowland  Drum,  Sir  Robert ;  and,  if  you 
will  permit  me,  I  should  like  to  see  you  safe 
home.  I  need  not  say  that  you  are  hated 
by  the  Papists  ;  ard  as  the  road  is  lonesome 
and  dangerous,  as  a  priest-hunter  myself  I 
think  it  an  act  of  duty  not  to  leave  you." 

"Tliank  you,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "you  are 
a  ci\il  person,  and  I  will  accept  your  es- 
cort." 

"  "WTiatever  danger  you  may  run,  Sir  Rob- 
ert, I  wiU  stand  by  your  side  and  partake  of 
it." 

"  Thank  you,  friend,"  replied  Sir  Robert ; 
"  there  in  a  lonely  place  before  us,  where  a 
ghost  is  said  to  be  seen — the  ghost  of  a  priest  i 
whom  I  hunted  for  a  long  time  ;  Smellpriest,  j 
it  is  said,  shot  him  at  the  place  I  allude  to.  ; 
He  was  disguised  as  a  drummer,  and  is  said 
to  haunt  the  locahty  where  he  was  shot." 

"  Well,  I  shall  see  you  safe  over  the  place, 
Sir  Robert,  and  go  home  with  you  afterwards, 
provided  you  will  promise  to  give  me  a  bed 
and  my  supper  ;  to-moiTOw  we  can  talk  on 
matters  of  business." 

"I  shall  certainly  do  so,"  rej)lied  Sir  Rob- 
ert, "  not  only  in  consequence  of  your  at- 
tention to  me,  but  of  our  common  puii:)ose." 

They  then  proceeded  onwards — passed  the 
haunted  spot — without  either  hearing  or  see- 
ing the  spectral  drummer.     On  arriving  at 
home.  Sir  Robei-t,  who  drank  privately,  or- 
dered wine  for  himself,  and  sent  Rowland  i 
Drum  to  the  kitchen,  where  he  was  rather  ! 
meagerly   entertained,  and  was    afterwards  ! 
lodged  for  the  night  in  the  gaiTet.  j 

The   next   morning,    after   breakfast.    Sir 
Robert  sent  for  ]\Ix'.  Dxnim,  who,  on  entering 
the  breakfast  parlor,  was  thus  addi'essed  by  I 
his  new  patron  : 

"  ^^^lat's  this  you  say  your  name  is  ?  " 

"Rowland  Drum,  sir." 

"  Rowland  Drum  !  Well,  now,  Rowland 
Drum,  are  you  well  acquainted  with  the 
priests  of  this  diocese  ? ."  i 

"No  man  better,"  rephed  the  redoubtable 
Rowland.     "I  know  most  of  them  by  person,  | 
and  have  got  private  descrijitions  of  them  all  ; 
from  Captain  Smellpriest,  Avhich  will  be  in- 1 
valuable  to  you.  Sir  Robert     The  fact  is — 
tmd  this  I  me-^tion  in  the  strictest  confidence  \ 


— that  Smellpriest  is  suspicious  of  your  at- 
tachment to  our  glorious  Constitution." 

"  The  confounded  rascal,"  replied  the  baro- 
net. "Did  he  ever  burn  as  many  Popish 
houses  as  I  have  done  ?  He  has  no  appetite 
for  any  thing  but  the  pursuit  and  capture  ol 
priests  ;  but  I  have  a  far  more  general  and 
unsparing  practice,  for  I  not  only  capture  the 
priests,  where  I  can,  but  every  lay  Papist 
that  we  suspect  iii  the  country.  Here,  for 
instance.  Do  you  see  those  papers  ?  They 
are  blank  warrants  for  the  apprehension  of 
the  guilty  and  suspected,  and  also  protections, 
transmitted  to  me  from  the  Secretaiw  of  State, 
that  I  may  be  enabled,  by  his  authority',  to 
protect  such  Papists  as  wiU  give  useful  in- 
formation to  the  Government.  Here  they 
are,  signed  by  the  Secretary,  but  the  blanks 
ai*e  left  for  myself  to  fill  up." 

"  I  wish  we  could  get  Reilly  to  come  over," 
said  ]Mi\  Drum. 

"  Oh  !  the  infernal  villain,"  said  the  baronet, 
"  all  the  protections  that  ever  were  or  could 
be  issued  from  the  Secretaiy's  office  would 
not  nor  could  not  save  him.  Old  Folhard 
and  I  will  hang  him,  if  there  was  not  anothei 
man  to  be  hanged  in  the  three  kingdoms." 

At  this  moment  a  sen-ant  came  in  and 
said,  "  Sir  Robert,  there  is  a  woman  here 
who  Avishes  to  have  some  private  conversation 
with  you." 

"  "\\Tiat  kind  of  a  woman  is  she  ?  "  asked 
the  baronet. 

"  Faith,  3'our  honor,  a  stui'dy  and  strapping 
wench,  somewhat  rough  in  the  face,  but  oi 
great  jDroportions." 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Mr.  Drum  had 
been  sitting  at  the  window  during  this  brief 
conversation,  and  at  once  recognized,  under 
the  disguise  of  a  woman,  the  celebrated  in- 
fonner,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hennessy,  a  -sn-etch 
whose  ciiminal  coui'se  of  life,  as  we  said  be- 
fore, was  so  gross  and  reprobate  that  his 
pious  bishop  deemed  it  his  duty  to  su.spend 
him  from  aU  clerical  functions. 

"  Sir  Robert,"  said  Drum,  "  I  must  go  up 
to  my  room  and  shave.  My  presence,  I  ap- 
prehend, Avon't  be  necessary  where  there  is 
a  lady  in  question." 

"  Very  well,"  rejilied  the  baronet;  "  I  know 
not  what  her  business  may  be  ;  but  I  shall 
be  glad  to  speak  Arith  you  after  she  shall  hav^ 
gone." 

It  was  very  well  that  Hennessy  did  not  se 
Drum,  whom  he  would  at  once  have  recog- 
nized ;  but,  at  all  events,  the  intei-view  be- 
tween the  reprobate  priest  and  the  baronet 
lasted  for  at  least  an  hour. 

After  the  Rev.  Miss  Hennessy  had  taken 
her  departure,  Mr.  Drum  was  sent  for  by  the 
bai-onet,  Avhom  he  still  found  in  the  break* 
iast  pu'lor. 


84 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"Drum,"  said  he,  "you  have  now  an  op- 
portunity of  essentiiJly  serving  not  only  me, 
but  the  Government  of  the  country.  This 
lady  turns  out  to  be  a  Popish  priest  in  dis- 
guise, and  I  have  taken  him  into  my  confi- 
dence as  a  guide  and  auxihiuy.  Now  you 
have  given  me  proofs  of  personal  attachment, 
•vhich  is  certainly  more  than  he  has  done  as 
yet.  I  have  heard  of  his  character  as  an  im- 
moral priest ;  and  the  man  who  could  be  false 
to  his  own  creed  is  not  a  man  to  be  rehed 
upon.  He  has  described  to  me  the  position 
of  a  cavern,  in  Avhich  are  now  hiding  a  set  of 
proscribed  priests  ;  but  I  cannot  have  confi- 
dence in  his  information,  and  I  wish  j'ou  to 
go  to  the  ravine  or  cavern,  or  whatever  the 
devil  it  is,  and  return  to  me  with  correct  in- 
telligence. It  may  be  a  lure  to  draw  me  into 
danger,  or  perhaps  to  deprive  me  of  my  life  ; 
but,  Qu  second  thought,  I  think  I  shall  get  a 
militai-y  force,  and  go  myself." 

"And  perhaps  never  return,  unless  with 
your  heels  foremost.  Sir  Robert.  I  tell  you 
that  this  Hennessy  is  the  most  treacherous 
scoundi'el  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  You  do 
not  know  what  he's  at,  but  I  will  tell  you,  for 
I  have  it  from  his  own  cousin.  His  object  is 
to  have  you  assassinated,  in  order  to  restore 
himself  to  the  good  graces  of  the  bishop  and 
the  Catholic  party,  who,  I  must  say,  however, 
would  not  coiintenance  such  a  murderous 
act ;  still.  Sir  Robert,  if  you  were  taken  ofif, 
the  man  who  took  you  off  would  have  his 
name  honored  and  exalted  throughout  the 
countiy." 

"  Yes,  I  beUeve  you  are  right.  Drum  ;  they 
are  thirsting  for  my  blood,  but  not  more  than 
I  am  thirsting  for  theirs." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Drum,  "don't  trust 
yourself  to  the  counsels  of  this  Hennessy, 
who,  in  my  oiDinion,  only  wants  to  make  a 
scapegoat  of  you.  Allow  me  to  go  to  the 
place  he  mentions,  for  I  know  the  ravine  well, 
but  I  never  knew  nor  do  I  believe  that  there 
is  a  cavern  at  all  in  it,  and  that  is  what  makes 
me  suspect  the  scoundrel's  motives.  He  can 
have  hundreds  of  outlaws  secretly  armed, 
who  would  never  suffer  you  to  escape  with 
your  life.  The  thing  is  an  ambuscade  ;  take 
my  Avord  for  it,  it  is  nothing  less.  Of  course 
you  can  go,  yourself  and  your  party,  if  you 
wish.  You  Avill  prevent  me  from  running  a 
gi'eat  risk  ;  but  I  am  only  anxious  for  your 
safety." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "you  shall 
go  upon  this  mission.  It  may  not  be  safe  for 
me  to  do  so.  Try  if  you  can  make  out  this 
cavern,  if  there  be  a  cavern." 

"  I  xoill  tiy.  Sir  Robert ;  and  I  wiU  venture 
'-0  say,  that  if  it  can  be  made  out,  /-s^ill  make 
*t  out." 

Rowland  Drum  accordingly  set  out  upon 


his  mission,  and  haAang  arrived  at  the  cavern, 
with  which  he  Avas  so  well  acquainted,  he 
entered  it  with  the  visual  risk.  His  voice, 
however,  was  recognized,  and  he  got  instant 
admittance. 

"My  dear  friends,"  said  he,  after  he  had 
entered  the  inner  ptu't  of  it,  "you  must  dis* 
perse  immediatel}-.  Hennessy  has  betrayed 
you,  and  if  3'ou  remain  here  twenty-four 
hours  longer,  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  and  a 
party  of  military,  g-uided,  probably,  by  the 
treacherous  scoundrel  himself,  will  be  upon 
3'ou.  The  villain  had  a  long  interne w  with 
him,  and  gave  a  full  detail  of  the  cavern  and 
its  inmates." 

"  But  how  did  you  become  acquainted  with 
Sir  Robert  '\Miitecraft  ?  "  asked  the  bishop. 

"In  order,  my  lord,  to  ascertain  his  in- 
tentions and  future  proceedings,"  replied  Mr. 
Drum,  "that  we  might  guard  against  his 
treachery  and  jDersecution.  On  his  way  home 
from  a  dinner  ui  Sqi;ire  Folliard's  I  met  him 
in  a  lonety  part  of  the  road,  where  he  was 
thrown  from  his  horse ;  I  helped  him  into 
his  saddle,  told  him  I  was  myself  a  priest- 
hunter,  and  thus  got  into  his  confidence  so 
far  as  to  be  able  to  fifustrate  Hennessy's 
treachery,  and  to  counteract  his  oa\ti  designs." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  bishop  sternly,  "you  have 
acted  a  part  unworthy  of  a  Christian  clergy- 
man. We  should  not  do  evil  that  good  may 
follow  ;  and  you  have  done  evil  in  associating 
yourself,  in  any  sense  and  for  any  pm-pose, 
with  this  bloodthirsty  tiger  and  persecutor 
of  the  faithful." 

"  My  lord,"  rejDlied  the  priest,  "  this  is  not 
a  time  to  enter  into  a  discussion  on  such  a 
subject.  Hennessy  has  betrayed  us  ;  and  if 
you  do  not  disperse  to  other  places  of  safety, 
he  will  himself,  as  I  said,  lead  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft  and  a  military  party  to  this  very 
cavern,  and  then  may  God  have  mercy  on  you 
aU." 

"  Brethren,"  said  the  bishop,  "  this  is,  after 
all,  jDossible  that  our  brother  has,  by  the 
mercy  and  providence  of  God,  through  his 
casual  meeting  with  this  remorseless  man, 
been  made  the  instrument  of  our  safety.  As 
for  myself,  I  am  willing  to  embrace  the  cro-s\Ti 
of  martj-rdom,  and  to  lay  down  my  hfe,  if 
necessary,  for  the  faith  that  is  in  me.  You 
all  know  what  I  have  already  suffered,  and 
3'ou  know  that  persecution  drives  a  Avise  mau 
mad.  My  children, "  he  added,  "  it  is  possible, 
and  I  fear  too  probable,  that  some  of  us  maj' 
never  see  each  other  in  this  Ufe  again  ;  but 
at  the  same  time,  let  it  be  our  hope  and  con- 
solation that  we  shall  meet  in  a  better.  And 
for  this  purjDose,  and  in  order  to  secure  ? 
futurity  of  happiness,  let  us  lead  spotless  and 
irreproachable  lives,  such  as  will  enable  ur 
to  me^t  the  hour  of  death,  whether  it  comes 


WILLY  li BILLY. 


85 


by  the  hand  of  God  or  tlie  persecution  of 
man.  Be  faithful  to  the  principles  of  our 
holy  religion — be  faithful  to  truth — to  moral 
virtue — be  faithful  to  God,  before  whose 
awful  tribunal  we  must  all  appear,  and  render 
an  account  of  our  lives.  It  would  be  mere 
wantonness  to  throw  yourselves  into  the 
hands  of  our  persecutors.  Reserve  yourselves 
for  the  continuance  and  the  sustainmeut  of 
our  blessed  religion  ;  but  if  you  should  hap- 
pen to  fall,  by  the  snares  and  devices  of  the 
enemy,  into  the  power  of  those  who  are 
striving  to  work  our  extermination,  and  if 
they  should  press  you  to  raiiounce  your  faith, 
upon  the  alternative  of  banishment  or  death, 
then,  I  sa}',  banishment,  or  death  itself, 
sooner  than  become  apostates  to  your  religion. 
I  shall  retire  to  a  neighborhood  only  a  few 
miles  distant  from  this,  where  the  poor  Cath- 
olic population  are  without  spiritual  aid  or 
consolation.  I  have  been  there  before,  and  I 
know  their  wants,  and  were  it  not  that  I  was 
hunted  and  pursued  with  a  ^-iew  to  my  death 
— to  my  murder,  I  should  rather  say — I 
would  have  remained  with  them  still.  But 
that  I  considered  it  a  duty  to  that  portion  of 
the  Church  over  which  God  called  upon  me 
to  preside  and  watch,  I  woiild  not  have 
avoided  those  inhuman  traffickers  in  the 
blood  of  God's  peoi^le.  Yet  I  am  bound  to 
say  that,  from  the  clergj-men  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church,  and  from  many  Protestant 
magistrates,  we  have  received  kindness,  sym- 
pathy, and  sheltei-.  Their  doors,  their  hearths, 
and  their  hearts  have  been  open  to  us,  and 
that,  too,  in  a  tinily  Chi'istian  spirit.  Let  us, 
then,  render  them  good  for  good  ;  let  us 
pray  for  their  conversion,  and  that  they  may 
return  to  the  right  path." 

"  They  have  acted  generously  and  nobly," 
added  Beilly,  "  and  in  a  truly  Christian 
spirit.  Were  it  not  for  the  shelter  and  pro- 
tection which  I  myself  received  from  one  of 
them,  my  mangled  body  would  probably  be 
huddled  down  into  some  obscui'e  grave,  as  a 
felon,  and  my  property — which  is  mine  only 
by  a  necessar'y  fiction  and  evasion  of  the  law 
— have  passed  into  the  hands  of  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft.  I  am  wrong,  however,  in  saying 
that  it  could.  Mr.  Hastings,  a  generous  and 
hberal  Protestant,  took  it  in  his  own  name 
for  my  father,  but  gave  me  a  deed  of  assign- 
ment, i^lacing  it  as  securely  in  my  hands, 
and  in  my  power,  as  if  I  were  Sir  Robert 
"WTiitecraft  himself  ;  and  I  must  add— which 
I  do  with  pleasure — that  the  deed  in  ques- 
tion is  now  in  the  possession  of  the  Rev. 
]Mr.  Brown,  the  amiable  rector  of  the  parish." 

"  But  he  is  a  heretic,"  said  a  red-faced 
little  man,  dressed  in  leather  breeches,  top 
boots,  and  a  huntsman's  cap ;  "  vade  retro, 
sathams.    It  is  a  damnable  crime  to  have  any 


intercourse  with  them,  or  to  receive  any 
protection  fi-om  them  :  vade  retro,  mtluinasi." 

"  If  I  don't  mistake,"  said  the  cook — an 
archcle<^con,  by  the  way — "you  yoiu-self  re- 
ceived protection  fi'om  them,  and  were  glad 
to  receive  it." 

"  If  I  did  receive  protection  from  one  of 
their  heretic  par.sons,  it  was  for  Christian 
purposes.  INIy  object  was  not  so  much  to 
seek  protection  from  him  as  to  work  out  his 
salvation  by  withdrawing  him  from  his 
heres3^  But  then  the  fellow  was  as  obstinate 
as  safhana.^  himself,  and  had  Greek  and 
Hebrew  at  his  fingers'  ends.  I  made  several 
passes  at  him — tried  Irish,  and  told  him  it 
was  Italian.  '  WeU,'  said  he,  smiling,  '2 
understand  Itiilian  too  ; '  and  to  my  astpn- 
ishmeut  he  addressed  me  in  the  best  Irish 
lever  heai-d  sjDoken.  'Now,' said  he,  still 
smiling,  'you  perceive  that  I  understand 
Italian  nearly — I  will  not  sa}'  so  well — as  you 
do.'  Now,  as  I  am  a  sinner,  that,  I  say,  was 
ungenerous  treatment.  He  was  j)erfectly 
irreclaimable." 

This  man  was,  like  IMr.  Maguire,  what  has 
been  termed  a  hedge-j^riest — a  character 
which,  as  we  have  already  said,  the  poverty 
of  the  Catholic  peoj)le,  during  the  existence 
of  the  penal  laws,  and  the  consequent  want 
of  spiritual  instruction,  rendered  necessary. 
There  were  no  Catholic  colleges  in  the  coun- 
try, and  the  result  was  that  the  number  of 
foreign  priests — by  which  I  mean  Iiish 
priests  educated  in  foreign  colleges — was 
utterly  inadequate  to  meet  the  spiritual 
necessities  of  the  Irish  population.  Under 
those  circumstances,  men  of  good  and  vir- 
tuous character,  who  understood  something 
of  the  Latin  tongue,  were  ordained  by  their 
respective  bishops,  for  the  puri3ose  whicli  we 
have  already  mentioned.  But  what  a  difier- 
ence  was  there  between  those  half-educated 
men  and  the  class  of  educated  clergj'men 
Avho  now  adorn,  not  only  their  Church,  but 
the  literatui'e  of  the  countiy  ! 

"  "Well,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the  bishop, 
"  let  us  be  thankful  for  the  protection  which 
we  have  received  at  the  hands  of  the  Protes- 
tant clergy  and  of  many  of  the  Protestant 
laity  also.  We  now  separate,  and  I  for  one 
am  sensible  how  much  this  cruel  persecution 
has  strengthened  the  bonds  of  Christian 
love  among  us,  and  excited  oui'  sympathy  for 
oui'  poor  persecuted  flocks,  so  many  of  whom 
are  now  without  a  shepherd.  I  leave  you 
with  tears — but  they  ai'e  tears  of  afiection. 
and  not  of  despair.  I  shall  endeavor  to  be 
useful  wherever  I  may  abide.  Let  each  of 
you  do  iill  the  spiritual  good  you  cim — all 
the  eai'thly  good — all  good  in  its  most  en- 
larged and  jiurest  sense.  But  we  must 
sepai'ate — probably,  some  of  us,  forever  ;  and 


^6 


WILLIAM  CARLETON^S  WORKS. 


now  may  the  blessing  of  the  Almiglity  God 
— of  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost,  rest 
upon  you  all,  and  be  with  you  and  abide  in 
your  heai'ts,  now  and  forever !     Amen  !  " 

Having  pronounced  these  words,  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  two  hands  and 
wept  bitterly.  There  were  indeed  few  dry 
eyes  ai'ouud  him ;  they  knelt  before  him, 
kissed  his  ring,  and  prepared  to  take  their 
depai"t\u'e  out  of  the  cavern. 

"My  lord,"  siiid  KeiUy,  who  still  enter- 
tained apprehensions  of  the  return  of  his 
malady,  "  if  you  will  permit  me  I  shall  share 
yoiu'  fate,  whatever  it  may  be.  The  poor 
people  you  allude  to  are  not  in  a  condition 
to  attend  to  yom*  wants.  Allow  me,  then, 
to  attend  and  accompany  you  in  your  re- 
treat." 

"  My  deal-  friend,"  said  the  bishop,  clasping 
his  hand,  "  you  are  heaping  co;ils  of  lii-e  upon 
my  head.  I  tia;st  you  will  forgive  me,  for  I 
knew  not  what  I  did.  I  shall  be  glad  of 
your  companionship.  I  fear  I  still  stand  in 
need  of  such  a  friend.  Be  it  so,  then,"  he 
proceeded — "be  it  so,  my  dear  friend  ;  only 
that  I  should  not  wish  you  to  involve  yoiu*- 
self  in  imnecessaiy  danger  on  my  account." 

"  Danger,  my  lord  !  "  replied  Keilly  ; 
"  there  is  not  an  individual  here  against 
whom  personal  malignity  has  dii-ected  the 
vengeance  of  the  law  with  such  a  bloodthirsty 
and  vindictive  spirit  as  against  myself.  Why 
else  am  I  here  ?  No,  I  \\-ill  accomjjany  yoiu* 
lordship,  and  share  your  fate." 

It  was  so  determined,  and  they  left  the 
cavern,  each  to  prociu'e  some  place  of  safety 
for  himseK. 

In  the  meantime,  Sir  Eobert  "VMiitecraft, 
having  had  another  inteniew  -^ith  Hennessy, 
was  prevailed  upon  to  get  a  militaiy  party 
together,  and  the  cunning  reprobate,  in  order 
to  excite  the  baronet's  vengeance  to  a  still 
higher  pitch,  mentioned  a  circumstance 
which  he  had  before  forgotten,  to  ■s\-it,  that 
Reilly,  his  arch-enemy,  was  also  in  the  cave. 

"  But,"  said  Sii'  Eobert,  who,  as  we  have 
already  said,  was  a  poltroon  and  a  cowai'd, 
"  what  guarantee  can  you  give  me  that  you 
are  not  leading  me  into  an  ambuscade  ?  You 
know  that  I  am  vmpopulai*,  and  the  Paj^ists 
would  be  delighted  to  have  my  blood  ;  what 
guai-antee,  then,  can  you  give  me  that  you 
are  acting  by  me  in  good  faith  ?  " 

"  The  guai'antee  of  my  own  hfe,"  replied 
the  other.  "Let  me  be  placed  between  two 
of  youi-  men,  and  if  you  see  any  thing  like  an 
ambuscade,  let  them  shoot  me  dead  on  the 
spot." 

"  ^\Tiy,"  repUed  the  baronet,  "  that  is  fair ; 
but  the  truth  is,  I  have  been  put  on  my 
guard  against  you  by  a  person  who  escorted 
me  home  last  night     He  rendered  me  some 


assistance  when  I  fell  from  my  horse,  and 
he  slept  here." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  asked  Hennessy. 

"He  told  me,"  rephed  the  bai'onet,  "  that 
his  name  was  Drum." 

"  Could  you  give  me  a  description,  Sir 
Robert,  of  his  person  ?  " 

Sir  Robert  did  so. 

"  I  declare  to  God,  Sir  Robert,  you  have 
had  a  narrow  escape  fi-om  that  man.  He  is 
one  of  the  most  bigoted  priests  in  the  king- 
dom. He  used  to  disguise  himself  as  a 
drummer — for  his  father  was  in  the  army,  and 
he  himself  xcm  a  drummer  in  his  boyhood  ; 
and  his  object  in  preventing  you  from  bring- 
ing a  mihtiU'v  party  to  the  cavern  was  merely 
that  he  might  have  an  opportunity  of  gi^ing 
them  notice  of  your  intentions.  I  now  say 
that  if  you  lose  an  hour's  time  they  will  be 
gone." 

Sir  Robert  did  not  lose  an  hour's  time. 
The  local  barracks  were  within  a  few  hun- 
di-ed  yards  of  his  house.  A  party  of  mih- 
taiy  were  immediately  called  out,  and  in  a 
short  time  they  arrived,  under  the  guidance 
of  Hennessy,  to  the  veiy  mouth  of  the 
cavern,  which  he  disclosed  to  them.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  detail  the  particvdars  of  the 
search.  The  soldiers  entered  it  one  by  one, 
but  found  that  the  bii'ds  had  flown.  The 
very  fires  were  biu'ning,  but  not  a  hving 
soul  in  the  cave  ;  it  was  comph^tely  deserted, 
and  nothing  remained  but  some  miserable 
reUcs  of  cold  prorisions,  ^xith  which,  by  the 
aid  of  fir  spUces,  that  served  as  torches, 
they  regaled  themselves  as  far  as  they  went. 

Su-  Robert  Whitecraft  now  felt  full  con- 
fidence in  Hennessy  ;  but  would  have  given 
a  trifle  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  ]\Ir. 
Rowland  Drum,  by  whose  ingenuity  he  was 
so  completely  outwitted.  As  it  was,  they 
scoured  the  country  in  search  of  the  in- 
mates of  the  cave,  but  above  all  things  in 
search  of  Reilly,  for  whose  capture  "Wliite- 
craft  would  have  forgiven  every  man  in  the 
cavern.  The  seaix-h,  however,  was  unsuc- 
cessful ;  not  a  man  of  them  was  caught  that 
day,  and  gallant  Sii-  Robert  and  his  mjT- 
midons  were  obhged  to  return  wearied  and 
disappointed  men. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

ReiUy  is  Taken,  hut  connived  at  by  Vie  Sheriff— 
The  Mountain  Mass. 

Reilly  and  the  bishop  traversed  a  wild 
and  remote  part  of  the  countrs',  in  which 
there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  long  barrec 
wastes,  over  which  were  studded,  here  and 


WILLY  REILLY. 


there,  a  few  solitary  huts  ;  upon  its  exti-emity, 
however,  tliere  were  some  houses  of  a  more 
comfortable  description,  the  habitations  of 
middling?  farmers,  who  possessed  small  farms 
at  a  moderate  rent.  As  they  went  along, 
the  prelate  addressed  Reilly  in  the  folloT\-ing 
terms: 

"Mr.  Reilly,"  said  he,  "I  would  advise 
fou  to  get  out  of  this  unhappy  countiy  as 
soon  as  you  can." 

"My  lord,"  replied  Reilly,  who  was  all 
candor  and  tinith,  and  never  could  conceal 
his  sentiments,  at  whatever  risk,  "I  cannot 
think  of  learing  the  country,  let  the  conse- 
quences be  what  tliey  may.  I  wiU  not 
trouble  your  lordship  with  my  motives,  be- 
cause they  are  at  variance  with  your  chai*- 
acter  and  religious  foehngs  ;  but  they  ai"e 
not  at  variance  with  religion  or  moraUty. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  I  wish  to  prevent  a 
beautiful  and  innocent  girl  fi-om  being  sac- 
rificed. My  lord,  you  know  too  weU  that 
persecution  is  abroad  ;  and  when  I  tell  you 
that,  through  the  inHuence  which  this  ad- 
mirable creature  has  over  her  father — who, 
by  the  way,  has  himself  the  character  of  a 
pei*secutor — many  Catholics  have  been  pro- 
tected by  liim,  I  am  sure  you  will  not  blame 
me  for  the  interest  which  I  feel  in  her  fate. 
In  addition  to  this,  my  lord,  she  has  been  a 
ministering  angel  to  the  CathoHc  poor  in 
general,  and  has  contributed  vast  sums, 
privately,  to  the  relief  of  such  of  our  priest- 
hood as  have  been  brought  to  distress  by 
the  persecution  of  the  times.  Nay,  she  has 
so  far  influenced  her  father  that  proscribed 
priests  have  found  refuge  and  protection  in 
his  house." 

The  bishop,  on  hearing  this,  stood,  and 
taking  oil'  his  hat,  raised  his  right  hand,  and 
said  :  "  May  the  blessing  of  tlie  Almighty 
God  rest  upon  her,  and  guard  her  fi-om  the 
snares  of  those  who  would  make  her  un- 
happy !  But,  Reilly,  as  you  say  you  are 
deteiTained,  if  jjossible,  to  rescue  her  fi'om 
ruin,  you  know  that  if  you  go  at  large  in 
your  usual  dress  you  will  unquestionably 
be  taken.  I  adrise  }'OU,  then,  to  disguise 
yourself  in  such  a  way  as  that  you  v<\Sl  not, 
ii  possible,  be  known." 

"  Such,  my  lord,  is  my  intention — but 
who  is  this  ?  what — eh — yes,  'tis  Fergus 
O'Reilly,  a  distant  and  humble  relation  of 
mrue  who  is  also  in  disguise.  Well.  Fergus, 
where  have  vou  been  for  some  time  past  ?  " 

•'  It  would  be  difficult  to  teU  that,  God 
knows  ;  I  have  been  everwhere — but,"  he  ! 
added  in  a  whisper,  "may  I  speak  freely?"    j 

"As  free  as  the  ^^'ind  that  blows,  Fergus."  ^ 

"  Well,  then,  I  tell  you  that  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft  has  engaged  me  to  be  on  the 
^okout  for  vou,  and  said  that  I  would  be 


handsomely  rewarded  if  I  could  succeed  in 
enabUug  the  scoundrel  to  apprehend  you." 
"But  how  did  that  come  about,  Fergus  ?  " 
"Faith,  he  met  me  one  day — you  see   I 
have  got  a  bag  at  my  back — and  taking  me 
for  a  beggarman,  stopped  me  on  the  road. 
'I  say,  v'ou,  poor  man,' says  he,  '  what's  your 
name?'     'Paddy    M'Fud,'    says   I — '  I  be- 
long to  the  ^IFuds  of  Ballymackknockem.' 
'  You're  a  beggai-,'  says  he,  '  and  travel  from 
j  place  to  place  about  the  country.'     '  It's  tme 
.  enough,    your   honor,'  I   replied,    '  I   travel 
;  about  a  good  deal,  of  coorse,  and  it's  only 
j  that  way  that  I  ^^i  my  bit  and  sup.'     '  Do 
j  you  know  the  notorious  villain  called  Willy 
I  Reilly  ? '     *  Not  by  sight,  your  honor,  but  I 
have  often  heard  of  him.     Wasn't  he  in  love 
I  with   the   beautiful    Cooleen    Bawn,    Squire 
!  FoUiard's  daughter  ?  '     '  That's  not  the  ques- 
!  tion  between  us,'  he  said,  '  but  if  you  enable 
!  me  to  catch  Reilly,  I  will  give  vou  twenty 
pounds.'     'Well,  your  honor,'  says  I,  'lave 
the  tiling  to  myself  ;  if  he  is  to  be  had  it'll 
go  hiu-d  but  I'll   find   him.'     '  Well,  then,' 
says  he,  '  if  you  can  teU  me  where  he  is  I 
vriH   give   you   twenty   poimds,  as   I   said.' 
'  Well,   sir,'  says  I,  '  I  expect  to  heai*  fi-om 
you  ;  I  am  not  sure  he's  in  the  countiy — 
indeed  they  say  he  is  not — but  if  he  is,  I 
think   I'U   find  him  for  you  ; '   and   so   we 
parted." 

"  Fergxis,"  said  Reilly,  "  I  feel  that  a  dis- 
guise is  necessaiy.  Here  is  money  to  enable 
you  to  purcha.se  one.  I  do  not  know  where 
you  may  be  able  to  find  me  ;  but  go  and  buy 
me  a  suit  of  fi-ieze,  rather  worn,  a  dingy  cau- 
been  hat,  coarse  Connemara  stockings,  and  a 
pair  of  clouted  brogues  ;  some  coarse  Unen, 
too  ;  because  the  fineness  of  my  shirts,  should 
I  happen  to  be  apprehended,  might  betray 
me.  Leave  them  \\ith  widow  Buckley,  and 
I  can  find  them  there." 

It  was  so  aiTanged.  Fergus  went  on  his 
way,  as  did  ReiUy  and  the  bishop.  Tlie  lat- 
ter conducted  him  to  the  house  of  a  middling 
farmer,  whose  son  the  bishop  had  sent,  at 
his  own  expense,  to  a  continentjil  college. 
They  were  botli  received  with  the  warmest 
aft'ection,  and,  so  fiw  as  the  bishop  was  con- 
cerned, with  every  expression  of  the  deepest 
gi-atitude.  The  situation  was  remote,  and 
the  tumult  of  pursuit  did  not  reach  them. 
Reilly  privately  forced  upon  the  fiU-mer  com- 
pensation for  their  support,  under  a  solemn 
injunction  that  he  shoiUd  not  communicate 
that  circumstance  to  the  bishop,  and  neither 
did  he.  They  were  here,  then,  comparatively 
safe,  but  still  Reilly  dreaded  the  active  rigil- 
ance  of  his  deadly  enemy,  Sir  Robert  \\niite- 
craft.  He  felt  that  a  disguise  was  absolutely 
necessaiy,  and  that,  without  it,  he  might  fall 
a  sacrifice  to  the  diabolical  vengeance  of  his 


?8 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


powerful  enemy.  In  the  course  of  about  ten 
(lays  after  he  had  commissioned  Fergus  to 
procui-e  him  the  disguise,  he  resolved  to  visit 
widow  Buckley,  in  order  to  make  the  neces- 
sai-y  exchange  in  his  apparel.  He  according- 
ly set  out — very  fooHshly  we  must  admit — 
in  open  day,  to  go  to  the  widow's  house. 
The  distance  was  some  miles.  No  appear- 
ance of  danger,  or  pui-suit,  was  evident,  until 
he  came  to  the  sharp  angle  of  the  road,  where 
he  was  met  by  four  poAverfiQ  constables,  who, 
on  looking  at  him,  immediately  surrounded 
him  and  made  him  prisoner.  Eesistance  was 
impossible  ;  they  Avere  well  armed,  and  he 
was  without  any  weajDon  with  which  he  could 
defend  himself. 

"  We  have  a  warrant  for  your  apprehension, 
sii',"  said  one  of  them. 

"Upon  what  grounds?"  replied  Eeilly. 
"I  am  conscious  of  no  offence  against  the 
laws  of  the  land.  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ? 
and  is  my  name  in  your  waiTant  ?  " 

"Xo,  but  yoiu"  appearance  answers  com- 
pletel}'  to  the  description  given  in  the  Hue 
and  Cry.  Yom*  dress  is  the  same  as  that  of 
the  robber,  and  j-ou  must  come  with  us  to 
the  sheriff  whom  you  have  robbed.  His 
house  is  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  fi'om  this." 

They  accordingly  proceeded  to  the  sheriff's 
liouse,  whom  they  found  at  home.  On  being 
informed  that  they  had  caj)tui-ed  the  man 
who  had  robbed  him,  he  came  dowTistaii's 
with  great  alacrity,  and  in  a  spii-it  replete 
with  vengeance  against  the  robber.  The 
sheriff,  however,  was  really  a  good-natured 
and  conscientious  man,  and  would  not  lend 
himself  to  a  dishonorable  act,  nor  had  he  ever 
been  kno-\\Ti  to  do  so.  "V\Tien  he  aj)peared, 
Reilly  addressed  him  : 

"  I  am  here,  sir,"  said  he,  "under  a  charge 
of  having  robbed  you.  The  charge  against 
aie  is  ridiculous.  I  am  a  gentleman,  and 
never  was  under  the  necessity  of  having  re- 
course to  such  unlav.ful  means  of  raising 
jioney." 

"Well,"  replied  the  sheriff,  "your dress  is 
precisely  the  same  as  the  fellow  wore  when 
he  robbed  me.  But  I  feel  confident  that  j^ou 
are  not  the  man.  Your  hair  is  black,  his 
was  red,  and  he  had  large  red  whiskers.  In 
the  excitement  and  agitation  of  the  moment 
I  forgot  to  mark  the  villain's  features  dis- 
tinctly ;  but  I  have  since  thought  over  the 
matter,  and  I  siy  that  I  would  now  know  him 
if  I  s:iw  hiui  iigain.  This,  however,"  he  added, 
turning  to  the  constables,  "  is  not  the  person 
who  robbed  and  beat  me  down  from  my 
hor.se." 

"  But  he  may  be  Willy  Reilly,  sir,  for  all 
that ;  and  you  Icnow  the  reward  that  is  off- 
ered for  Aw  apprehension." 

"I  know  Willy  Reilly."  replied  tlie  sher- 


iff, "  and  I  can  assure  you  that  this  gentle« 
man  is  not  Willy  Reilly.  Go,  now,  continue 
your  pursuit.  The  robber  lurks  somewhere 
in  the  neighborhood.  You  know  the  reward ; 
catch  him,  and  you  shall  have  it." 

The  constables  depai-ted ;  and  after  they 
had  gone  the  sheriff  said, 

"  ]\Ir.  Reilly,  I  know  you  well ;  but  I 
would  scom  to  avail  myself  of  the  circum- 
stance which  has  thus  occurred.  I  am  aware 
of  the  motive  which  urges  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft  against  you — so  is  the  whole  countiy. 
That  penui'ious  and  unprincipled  villain  is 
thii'sting  for  your  blood.  Mr.  Hastings, 
however,  has  a  rod  in  pickle  for  him,  and  lie 
will  be  made  to  feel  it  in  the  course  of  time. 
The  present  administration  is  certainly'  an 
anti-CathoKc  one  ;  but  I  understand  it  is 
tottering,  and  that  a  more  liberal  one  will 
come  in.  This  "WTiitecraft  has  succeeded  in 
getting  some  young  profligate  Catholics  to 
become  Protestants,  who  have,  consequently, 
ousted  theu'  fathers  out  of  their  estates  and 
projoerty  ;  younger  sons,  Avho,  by  this  act  of 
treachery,  will  get  the  estates  into  their  own 
j^ossession.  The  thing  is  monstrous  and  un- 
natural. But  let  that  pass  ;  Whitecraft  is 
on  oui"  trail  in  all  directions  ;  beware  of  him, 
I  say  ;  and  I  think,  with  gi-eat  respect  to  you, 
]\Ii'.  Reilly,  it  is  extremely  foolish  to  go 
abroad  in  youi*  usual  apparel,  and  without 
disguise." 

"Sii-,"  replied  Reilly,  "I  cannot  express, 
as  I  would  A\ash,  my  deep  gratitude  to  you 
for  your  kindness  and  forbearance.  That 
Sir  Robert  AVliitecraft  is  thu'sting  for  my 
blood  I  know.  The  cause  of  that  vengeance 
is  now  notorious." 

"You  know  Mr.  Hastings,  Mi\  Reilly?" 

"Intimately,  sir." 

"  He  took  your  property  in  his  omi 
name  ?  " 

"He  did,  sir  ;  he  purchased  it  in  his  own 
name.  The  property  was  hereditary  proj)- 
erty,  and  when  my  title  to  it,  in  point  of  law, 
as  a  Cathohc,  was  questioned,  and  when  one 
of  my  family,  as  a  Protestant,  put  in  his 
claim  for  it,  Mx.  Hastings  came  in  as  the 
purchaser,  and  ousted  him.  The  money  wa-s 
supplied  by  me.  The  moment,  however, 
that  I  found  Whitecraft  was  after  me,  I  im- 
mediatel}^  sun-endered  the  whole  of  it  back 
to  him  ;  so  that  Sir  Robert,  in  burning  what 
he  considered  my  jDroperty,  in  fact  burned 
IVIi-.  Hastmgs'." 

"  And  I  have  reason  to  know,  IMr.  Reilly, 
that  it  will  be  the  blackest  act  of  his  guilty 
life.  Tliis,  however,  I  mention  to  j^ou  in  the 
strictest  confidence.  Keep  the  secret,  for  if 
it  transpii'ed  the  scoundrel  might  escape 
from  the  consequences  of  his  own  cruelty 
and  oppression.     In  the  meantime,  do  you 


WILLY  REILLT. 


89 


take  care  of  yourself — keep  out  of  his  way, 
and,  as  I  said,  above  all  things,  procure  a 
disguise.  Let  the  consequences  be  what 
they  may,  I  don't  think  the  beautiful  Cooleen 
Jiaicn  will  ever  marry  him." 

"  But,"  replied  Reilly,  "  is  there  no  risk 
of  compulsion  by  her  father  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  must  confess  there  is,"  rephed 
the  sheriff ;  "  he  is  obstinate  and  headstrong, 
especially  if  opposed,  and  she  -^-ill  find  it 
necessary  to  oppose  him — and  she  \oill  op- 
pose him.  I  myself  have  had  a  conversation 
with  her  on  the  subject,  and  she  is  firm  as 
fate  against  such  a  union  ;  and  I  will  tell  you 
more,  Reilly — it  was  she  who  principally  en- 
gaged me  to  protect  you  as  fai'  as  I  could, 
:ind  so  I  shall,  you  may  rest  assured  of  it.  I 
had  only  to  name  you  a  few  minutes  ago,  and 
your  fate  was  sealed.  But,  even  if  she  had 
never  spoken  to  me  on  the  subject,  I  could  not 
lend  myself  to  the  cruel  plots  of  that  villain, 
(jrod  knows,  in  consequence  of  my  official 
situation,  I  am  jjut  upon  tasks  that  are  very 
painfvd  to  me  ;  le%Ting  fines  from  men  who 
are  harmless  and  inoffensive,  who  are  peace- 
able members  of  society,  who  teach  the 
people  to  be  moral,  well  conducted,  and 
obedient  to  the  laws,  and  who  do  not  them- 
selves violate  them.  Now,"  he  added,  "be 
ad\-ised  by  me,  and  disguise  yom-self." 

"  Sir,"  said  Reilly,  "  your  sentiments  do 
you  honor  ;  I  am  this  moment  on  my  way  to 
put  on  a  disguise,  which  has  been  procvu-ed 
for  me.  I  agree  with  you  and  other  fiiends 
that  it  Avould  be  impossible  for  me  to  remain 
in  the  coimtr}-  in  my  ovax  natvu-al  aspect  and 
dress.  Allow  me,  before  I  go,  to  express  my 
sense  of  your  kindness,  and  beUeve  me  I 
shall  never  forget  it." 

"The  disguise,  above  all  things,"  said  the 
sheriff,  smiling  and  holding  out  his  hand. 
Reilly  seized  it  with  a  warm  pressiu'e  ;  they 
bid  each  other  fai'eweU,  and  so  they  parted. 

Reilly  then  wound  his  way  to  the  cottage 
of  ^Ii's.  Buckley,  but  not  by  the  pubUc  road. 
He  took  across  the  fields,  and,  in  due  time, 
reached  her  humble  habitation.  Here  he 
found  the  disguise,  which  liis  friend  Fergus 
had  provided — a  haLf-wom  frieze  coat,  a 
half-worn  caubeen,  and  a  half-worn  pair  of 
coi'duroy  breeches,  clouted  brogues,  and 
Connemara  stockings,  also  the  worse  for  the 
wear,  with  two  or  thi'ee  coarse  shirts,  in 
perfect  keeping  ^\ith  the  other  portion  of 
tiie  disguise. 

"  WeD,  jMrs.  Buckley,"  said  he,  "  how 
have  you  been  since  I  saw  you  last  ?  " 

"  Oh,  then,  Mr.  Reilly,"  said  she,   "  it's  a 
miracle  fi'om  God  that  j'ou  did  not  think  of 
stopping  here  !  I  had  several  ^'isits  from  the  i 
sogers  who  came  out  to  look  for  you." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  so,  IMrs.  Buckley ;  but  j 


it  was  one  comfort  that  they  did  not  find 
me." 

"  God  be  praised  for  that !  "  replied  the 
poor  woman,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  "  it 
would  a'  broken  my  lieart  if  you  had  been 
catched  in  my  little  place." 

"But,  Mrs.  Buckley,"  said  Reilly,  "were 
there  any  plain  clothes  left  for  me  here  ?  " 

"Oh,  indeed  there  wa.s,  sir,"  she  repUed, 
"  and  I  have  them  safe  for  you  ;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  I'll  go  outside,  and  have  an  eye 
about  the  countrj',  for  somehow  they  have 
taken  it  into  then*  heads  that  this  would  be 
a  very  likely  place  to  find  you." 

While  she  was  out,  Reilly  changed  his 
dress,  and  in  a  few  minutes  underwent  such 
«  metamorphosis  that  poor  ili-s.  Buckley,  on 
re-entering  the  house,  felt  quite  akirmed. 

"  Heavenly  Father !  my  good  man,  where 
did  you  come  fi'om  ?  I  thought  I  left  !Mi-. — " 
here  she  stopped,  afraid  to  mention  Reilly's 
name. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  ]Mrs.  Buckley,"  said 
Reilly;  "I  am  only  changed  in  outward 
appeai'ance ;  I  am  your  time  friend  still ; 
and  now  accept  this  for  j-our  kindness," 
placing  money  in  her  hand. 

"I  can't,  ]\Ii'.  Reilly;  you  are  under  the 
persecutions,  arid  will  want  all  the  money 
you  have  to  supj^ort  yourself.  Didn't  the 
thieves  of  the  devil  bui-n  you  out  and  rob 
you,  and  how  can  you  get  through  this 
wicked  world  without  money — keep  it  your- 
self, for  I  don't  want  it." 

"  Come,  come,  Mrs.  Buckley,  I  have  mon- 
ey enough  ;  you  must  take  tins  ;  I  only  ask 
you  to  conceal  these  clothes  in  some  place 
whei'e  the  hell-hounds  of  the  law  can't  find 
them.  And  now,  good-by,  ]\lrs.  Buckley  ; 
I  shall  take  care  that,  whatever  may  hajjpen 
me,  you  shall  not  be  disturbed  out  of  your 
httle  cabin  and  your  garden." 

The  tears  ran  down  the  poor  old  woman's 
cheeks,  and  Reilly  left  her  sobbing  and  ciy- 
ing  behind  him.  This  indeed  was  an  event- 
ful day  to  him.  Strong  in  the  confidence 
of  his  disguise,  he  took  the  pubhc  road,  and 
had  not  gone  far  when  he  met  a  party  of 
Sii-  Robert  "SATiitecraft's.  To  fly  would  have 
been  instant  ruin ;  he  accordingly  com- 
menced an  old  L-ish  song  at  the  verj-  top  of 
his  lungs.  Su'  Robert  Whitecraft  was  not 
himself  of  the  party,  but  scarcely  any  indi- 
vidual was  met  by  them  whom  they  did  not 
cross-examine. 

"Hallo,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the  leader 
of  the  party,    "  what  is  that  you're  singin'  ?  " 

Reilly  stared  at  him  Uke  a  man  who  was 
sorely  puzzled  ;  "Ha  neil  bearla  agum  ;  "  that 
is,  "I  have  no  English." 

"Here,  Connor,  you  can  speak  Irish;  sift 
this  able-bodied  tyke." 


90 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S    WORKS. 


A  conversation  in  that  lan^age  then  took 
place  between  tliem  which  reflected  ever- 
lasting honoi'  upon  Connor,  who,  by  the 
way.  was  one  of  Reilly's  tenants,  but  himself 
and  his  progenitoi-s  were  Protestants  for 
three  generations.  He  was  a  shai-p,  keen 
man,  but  generous  and  honorable,  and  after 
two  or  three  glances  at  our  hero,  at  once 
recognized  him.  This  he  could  only  intimate 
by  a  wink,  for  he  knew  that  there  were  other 
persons  there  who  spoke  L*ish  as  well  as 
either  of  them.  The  dialogue,  however,  was 
not  long,  neither  was  it  kind-hearted  Connor's 
wish  that  it  should  be  so.  He  was  asked, 
however,  if  he  knew  any  thing  about  Willy 
Riley,  to  which  he  repUed  that  he  did  not, 
only  by  aU  accounts  he  had  left  the  country. 
This,  indeed,  was  the  general  opinion. 

"This  blockhead,"  said  Connor,  "knows 
nothing  about  him,  only  what  he  has  heard  ; 
he's  a  pig  dealer,  and  is  now  on  his  way  to 
the  fair  of  Shgo  ;  come  on.'' 

They  passed  onwards,  and  Eeill}'  resumed 
his  journey  and  his  song. 

On  reaching  the  fai'mer's  house  where  he 
and  the  bishop  lodged,  the  unhappy  prelate 
felt  rather  annoyed  at  the  appearance  of  a 
stranger,  and  was  about  to  reprove  theii' 
host  for  his  carelessness  in  admitting  such 
persons. 

"  AVhat  do  you  want  here,  my  good  man  ?  " 
inquii-ed  the  farmer. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  say  anything  to  me?" 
asked  the  bishop. 

"A  few  words,"  repHed  Eeilly  ;  but,  on 
consideration,  he  changed  his  pui'pose  of 
plapng  oft'  a  good-humored  joke  on  his  lord- 
ship and  the  farmer.  For  the  melancholy 
prelate  he  felt  the  deepest  compassion  and 
respect,  and  apprehended  that  any  tam-oer- 
ing  wdth  his  feelings  might  be  attended  with 
dangerous  consequences  to  his  intellect.  He 
consequently  changed  his  pui-jDose,  and  add- 
ed, "  My  lord,  don't  you  know  me?  " 

The  bishop  looked  at  him,  and  it  was  not 
without  considerable  scrutiny  that  he  recog- 
nized him. 

In  the  meantime  the  farmer,  who  had  left 
the  room  previous  to  this  explanation,  and 
who  looked  upon  EeiUy  as  an  impostor  or  a 
spy,  returned  with  a  stout  oaken  cudgel,  ex- 
claiming, "  Now,  5'ou  damned  desaver,  I  wiU 
give  you  a  jacketfial  of  sore  bones  for  com- 
in'  to  pr}'  about  here.  This  gintleman  is  a 
doctor  ;  three  of  my  family  are  lying  ill  of 
faver,  and  that  you  may  catch  it  I  jiray  gorra 
this  day  !  but  if  you  won't  catch  that,  you'll 
catch  this,"  and  he  whirled  the  cudgel  about 
his  head,  and  most  unquestionably  it  would 
have  descended  on  Reilly  s  cranium  were  it 
not  for  the  bishop,  who  interposed  and  pre- 
vented the  meditated  violence. 


"Be  quiet,  Kelly,"  said  he,  "  be  quiet,  siTi 
this  is  Mr.  Reilly  disguised." 

"  Troth,  I  must  look  closely  at  him  first," 
replied  Kelly  ;  "who  knows  but  he's  impos' 
in'  upon  you.  Dr.  Wilson  ?  " 

Kelly  then  looked  closely  into  his  facOf 
still  holding  a  firm  gi-ip  of  the  cudgel 

""WTiy,  Kelly,"  said  Reilly,  "what  the 
deuce  are  you  at?  Don't  you  know  my  voice 
at  least  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  Kelly,  "  bad  luck  to  the 
like  o'  that  ever  I  see.  Holy  Moses,  Mr. 
Reilly,  but  you  had  a  narrow  escape,  Devil 
a  man  in  the  barony  can  handle  a  cudgel  as 
I  can,  and  it  was  a  miracle,  and  you  may 
thank  his  lordship  here  for  it  that  you  hadn't 
a  shirtful  of  sore  bones." 

"  WeU,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Reilly,  "put 
up  yoiu'  cudgel ;  I  really  don't  covet  a  shirt- 
ful of  sore  bones  ;  but,  after  aU,  perhaps  you 
woidd  have  found  my  fist  a  match  for  j'our 
cudgel." 

"  Nonsense  ! "  replied  Kelly  ;  "  but  God  be 
praised  that  you  escaped  the  welting  anyhow  ; 
I  would  never  forgive  myself,  and  you  the 
fiiend  of  his  lordship." 

He  then  left  the  room,  liis  terrific  cudgel 
under  his  arm,  and  Reilly,  after  his  absence, 
related  to  the  bishop  the  events  of  the  day, 
invohing,  as  they  clid,  the  two  narrow  es- 
capes which  he  had  had.  The  bishop 
thanked  God,  and  told  Reilly  to  be  of  good 
courage,  for  that  he  thought  the  hand  of 
Providence  was  protecting  him. 

The  life  they  led  here  was,  at  all  events, 
quiet  and  peaceable.  The  bishop  was  a  man 
of  singular,  indeed  of  ajDostolic,  piety.  He 
spent  most  of  the  day  in  meditation  and 
prayer  ;  fasting  beyond  the  powers  of  his 
enfeebled  constitution  :  and  indeed  it  "was 
fortujiate  that  Reilly  had  accompanied  him, 
for  so  ascetic  were  his  habits  that  were  it 
not  for  his  entreaties,  and  the  influence 
which  he  had  gained  over  him,  it  is  not  at 
all  unlikely  that  his  vrnfortunate  malady 
might  have  returned.  The  neighborhood  in 
which  they  resided  w^as,  as  we  have  said,  re- 
mote, and  exclusively  Cathohc  ;  and  upon 
Sundays  the  bishop  celebrated  mass  upon  a 
Httle  grassy  platform — or  rather  in  a  little 
cave,  into  which  it  led.  This  cave  was  small, 
barely  large  enough  to  contain  a  table,  which 
sei'ved  as  a  temporary  altar,  the  poor  shiver- 
ing congi'egation  kneeling  on  the  platform 
outside.  At  this  period  of  our  story  aU  the 
Catholic  chapels  and  places  of  worslajD  were, 
as  we  have  said,  closed  by  proclamation,  and 
the  poor  people  were  deprived  of  the  means 
of  meeting  to  worship  God.  It  had  soon, 
however,  become  known  to  them  that  an  op- 
portunity of  jDublic  worship  was  to  be  had 
every  Sunday,  at  the  place  we  have  described 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


J>l 


Messengers  had  been  sent  among  them  with 
information  to  that  effect ;  and  the  conse- 
quence was  that  they  not  only  kept  the 
secret,  but  flocked  in  considerable  numbers 
to  attend  mass.  On  the  Sunday  following 
the  adoption  of  Reilly's  disguise,  the  bishop 
and  he  proceeded  to  the  little  cave,  or  rather 
cleft,  where  a  table  had  been  placed,  togeth- 
er with  the  vestments  necessary  for  the  cere- 
mony. They  found  about  two  or  three 
hundred  i:)ersons  assembled — most  of  them 
of  the  humblest  class.  The  day  was  stormy 
m  the  extreme.  It  was  a  hard  frost,  and  the 
snow,  besides,  falling  hea\-ily,  the  wind 
strong,  and  raging  in  hollow  gusts  about 
the  place.  The  position  of  the  table-altar, 
however,  saved  the  bishop  and  the  chaUce, 
and  the  other  matters  necessary  for  the  per- 
formance of  worshij),  from  the  direct  fury  of 
the  blast,  but  not  altogether  ;  for  occasion- 
ally a  whirlwind  would  come  up,  and  toss 
over  the  leaves  of  the  missal  in  such  a  way, 
and  with  such  ^'iolence,  that  the  bishop,  who 
was  now  trembling  fi'om  the  cold,  was  ob- 
hged  to  lose  some  time  in  finding  out  the 
proper  passages.  It  was  a  solemn  sight  to 
see  two  or  three  hundred  persons  kneeling, 
and  bent  in  jorostrate  and  he;U'tfelt  adora- 
tion, in  the  pious  wor-shij)  of  that  God  who 
sends  and  withholds  the  stoi-m  ;  bai'eheaded, 
too,  imder  the  piercing  drift  of  the  thick- 
falling  granular  snow,  and  thinking  of  noth- 
ing but  their  own  sins,  and  that  gladsome 
opportunity  of  api^roaching  the  fo'-bidden 
altju"  of  God,  now  doubly  dear  to  tliem  that 
it  it'a.s  forbidden.  As  the  ceremony  was  pro- 
ceeding the  bishop  was  getting  on  to  that 
portion  of  the  sacred  rites  where  the  conse- 
cration and  elevation  of  the  Host  are  neces- 
saiy,  and  it  was  obseiwed  by  all  that  an 
extraordinary  and  sudden  lull  took  place, 
and  that  the  rage  of  the  storm  had  altogether 
ceased.  He  proceeded,  and  had  consecrated 
the  Host — hoc  est  corpus  meum — when  aciy  of 
terror  arose  from  the  affrighted  congregation. 

"  'Sly  lord,  fly,  and  save  yourself !  Captain 
Smellpriest  and  liis  gang  are  upon  us." 

The  bishop  never  once  turned  round,  nor 
seemed  to  hear  them  ;  but  Reilly  did,  and 
saw  that  the  whole  congi-egation  had  fled, 
and  that  there  only  remained  the  bishop  and 
himself.  ' 

"  Our  day  of  doom,"  said  he  to  himself,  ' 
"  is  come.     Nothing  now  can  save  us." 

Still  the  bishop  proceeded  undisturbed  in  | 
the  worship  of  the  Almighty  ;  when,  lo  !  the  ' 
military  party,   headed  and  led  on  by  the 
notorious  Captain  Smellpriest,  came   thun- 
dering up,  the  captain  exclaiming  :  \ 

"  You  idolatrous  Papist,  stop  that  raum- 
merj' — or  you  shall  have  twelve  bullets  in 
vour  heart  before  half  a  minute's  time."  i 


The  bishop  had  consecrated  the  Host,  as 
we  have  said,  but  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
receive  it. 

"  Men,"  said  Smellpriest,  "  you  are  all 
primed  and  loaded.     Present." 

They  accordingly  did  so  ;  every  musket 
was  levelled  at  him.  The  bishop  now  tui'ned 
round,  and,  with  the  ciJmness  of  a  martyr 
— a  calmness  and  conduct  that  were  sublime 
— he  said  : 

"  Sir,  I  am  engaged  in  the  worship  of  the 
Eternal  God,  and  if  you  ^^dsh  to  shed  my 
blood  I  should  rather  it  were  here  and  now 
than  in  any  other  place.  Give  me  but  a  few 
minutes — I  do  not  ask  more." 

"  Oh,"  said  Smelli^riest,  "we  will  give  you 
ten,  if  you  wish  it,  and  the  more  so  because 
we  are  sure  of  you." 

"\Mien  the  bishop  turned  round  again, 
after  ha^•ing  received  the  Host,  his  pale  face 
had  altogether  changed  its  complexion — it 
biu-ned  with  an  expression  which  it  is  difii- 
cult  to  describe.  A  lofty  sense  of  the  sacri- 
fice he  was  about  to  make  was  A'isible  in  his 
kindling  and  enthusiastic  eye  ;  his  feeble 
frame,  that  had  been,  duiing  the  ceremony 
of  mass,  shivering  under  the  effects  of  the 
terrible^  storm  that  howled  around  them, 
now  became  firm,  and  not  the  sUghtest  mark 
of  fear  or  terror  was  visible  in  liis  bearing  ; 
calmly  and  undauntedly  he  turned  rovind, 
and  with  a  voice  full  and  steady  he  said  : 

"  I  am  willing  to  die  for  my  rehgion,  but 
I  say  to  j-ou  that  the  slaughter  of  an  inoffen- 
sive man  at  the  foot  of  God's  altar  will  not 
smooth  the  i^illow  of  your  deathbed,  nor  of 
those  who  shoot  down  a  minister  of  God 
while  in  the  act  of  worshipping  his  Crea- 
tor. My  congregation,  poor  timid  creatures, 
have  fled,  but  as  for  me,  I  will  not !  I  dare 
not !  Here,  now,  I  spread  out  my  arms- 
fire  !  " 

"I  also,"  said  Keilly,  "wiU  partake  of 
whatever  fate  may  befall  the  venerable 
clergA'man  who  is  before  you,"  and  he  stood 
up  side  by  side  with  the  bishop. 

The  gims  were  still  levelled,  the  fingers  of 
the  men  on  the  triggers,  when  Smellpriest 

shouted   out,    "Ground    arms!      By ," 

says  he,  "  here  is  a  new  case  ;  this  fellow  has 
spvmk  and  courage,  and  curse  me,  although 
I  give  the  priests  a  chase  wherever  I  can, 
still  I  am  a  soldier,  and  a  man  of  courage, 
and  to  shoot  down  a  priest  in  the  worship 
of  God  would  be  cowardly.  No,  I  can't  do 
it — nor  I  won't ;  I  hke  pluck,  and  this  priost 
has  shown  it.     Had  he  taken  to  his  heels, 

liy ,  he  woidd  have  had  half  a  dozen 

bullets  in  his  rear ;  but,  as  I  said,  I  like 
pluck,  and  on  that  account  we  shall  pass 
him  by  this  time.  To  the  right  about.  As 
to  the  clerk,  by ,  he  has  shown  pluck 


92 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


too,  but  be  hanged  to  bim,  what  do  we  caxe 
about  him  f  " 

"We  must  &iy  a  word  or  two  liere  about 
Smellpriest.  He  was,  in  the  time  sense  of 
the  word,  a  priest-hunter  ;  but  yet,  with  all 
his  bijj^otry,  he  was  a  brave  man,  and  could 
appreciate  courajj^e  wherever  he  found  it. 
The  reader  already  knows  that  his  range  of 
persecution  was  by  no  means  either  so  mde 
or  so  comprehensive  as  that  of  the  cowaixl 
^\^iitecl*aft.  He  was  a  dashing,  outspoken 
fellow,  with  an  equal  portion  of  boisterous 
folly  and  mischief  ;  whereas  AVhitecraft  was 
a  perfect  snake — treacherous,  cruel,  persever- 
ing in  his  enmity,  and  unrelenting  in  his 
vengeance.  Such  was  the  difference  in  the 
character  of  these  two  worthies. 

After  Smellpriest  had  drawn  off  his  men, 
the  bishop  concluded  the  ceremony  of  the 
mass  ;  but  when  he  turned  round  to  an- 
nounce its  conclusion  in  the  words,  ite,  missa 
^^■^  there  was  not  a  soul  before  him,  the  ter- 
litied  congregation,  as  we  have  said,  ha-\ing 
all  betaken  themselves  to  flight.  Keilly  then 
assisted  him  to  unrobe,  and  placed  the  vest- 
ments, the  chahce,  pix,  and  every  thing  con- 
nected ^^-ith  the  ceremony,  in  a  pair  of  sad- 
dle-bags, which  belonged  to  the  paiish  priest, 
whose  altar  was  then  closed,  as  we  said,  by 
proclamation. 

Eeilly  and  the  bishop  then  proceeded  to 
the  farmer's  house,  Reilly  carrying  the  saddle- 
bags, and  as  they  went  along  the  following 
conversation  took  place  between  them  : 

"  My  lord,"  said  his  companion,  "  if  I  might 
presume  to  ad\-ise  you,  I  think  it  would  be 
more  prudent  for  you  to  retire  to  the  Conti- 
nent for  a  time.  This  ferocious  captain,  who, 
subdued  by  the  sublime  tenor  of  your  con- 
duct, spared  you  on  this  occasion,  may  not 
under  other  and  less  impressive  cii'cumstan- 
ces,  exercise  a  similar  forbearance." 

"  But,  my  dear  ReiUy,"  replied  the  bishop, 
in  a  tone  of  deep  melancholy,  "  I  am  not  in 
circumstances  to  go  to  tlie  Continent ;  I  am 
poor ;  most  of  ray  available  money  I  have 
distributed  among  the  unhappy  people,  until 
I  am  now  nearly  as  poor  as  themselves  ;  but, 
independently  of  that,  I  do  not  think  it 
would  be  right  to  abandon  the  charge  which 
God  has  entrusted  to  my  keeping.  The 
shf^pherd  should  not  desert  his  flock,  espe- 
cially in  the  moment  of  danger,  when  the 
wolves  ai-e  abi'oad." 

"But,  my  lord,"  replied  Reilly,  "under 
the  present  circumstances  of  the  country 
your  residence  here  can  be  of  no  sendee  to 
them.  The  chapels  are  all  closed,  and  pub- 
he  worship  forbidden  by  law.  This  cannot, 
and,  I  hope,  will  not.  last  long  ;  but  in  the 
meantime,  think  if  it  be  not  wiser  in  you  to 
go  for  a  time  into  what  I  may  call  a  volvm- 


tar\'  exile,  than  be  forced  into  banishment  b; 
a  cruel  edict  of  the  law,  as  you  will  be  if  you 
should  be  discovered." 

"  There  is  great  truth  in  what  you  say,  my 
dear  lieilly,  and  on  thinking  over  the  cii-cum- 
stixnces  of  the  countr\',  I  am  indeed  of  opin- 
ion that  your  advice  is  good  ;  but,  unfortu- 
nately, my  present  poverty  prevents  me  fi'om 
acting  on  it." 

"But  that  shall  not  be,  rtvy  lord  ;  I  have 
the  means — amply,  too — of  enabling  youi 
lordship  to  withdi'aw  to  the  Continent, 
where  j'ou  can  remain  quite  safe  imtil  bettei 
times  I'eturn,  as  I  hojDe  in  God  they  will 
soon." 

"And  yourself,  Reilly?  why  not  accom- 
pany me  ?  You,  it  is  said,  are  outlawed  ; 
why  then  remain  in  a  countiy  where  your 
danger  is  still  gi-eater  than  mine  ?  " 

"  My  lord,"  replied  Reilly,  "  do  not  press 
me  on  that  subject." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  do  so,  Reillj' ;  but  here 
are  the  circumstances  :  you  and  the  beauti- 
ful daughter  of  that  old  squire  are  attached 
— in  other  words,  you  love  each  other  pas- 
sionately. Now,  you  know,  marriage  is  im- 
possible, unless  you  should  abandon  the 
creed  of  your  fathers." 

"I  think,  my  lord,"  replied  Reilly,  in  9 
very  serious  and  somewhat  offended  tone, 
"that  my  conduct  this  day,  and  within  the 
last  haK  hour,  was  not  that  of  a  man  hkelj 
to  abandon  the  creed  of  his  fathers." 

"Certainly  not — most  certainly  not,"  re^ 
phed  the  bishop.  "  I  vv'ould  have  died  thia 
day  for  my  religion,  and  so  would  you." 

"  And  so  woiild  I  certainly,  my  lord,  any 
day,  sooner  than  renounce  it  for  the  love  ol 
woman.  So  far  let  your  lordship's  mind  be 
at  rest.  But  in  the  meantime,  let  me  im- 
press upon  your  lordship's  consideration  the 
absolute  necessity  of  retiring  to  the  Conti- 
nent for  a  time.  Your  lordship's  chaiity 
has  made  j-ou  poor ;  but,  thank  God,  I  am 
not  poor — but  in  a  position  to  j)lace  £200  in 
your  hands  to  enable  you  to  bear  the  expenses 
of  your  voyage,  and  to  maintain  your  ecclesi- 
astical rank  and  position  for  a  time,  when 
you  get  there." 

"Oh,"  replied  the  bishop,  "if  I  were  once 
there,  very  httle  money  would  be  necessary ; 
I  could  almost  immediately  get  a  professor- 
ship of  divinity,  especially  in  the  College  of 
Louvain,  where  I  held  a  professorship  for 
several  years." 

It  was  arranged  that  the  bishop  should  go, 
at  least  until  the  times  should  change,  and 
in  the  course  of  a  week,  Reilly  having  fur- 
nished him  with  the  necessary'  funds,  he  de- 
parted and  reached  the  Continent  in  safety. 

Their  separation  was  extremely  affecting. 
The  bishop  wept  bitteiiy,  not  only  in  con- 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


91 


sequence  of  his  parting  with  Reilly,  but  still 
more  because  he  was  forced  to  separate  him- 
self from  his  flock.  Eeilly  was  deeply  affected, 
nor  could  he  restrain  his  tears.  The  bishop 
put  his  hand  on  his  head  and  blessed  him. 
"I  feel,"  said  he,  "as  if  it  were  a  prophetic 
impulse,  that  God  will  bring  you  out  of  the 
tribulations  that  encompass  you.  Forget  not 
his  word  nor  his  law  ;  love  and  adhere  to 
your  religion  ;  be  guided  by  its  jDrecepts,  let 
them  sink  deejDl}-  into  your  heart.  Take 
care,  also,  that  the  love  of  woman  shall  not 
seduce  you  from  j'our  dllegiance  to  our 
Chui'ch.  And  now,  may  the  Almighty  God 
bless  and  protect  you,  and  rescue  you  from 
the  hands  and  the  snares  of  yoiu*  enemies  !  " 
And  so  they  parted. 

No  stronger  proof  could  exist,  so  far  as  the 
Cooleen  Bawa  was  concerned,  than  her  extra- 
ordinaiT  power  of  conciliating  love  and  at- 
tachment fi'om  all  who  approached  her,  or 
wei'e  engaged  in  attending  upon  her  person. 
The  singulai"  softness  of  her  sweet  and  mel- 
low voice  was  in  itself  an  exponent  of  the  re- 
miu'kable  suavity  and  benignit}'  of  her  dis- 
position. In  fact,  she  carried  a  charm  about 
her — an  atmosphei'e  of  Icindness  and  benevo- 
lence that  no  human  being  who  came  within 
its  influence  could  resist.  Her  smile  was  a 
perfect  fascination,  which,  in  addition  to  her 
elegance  of  form — her  grace  and  harmony  of 
motion — her  extensive  charity — her  noble 
liberality  of  sentiment — and,  above  all,  her 
dazzling  beauty,  constituted  a  chai'acter  which 
encircled  her  with  admiration  and  something 
almost  bordeiing  on  worship. 

At  this  time  a  scheme  came  into  the  fertile 
brain  of  Whitecraft,  worthy  of  being  con- 
cocted only  in  the  infernal  pit  itself.  This 
was  to  prevail  on  the  squii-e  to  remove  her 
faithful,  attached,  and  confidential  maid, 
Ellen  Connor,  fx'om  about  her  person,  under 
the  plea  that  as,  unfortunately.  Miss  Folliard 
had  been  seduced  into  an  affection  for  Keilly, 
•  it  was  not  only  probable  that  her  attendant 
had  originated  and  encouraged  her  passion, 
but  that  it  was  alsci  likely  that,  as  Reilly  was 
a  Catholic,  Connoir  tlie  confidant,  being  her- 
self of  that  persuasi<  /n,  might  so  woi'k  upon 
the  feelings  and  principles  of  his  daughter  as 
to  induce  her,  for  the  sake  of  the  more  easily 
bringing  about  their  marriage,  to  abandon 
her  own  rehgion,  and  embrace  that  of  her 
lover.  The  old  man  became  instantly  alarm- 
ed, and,  with  his  usual  fiery  impetuosity,  lost 
not  a  moment  in  dismissing  her  altogether 
fi'om  his  f  unily. 
^  When  this  faithful  girl  found  that  she  was 

about  to  be   separated  from   her   fiir   and 
affect'onate  young  mistress,  no  languagecould 
;       depict  the  violence  of  her  grief,  nor  could 
';      that  mistress  herself  refuse  the  tribute  of 


her  tears  to  her  sense  of  the  loss  which  she 
knew  she  must  sustain  by  her  absence  at  a 
crisis  wlien  she  stood  so  much  in  need  of  her 
friendship  and  attachment. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  not  for  myself,  my  dear  mistress, 
that  I  feel  this  grief,"  exclaimed  Connor, 
weeping  bitterly  as  she  spoke,  "  but  for  yoa 
Here  you  will  be  alone,"  she  proceeded, 
"  without  one  being  on  whom  you  can  de- 
pend, or  to  whom  you  can  open  your  heaii 
— for  many  a  time  you  eased  that  poor  heart 
by  telling  me  of  your  love  for  him,  and  bj 
dwellin'  upon  his  accomphshments  and  beau- 
ty— and,  indeed,  it's  no  wonder  you  should, 
for  where,  oh !  where  is  his  aiquil  to  be 
found  ?  Like  youi'self,  every  one  that  comes 
near  him  must  Jove  him  ;  and,  like  you,  again, 
isn't  he  charity  itself  to  the  poor,  no  matter 
what  their  creed  may  be — oh,  no  !  it's  he 
that  IS  neither  the  bigot  nor  the  oppressor, 
although  God  he  knows  what  he  himself  is 
sufferin'  from  both.  God's  curse  on  that 
blasted  Sir  Robert  ^Miiteci'aft !  I  declare  to 
mercy,  I  think,  if  I  was  a  man,  that  I'd  shoot 
him,  like  a  mad  dog,  and  fi'ee  the  country  of 
him  at  wanst." 

The  Cooleen  was  herself  in  tears,  occasioned 
by  such  a  glowing  picture  of  her  lover,  as 
well  as  by  the  loss  of  this  faithful  and  de- 
voted girl.  Yet  she  could  not  repress  a 
smile  at  the  indignation  exj^ressed  by  Ellen 
against  the  man  whom  she  looked  upon  with 
such  detestation  and  abhorrence. 

"My  dear  EUen,"  said  she,  drying  her 
tears,  "  we  must  only  have  jDatience.  Every 
thing  is  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  in  him  let 
us  ti-ust.  Do  not  weep  so.  It  is  true  that, 
without  your  society,  I  shall  feel  as  if  I  were 
in  a  desert,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  in  a 
dungeon  ;  for,  indeed,  I  fear  that  I  am  about 
to  become  a  prisoner  in  my  father's  house, 
and  entangled  more  and  more  every  day  in 
the  meshes  of  that  detestable  villain.  In  the 
meantime,  we  must,  as  I  said,  have  courage 
and  patience,  and  trust  to  a  change  of  cir- 
cumstances for  better  times." 

"  Ma}'  the  Lord  in  heaven  grant  them  soon 
and  sudden,  for  both  your  sakes,"  ejaculated 
Ellen.     "I  pray  the  Sa\'iour  that  he  may  !  " 

"  But,  Ellen,"  said  the  Cooleen,  "  didn't  you 
hint  to  me,  once  or  twice,  that  you  yourself 
have,  or  had,  a  lover  named  Reilly  ?  " 

"  I  did,"  she  replied,  "  not  that  I  have,  but 
that  I  had — and,  Avhat  is  more,  an  humble 
and  distant  relation  of  hU." 

"  You  say  you  had.  "SMiat  do  you  mean 
by  that,  Ellen  *  Have  you,  too,  experienced 
your  crosses  and  calamities  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  ma'am,  I  have  had  my  share  ; 
and  I  know  too  well  what  it  is  to  have  the 
heart  within  as  fxill  of  sorrow,  and  all  but 
broken." 


94 


WILLIAM  QARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Why,  my  poor  girl,  and  have  you  too  ex- 
perienced disappointment  and  affliction  ?  " 

"  God,  ma'am,  has  given  me  my  share  ; 
but,  in  my  case,  the  affliction  was  greater 
than  the  disappointment,  although  that  too 
came  soon  enough  upon  me." 

"  Wliy,  did  not  the  affliction,  in  your  case, 
proceed  from  the  disappointment?" 

"Not  exactly,  miss,  but  indeed  partly  it 
did.  It's  but  a^  short  story,  my  dear  mistress, 
and  I'll  tell  it  to  you.  Fergus  is  his  name — 
Fergus  O'Reilly.  His  father,  for  doin'  some- 
thing or  other  contrary  to  the  laws — har- 
borin'  some  outlaw,  I  believe,  that  was  a 
relation  of  his  own,  and  who  was  found  by 
the  army  in  liis  house — well,  his  father,  a  very 
ould  man,  was  taken  prisoner,  and  put  into 
jail,  where  he  died  before  they  could  try 
him  ;  and  well  it  was  he  did  so,  for,  by  all 
accounts,  they'd  have  transported  or  hanged 
the  poor  ould  man,  who  was  then  past  seventy. 
Now,  over  and  above  that,  they'd  have  done 
the  same  thing  with  his  son  Fergus,  but  that 
he  disappeared  and  but  few  knows  what 
became  of  him." 

"  Why,  did  he  go  without  having  had  an 
inteniew  ^\ith  you '? "  asked  the  Cooleen. 

"  Indeed  he  did,  miss,  and  small  blame  to 
him  ;  for  the  truth  is,  he-  had  little  time  for 
leavetakin'- — it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to 
make  his  escape,  which,  thank  God,  he  did. 
But,  indeed,  I  oughtn't  to  thank  God  for  it, 
I  doubt,  because  it  would  have  been  better, 
and  ten  times  more  creditable  to  himself,  if 
he  had  been  transported,  or  hanged  itself — 
for  that,  ma'am,  is  many  a  good  man's  case, 
as  every  one  knows." 

"I  agree  with  you,  EUen.  There  is,  in- 
deed, a  most  essential  difference  between 
flagitious  crimes,  such  as  theft,  robbeiy,  mur- 
der, and  other  dreadful  outrages  of  that  char- 
acter, and  those  which  may  be  termed  offences 
arising  from  political  opinions,  which  are 
often  honestly  entertained  by  indi^^duals 
who,  in  all  the  relations  of  life,  are  sometimes 
the  most  exemplary  members  of  society.  But 
proceed,  Ellen — what  was  the  result?" 

Poor  Ellen's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she 
could  scai-cely  summon  composiu'e  enough  to 
reply : 

"  Worse  than  transportation  or  even  death, 
my  dear  misti-ess  ;  oh  !  far  worse — guilt  and 
crime.  Yes  :  he  that  had  gained  my  affec- 
tions, and  gave  me  his,  joined  the  Red  Rap- 
paree  and  his  gang,  and  became — a  robber. 
I  was  goin'  to  say  an  outlaw,  but  he  was  that 
before  he  joined  them,  because  he  wouldn't 
submit  to  the  laws — that  is,  wouldn't  submit 
to  be  transpoa-ted,  or  maybe  hanged — or  you 
know,  ma'am,  how  little  a  thing  it  is  that 
wiU  either  hang  or  transport  any  one  of  our 
unfoiiunate  creed  now  " 


"  Alas !  my  dear  EUen,  you  forget  that  \ 
am  a  living  witness  of  it,  and  an  afflicted  one ; 
but  proceed.  Have  you  ever  seen  yoiir  lorej 
since  ?  " 

"  I  did,  ma'am,  but  at  that  time  he  men- 
tioned nothing  about  his  havin'  joined  the 
Rapparees.  He  came,  he  said,  to  bid  me 
fai-ewell,  and  to  tell  me  that  he  wasn't  worthy 
of  me.  '  The  stain  that's  upon  me,'  said  he, 
'draws  a  gulf  between  you  and  me  that 
neither  of  us  can  ever  pass.'  He  could 
scarcely  speak,  but  he  dashsd  away  the  tears 
that  came  to  his  eyes — and — and — so  he  took 
his  departure.  Now,  my  dear  young  mis- 
tress, you  see  how  well  I  can  understand 
yoiu'  case,  and  the  good  reason  I  have  to  feel 
for  you,  as  I  do,  and  ever  will,  until  God  in 
his  mercy  may  set  you  both  free  from  what 
you're  sufferin'." 

"But,  are  you  certain,  Ellen,  that  he  actu- 
ally has  joined  the  Rapparees  ?" 

"  Too  sure,  ma'am — too  siire  ;  my  father 
had  it  in  private  from  his  own  hps,  for,  as  the 
poor  boy  said,  he  hadn't  the  courage  himsell 
to  teU  me." 

"But,  EUen,"  asked  Miss  FoUiard,  "where 
had  you  an  opportunity  of  seeing  and  becom- 
ing acquainted  with  this  young  man  ?  You 
surely  could  not  have  known  him,  or  con- 
ceived an  attachment  for  him,  previous  to 
your  coming  to  reside  with  us  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  ma'am,"  replied  EUen  ;  "  it  was 
at  my  father's  I  became  acquainted  with  him, 
principally  whenever  I  got  lave  to  spend  a 
Simday  at  home.  And  now,  my  dear  mis- 
tress," she  proceeded,  sobbing,  "  I  must  go 
— your  poor,  faithful  EUen  wiU  never  let  you, 
nor  the  thought  of  yowv  sorrows,  out  of  her 
heart.  AU  she  can  do  now  is  to  give  you 
her  prayers  and  her  tears.  FareweU  !  my 
darlin'  mistress — may  the  blessing  of  God 
guard  and  prosper  you  both,  and  bring  you 
to  the  happiness  you  deserve."  She  wept 
bitterly  as  she  concluded. 

"  EUen,"  rej)lied  her  mistress,  and  she 
paused — "  Ellen,"  said  she  again — she  would, 
indeed,  have  spoken,  but,  after  a  sUent  strug- 
gle, she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  bandker- 
chief,  and  was  fahly  carried  away  by  her 
emotions — "Ellen,"  said  she,  taiking  her 
hand,  and  recovering  herself,  "  be  of  courage  ; 
let  neither  of  us  despair — a  brighter  light 
may  shine  on  our  path  yet.  Perhaps  I  may 
have  it  in  my  power  to  befriend  you,  here- 
after. Farewell,  Ellen  ;  and  if  I  can  prevaU 
on  my  father  to  bring  you  back,  I  wiU." 
And  so  they  pai-ted. 

Connor's  father  was  a  tenant  of  the  squire's, 
and  held  rather  a  comfortable  farm  of  about 
eighteen  or  twenty  acres.  EUen  herself  had, 
when  very  young,  been,  by  some  accident 
or  otlier,  brought  within  the  notice  of  Mrs 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


9ft 


Pblliard,  who,  having  been  stnick  by  her 
vivacity,  neatness  of  figure,  and  good  looks, 
begged  permission  from  her  parents  to  take 
the  little  girl  under  her  care,  and  train  her 
up  to  wait  upon  her  daughter.  She  had  now 
been  eight  years  in  the  squire's  family — that 
is,  since  her  fourteenth — and  was  only  two 
years  older  than  the  Cooleen  Bawn,  who  was 
Qow,  and  had  been  for  the  last  three  years, 
her  only  mistress.  She  had  consequently 
grown,  'is  it  were,  into  all  her  habits,  and  we 
may  justly  say  that  there  was  not  an  individ- 
ual in  e  ustence  who  had  a  better  opportunity 
of  kno'H  ing  and  appreciating  her  good  quaU- 
ties  ancl  \irtues  ;  and,  what  was  much  to 
her  ho-nor,  she  never  for  a  moment  obtruded 
her  O'Kn  private  sorrows  uj)on  the  ear  or 
heart  of  her  mistress,  who,  she  saw,  had  a 
sufficient  number  of  her  own  to  beai\ 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  she  took 
farewell  of  her  mistress,  and  twilight  had 
come  on  ere  she  had  got  within  half  mile  of 
her  father's  house.  On  crossing  a  stile  wliich 
led,  by  a  pathway,  to  the  little  hamlet  in 
which  her  father  lived,  she  was  both  sur- 
prised and  startled  by  perceiving  Fergus 
Keilly  approach  her.  He  was  then  out  of  his 
disguise,  and  dressed  in  his  own  clothes,  for 
he  could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to  approach 
her  father's  house,  or  appear  before  any  of 
the  famil)%  in  the  tattered  garb  of  a  mendi- 
cant. On  this  occasion  he  came  to  tell  them 
that  he  had  abandoned  the  gang  of  the  Rod 
Rapparee,  and  come  to  the  resolution  of  seek- 
ing his  pardon  fi-om  the  Government,  having 
been  informed  that  it  offered  protection  to 
all  who  would  come  in  and  submit  to  the 
laws,  pro%T.ded  they  had  not  been  guilty  of 
shedding  human  blood.  This  intelligence, 
however,  was  communicated  to  the  family,  as 
a  means  of  preparing  them  for  still  more 
important  information  u^Don  the  subject  of  his 
own  liberty — a  matter  with  which  the  reader 
will  soon  become  acquainted,  as  he  will  with 
the  fact  of  his  having  left  off  his  disguise 
only  for  a  brief  period.  In  the  meantime, 
he  felt  perfectly  conscious  of  the  risk  he  ran 
of  a  failure  in  the  accomjDlishment  of  his 
own  project,  by  throwing  off'  his  disguise, 
and  was  then  hastening  on  his  way  to  the 
cottage  of  widow  Buckley,  Avhere  he  had  left 
his  mendicant  apparel  for  the  time  being. 

When  Ellen  saw  him  she  felt  a  tumult  in 
her  bosom  which  almost  overcame  her.  Her 
heart  palpitated  almost  audibly,  and  her 
knees  became  feeble  under  her.  Tliere  was 
something  so  terrible  associated  with  the 
idea  of  a  Rapparee  that  she  took  it  for 
granted  that  some  frightful  transformation 
of  person  and  character  must  have  taken 
place  in  him,  and  that  she  would  now  meet 
fi  man    thoroughly    imbued   with    all    the 


frightful  and  savage  vices  which  were  so  fro. 
quently,  and  too  often  so  generally,  attril> 
uted  to  that  fierce  and  formidable  class. 
Still,  the  recollection  of  their  former  afiec- 
tion,  and  her  knowledge  of  the  oppression 
which  had  come  upon  himself  and  his 
family,  induced  her  to  hope  that  the  princi- 
ples of  humanity  could  not  have  been  alto- 
gether effaced  from  his  heart.  Full  of 
doubt  and  anxiety,  therefore,  she  paused  at 
the  stQe,  against  which  she  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  lean  for  support,  not  without  a  touch 
of  interest  and  somewhat  of  curiosity,  to 
control  the  vague  apprehensions  which  she 
could  not  help  feeling.  We  need  scarcely 
inform  the  reader  that  the  meeting  on  both 
sides  was  accidental  and  unexpected. 

"  Heavenly  Father  !  "  exclaimed  Ellen,  in 
a  voice  trembling  with  agitation,  "is  this 
Fergus  O'Reilly  that  I  see  before  me  ?  Fer- 
gus, iiiined  and  undone  !  "  She  then  looked 
cautiously  about  her,  and  added,  "Fergus, 
the  RapjMree  !  " 

"  God  bless  me ! "  he  exclaimed  in  return, 
"  and  may  I  ask,  is  this  Ellen  Connor  on  my 
path  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  I  may  say  so,  in  one  sense. 
Sure  enough,  I  am  Ellen  Connor  ;  but,  un- 
fortunately, not  the  Ellen  Connor  that  you 
wanst  knew  ;  neither,  unfortunately  again, 
are  you  the  Fergus  O'Reilly  that  /  wanst 
knew.  We  are  both  changed,  Fergus — I  into 
sorrow,  and  you  into  crime." 

"Ellen,"  said  he,  nearly  as  much  agitated 
as  herself,  "  I  stand  before  you  simply  as 
Ferg-us  O'Reilly,  but  not  Fergus  the  Rap- 
j)aree." 

"You  will  not  deny  your  own  words  to 
my  father,"  she  rejjhed. 

"No,  Ellen,  I  will  not — they  were  time 
then,  but,  thank  God,  they  are  not  true  7io it'." 

"  How  is  that,  Fergus  ? '" 

"  Simply  because  I  was  a  Rapparee  when 
I  spoke  to  yom-  father  ;  but  I  have  left  them, 
once  and  for  ever." 

"  How  long  have  you  left  them  ?" 

"  Ever  since  that  night.  If  it  were  not  for 
Reilly  and  those  that  were  out  with  him 
duck-shooting,  the  red  villain  would  have 
murdhered  the  squire  and  Andy  Cummiskey^ 
as  sure  as  there  is  life  in  my  body.  After 
all,  it  is  owin'  to  Mr.  Reilly  that  I  left  him 
and  his  cursed  crew.  And  now,  Ellen,  that 
I  have  met  3'ou,  let  me  spake  to  you  about 
ould  times.  Li  the  first  place,  I  am  heart 
sorry  for  the  step  I  took  ;  but  you  know  it 
was  oppression  and  persecution  that  di'ove 
me  to  it." 

"Fergus,"  she  rephed,  "  that's  no  excuse. 
Persecution  may  come  upon  us,  but  that's 
no  reason  why  we  should  allow  it  to  drive  us 
into  evil  and  crime.     Don't  3'ou  know  that 


96 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WOIilCS. 


it's  such  conduct  that  justifies  the  per- 
secutors in  theii-  own  ejes  and  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world.  What  will  become  of  you  now  ? 
If  you're  caught,  you  must  die  a  shameful 
death." 

"  De^^l  a  fear  of  it,  my  darlin'  Ellen.  I 
could  tell  you  something,  if  I  thought  myself 
at  hberty  to  do  so — something  mamurneen, 
that  'ud  give  you  a  hght  heart." 

"  Indeed,  Fergus,  I  don't  wish  to  hear  any 
of  your  secrets.  It's  my  opinion  they  would 
not  be  fit  for  me  to  hear.  But  in  the  mane 
time,"  she  added— prompted  by  the  undying 
piiiiciple  of  female  curiosity,  and,  let  us  add, 
a  better  and  more  generous  feeling — "  in  the 
mane  time,  Fergus,  if  it's  any  thing  about 
yourself,  and  that  it  would  give  me  a  light 
heart,  as  you  say  it  would,  and  that  there  is 
nothing  MTong  and  dishonorable  in  it,  I 
would, /(37'  your  sate,  be  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  WeU  tiien,  EDen,  I  will  tell  it ;  but  it 
must,  for  reasons  that  there's  no  use  in  men- 
tionin'  to  you,  be  a  secret  between  us,  for 
some  time — not  a  long  time,  I  hope.  I  sxm, 
thank  God,  free  as  the  air  of  heaven,  and 
may  walk  abroad,  openly,  in  the  face  of  day, 
if  I  like,  without  any  one  darin'  to  ask  me  a 
question." 

"But,  Fergus,"  said  Ellen,  "I  don't  un- 
dherstand  this.  You  were  a  robber — a  Eap- 
paree — and  now.  you  are  a  free  man.  But 
what  did  you  do  to  deseiTe  this  at  the  hands 
of  the  Government  ?  " 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  my  darhn'  Ellen — 
nothing  unbecomin'  an  honest  man." 

"I  hope,"  she  proceeded — her  cheeks 
mantling  with  indignation  and  scorn — "I 
hope,  Fergus,  you  wouldn't  think  of  stoopia' 
to  treachery  against  the  unfortunate,  ay,  or 
even  against  the  gniilt}'.  I  hoj^e  you  wouldn't 
sell  yourself  to  the  Government,  and  get  3'our 
Hberty,  afther  all,  only  as  a  bribe  for  villany, 
instead  of  a  free  gift." 

"See,  now,"  he  retiu'ned,  "what  I  have 
brought  on  myself  by  tellin'  you  any  thing  at 
all  about  it — a  regular  ould  house  on  my 
shouldhers.  No,  darlin',"  he  j)roceeded, 
"  you  ought  to  know  me  better." 

"  Oh,  Fergus,"  she  i-eplied  quickly,  "  I 
thought  I  knew  you  wanst." 

"  Is  that  generous,  Ellen  ?  "  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  and  melancholy  feeling,  "  afther 
statin'  my  sorrow  for  that  stej:)  ?  " 

"Well,"  she  replied,  moved  by  what  she 
saw  he  suffered  in  consequence  of  her  words, 
"  if  I  have  given  you  pain,  Fergus,  forgive 
me — you  know  it's  not  in  my  nature  to  give 
pain  to  any  one,  but,  above  all  persons  in 
the  world,  to  you." 

"Well,  darlin',"  said  he,  "you  will  know 
all  in  time  ;  but  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be 
done  yet.     All  I  can  say,  and  all  I  wiU  say, 


is,  that  if  God  spares  me  life,  I  ■will  tate 
away  one  of  the  blackest  enemies  that  WiUy 
Reiiiy  and  the  Cooleen  Bawn  has  in  exist- 
ence. He  would  do  any  thing  that  the  vil- 
1am  of  perdition  he's  a  slave  to  would  bid 
him.  Now,  I'll  say  no  more  ;  and  I'm  sure, 
as  the  friend  of  your  beautiful  mistress,  the 
ixix  Cooleen  Bawn,  you'll  thank  me  for  what 
I  have  promised,  to  do  against  the  Eed 
Eapparee." 

"I  will  pry  no  fiu-ther  into  your  affairs  or 
intentions,  Fergus ;  but,  if  yon  can  take 
danger  out  of  the  way  of  the  Cooleen  Bawn 
or  Reilly,  I  will  forgive  you  a  great  deal — ■ 
every  thing,  indeed,  but  treacheiy  or  dis- 
honor. But,  Fergus,  I  have  something  to 
mention  that  will  take  a  start  out  of  you.  I 
have  been  discharged  by  the  squire  fi'om 
his  family,  and — mavrone,  oh  ! — I  can  now 
be  of  no  sei-vice  to  the  Cooleen  Bawn." 

"  Discharged  !  "  rephed  Fergus  with  as- 
tonishment ;  "  why,  how  did  that  come  ? 
But  I  suppose  I  needn't  ask — some  of  the 
mad  old  JSquire's  tantrums,  I  suppose  ?  And 
what  did  the  Cooleen  Baton  herself  sa}^  ?  " 

"Why,  she  cried  bitterly  when  I  was 
lavin'  her  ;  indeed  if  I  had  been  her  sister 
she  couldn't  feel  more  ;  and,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected from  her,  she  promised  to  befriend 
me  as  long  as  she  had  it  in  her  poAver  ;  but, 
poor  thing,  if  matters  go  against  her,  as  I'm 
afeared  they  wiU — if  she's  forced  to  marry 
that  villain,  it't:  little  for  any  thing  that's 
either  good  or  generous  ever  she'll  have  in 
her  power ;  but  marry  him  she  never  will. 
I  heard  her  say  more  than  wanst  that  she'd 
take  her  owti  life  first ;  and  indeed  I'm  sar- 
tain  she  will,  too,  if  she's  forced  to  it. 
Either  that,  or  she'll  lose  her  senses ;  for, 
indeed,  Fergus,  the  darlin'  girl  was  near 
losm'  them  wanst  or  twic't  as  it  is — may 
God  pity  and  relieve  her." 

"Amen,"  rephed  Fergus.  "And  you're 
now  on  your  way  home,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Ellen,  "  and  every  thing  be- 
longin'  to  me  is  to  be  sent  to  my  father's  ; 
but  indeed,  Fergus,  I  don't  much  care  now 
what  becomes  of  me.  My  hajDpiness  in  this 
world  is  bound  up  in  hers  ;  and  if  she's  to 
be  sunk  in  grief  and  sorrow,  I  can  never  be 
otherwise — we'll  have  the  one  fate,  Fergus, 
and  God  grant  it  may  be  a  happy  one,  al- 
though I  see  no  likehhood  of  it." 

"  Come,  come,  Ellen,"  replied  Fergus, 
"  you  think  too  much  of  it.  The  one  fate  I 
No,  you  won't,  sinless  it  is  a  happy  one.  1 
am  now  free,  as  I  said  ;  and  at  present  I  seG 
nothing  to  stand  between  your  haj)pinesa 
and  mine.  We  loved  one  another  every  bit 
as  well  as  Reilly  and  she  does — ay,  and  do 
still,  I  hope ;  and  if  they  can't  be  happy, 
that's  no  raison  why  you  and  I  shouldn't 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


97 


Pappy !  There's  nothing  to  prevent  us  from 
bein'  so.  I  am  free,  as  I  said  ;  and  all  we 
have  to  do  is  to  lave  this  unfortunate 
country  and  go  to  some  other,  where  there's 
neither  oppression  nor  persecution.  If  you 
consent  to  this,  Ellen,  I  can  get  the  means 
of  bringing  us  away,  and  of  settlin'  comfor- 
tably in  America." 

"  And  I  to  leave  the  Cooleen  Baton  in  the 
uncertain  state  she's  in  ?  No,  never,  Fergus 
. — never." 

"  Why  ?  of  what  use  can  you  be  to  her 
now,  and  you  separated  fi'om  her — ay,  and 
without  the  power  of  doia'  any  thing  to 
sarve  her  ?  " 

"Fergus,"  said  she,  resolutely,  "it's  use- 
less at  the  present  time  to  speak  to  me  on 
this  subject.  I'm  glad  you've  got  yourself 
fi'om  among  these  cruel  and  unconscionable 
Eaj)parees — I'm  glad  you're  fi-ee  ;  but  I  tell 
you  that  if  you  had  the  wealth  of  Squire 
Folliard — -ay,  or  of  "WTiitecraft  himseK,  which 
they  say  is  stiU  greater,  I  wouldn't  become 
your  wife  so  long  as  she's  in  the  state  she's 
in." 

"That's  strong  language,  Ellen,  and  I  am 
sorrj'  to  heai'  it  from  you.  IMy  God  !  can 
you  think  of  nobody's  happiness  but  the 
Cooleen  Bawn's  ?  As  for  me,  it's  my  opinion 
I  like  EeiUy  as  well  every  bit  as  you  do  her  ; 
but,  for  all  that,  not  even  the  state  he's  in, 
nor  the  danger  that  surrounds  him,  would 
prevent  me  fx'om  marr^in'  a  vdie — fi-om 
iDindin'  your  heart  and  mine  together  for 
life,  my  darhn'  Ellen." 

"  Ah  !  Fergus,  you're  a  man — not  a  woman 
— and  can't  undherstand  what  true  attach- 
ment is.  You  men  never  can.  You're  a 
selfish  set — at  least  the  most  of  you  are — 
with  some  excei^tions,  I  grant." 

"  And,  upon  my  soul,  EUen,"  replied  Fer- 
gus, with  a  good-humored  smile,  "  I'm  one 
of  the  choicest  and  natest  of  the  exceptions. 
I  prefer  everybody's  happiness  to  m}'  own — 
poor  Sii-  Eobert  \\^iitecraft's,  for  instance. 
Now,  don't  you  caU  that  generosity  ?  " 

She  gave  a  mournful  smile,  and  repHed, 
"  Fergus,  I  can't  join  in  your  mirth  now  as 
I  used  to  do.  Many  a  pleasant  conversation 
we've  had  ;  but  then  our  hearts  were  light, 
and  free  from  care.  No,  Fergus,  you  must 
lave  aU  thoughts  of  me  aside,  for  I  will  have 
nothing  of  either  love  or  courtship  till  I 
know  her  fate.  ^\Tio  can  say  but  I  may  be 
brought  back  ?  She  said  she'd  try  what  she 
could  do  with  her  father  to  e£fect  it.  You 
know  how  whimsical  the  old  Squire  is  ;  and 
who  knows  whether  she  may  not  stand  in 
need  of  me  again?  But,  Fergus,  there's 
one  thing  strikes  me  as  odd,  and,  indeed, 
that  doesn't  rise  you  much  in  my  good  opin- 
ion.    But  fii'st,  let  me  ask  you,  what  friend 


it  is  who'd  give  you  the  means  of  going  to 
another  countrj'  ?  " 

"  Why,  who  else  but  ReHly  ?  "  he  replied. 

"And  could  you,"  she  retui-ned,  ^vith 
something  Hke  contempt  stamped  upon  her 
pretty  featui-es — "  could  you  he  mane  and 
imgrateful  enough  to  leave  him  now  in  the 
trouble  and  son*ow  that  he's  in,  and  think 
only  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  my  dear  EUen  ;  but  I  was 
only  layin'  the  plan  whenever  we  might  be 
able  to  put  it  in  practice.  I'm  not  exactly  a 
boy  of  that  kidney — to  desart  my  friend  in 
the  day  of  his  trouble — devil  a  bit  of  it,  my 
darlin'." 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  speak  as 
you  do,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  ;  "and  now,  to 
reward  your  constancy  to  him,  I  teU  you 
that  whenever  they're  settled,  or,  at  all 
events,  out  of  their  troubles,  if  j-ou  think 
me  worih  your  while,  I  won't  have  any  ob- 
jection to  become  your  wife  ;  and — there — 
what  ai-e  you  about,  Fergus?  See  this, 
now — you've  almost  broken  the  tortoise-shelj 
crooked-comb  that  .s'/ie  made  nio  a  present  of" 

"  Why,  blood  ahve,  Ellen,  sui-e  it  was  only 
seaHn'  the  bargain  I  was." 

"  But  remember  it  is  a  bargain,  and  one 
I'll  stick  to.  Now  leave  me ;  it's  gettin' 
quite  dark  ;  or,  if  you  like,  you  may  see  me 
across  the  fields." 

Such,  in  fact,  was  the  indomitable  attach- 
ment of  this  faithful  girl  to  her  lovely  and 
afi'ectionate  mistress  that,  mth  a  generosity 
as  imselfish  as  it  was  rare,  and  almost  heroic, 
she  never  for  a  moment  thought  of  putting 
her  own  happiness  or  prospects  in  life  in 
competition  "srith  those  of  the  Cooleen  Baion. 
The  latter,  it  is  true,  was  conscious  of  this 
unparalleled  attachment,  and  appreciated  it 
at  its  true  value.  How  nobly  tliis  admirable 
giii  fulfilled  her  generous  pui-pose  of  abid- 
ing by  the  fate  and  fortimes  of  her  unhappy 
mistress  wiU  be  seen  as  the  nan-ative  goes 
along. 

Ellen's  appearance  in  her  father's  house  sur- 
prised the  family  not  a  httle.  Tlie  expression 
of  sorrow  which  shaded  her  verj-  handsome 
featm'es,  and  a  paleness  which  was  unusual 
to  her,  alanned  them  considerably — not  so 
much  from  any  feeling  connected  with  her- 
self, as  from  an  apprehension  that  some  new 
distress  or  calamity  had  befallen  the  Cooleen 
Bawn,  to  whom  they  all  felt  almost  as  deeply 
attached  as  she  did  herself.  After  the  first 
affectionate  salutations  were  over,  she  said, 
with  a  languid  smile  : 

"  I  suppose  you  all  wonder  to  see  me  here 
at  this  hour  ;  or,  indeed,  to  see  me  here  at 
aU." 

"I  hope,  Ellen,"  said  her  father,  "that 
nothing  unpleasant  has  happened  to  he7\'' 


B3 


WILLIAM   CARLETON^'S   WORKS. 


"May  the  Lord  forbid,"  said  lier  mother, 
"  and  may  the  Lord  take  the  darhn'  creature 
out  of  all  her  troubles.  But  has  there,  El- 
len— has  anything  happened  to  her  ?  " 

"Nothing  more  than  usual,"  replied  their 
daughter,  "biu'ring  that  I  have  been  sent 
away  from  her — I  am  no  longer  her  ot\ti 
maid  now." 

"  Giierna  ! "  exclaimed  her  mother ;  "and 
what  is  that  for,  alanna  ?  " 

"Well,  indeed,  mother,  I  can't  exactly 
say,"  repHed  Ellen,  "but  I  suppose  it  is  be- 
cause they  knew  I  loved  her  too  much  to  be 
a  spy  upon  her.  I  have  raison,  however,  to 
suspect  that  the  villain  is  at  the  bottom  of  it, 
and  that  the  gii'l  who  came  in  my  place  will 
act  more  like  a  jailer  than  a  maid  to  her.  Of 
course  they're  all  afraid  that  she'll  nin  away 
with  Keilly." 

"And  do  you  think  she  will,  Ellen?" 
asked  her  father. 

"  Don't  ask  me  any  such  questions,"  she 
replied.  "It's  no  matter  what  I  think — and, 
besides,  it's  not  my  business  to  mention  my 
tnoughts  to  any  one — but  one  thing  I  know, 
it'll  go  hard  if  she  ever  leaves  her  father, 
who,  I  really  think,  wovQd  break  his  heart  if 
she  did." 

"  Oh  !  "  obsei-ved  the  father,  with  a  smile, 
"  divil  a  one  o'  you  girls,  Ellen,  ever  thinks 
much  of  father  or  mother  when  you  have 
made  up  yoiu*  minds  to  run  away  wid  your 
bouchaleena — sorra  a  taste." 

"  ^ViTa,  Brian,  will  you  have  sinse,'"'  said  his 
wife  ;  "  why  wouldn't  they  think  o'  them  ?  " 

"Did  you  do  it?"  he  asked,  winking  at 
the  rest,  "  when  you  took  a  brave  start  wid 
myself  across  Crockaniska,  one  summer  Sun- 
day night,  long  ago.  Be  me  sowl,  you 
proved  youself  as  sui5i:)le  as  a  two-year-old — 
cleared  drain  and  ditch  like  a  bird — and  had 
Tue,  when  we  reached  my  uncle's,  that  the 
,-^es  wor  startin'  out  o'  my  head." 

"  Bad  scran  to  him,  the  ould  slingpoker  ! 
■Jo  you  hear  him,"  she  exclaimed,  laughing 
— "  never  mind  him,  children  ! — troth,  he 
>vent  at  sich  a  snail's  pace  that  one  'ud  think 
ifc  was  to  confession  he  was  goin',  and  that  he 
lid  nothing  but  think  of  his  sins  as  he  went 
along." 

"  That  was  bekaise  I  knew  that  I  had  the 
penance  before  me,"  he  replied,  laughing 
.  also. 

"Any  how,"  replied  his  wife,  "our  case 
was  not  hke  their's.  We  were  both  Catli- 
oUcs,  and  knew  that  we'd  have  the  consent 
of  our  friends,  besides  ;  we  only  made  a  run- 
away because  it  was  the  custom  of  the  coun- 
thry,  glor}'  be  to  God  !  " 

"Ay,    ay,"   rejoined  her  husband;  "but, 

faith,  it  was  you  that  proved  yourself  the 

.  active  gu'l  that  night,  at  any  rate.    However. 


I  hope  the  Lord  will  grant  her  grace  to  go 
wid  him,  at  all  events,  for,  upon  my  sowl,  it 
would  be  a  great  boast  for  the  Catholics — 
bekaise  we  know  there  is  one  thing  sure,  and 
that  is,  that  the  divil  a  long  she'd  be  wid  him 
tiU  he'd  have  left  her  fit  to  face  Europe  as 
a  Chi-istian  and  a  Catholic,  bekaise  every 
wife  ought  to  go  wdd  her  husband,  barrin' 
he's  a  Prodestant." 

Poor  Ellen  paid  httle  attention  to  this 
conversation.  She  felt  deeply  depressed, 
and,  after  many  severe  stiniggles  to  restrain 
herself,  at  last  burst  into  tears. 

"Come,  dai-lin',"  said  her  father,  "don't 
let  this  affair  cast  you  down  so  much  ;  all 
wiU  yet  turn  out  for  the  betther,  I  hope. 
Cheer  up,  avilluih;  maybe  that,  down-hearted 
as  you  are,  I  have  good  news  for  you.  Your 
ould  sweetheart  was  here  this  evenin',  and 
hopes  soon  to  have  his  pardon — he's  a 
dacent  boy,  and  has  good  blood  in  his  veins  ; 
and  as  for  his  joinin'  O'Donnel,  it  wasn't  a 
a  bad  heart  set  him  to  do  it,  but  the  oppres- 
sion that  dTuv  him,  as  it  did  many  others,  to 
take  the  steps  he  took — oppression  on  the 
one  side,  and  bitterness  of  heart  on  the 
other." 

"  I  saw  him  awhile  ago,"  she  replied,  "  and 
he  tould  me  a  good  deal  about  himself. 
But,  indeed,  father,  it's  not  of  him  I'm 
thinkin',  but  on  the  darlin'  girl  that's  on  the 
brink  of  destruction,  and  what  I  know  she's 
sufferin'." 

"  I  wondher  where  Eeilly  is,"  said  her 
mother.  "  My  goodness  !  sure  he  ought  to 
make  a  push,  and  take  her  off  at  wanst.  I 
dunna  is  he  in  the  covmtry  at  all  ?  What  do 
you  think,  Ellen  ?  " 

"Indeed,  mother,"  she  replied,  "very  few, 
I  believe,  knows  any  thing  about  him.  All 
I'm  afraid  of  is,  that,  wherever  he  may  be, 
he'U  hardly  escape  discovery." 

"  Well,"  said  her  father,  "  I'U  tell  you  what 
we'll  do.  Let  us  kneel  dowTi  and  offer  up  ten 
pathers,  ten  aves,  and  a  creed,  that  the 
Lord  may  protect  them  both  from  their  ene- 
mies, and  grant  them  a  happy  marriage,  in 
spite  of  laws,  parliaments,  magistrates,  spies, 
persecutors  and  priest-hunters,  and,  as  our 
hands  are  in,  let  us  offer  up  a  few  that  God 
may  confound  that  villain,  Whitecraft,  and 
bring  him  snugly  to  the  gallows." 

This  was  immediately  complied  with,  in  a 
spii'it  of  earnestness  sui-jDassing  probably 
what  they  might  have  felt  had  they  been 
praj-ing  for  their  own  salvation.  The  prayers 
having  been  concluded,  and  supper  prepared, 
in  due  time  the  family  retired  to  rest  for  the 
night. 

When  Fergus   Reilly   took   his  leave  of 

EUen,  he  directed  his  steps  to  the  cottage  of 

.Mrs.  .Buckley,  ,w.h£r,e,.ior  certain  purposeiS 


Willy  ueilly. 


99 


eoiitiecteci  with  liis  desi^^s  on  the  Red  Rap- 
p  iree,  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting 
the  sagacious  fool,  Tom  Steeple.  It  "^as 
there,  besides,  that  he  had  left  his  disgxdse, 
which  the  unaccomplished  progi'ess  of  his 
projects  rendered  it  necessary  that  he  should 
once  more  resume.  This,  in  fact,  was  the 
place  of  theu'  rendezr\-ous,  where  they  gener- 
ally met  at  night.  These  meetings,  however, 
were  not  always  veiy  regular  ;  for  poor  Tom, 
notwithstanding  his  singular  and  anomalous 
cunning,  was '  sometimes  led  away  by  his 
gastric  appetite  to  hunt  for  a  bully  dinner, 
or  a  bully  supper,  or  a  mug  of  strong  beer, 
as  the  case  might  be,  and  after  a  gorge  he  was 
frequently  so  completely  overtaken  by  lazi- 
ness and  a  consequent  tendency  to  sleep,  that 
he  retired  to  the  bam,  or  some  other  out- 
house, where  he  stretched  his  limbs  on  a 
shake-do^NTi  of  hay  or  straw,  and  lapped  him- 
self into  a  state  of  luxury  which  many  an 
epicure  of  rank  and  wealth  might  envy. 

On  reaching  the  Tsidow's  cottage,  Fergus 
felt  somewhat  disappointed  that  Tom  was 
not  there,  nor  had  he  been  seen  that  day  in 
any  part  of  the  neighborhood.  Fergus,  how- 
ever, whilst  the  widow  was  keeping  watch 
outside,  contrived  to  get  on  his  old  disguise 
once  more,  after  which  he  proceeded  in  the 
direction  of  his  j^lace  of  refuge  for  the  night. 
On  crossing  the  fields,  however,  towards  the 
wild  and  lonely  road,  which  warj  at  no  gi-eat 
distance  from  the  cottage,  he  met  Tom  ap- 
2^)roaching  it,  at  his  usual  sling-trot  pace. 

"  Is  that  Tom  ?  "  said  he— "  tall  Tom  ?  " 

■"  Hicco,  hicco  !  "  rej^hed  Tom,  quite  grati- 
fied with  the  compliment.  "  You  be  tall,  too 
— not  as  tall  as  Tom  dough.  Tom  got  bully 
dinner  to-day,  and  bully  sleep  in  de  bam, 
aud  bully  supper,  but  wasn't  sleepy  den — 
hicco,  hicco." 

"Well,  Tom,  what  news  about  what  you 
know?" 

"  In  toder  house,"  rephed  Tom  ;  "  him 
sleeps  in  Peg  Finigan's  sometimes,  and  some- 
times in  toder  again — dat  is,  Maiy  ]\Iahon's. 
Him's  afeared  o'  something — hai'd  him  say 
so,  sure,  to  ould  Peg." 

"  Well,  Tom,  if  you  will  keep  your  ej-e  on 
him,  so  as  that  you  can  let  us  know  where 
to  find  him,  we  11  engage  to  give  you  a  bully 
dinner  every  day,  and  a  bully  supper  every 
night  of  youi*  life,  and  a  swig  of  stout  ale  to 
wash  it  down,  with  plenty  of  straw  to  sleep 
on,  and  a  winnow-cloth  and  lots  of  sacks  to 
keep  you  as  warm  and  cosey  as  a  winter  hob. 
You  know  where  to  find  me  every  evenin' 
after  dusk,  Tom,  and  when  you  come  with 
■  good  news,  you'll  be  a  made  man  ;  and,  listen, 
Tom,  it'll  make  you  a  foot  taller,  and  who 
knows,  man  alive,  but  we  may  show  you  for 
:a  giant,  now." 


"  Hicco,  hicco  I "  said  Tom  ;  "  dat  great — • 
never  mind  ;  me  catch  him  for  you.  A 
giant  I — oh,  gori-amarcy  ! —  a  giant  I — hicco  ! 
— gorramarcy ! "  and  with  these  words  he 
darted  oil"  in  some  different  direction,  whilst 
Fergus  went  to  his  usual  place  of  rest  for  the 
night. 

It  would  seem  by  the  Red  Rapparee's 
movements  at  this  time  as  if  he  entertained 
some  vague  suspicions  of  awakened  justice, 
notwithstanding  the  assm'ances  of  safety  pi'e- 
viously  communicated  to  him  by  Sir  Robert 
Wliitecraft.  Indeed,  it  is  not  impossible  that 
even  the  other  indi^'iduals  who  had  distin- 
guished themselves  under  that  zealous  bar- 
onet might,  in  their  conversations  with  each 
other,  have  enabled  the  Rapparee  to  get  oc- 
casional ghmpses  of  the  new  state  of  things 
which  had  just  taken  place,  and  that,  in  con- 
sequence, he  shifted  about  a  good  deal,  taking 
cai'e  never  to  .sleep  two  nights  in  succession 
under  the  same  roof.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the 
eye  of  Tom  Steeple  was  on  him,  without  the 
least  possible  suspicion  on  his  part  that  he 
was  under  his  surceiUance. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Reilly  takes  Service  icith  Squire  Folliard. 

Reilly  led  a  melancholy  life  after  the  de 
pai'ture  of  the  pious  bishop.  A  week,  how- 
ever, had  elapsed,  aud  he  felt  as  if  it  had 
been  half  a  year.  His  anxiety,  however, 
either  to  see  or  hear  from  his  Cuoleen  Bawn 
completely  overcame  him,  and  he  resolved,  at 
all  events,  to  wi-ite  to  her  ;  in  the  meantime, 
how  was  he  to  do  tliis  ?  There  was  no  letter- 
paper  in  the  fai-mer's  house,  nor  any  to  be 
procured  within  miles,  and,  under  these  cuv 
curastances,  he  resolved  to  pay  a  visit  to  ^h\ 
Brown.  After  some  trouble  he  was  admitted 
to  the  presence  of  that  gentleman,  who  could 
scai'cely  satisfy  himself  of  his  identity  ;  but, 
at  length,  he  felt  assui'ed,  and  asked  him  into 
the  study. 

"  My  dear  Reilly,"  said  he,  "I  think  you 
are  infatuated.  I  thought  you  had  been  out 
of  the  country  long  before  this.  AMiy,  in 
heaven's  name,  do  you  remain  in  Ii-eland, 
when  you  know  the  difficulty  of  escape  ?  I 
have  had,  since  I  saw  you  last,  two  or  three 
domicihary  visits  from  "VMiitecraft  aud  his 
men,  w^ho  searched  my  whole  house  and 
premises  in  a  spirit  of  insolence  that  was 
most  indelicate  and  ofi'ensive.  Hastings  and 
I  have  sent  a  memorial  to  the  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant, signed  by  some  of  the  most  respectable 
Protestant  gentry  in  the  country,  in  which 
we  stated  his  wanton  tj-ranny  as  well  as  hifl 


100 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


oppression  of  his  Majesty's  subjects — harm- 
less an;l  loyal  men,  and  whom  he  pm-sues 
with  unsatiable  vengeance,  merely  because 
they  are  Roman  Catholics.  I  cert<ainly  do 
not  expect  that  our  memorid  will  be  attended 
to  by  this  Administration.  There  is  a  report, 
however,  that  the  present  IMinistry'  vriSS.  soon 
go  out,  and  be  succeeded  by  one  more 
hbenU." 

"  Well,"  rephed  Reilly,  "  since  I  saw  you 
last  I  have  had  some  narrow  escapes ;  but  I 
think  it  would  be  difficult  to  know  me  in  my 
present  disguise." 

"  I  grant  that,"  said  j\Ii-.  Brown,  "  but  then 
is  tliere  nothing  to  be  apprehended  fi'om 
treachery  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,"  replied  the  other.  "  There 
is  only  the  farmer  and  liis  fcxmily,  with  whom 
the  bisho})  and  I  hai-bored,  who  are  aware  of 
my  disguise,  and  to  that  number  I  must  now 
add  yourself." 

"  Well,"  replied  Mr.  Brown,  smihng,  "  I 
do  not  think  you  have  much  to  aj^prehend 
fi'om  me." 

"No,"  said  Reilly,  "you  have  given  me 
too  many  substantial  proofs  of  youi'  confi- 
dence for  that.  But  I  wish  to  write  a  letter  ; 
and  I  have  neither  pen,  ink,  nor  paper  ;  "s\aLl 
you  be  good  enough  to  lend  me  the  use  of 
yoTU'  study  for  a  few  minutes,  and  yoiu' 
writing  materials  ?  " 

The  excellent  clergj'man  immediately  con- 
ducted him  to  the  study,  and  placed  the 
materials  before  him  with  his  own  hands, 
after  which  he  left  the  room.  Reilly  then 
sat  do-RTi,  and  penned  the  following  letter 
to  his  dear  Cooleen  Baivn : 

"  I  am  now  thoroughly  disguised,  indeed 
so  effectually  that  my  nearest  and  dearest 
friends  could  not  know  me  ;  nay,  I  question 
whether  even  you  yom-self  would,  excej^t  by 
the  keen  intuition  of  affection,  which  is  said 
to  penetrate  all  disgniises,  unless  those  of 
falsehood  and  h^'pociisy.  These,  howevei', 
are  disguises  I  have  never  worn,  nor  ever 
shall  wear — either  to  you  or  any  human 
being.  I  had  intended  to  go  to  the  Conti- 
nent until  this  storm  of  persecution  might 
blow  over  ;  but  on  reflection  I  changed  my 
pui-j)ose,  for  I  could  not  leave  you  to  run  the 
risk  of  being  ensnai'ed  in  the  subtle  and 
treacherous  jiolicy  of  that  villain.  It  is  my 
intention  to  ^dsit  your  father's  house  and  to 
see  you  if  I  can.  You  need  not,  for  the  sake 
of  my  safety,  object  to  this,  because  no  one 
can  know  me.  The  description  of  my  dress, 
though  somewhat  undignitied,  I  must  give 
you.  In  the  first  place,  then,  I  am,  to  all 
outward  appearance,  as  rude-looking  a 
country  lout  as  ever  you  looked  upon.  My 
disguise  consists,  first,  of  a  pair  of  brogues 
enaferoidered  with  clouts,  or  what  is  vulgarly 


denominated  patches,  out  of  th^  point  ol 
one  of  which  —  that  of  the  right  foot  — 
neai-ly  half  my  toe  risibly  projects.  The 
stockings  are  coarse  Connemaras,  with  suffi- 
cient air-holes,  both  in  feet  and  legs,  to 
admit  the  pure  atmosphere,  and  strengthen 
the  muscular  system.  My  small-clothes  are 
corduroys,  bought  fi-om  a  hard-working 
laborer,  with  a  large  patch  upon  each  knee.  A 
tailor,  however,  has  promised  to  get  some 
buttons  for  them  and  sew  them  on.  The 
waistcoat  is  altogether  indescribable ;  be- 
cause, as  its  materials  seem  to  have  been 
rescued,  that  is,  stolen,  from  all  the  scare- 
crows in  the  country,  I  am  unable  to  come 
at  the  first  fabric.  The  coat  itself  is  also 
beautifully  variegated,  its  patches  consisting 
of  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  with  two  or 
three  dozen  that  never  aj)peared  in  that 
beautiful  phenomenon.  But  what  shaU  I 
say  of  the  pendiment^  or  caubeen,  which  is 
a  perfect  gem  of  its  kind  ?  The  villain  who 
wore  it,  I  have  been  told  by  the  person  who 
acted  as  factor  for  me  in  its  purchase,  was  one 
of  the  most  quarrelsome  rascals  in  Ireland, 
and  seldom  went  without  a  black  eye  or  a  bro- 
ken pate.  This,  I  suppose,  accounts  for  the 
droop  in  the  leaf,  which  covers  the  left  eye 
so  completely,  as  well  as  for  the  ventilator, 
which  so  admii'ably  refi-eshes  the  head,  and 
allows  the  rain  to  come  in  so  abundantly  to 
cool  it.  I  cannot  help  reflecting,  however, 
on  the  fate  of  those  who  have  nothing  bet- 
ter to  wear,  and  of  the  hard  condition 
which  dooms  them  to  it.  And  now,  my  be- 
loved Cooleen  Baion,  whilst  I  have  thus  en- 
deavored to  make  you  smile,  I  assure  you  I 
have  exaggerated  very  Httle.  This  dress, 
you  know,  is  precisely  that  of  a  wretched 
Connaught-mau  looking  for  emj)loyment 
The  woman,  who  will,  thi-ough  our  confidant, 
Lanigan,  deliver  this  to  you,  is  a  poor  faith- 
ful creature,  a  pensioner  of  mine,  who  may 
be  tnisted.  Appoint  through  her  a  day  and 
hour  when,  as  a  man  seeking  for  labor,  I  will 
stand  at  the  hall-door.  I  am  quite  satisfied 
that  neither  your  father,  nor  the  villain,  will 
know  me  from  Adam.  The  woman  who  is 
to  bring  this  waU  call  on  the  second  day  after 
its  dehvery,  and  I  shall  be  guided  by  what- 
ever  message  you  may  send  me.  On  one 
thing,  however,  I  am  determined,  which  is, 
that  if  it  should  cost  me  my  life,  I  wiU  pre- 
vent  the  meditated  marriage  between  you 
and  him.  Sooner  than  such  an  event  should 
take  place,  I  would  jDut  a  pistol  to  his  head 
and  blow  his  guilty  soul  into  that  jDerdition 
which  awaits  it.  Don't  vn-ite  ;  let  your 
message  be  verbal,  and  destroy  this." 

On  going  to  widow  Buckley's,  he  learned 
— after  some  trouble  in  identifj-ing  himself 
— that  she  had  several  visits  from  Sii*  Robert 


WILLY  REILLY. 


101 


and  his  men,  at  all  hours,  both  by  night  and 
day.  He  therefore  hastily  gave  her  the 
necessary  instructions  how  to  act,  and,  above 
all  things,  to  ask  to  see  Lanigan,  and,  if 
possible,  to  bring  some  eggs  or  chickens  for 
sale,  which  fact,  he  said,  would  give  a  color 
to  her  appearance  there,  and  prevent  the 
possibihty  of  any  suspicion.  Ha\'ing  placed 
the  letter  in  her  keejDing,  together  with 
some  silver  to  enable  her  to  purchase  either 
the  eggs  or  the  chickens,  in  case  she  had 
them  not  herself,  he  then  retm-ned  to  the 
farmer's,  where  he  remained  quietly  and 
without  disturbance  of  any  kind  until  the 
third  day,  when  widow  Buckley  made  her 
appearance.  He  brought  her  out  to  the 
garden,  because  in  discussing  matters  con- 
nected with  his  Cooken  Bawn  he  did  not 
wish  that  even  the  farmer's  family  should  be 
auditors — although  we  may  say  here  that 
not  only  were  the  loves  of  Willy  Reilly  and 
Cooleen  Bawn  known  to  the  farmer  and  his 
family,  but  also  to  the  whole  country,  and, 
indeed,  through  the  medium  of  ballads,  to 
the  greater  portion  of  the  kingdom. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Buckley,"  said  he,  "  did  you 
see  her '? " 

"  Oh,  bad  scran  to  you,  ]Mr.  Reilly !  you're 
the  very  sarra  among  the  gii'ls  when  you 
could  persuade  that  lovely  creatiu'e  to  fall  in 
love  with  you — and  you  a  CathoHc,  an'  her  a 
Protestant !  May  I  never,  if  I  think  there's 
her  aquil  out  o'  heaven !  Devil  an  angel  I 
tliink  in  it  could  hould  a  candle  to  her  for 
beauty  and  fig-ure.  She  only  wants  the 
■«dngs,  sir — for  they  say  that  all  the  angels 
have  \vings  ;  and  upon  my  conscience  if  she 
had  them  I  know  the  man  she'd  fly  to." 

"  But  what  happened,  Mrs.  Buckley?" 

"  ^\Ti3',  I  sould  some  chickens  and  eggs 
to  the  cook,  who  at  wanst  knew  lae,  because 
I  had  often  sould  him  chickens  and  eggs 
before.  He  came  up  to  the  hall-door,  and — 
'  Well,  IMi's.  Buckley,'  says  he,  '  what's  the 
news?'  'Be  dhe  hu^h,'  says  I,  'before  I 
sell  you  the  chickens,  let  me  ax  is  the  Cooleen 
Bawn  at  home?'  'She  is,'  says  he,  lookin' 
me  shai"})  and  straight  in  the  face  ;  '  do  3"0U 
want  her  ?  '  'I  would  like  to  see  her,'  says  I, 
'for  a  minute  or  two.'  'Ay,'  says  he,  back 
agin  to  me,  '  you  have  a  message — and  you 
know  besides  that  she  never  buys  chickens  ; 
that's  my  business.'  '  But,'  says  I,  back  agin, 
'I  was  tould  by  him  that  you  were  faithful, 
and  could  be  depinded  on.'  'Ay,'  says  he  ; 
'but  I  thought  he  had  left  the  counthry.' 
'  Troth,  then,'  says  I,  '  he's  to  the  fore  still, 
and  won't  lave  the  counthry  till  he  sees  her 
wanst  more,  at  all  events.'  'Have  you  a 
letther?'  ' Bethershin,'  says  I,  'could  you 
let  me  see  her ;  for  he  tould  me  to  say  to 
her  that  she  is  not  to  indite  letthers  to  him. 


for  fraid  of  discovery.'  '  Well,'  says  he,  '  as 
the  master's  at  home,  I'll  have  some  diffi- 
culty in  spakin'  to  her.  Devil  a  move 
she  gives  but  he  Avatches  ;  and  we  got  a  new 
servant  the  other  day,  and  devil  a  thing  she 
is  but  a  spy  from  Sir  Robert  ^Vhitecraft,  and 
some  people  say  that  her  master  and  she 
forgot  the  Gospel  between  them.  Indeed  I 
believe  (hafs  pretty  well  known  ;  and  isn't 
he  a  horrid  villain  to  send  such  a  vagabone 
to  attend  and  be  about  the  very  woman  that 
he  expects  to  be  his  own  wife  ? ' " 

"Don't  be  so  particular  in  your  descrip- 
tions, jNli's.  Buckley,"  said  Re'lly.  "  Did  you 
see  the  Cooleen  Bawn  ?" 

"Look  at  that,"  she  replied,  opening  her 
hand,  and  showing  him  a  golden  guinea — • 
"  don't  you  know  by  that  that  I  seen  her? 
but  you  must  let  me  go  on  my  own  way. 
'Well,' says  Lanigan,  the  cook,  'I  must  go 
and  see  what  I  can  do.'  He  then  went  up- 
stairs, and  contrived  to  give  her  a  hint,  and 
that  was  enough.  '  The  Lord  bless  us,  Mr. 
Reilly,  what  won't  love  do  ?  This  girl— as 
Lanigan  tould  me — that  the  villain  White- 
craft  had  sent  as  a  spy  upon  her  actions, 
was  desired  to  go  to  her  wardrobe,  to  pick 
out  fi-om  among  her  beautiful  dresses  one 
that  she  had  promised  her  as  a  present 
some  days  before.  The  cook  had  this  fi'om 
the  girl  herself,  who  was  the  san-a  for  dress  ; 
but,  anyhow,  while  the  -ihe  spy  was  tumbhng 
about  Cooleen  Bavms  dresses,  the  darlin' 
herself  whijDped  downstairs,  and  coming  to 
me  says,  '  The  cook  tells  me  you  have  a 
message  for  me.'  Jist  at  this  moment,  and 
after  she  had  slipped  the  letter  into  her 
bosom,  her  father  turns  a  eonier  round  the 
garden,  and  seeing  his  daughter,  which  was 
a  veiy  unusual  thing,  in  conversation  -nith  a 
person  hke  myself,  he  took  the  alarm  at 
once.  '  How,  Helen  ?  who  is  this  you  are 
s^Deaking  to  ?  No  go-between,  I  hope  ?  "SMio 
ai'e  you,  you  blasted  old  she-whelp ?  '  'I  am 
no  more  a  she-whelp  than  you  are.'  'Then 
maybe  you  are  a  he  one  in  disguise.  ^Miat 
brought  you  here  ?  '  '  Here  !  I  came  to  sell 
my  eggs  and  my  chickens,  as  I  done  for 
years.'  '  Your  eggs  and  ?/o»r  chickens !  curse 
you,  you  old  Jezebel,  did  you  ever  lay  the 
eggs  or  hatch  the  chickens  ?  And  if  you  did, 
why  not  j^roduce  the  old  cock  himself,  in 
proof  of  the  truth  of  what  you  say  ?  I'll  have 
you  searched,  though,  in  spite  of  your  eggs 
and  chickens.  Here,'  he  said  to  one  of  the 
footmen,  who  was  j^assing  through  the  haU 
— '  hei'e,  Jones,  send  uj)  Lanigan,  till  we  see 
whether  he  knows  this  old  faggot,  who  has 
the  assurance  to  tell  me  that  she  lays  eggs 
and  hatches  chickens.'  When  Lanigan  came 
up  again,  he  looked  at  me  as  at  an  old  ac- 
quaintance, which,  in  point  of  fact,  we  were. 


t02 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


'Why,  your  lionor,'  said  he,  'this  is  a  poor,  | 
honest  creature  that  has  been  selHng  us  eggs 
and  chickens  for  many  years.'  '  She  wouldn't 
be  a  go-between,  Lanigan  —  eh?  What's 
your  name,  you  old  faggot — eh? '  'My  naine 
is  Scrahag,  your  honor,'  says  I,  '  one  of  the 
Scrahags  ofBallycumpiatee — an  honest  and 
dacint  family,  sir  ;  but  if  your  honor  would 
buy  the  egg's,  at  any  rate,  and  hatch  them 
yourself,'  says  I  to  him"  (for  she  had  a  large 
stock  of  Ii'ish  humor),  "  'you  know,  sir,  you 
could  have  the  chickens  at  first  cost.'  'Ha, 
ha,  ha,'  and  the  squire  laughed  till  he  nearly 

split  his    sides  ;    '  by  I'm  hit ' — God 

pardon  me  for  repeatin'  his  oaths.  'Here, 
Lanigan,  bring  her  down  to  the  kitchen, 
and  give  her  a  fog  meal.'  '  I  understand 
you,  sir,'  said  Lanigan,  smiling  at  him.  '  Yes, 
Lanigan,  give  her  a  cai'go  of  the  best  in  the 
pantry.  She's  a  shi-ewd  and  comical  old 
blade,'  said  he;  'give  her  a  kegful  of  beef 
or  mutton,  or  both,  and  a  good  swill  of  ale 
or  porter,  or  whatever  she  prefers.  Cru-se 
me,  but  I  give  the  old  whelp  credit  for  the 
hit  she  gave  me.  Pay  her,  besides,  whatever 
she  asks  for  her  eggs  and  chickens.  Here, 
you  bitter  old  randle  tree,  there  are  three 
thirteens  for  you ;  and  if  you  will  go  down 
to  the  kitchen  vdth  the  cook,  he  "uill  give 
you  a  regular  skinful.'  The  cook,  knowing 
that  the  Cooleen  Bawn  wished  to  send  some 
message  back  to  you,  sir,  brought  me  down, 
and  gave  me  not  only  plenty  to  ait  and 
di'ink,  but  stuffed  the  praskeen  that  I  had 
carried  the  eggs  and  chickens  in  -with  as 
much  cold  meat  and  bread  as  it  could  con- 
tain." 

"  Well,  but  did  you  not  see  her  afterwards  ? 
and  did  she  send  no  message  ?  " 

"  Only  two  or  three  words  ;  the  da}^  afther 
to-morrow,  at  two  o'clock,  come  to  look  for 
labor,  and  she  will  contrive  to  see  you." 

Tliis  was  enough,  and  Reilly  did  not  al- 
low his  ambassadress  to  leave  him  without 
substantial  marks  of  hU  bounty  also. 

"When  the  old  squire  went  to  his  study,  he 
desired  the  gardener  to  be  sent  for,  and  when 
that  individual  entered,  he  found  his  master 
in  a  towering  passion. 

"  "WTiat  is  the  reason,  Malcomson,"  said  he, 
"  that  the  garden  is  in  such  a  shameful  state  ? 
I  declare  to  God  it  is  scandalous." 

"  Ou,  your  honor,"  replied  Malcomson, 
who  was  a  Scotchman,  "  e'en  because  you 
will  not  aUow  me  an  under  gerdener.  No 
one  man  could  manage  your  gerden,  and  it 
canna  be  managed  without  some  clever  chiel, 
what  understjmds  the  sceence." 

"The  what?" 

"The  sceence,  your  honor." 

"  Why,  confound  you,  sir,  what  science  is 
aecessary  in  gardening  ?  " 


"  I  tell  youi-  honor  that  the  management 
of  a  gerden  requires  baith  skeel  and  knowl- 
edge, and  feelosophy." 

"  Why,  confound  you,  sir,  again,  what 
kind  of  doctrine  is  this.  ?  " 

"  It's  vera  true  doctrine,  sir.  You  have 
large  and  spacious  green-hooses,  and  I  wad 
want  some  one  to  assist  me  wha  understands 
buttany." 

"  Buttony — Buttony — why,  confound  you, 
sirra,  send  for  a  tailor,  then,  for  he  under- 
stands buttony." 

"  I  see  yoiu'  honor  is  detarmined  to  indulge 
in  a  jocular  sj)irit  the  day.  The  truth  is, 
your  honor,  I  hae  no  men  to  assist  me  but 
common  laborers,  who  are  athegether  ig- 
norant of  gerdening  ;  now,  if  I  had  a  man 
who  could  direct  the  ojjerations — " 

"  OjDerations !  curse  your  Scotch  impu- 
dence, do  you  think  yourseK  a  general  ?  " 

"  Na,  na,  sir  ;  but  a  better  man  ;  and  I  teU 
ye  that  I  winna  remain  in  your  service  unless 
I  get  an  assistant  ;  and  I  say  that,  if  it  were- 
na  for  the  aid  of  Miss  Folliard,  I  wouldna 
been  able  to  keep  the  green-hoose  e'en  in  its 
present  state.  She  has  trailed  the  passion- 
flower wi'  her  ain  hands  until  it  is  flourishing. 
Then  she  has  a  beautiful  little  plot  of  forget- 
me-nots  ;  but,  above  a'  ,  it  wad  do  your 
honor's  heart  gude  to  see  the  beautiful  bed 
she  has  of  sweet-william  and  love-lies-bleed- 
in  o." 

"  Ay,  ay  !  love-lies-bleeding  ;  no  doubt  but 
she'll  take  care  of  that.  Well,  go  and  get  an 
under-gardener  wherever  you  can,  and  let  my 
garden  be,  at  all  events,  such  as  a  stranger 
can  walk  through,  and  such  as  becomes  my 
name  and  jDroperty.  Engage  such  a  person, 
give  him  whatever  you  consider  fair  wages, 
and  the  house-steward  will  pay  him  weekly. 
These  are  matters  I  can't  trouble  myself  with 
now — I  have  other  things  to  think  of." 

On  the  day  mentioned  in  Cooleen  Baion^s 
message,  Keilly  hazarded  a  visit  to  the  squire's 
house,  and  after  giving  a  single  knock,  beg- 
ged to  see  the  cook.  The  porter  ha^ing  look- 
ed at  him  with  the  usual  contenq^t  which 
menials  of  his  class  bestow  ujDon  poor  per- 
sons, went  down  to  the  kitchen  with  a  good 
deal  of  reluctance,  and  told  the  cook,  with  a 
grin,  that  one  of  his  relations  wanted  to  see 
him. 

"  Well,"  replied  Lanigan,  who  had  been 
made  aware  of  the  intended  visit,  "  it's  won- 
derful, in  these  hard  times,  the  number  oJ; 
respectable  but  reduced  families  that's  goin! 
about.  What  kind  of  a  gentleman  is  he, 
John  ?  because  I  am  very  busy  now.  To  b© 
sure  there  is  a  great  deal  of  cold  vittles  left, 
that  would  be  lost  and  destroyed  if  we  didn't 
give  them  to  the  jjoor  ;  and  you  know  tha 
masther,  who  is  a  charitable  man,  desired  ua 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


103 


to  do  so.     I'll  go  up  and  see  what  tlie  poor 
devil  wants." 

He  accordingly  went  np  to  the  hall-door, 
and  found  Keilly  there.  It  Avas  to  no  pur- 
pose that  he  had  been  already  apprised  of 
his  disguise — it  was  so  complete  that  he  did 
not  know  him — his  beard  was  half  an  inch 
long  ;  and,  besides,  Reilly,  knowing  the  risk 
he  ran  in  this  daring  adventure,  had  dis- 
colored his  complexion  with  some  wash  that 
gave  it  the  tinge  of  a  mulatto.  The  cook  was 
thunderstruck. 

"  Well,  my  good  fellow,"  said  he,  not  in 
the  slightest  degree  recognizing  him,  "  what 
do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  Lanigan,"  rephed  Keilly, "  don't  you  know 
me?" 

"  Know  you !  how  the  devil  should  I  know 
you  ? — I  never  saw  you  before,  "WTiat  do 
you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  Lanigan,"  whispered  the  other,  "  did  you 
never  hear  of  Willy  Reilly  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did  ;  have  you  any  message  from 
him?" 

"I  am  the  man  myself,"  said  ReiUy,  "but 
you  don't  know  me,  I  am  so  comjiletely  dis- 
guised.    Don't  you  know  my  voice  ?  " 

"  Merciful  Father  !  "  said  the  cook,  "  I'm 
in  a  doldrum  ;  can  I  be  sure  that  you  don't 
come  fi'om  Su'  Robert  "NVhitecraft,  the  notori- 
ous blackguard  ?  " 

"  Lanigan,  I  am  Willy  Reilly  :  my  voice 
ought  to  tell  you  so  ;  but  I  wish  to  see  and 
speak  mth  my  dear  Cooleea  Baivn." 

"  Oh,  my  God,  sir !  "  replied  Lanigan,  "  but 
this  love  makes  strange  transmigrations. 
She  won"t  know  you,  sii\" 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  point,"  re- 
phed ReiUy  ;  "  only  let  her  know  that  I  am 
here." 

"  Come  down  to  the  kitchen  then,  sir,  and 
I  shall  put  you  into  the  servants'  hall,  which 
branches  off  it.  It  is  entered,  besides,  by  a 
different  door  fi'om  that  of  the  kitchen,  and 
while  you  stay  there — and  you  can  pass  into 
it  without  going  through  the  kitchen — I  will 
try  to  let  her  know  where  you  are.  She  has 
at  present  a  maid  who  was  sent  by  Sir  Rob- 
ert "SMiitecraft,  and  she  is  nothing  else  than 
a  spy  ;  but  it'll  go  hard,  or  111  baflfle  her."      | 

He  accordingly  jDlaced  Reilly  in  the  ser-  | 
vants'  hall,  and  on  his  way  to  the  drawing- 
room  met  Miss  FoUiard  going  to  her  oavti 
apartment,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the 
front  of  the  house.  He  instantly  commimi- 
cated  to  her  the  fact  of  Reilly's  presence  in 
the  servants'  hall ;  "  but,"  added  Lanigan, 
"  you  won't  know  him — his  own  mother,  if 
she  was  li\in',  wouldn't  know  a  bone  in  his 
^ody." 

"  Oh  I  "  she  rephed,  whilst  her  eyes  flashed 
fearfully,  in  fact,  in  a  manner  that  startled 


the  cook — "oh  !  if  he  is  there  I  snail  soon 
\  know  him.     He  has  a  voice,  I  think — he  has 
I  a  voice  !     Has  he  not,  Lanigan  ?  " 
'  •    "  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  Lanigan,  "he  has  a 
voice,  and  a  heart  too." 

I  "Oh!  yes,  yes,"  she  said,  "I  must  go  to 
him  ;  they  want  to  marry  rae  to  that  monstei 
— to  that  bigot  and  j^ersecutor,  on  this  very 
day  month  ;  bvit,  Lanigan,  it  shall  never  be 
— death  a  thousand  times  sooner  than  such 
a  union.  If  they  attemj^t  to  bind  us,  death 
shall  cut  the  link  asunder — that  I  jDromise 
you,  Lanigan.  But  I  must  go  to  him — I 
must  go  to  him." 

She  ran  down  the  stairs  as  she  spoke,  and 
Lanigan,  having  looked  after  her,  seemed 
deeply  concerned. 

"  My  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  what  wiU 
become  of  that  sweet  girl  if  she  is  forced  to 
marry  that  wealthy  scoundi'el  ?  I  declare  to 
my  God  I  haixlly  think  she  is  this  moment 
in  her  jaroper  senses.  There's  a  fii-e  in  her 
eyes ;  and  something  in  her  manner,  that  I 
never  observed  before.  At  all  events,  I  have 
locked  the  door  that  opens  from  the  kitchen 
into  the  servants'  hall,  so  that  the}'  cannot  be 
interiiiiated  from  that  quarter." 

When  the  CooJeen  Baivn  entered,  she 
shrunk  back  instinctively.  The  disguise  was 
so  comj^lete  that  she  could  not  impose  even 
on  her  imagination  or  her  senses.  The  com- 
plexion was  different,  in  fact,  quite  sallow ; 
the  beard  long,  and  the  costume  such  as  we 
have  described  it.  There  was,  in  fact,  some- 
thing extremel}'  ludicrous  in  the  meeting. 
Here  was  an  elegant  and  beautiful  young 
woman  of  fashion,  almost  ready,  as  it  wei'e, 
to  throw  herself  in  the  arms  of  a  common 
pauper,  with  a  beard  upon  him  better  than 
half  an  inch  long.  As  it  was,  she  stopped 
suddenly  and  retreated  a  step  or  two,  say- 
ing, as  she  did  so  : 

"  This  must  be  some  mistake.  Who  ai'e 
you  ?  " 

"  Helen  ! " 

"  Reilly !  oh,  that  voice  has  set  all  right. 
But,  my  God,  who  could  know  you  in  this 
disguise  ?  " 

They  approached,  and  Reilly,  seizing  her 
hand,  said,  "I  will  shake  hands  with  you; 
but  until  this  disguise  is  off  I  would  consid- 
er it  sacrilege  to  apjDroach  nearer  to  your 
person." 

"No  disguise  can  ever  shut  you  out  fi'om 
my  heart,  dear  Reilly  ;  but  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
I  have  discovered,  by  one  of  my  maids,  who 
overheard  mv  father  sav,  in  a  short  soliloquy 
— '  Well,  thank  God,  she'll  be  Sir  Robert's 
wife  within  a  month,  and  then  my  mind  will 
be  easy  at  last.'  Oh  !  I'm  glad  you  did  not 
leave  this  country.  But,  as  I  said,  what  in 
to  be  done  ?    "Wiiat  will  become  of  us  ?  " 


.<04 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Under  our  peculiar  circumstances,''  re- 
plied Reilly,  "the  question  cannot,  for  the 
present  at  least,  be  answered.  As  for  leav- 
ing the  country,  I  miglit  easily  have  done  it, 
but  I  couhl  not  think  of  leaviuj?  you  to  the 
snares  and  windings  of  that  villain.  I  de- 
clare solemnly,  I  would  rather  die  than  wit- 
ness a  union  between  you  and  him." 

"But  Avhat,  think  you,  should  I  feel? 
You  would  be  only  a  spectator  of  the  sacri- 
fice, whereas  I  should  be  the  victim." 

"  Do  not  be  cast  down,  my  love  ;  whilst  I 
have  life,  and  a  strong  ann,  it  sliall  never  be. 
Before  I  go  I  shall  make  arrangements  wuth 
Lanigan  when  and  where  to  see  you  again." 

"It  will  be  a  matter  of  some  difficulty," 
she  replied.  "  for  I  am  now  under  the  strict- 
est surveillance.  I  am  told,  and  I  feel  it, 
that  Whitecraf  t  has  jjlaced  a  spy  upon  all  my 
motions." 

"How  is  that?"  inquired  Reilly.  "Are 
you  not  under  the  protection  of  your  father, 
who,  when  occasion  is  necessary,  has  both 
pride  and  spirit  ?  " 

"  But  my  poor  credulous  father  is,  not- 
withstanding, easily  imposed  on.  I  know 
not  exactly  the  particulars,"  rej^lied  the  love- 
ly girl,  "but  I  can  easily  susi:)ect  them.  My 
father  it  was,  certainly,  who  discharged  my 
last  maid.  Ellen  Connor,  because,  he  said,  he 
did  not  like  her,  and  because,  he  added,  he 
would  put  a  better  and  a  more  trustworthy 
one  in  hei  place.  I  cannot  move  that  she  is 
f ';(  ciT'i'^ir  wWY  me  or  after  me  ;  nay,  I  can- 
lio..  wiiio  K  note  that  she  does  not  immedi- 
ately acquaint  papa,  who  is  certain  to  stroll 
into  m}'  apartment  and  ask  to  see  the  con- 
tents of  it,  adding,  'Helen,  when  a  young 
lady  of  rank  and  property  forms  a  clandes- 
tine and  disgraceful  attachment  it  is  time 
that  her  father  should  be  on  the  lookout ;  so  I 
will  just  take  the  liberty  of  throwing  my  eye 
over  this  little  h'l/et-don.r.'  I  told  him  often 
that  he  was  at  liberty  to  inspect  every  Hne  I 
should  write,  but  that  I  thought  that  very 
few  parents  would  exjoress  such  want  of  con- 
fidence in  their  daughters,  if,  like  me,  the 
latter  had  desen^ed  such  confidence  at  their 
hands  as  I  did  at  his." 

"What  is  the  name  of  your  present 
maid  ?  "  asked  Reilly,  musing. 

"  Oh,"  rei^lied  Miss  Folliard,  "  I  have  three 
maids  altogether,  but  she  has  been  installed 
as  oion  maid.     Her  name  is  Eliza  Herbert." 

"  A  native  of  England,  is  she  not  ?  Eliza 
Herbert !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  in  the  lower- 
most depths  of  perdition  there  is  not  such  a 
villain.  This  l^liza  Herbert  is  neither  more 
nor  less  than  one  of  his — but  I  Avill  not  pain 
your  pure  and  delicate  mind  by  mentioning 
at  further  length  what  she  is  and  was  to 
him.      The   clergyman   of  the   parish,    Mr. 


Brown,  knows  the  whole  circumstances.  Se 
him  at  church,  and  get  him  to  communicate 
them  to  your  father.  The  fact  is,  this  vil- 
lain,  wdio  is  at  once  cunning  and  parsimoni- 
ous, had  a  double  motive,  each  equally  base 
and  diabolical,  in  sending  her  here.  In  the 
first  place,  he  wished,  by  getting  her  a  good 
place,  to  make  your  father  the  unconscious 
means  of  rewarding  her  profligacy  ;  and  in 
the  second  of  keejDing  her  as  a  spy  upon 
you." 

A  blush,  resulting  from  her  natural  sense 
of  delicacy,  as  w^ell  as  from  the  deepest  in- 
dignation at  a  man  who  did  not  scruple  to 
place  the  woman  whom  ne  looked  upon  as 
almost  immediately  to  become  his  wife,  in 
the  society  of  such  a  wretch — such  a  blush,  w© 
say,  overspread  her  whole  neck  and  face,  and 
for  about  two  minutes  she  shed  bitter  tears. 
But  she  felt  the  necessity  of  terminating 
their  interview,  fi'om  an  ajiprehension  that 
Miss  Herbert,  as  she  was  called,  on  not  find- 
ing her  in  the  room,  might  institute  a  search, 
and  in  this  she  was  not  mistaken. 

She  had  scarcely  concluded  when  the  shrill 
voice  of  Miss  Herbert  was  heard,  as  she 
rushed  raj)idly  down  the  stairs,  screaming, 
"  Oh,  la  !  oh,  dear  me  !  oh,  my  goodness  ! 
\ATiere,  where — oh,  bless  me,  did  any  one 
see  Miss  Folliard  ?  " 

Lanigan,  however,  had  prepared  for  any 
thing  like  a  surprise.  He  planted  himself, 
as  a  sentinel,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  the 
moment  he  heard  the  alarm  of  Miss  Herbert 
on  her  way  down,  he  met  her  half  way  up, 
after  having  given  a  loud  significant  cough, 

"  Oh,  cook,  have  you  seen  Miss  FoUiard  ? 
I  can't  find  her  in  the  house  ! " 

"Is  her  father  in  his  study,  Miss  Herbert? 
because  I  want  to  see  him  ;  I'm  afeared  there's 
a  screw  loose.  I  did  see  Miss  Folliard  ;-  she 
went  out  a  few  minutes  ago — indeed  she 
rather  stole  out  toAvards  the  garden,  and,  1 
tell  you  the  truth,  she  had  a  condemned  look 
of  her  own.  Try  the  garden,  and  if  you  don't 
find  her  there,  go  to  the  back  gate,  which 
you'll  be  apt  to  find  open." 

"  Oh,  I  will,  I  will ;  thank  you,  cook.  I'm 
certain  it's  an  elopement." 

"  Indeed,  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  to  find," 
replied  Lanigan,  "  that  she  is  with  Reilly  this 
moment  ;  any  Avay  you  haven't  a  minute  to 
lose." 

She  started  towards  the  garden,  which  she 
ran  over  and  over  ;  and  there  we  shall  leave 
her,  executing  the  fool's  errand  upon  which 
Lanigan  had  ?ent  her.  "Noav,"  said  he,  go- 
ing in,  "  the  coast's  clear  ;  I  have  sent  that 
impertinent  jade  out  to  the  garden,  and  as 
the  back  gate  is  open — the  gardener's  men 
are  wheeling  out  the  rubbish — and  they  are 
now  at   dinner — I  say,  as  the  back  gate  is 


WILLY  liEILLT. 


105 


open,  it's  ten  to  one  but  she'll  scour  the 
3ounti'y.  Now,  Miss  Folliard,  go  imme- 
diately to  your  room  ;  as  for  this  poor  man, 
I  will  take  care  of  him." 

"  Most  sincerely  do  I  thank  you,  Lanigan; 
he  will  arrange  with  you  when  and  where  to 
see  me  again.  Farewell,  Reilly — farewell ; 
rely  upon  my  constancy ; "  and  so  they 
parted,  ReiUy  to  the  kitchen,  and  the  Cooleen 
Bcmm  to  her  o^vn  room. 

"  Come  into  the  pantry,  poor  man,"  said 
good-natured  Lanigan,  addi'essing  our  hero, 
"till  I  give  you  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

"  Many  thanks  to  you,  sii-,"  replied  he  ; 
"  troth  and  wliaix,  I  didn't  taste  a  morshel 
for  the  last  f  whour — hugh — hugh — and  twen- 
ty hours  ;  and  sure,  sir,  it's  this  cough  that's 
killin'  me  by  inches." 

A  thought  struck  Lanigan,  who  had  been 
also  sj)oken  to  by  the  gardener,  about  half 
an  hour  before,  to  know  if  he  could  tell  him 
where  he  might  have  any  chance  of  finding  an 
assistant.  At  all  events  they  went  into  the 
pantry,  when  Lanigan,  after  having  pulled 
to  the  door,  to  i:)revent  their  conversation  from 
being  overheard,  disclosed  a  project,  which 
had  just  entered  his  head,  of  procuring  Reil- 
ly employment  in  the  garden.  Here  it  was 
arranged  between  them  that  the  latter,  who 
was  both  a  good  botanist  and  florist,  should 
be  recommended  to  the  gardener  as  an  assist- 
ant. To  be  sure,  his  dress  and  appearance 
were  both  decidedly  against  him  ;  but  still 
they  relied  upon  the  knowledge  which  Reil- 
ly confidently  assured  the  cook  that  he  pos- 
sessed. After  leaving  the  pantry  with  Lani- 
gan, whom  our  hero  thanked  in  a  thorough 
brogue,  the  former  called  after  him,  as  he 
was  going  away  : 

"  Come  here  again,  my  good  man." 

"  What  is  it,  shir?  may  God  bless  you  any- 
how, for  your  charity  to  the — hugh — hugh 
— ugh — to  the  poor  man.  Oh,  then,  but  it's 
no  wondher  for  you  all  to  be  fat  and  rosy 
ujDon  sich  beautiful  vittles  as  you  gave  to  me, 
shir.  What  is  it,  achora?  and  may  the 
Lord  mark  you  with  grace ! " 

"  Would  you  take  employment  fi'om  the 
master,  his  honor  Mr.  Eolhard,  if  you  got 
it?" 

"  Arrah  now,  shir,  you  gave  me  my  skin- 
ful of  what  was  giid ;  but  don't  be  makin' 
fwhun  o'  me  after.  Would  I  take  emjjloy- 
ment,  achora  ? — ay,  but  where  would  I  get 
it?" 

" Could  you  work  in  a  garden?  Do  you 
know  any  thing  about  plants  or  flowers  ?  " 

"Oh  thin,  that  I  may  never  sup  sarra 
(sorrow),  but  that's  just  what  I'm  fwhit 
fwhor." 

"  I'm  df eared  tiis  scoundi-el  is  but  an  im- 
posthor  afther  all,"  whispered  Lanigan  to 


the  other  servants  ;  "  but  in  ordher  to  mak(? 
sure,  we'U  tiy  him.  I  say — what's  this  youi 
name  is  ?  " 

"  Solvesther  M'Bethershin,  shir." 

"  Well,  now,  would  you  have  any  objec- 
tion to  come  with  me  to  the  garden  and  see 
the  gardener  ?  But  hould,  here  he  is.  Mr. 
Malcomson,"  continued  Lanigan,  "  here  is  a 
poor  man,  who  says  he  understands  plants 
and  flowers,  and  weeds  of  that  kind." 

"  Speak  wi'  reverence,  Mr.  Lanigan,  o'  the 
art  o'  gerdening.  Dinna  ye  ken  that  the 
founder  o'  the  hail  human  race  was  a  gar- 
dener ? — Hout  awa,  mon  ;  speak  o'  it  wi'  re- 
speck." 

"  Upon  my  conscience,"  replied  Lanigan, 
"  whether  he  was  a  good  gardener  or  not  is 
more  than  I  know  ;  but  one  thing  I  do  know, 
that  he  didn't  hould  his  situation  long,  and 
mismanaged  his  orchard  disgi'acefully  ;  and, 
indeed,  like  many  more  of  his  tribe,  he  got 
his  walkin'  pajDers  in  double  quick — was  dis- 
missed without  a  characther — ay,  and  his 
wife,  like  many  another  gardener's  wife,  got  a 
habit  of  stalin'  the  apj)les.  However,  I  wash 
Mr.  Malcomson,  that  you,  who  do  undher- 
stand  gardenin',  would  thry  this  fellow,  be- 
cause I  want  to  know  whether  he's  an  im- 
posthor  or  not." 

"Weel,"  replied  Malcomson,  "I  dinna 
care  if  I  do.  We'll  soon  find  that  out. 
Come  wi'  me  and  Maisther  Lanigan  here, 
and  we'U  see  what  you  ken  about  the 
sceentific  profession." 

They  accordingly  went  to  the  garden,  and 
it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  Reill}'  not  only 
bore  the  examination  well,  but  proved  him- 
self by  far  the  better  botanist  of  the  two. 
He  tempered  his  answers,  however,  in  such 
a  way  as  not  to  allow  the  gardener's  vanity 
to  be  hurt,  in  which  case  he  feared  that  he 
might  have  httle  chance  of  being  engaged. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

More  of  WIdtecmfVs  Plots  and  Pranks. 

On  the  Sunday  following.  Miss  FoUiard, 
as  was  her  usual  custom,  attended  divine 
service  at  her  parish  church,  accompanied 
by  the  virtuous  Miss  Herbert,  who  scarcely 
ever  let  her  for  a  moment  out  of  her  sight, 
and,  in  fact,  added  grievously  to  the  misery 
of  her  life.  After  service  had  been  con- 
cluded, she  waited  until  Mr.  Bi^own  had  de- 
scended fi'om  the  pulpit,  when  she  accosted 
him,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  have  some 
private  conversation  with  him  in  the  vestiy- 
room.     To  this  room  they  were  about  to 


106 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


proceed,  when  IMiss  Herbert  advconced  with 
an  e^ident  intention  of  accompanying  them. 

"IVlr.  Brown,"  said  the  Cooleen  Bawn, 
looking  at  him  significantly,  "  I  wish  that 
our  intenaew  should  be  private." 

"Certainly,  my  dear  Miss  FoUiard,  and 
so  it  shall  be.     Praj',  who  is  this  lady  ?  "  ^^ 

"I  am  forced,  sir,  to  call  her  my  maid." 

Mr.  Brown  was  startled  a  good  deal,  not 
only  at  the  words,  but  the  tone  in  which 
they  were  uttered. 

"Madam,"  said  he,  "you  will  please  to 
remain  here  until  \o^^x  mistress  shall  return 
to  you,  or,  if  you  -ndsh,  you  can  amuse  yovir- 
self  by  reading  the  inscriptions  on  the  tomb- 
stones." 

"  Oh,  but  I  have  been  ordered,"  replied 
Miss  Herbert,  "  by  her  father  and  another 
gentleman,  not  to  let  her  out  of  my  sight." 

Mr.  Brown,  understanding  that  something 
was  wrong,  now  looked  at  her  more  closely, 
after  which,  with  a  -odthering  frown,  he  said, 

"I  think  I  know  you,  madam,  and  I  am 
veiy  sorry  to  hear  that  you  are  an  attendant 
upon  this  amiable  lady.  Eemain  w^here  you 
ai-e,  and  don't  attempt  to  intrude  yourself 
as  an  ear-witness  to  any  communication  Miss 
Folliard  may  have  to  make  to  me." 

The  profligate  creature  and  unprincipled 
spy  bridled,  looked  disdain  and  bitterness  at 
the  amiable  clergy-man,  who,  accompanied  by 
our  heroine,  retired  to  the  vestry.  It  is  un- 
necessary to  detail  theii-  conversation,  which 
was  sustained  oy  the  Cooleen  Bawn  with 
bitter  tears.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  the 
good  and  pious  minister,  though  not  aware 
until  then  that  INIiss  Herbert  had,  by  the 
scoundrel  baronet,  been  intruded  into  Squire 
FoUiard's  family,  was  yet  acquainted,  from 
pecuhar  sources,  with  the  nature  of  the  im- 
moral relation  in  which  she  stood  to  that 
h^-pocrite.  He  felt  shocked  beyond  belief, 
and  assured  the  weeping  girl  that  he  would 
call  the  next  day  and  disclose  the  treacherous 
design  to  her  father,  who,  he  said,  could  not 
possibly  have  been  aware  of  the  wretch's 
character  when  he  admitted  her  into  his 
family.  They  then  paried,  and  our  heroine 
was  obliged  to  take  this  vile  creature  into  the 
carriage  with  her  home.  On  theu'  return. 
Miss  Herbert  began  to  disj^lay  at  once  the 
malignity  of  her  disposition,  and  the  volu- 
bihty  of  her  tongue,  in  a  fierce  attack  upon, 
what  she  tei-med,  the  ungentlemanly  conduct 
of  Mr.  Bro^^'n.  To  all  she  said,  however, 
Helen  uttered  not  one  syllal)le  of  reply.  She 
neither  looked  at  her  nor  noticed  her,  but 
sat  in  profound  silence,  not,  however,  with- 
out a  distracted  mind  and  breaking  heart. 

On  the  next  day  the  squu'e  took  a  fancy  to 
look  at  the  state  of  his  garden,  and,  having 
got  his  hat  and  cane,   he    sallied   out  to 


observe  how  matters  were  going  on,  no^ 
that  Mr.  Malcomson  had  got  an  assistant, 
whom,  by  the  way,  he  had  not  yet  seen. 

"  Now,  Malcomson,"  said  he,  "  as  you  have 
found  an  assistant,  I  hope  you  will  soon 
bring  my  garden  into  decent  trim.  "What 
kind  of  a  chap  is  he,  and  how  did  you  come 
by  him  ?  " 

"  Saul,  your  honor,"  replied  Malcomson, 
"  he's  a  divihsh  clever  chiel,  and  vara  wee! 
acquent  wi'  our  noble  profession." 

"  Confound  yourself  and  your  noble  pro- 
fession !  I  think  eveiy  Scotch  gardener  of 
you  beheves  himself  a  gentleman,  simply 
because  he  can  nail  a  few  stripes  of  old  blanket 
against  a  wall.  How  did  you  come  by  this 
fellow,  I  say  ?  " 

"  Ou,  just  through  Lanigan,  the  cook,  your 
honor." 

"  Did  Lanigan  know  him  ?  " 

"  Hout,  no,  your  honor — it  was  an  act  o' 
charity  hke." 

"  Ay,  ay,  Lanigan's  a  kind-hearted  old  fool, 
and  that's  just  like  him  ;  but,  in  the  mean- 
time, let  me  see  this  chap." 

"  There  he  is,  your  honor,  trimming,  and 
taking  care  of  that  bed  of  '  love-Hes-bleed- 
ing.'" 

"Ay,  ay  ;  I  dare  say  ray  daughter  set  him 
to  that  task." 

"  Na,  na,  sir.  The  young  leddy  hasna 
seen  him  yet,  nor  hasna  been  in  the  gerden 
for  the  last  week." 

"Why,  confound  it,  Malcomson,  that  fel- 
low's more  like  a  beggarman  than  a  gar- 
dener." 

"  Saul,  but  he's  a  capital  hand  for  a'  that. 
Youi-  honor's  no'  to  tak  the  beuk  by  the 
cover.  To  be  sure  he's  awfully  vulgar,  but, 
ma  faith,  he  has  a  richt  gude  knowledgeable 
apprehension  o'  buttany  and  gerdening  in 
generhal." 

The  squire  then  approached  our  under- 
gardener,  and  accosted  him, 

"  Well,  my  good  fellow,  so  you  understand 
gardening  ?  " 

"  A  little,  your  haner,"  replied  the  other, 
respecttully  touching  liis  hat,  or  caubeen 
rather. 

"  Are  you  a  native  of  tliis  neighbor- 
hood ?  " 

"  No,  your  haner.  I'm  fwaither  up — from 
Westport,  your  haner." 

"  Who  were  you  engaged  with  last?" 

"  I  wasn't  engaged,  shir — it  was  only  job- 
work  I  was  able  to  do — the  health  wasn't 
gud  wid  me." 

"  Have  you  no  better  clothes  than  these  ?" 

"You  see  all  that  I  have  on  me,  shir." 

"  Well,  come,  I'll  give  you  the  price  of  a 
suit  rather  than  see  such  a  scarecrow  in  mj 
garden." 


WILLY  Ji BILLY. 


101 


"I  couldn't  take  it,  shir." 

"  The  devil  you  couldu't !  Why  not,  man  ?  " 

"Bekaise,  shir,  I'm  under  pinance." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  shave '?  " 

"I  can't,  shii',  for  de  same  raison." 

"  Pooh,  pooh  !  what  the  devil  did  you  do 
that  they  put  such  a  penance  on  you." 

"  Why,  I  rvmned  away  wit'  a  young  woman, 
shir," 

"Upon  my  soul  you're  a  de\dlish  Hkely 
fellow  to  run  away  ■udth  a  young  woman,  and 
a  capital  taste  she  must  have  had  to  go  with 
you ;  but  perhaps  you  took  her  awaj'  by  vio- 
lence, eh?" 

"  No,  shir  ;  she  was  willin'  enough  to  come  ; 
but  her  fadher  w^ovildn't  consint,  and  so  we 
made  off  wit'  ourselves." 

This  was  a  toiDic  on  which  the  squire,  for 
obvious  reasons,  did  not  hke  to  jiress  him. 
It  was  in  fact  a  sore  subject,  and,  accordingly, 
he  changed  it. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  about  the  country 
a  good  deal  ?  " 

"I  have,  indeed,  your  haner." 

"Did  you  ever  happen  to  hear  of,  or  to 
meet  with,  a  person  called  Reilly  ?  " 

"  Often,  shir  ;  met  man}^  o'  dem." 

"  Oh,  but  I  mean  the  scoundrel  caUed 
Willy  Reilly." 

"  Is  dat  him  dat  left  the  country,  shir':' " 

"  Why,  how  do  you  know  that  he  has  left 
the  country  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  myself,  shir  ;  but  dat  de 
peoj)le  does  be  sayin'  it.  Dey  say  dat  himself 
and  wan  of  our  bishops  went  to  France  to- 
geder." 

The  squire  seemed  to  breathe  more  fi-eely 
as  he  said,  in  a  low  soliloquy,  "  I'm  devilish 
glad  of  it ;  for,  after  all,  it  would  go  against 
my  heart  to  hang  the  fellow.  "Well,"  he 
said  aloud,  "so  he's  gone  to  France?" 

"  So  de  people  does  be  sayin  ,  shir." 

"  Well,  teil  me — do  you  know  a  gentleman 
called  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  ?  " 

"Is  dat  him,  shir,  dat  keeps  de  misses 
privately  ?  " 

"How  do  you  know  that  he  keeps  misses 
privately  ?  " 

"Fwliy,  shir,  dey  say  his  last  one  was  a 
IMiss  Herbert,  and  dat  she  had  a  young  one 
by  him,  and  dat  she  was  an  Englishwoman. 
It  isn't  ginerally  known,  I  believe,  shir,  but 
dey  do  be  sayin'  dat  she  was  brought  to  bed 
in  de  cottage  of  some  bad  woman  named 
Mary  Mahon,  dat  does  be  on  de  lookout  to 
get  sweethearts  for  him." 

"  There's  five  thirteens  for  you,  and  I  wish 
to  God,  my  good  fellow,  that  you  would  allow 
yourself  to  be  put  in  better  feathers." 

"Oh,  I  expect  my  pinance  will  be  out 
before  a  mont',  shii' ;  but,  until  den,  I  couldn''t 
take  any  money." 


"Malcomson,"  said  he  to  the  gardener,  "1 
think  that  feUow's  a  half  fool.  I  offered  him 
a  crown,  and  also  said  I  would  get  him  a  suit 
of  clothes,  and  he  would  not  take  either  ;  but 
talked  about  some  silly  penance  he  was  under- 
going." 

"  Saul,  then,  your  honor,  he  may  be  a  fule 
in  ither  things,  but  de'il  a  ane  of  him's  a  fule 
in  the  sceence  o'  buttany.  As  to  that  pen- 
ance, it's  just  some  Papistrical  nonsense  he 
has  gotten  into  his  head — de'il  hae't  mair; 
but  siu'e  they're  a'  fuU  o't — a'  o'  the  same 
gi'aft,  an'  a  bad  one  I  fear  it  is." 

"  WeU,  I  beheve  so,  Malcomrfon,  I  believe 
so.  However,  if  the  unfort\inat\3  fool  is  clever, 
give  him  good  wages." 

"  Saul,  your  honor,  I'U  do  him  justice  ; 
only  I  think  that,  anent  that  penance  he 
speaks  o',  the  hail  Papish  population,  bad  as 
we  think  them,  are  suffering  penance  eneuch, 
one  way  or  tither.  It  disna'  beseem  i  Prot- 
estant—-that  is,  a  prelatic  Government — to 
persecute  ony  portion  o'  Christian  peoj^le  on 
account  o'  their  religion.  We  have  felt  and 
kenned  that  in  Scotland,  saMy.  I'm  no  fi-eend 
to  persecution,  in  ony  shape.  But,  as  to  this 
chiel,  I  ken  naething  aboot  him.  but  that  he 
is  a  glide  buttanist.  Hout,  your  honor,  to  be 
sure  I'll  gi'e  him  a  fau'  wage  for  his  skeel  and 
labor." 

Malcomson,  who  was  what  we  have  often 
met,  a  pedant  gardener,  saw,  however,  that 
the  squire's  mind  was  distui'bed.  In  the 
short  conversation  which  they  had,  he  spoke 
abiniptty,  and  WT.th  a  flushed  countenance  ; 
but  he  was  too  shrewd  to  ask  him  M'hy  he 
seemed  so.  It  was  not,  he  knew,  his  business 
to  do  so  ;  and  as  the  squire  left  the  garden, 
to  pass  into  the  house,  he  looked  after  liim, 
and  exclaimed  to  himself,  "my  certie,  there's 
a  bee  in  that  man's  bonnet." 

On  going  to  the  drawing-room,  the  squire 
found  jVIi'.  Bro^ai  there,  and  Helen  in  tears. 

"How!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  is  this? 
Helen  crjdng  !  AMiy,  what's  the  matter,  my 
child  ?  Brown,  have  you  been  scolding  her, 
or  reading  her  a  homily  to  teach  her  repen- 
tance. Confound  me,  iDut  I  know  it  would 
teach  her  patience,  at  all  events.  "What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

"My  dear  IMiss  Folhard,"  said  the  clergy- 
man, "  if  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  with- 
di-aw,  I  will  exjDlain  this  shocking  business  to 
your  father." 

"  Shocking  business !  Why,  in  God's 
name.  Brown,  what  has  happened?  And 
why  is  my  daughter  in  tears,  I  ask  again  ?  " 

Helen  now  left  the  di*awing-room,  and  Mi*. 
Brown  replied : 

"  Sii',  a  cu'curastance  which,  for  baseness 
and  diabolical  iniquity,  is  unparalleled  in 
civilized  society.      I  could  not  pollute  yoiu 


i08 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


daughter's  ears  by  reciting  it  in  her  presence, 
and  besides  she  is  ah-eady  awai-e  of  it." 

"  Ay,  but  what  is  it  ?  Confound  you,  don't 
keep  me  on  tenter  hooks." 

"  I  shall  not  do  so  long,  my  dear  friend. 
WTio  do  you  imagine  yom-  daughter's  maid 
—I  mean  that  fem.'de  attendant  upon  yovir 
pvu'e-minded  and  Airtuous  child — is  ?  " 

"  Faith,  go  ask  Su'  Robert  AMaitecraft.  It 
was  he  who  recommended  her  ;  for,  on  hear- 
ing that  the  maid  she  had,  Ellen  Connor, 
was  a  Papist,  he  said  he  felt  imeasy  lest  she 
might  prevail  on  my  daughter  to  tiu-n  Cath- 
ohc,  and  marry  Reiily." 

"  But  do  you  not  know  who  the  yotmg 
woman  that  is  about  your  daughter's  person 
is?  You  are,  however,  a  father  who  loves 
your  child,  and  I  need  not  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion. Then,  sir,  I  will  tell  you  who  she  is. 
Sir,  she  is  one  of  Sir  Robert  "Whitecraft's 
cast-off  mistresses — a  profhgate  wanton,  who 
has  had  a  child  by  him." 

The  fiery  old  squire  had  been  walking  to 
and  fro  the  room,  in  a  state  of  considerable 
agitation  before — his  mind  akeady  charged 
with  the  same  intelligence,  as  he  had  heard  it 
from  the  gardener  (Reilly).  He  now  threw 
himself  into  a  chair,  and  putting  his  hands 
before  his  face,  muttered  out  between  his 
fingers — "  D — n  seize  the  villain  !  It  is  time, 
then.  Well,  never  mind,  I'll  demand  satis- 
faction for  this  insult ;  I  am  not  too  old  to 
pull  a  trigger,  or  give  a  thrust  yet ;  but  then 
the  cowardly  h^'pocrite  won't  fight.  When 
he  has  a  set  of  mihtary  at  his  back,  and  a 
parcel  of  unarmed  peasants  before  him,  or 
an  unfortunate  priest  or  two,  why,  he's  a  dare 
devil — Hector  was  nothing  to  him  ;  no,  con- 
found me,  nor  mad  Tom  Simpson,  that 
wears  a  sword  on  each  side,  and  a  double 
case  of  pistols,  to  frighten  the  bailiffs.  The 
scoundrel  of  hell ! — to  impose  on  me,  and 
insult  my  child  !  " 

"  IVIr.  Folhard,"  observed  the  clergyman 
calmly,  "I  can  indeed  scarcely  blame  your 
indignation  ;  it  is  natural ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  it  Is  useless  and  unavailable.  Be  cool, 
and  restrain  your  temper.  Of  coiu-se,  you 
could  not  think  of  bestowing  your  daughter, 
in  maiTiage,  upon  this  man." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Browai — I  teU  you  what, 
my  dear  fiiend — let  the  devil,  Satan,  Beelze- 
bub, or  whatever  you  caU  him  from  the  pul- 
pit—I  say,  let  him  come  liere  any  time  he 
pleases,  in  his  holiday  hoofs  and  honis,  tail 
and  all,  and  he  shall  have  her  sooner  than 
Whitecraft." 

Mr.  Brown  could  not  help  smihng,  whilst 
he  said : 

"  Of  course,  you  will  instantly  dismiss  this 
abandoned  creature." 

He  stai'ted    up    and  exclaimed,    "Cog's 


'ounds,  what  am  I  about?"  He  instantlj 
rang  the  beU,  and  a  footman  attended 
"  John,  desu-e  that  wench  Herbert  to  come 
here." 

"Do  you  mean  Miss  Herbert,  sir?" 

"I  do — Mi^s  Herbert — egad,  you've  hit  it  j 
be  quick,  sirra." 

John  bowed  and  withdi'ew,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  Miss  Herbert  entei'ed. 

"Miss  Herbert,"  said  the  squire,  "leave 
this  house  as  fast  as  the  devil  can  drive  you  ; 
and  he  has  driven  you  to  some  pui-pose  be- 
fore now ;  ay,  and,  I  dare  say,  wiU  again. 
I  say,  then,  as  fast  as  he  can  drive  you,  pack 
up  your  luggage,  and  begone  about  your 
business.  I'U  just  give  you  ten  minutes  to 
disappear." 

"  \Vhat's  all  this  about,  master  ?  " 

"  Master  ! — why,  c\irse  your  brazen  im- 
piidence,  how  dare  you  call  me  master  ?  Be- 
gone, you  jade  of  perdition." 

"No  more  a  jade  of  perdition,  sir,  than 
you  are  ;  nor  I  shan't  begone  till  I  gets  a 
quarter's  wages — I  tell  you  that." 

"You  shall  get  whatever's  coming  to  you  ; 
not  another  penny.  The  house-steward  will 
pa}''  you — begone,  I  say  !  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  shan't  begone  till  I  gets  a 
quarter's  salary  in  full.  You  broke  your 
agreement  with  me,  wich  is  wat  no  man  as  is 
a  gentleman  wovdd  do  ;  and  you  are  j)uttin' 
me  away,  too,  without  no  cause." 

"  Cause,  you  vagabond !  you'll  find  the 
cause  squalling,  I  suppose,  in  Mary  Mahon's 
cottage,  somewhere  near  Su'  Robert  White- 
craft's  ;  and  when  you  see  him,  tell  him  I 
have  a  crow  to  pluck  with  him.     Off,  I  say." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  you  mean  the  love-child 
I  had  by  him— ha,  ha !  is  that  all  ?  But  I 
never  had  a  hankerin'  after  a  rebel  and  a 
Papist,  which  is  far  worser  ;  and  I  now  tell 
you  you're  no  gentleman,  you  nasty  old 
Hirish  sqiiu-e.  You  brought  me  here,  and 
Sir  Robert  sent  me  here,  to  watch  yoiir 
daughter.  Now,  what  kind  of  a  young  lady 
must  she  be  as  requires  watching  ?  /  was 
never  watched  ;  because  as  how  I  was  well 
conducted,  and  nothing  could  ever  be  laid 
to  my  charge  but  a  love-child." 

"By  the  great  Boyne,"  he  exclaimed,  run- 
ning to  the  window  and  throwing  up  the 
sash — "  yes,  by  the  great  Bojnie,  there  is 
Tom  Steeple,  and  if  he  doesn't  bring  you 
and  the  pump  acquainted,  I'm  rather  mis- 
taken. Here,  Tom,  I  have  a  job  for  yOu 
Do  you  %vish  to  earn  a  bully  dinner,  my 
boy?" 

Miss  Herbert,  on  hearing  Tom's  name 
mentioned,  disappeared  like  Hghtning,  and 
set  about  packing  her  things  immediately. 
The  stewai'd,  by  his  master's  desire,  paid 
her  exactly  what  was  due  to  her,  which  ehe 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


109 


received  without  making  a  single  observation. 
In  truth,  she  entertained  such  a  terror  of 
Tom  Steeple,  who  had  been  pointed  out  to 
her  as  a  wild  Ii-ishman,  not  long  caught  in 
the  mountains,  that  she  stole  out  by  the 
back  way,  and  came,  by  making  a  circuit, 
out  upon  the  road  that  led  to  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft's  house,  which  she  passed  with- 
out entering,  but  went  directly  to  Maiy 
Mahon's,  who  had  provided  a  nurse  for  her 
illegitimate  child  in  the  neighborhood.  She 
had  not  been  there  long  when  she  sent  her 
trusty  friend,  Marj',  to  acquaint  Sir  Robert 
with  what  had  happened.  He  was  fi'om 
home,  engaged  in  an  expedition  of  which 
we  feel  called  ujjon  to  give  some  account  to 
the  reader. 

At  this  period,  when  the  persecution  ran 
high  against  the  Catholics,  but  with  peculiar 
bitterness  against  their  priesthood,  it  is  but 
justice  to  a  great  number  of  the  Protestant 
magistracy  and  gentry — nay,  and  many  of 
the  nobihty  besides — to  state  that  their  con- 
duct was  both  liberal  and  generous  to  the 
unfortunate  victims  of  those  cruel  laws.  It 
is  a  well  known  fact  that  many  Protestant 
justices  of  the  peace  were  imprisoned  for 
refusing  to  execute  such  opjjressive  edicts 
as  had  gone  abroad  through  the  coiintiy. 
IMany  of  them  resigned  their  commissions, 
and  many  more  w^ere  dejDrived  of  them. 
Amongst  the  latter  were  several  liberal  noble- 
men— Protestants — who  had  'sufficient  cour- 
age to  denounce  the  sjDirit  in  which  the 
country  was  governed  and  depopulated  at 
the  same  time.  One  of  the  latter — a  noble- 
man of  the  highest  rank  and  acquirements, 
and  of  the  most  amiable  disposition,  a  warm 
fi'iend  to  civil  fi'eedom,  and  a  firm  antagonist 
to  persecution  and  oppression  of  every  hue 
— this  nobleman,  we  say,  married  a  French 
lady  of  rank  and  fortune,  who  was  a  CathoHc, 
and  with  whom  he  lived  in  the  tenderest 
love,  and  the  utmost  domestic  fehcity.  The 
lady  being  a  Catholic,  as  we  said,  brought 
over  wdth  her,  fi'om  France,  a  learned,  pious, 
and  venerable  ecclesiastic,  as  her  domestic 
chaplain  and  confessor.  This  man  had  been 
professor  of  diAdnity  for  several  years  in  the 
college  of  Louvain  ;  but  having  lost  his 
health,  he  accepted  a  small  li\ing  near  the 

chateau  of  ,  the  residence  of  IMarquis 

De  ,  in  whose  estabUshment  he  was  do- 
mesticated as  chaplain.  In  short,  he  accom- 
panied Lord and  his  lady  to  Ireland, 

where  he  acted  in  the  same  capacity,  but  so 
far  only  as  the  lady  was  concerned  ;  for,  as 
we  have  already'  said,  her  husband,  though 
a  Hberal  man,  was  a  firm  but  not  a  bigoted 
Protestant.  This  harmless  old  man,  as  was 
very  natural,  kept  up  a  correspondence  "mth 
several  Irish    and  French    clergymen,   his 


friends,  who,  as  he  had  done,  held  professor- 
shijDS  in  the  same  college.  Many  of  the  Ii'ish 
clergymen,  knowing  the  dearth  of  religious 
instiniction  which,  in  consequence  of  the 
severe  state  of  the  laws,  then  existed  in 
Ireland,  were  naturally  anxious  to  know  the 
condition  of  the  country,  and  whether  or  not 
any  relaxation  in  theu'  severity  had  taken 
place,  with  a  hope  that  they  might  be  able 
with  safety  to  return  to  the  mission  here, 
and  bestow  spiritual  aid  and  consolation 
to  the  suffering  and  necessarily  neglected 
folds  of  their  own  persuasion.  On  this 
harmless  and  pious  old  man  the  eye  of 
Hennessy  rested.  In  point  of  fact  he  i<et  him 
for  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  to  whom  he  rei> 
resented  him  as  a  spy  from  France,  and  an 
active  agent  of  the  Catholic  priesthood,  both 
here  and  on  the  Continent ;  in  fact,  an  in- 
cendiaiy,  who,  feeling  himself  sheltered  by 
the  protection  of  the  nobleman  in  question 
and  his  countess,  was  looked  upon  as  a  safe 
man  with  whom  to  hold  correspondence. 
The  Abbe,  as  they  termed  him,  was  in  the 
habit,  by  his  lordship's  desire,  and  that  of 
his  lady,  of  attending  the  Catholic  sick  of 
his  large  estates,  administeiing  to  them  re- 
ligious instruction,  and  the  ordinance  of 
their  Church,  at  a  time  when  they  coiild  ob- 
tain them  from  no  other  source.  He  also 
acted  as  their  almoner,  and  distributed  re- 
Hef  to  the  sick,  the  poor,  and  the  distressed, 
and  thus  passed  his  pious,  harmless,  and 
inoffensive,  but  useful  life.  Now  all  thesei 
circumstances  were  noted  by  Hennessy,  wh<. 
had  been  on  the  lookout,  to  make  a  present 
of  this  good  old  man  to  his  new  patron.  Sir 
Robert.  At  length  having  discovered — by 
what  means  it  is  impossible  to  conjecture — 
that  the  Abbe  was  to  go  on  the  day  in  ques- 
tion to  reheve  a  poor  sick  family,  at  about  a 

distance  of  two  miles  from  Castle  ,  the 

intelligence  was  communicated  by  Hennessy 
to  Sii"  Robert,  who  immediately  set  out  for  the 
place,  attended  by  a  party  of  his  mjTmidous, 
conducted  to  it  by  the  Red  Rapparee,  who,  as 
we  have  said,  was  nowoneof  Whitecraft's  band. 
There  is  often  a  stupid  infatuation  in  villany 
which  amounts  to  what  they  call  in  Scotland 
fey — that  is,  when  a  man  goes  on  doggedly 
to  commit  some  act  of  "odckedness,  or  rush 
upon  some  impracticable  entei-prise,  the 
danger  and  folly  of  which  must  be  endent 
to  every'  person  but  himself,  and  that  it  will 
end  in  the  loss  of  his  hfe.  Sir  Robert,  how- 
ever, had  run  a  long  and  prosperous  career 
of  persecution — a  career  by  which  he  en- 
riched himself  by  the  spoils  he  had  torn, 
and  the  property  he  had  arrested  from  hia 
victims,  generally  imder  the  sanction  oi 
Government,  but  veiy  frequently  under  no 
other  sanction  than  his  own,     At  all  e-'.ents 


no 


WILLIAM  CAELETOK'S  WORKS. 


the  party,  consisting  of  about  thirty  men, 
remained  in  a  deep  and  narrow  lane,  sur- 
rounded by  hipfh  whitethora  hedges,  which 
prevented  the  horsemen— for  they  were  all 
dragoons— from  being  noticed  by  the  country 
people.     Alas,  for  the  poor  Ahbe  !  they  had 
not    remained     there    more     than    twenty 
minutes  when  he  was  seen  approaching  them, 
reading  his  breviary  as  he  came  along.     They  1 
did  not  move,  however,  nor  seem  to  notice 
him,  until  he  had  got  into  the  midst  of  them,  j 
when  they  formed  a  circle  round  him,  and  the  \ 
loud  voice  of  AMiitecraft  commanded  him  to  I 
stand.     The  poor  old  priest  closed  his  bre-  | 
viaiw,  and  looked  around  him ;   but  he  felt  , 
no  alarm,  because  he  was  conscious  of  no 
offence,  and  imagined  himself  safe  under  the 
protection    of    a    distinguished    Protestant 
nobleman.  j 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  calmly  and  meekly, 
but  without  fear,  "what  is  the  cause  of  this  : 
conduct  towards  an  inoffensive  old  man  ?    It  j 
is  ti-ue  I  am  a  Catholic  priest,  but  I  am  under 

the  protection  of  the  Mai-quis  of .     He 

is  a  Protestant  nobleman,  and  I  am  sui-e  the 
very  mention  of  his  name  AAill  satisfy  you, 
that  I  cannot  be  the  object  either  of  your 
susi:)iciou  or  yoMX  enmity." 

' '  But,  my  dear  sii', "  rephed  Sir  Robert,  "  the 
nobleman  you  mention  is  a  suspected  man 
himself,  and  I  have  reported  him  as  such  to 
the  Government.  He  is  married  to  a  Popish 
wife,  and  you  are  a  seminary  priest  and 
hai'bored  by  her  and  her  husband." 

"  But  what  is  your  object  in  stopping  and 
surrounding  me,"  asked  the  priest,  "  as  if  I 
were  some  pubhc  delinquent  who  had  \'iolated 
the  laws  ?  Allow  me,  sir,  to  pass,  and  pre 
vent  me  at  your  peril ;  and  permit  me,  before 
I  proceed,  to  ask  your  name  ?  "  and  the  old 
man's  eyes  flashed  with  an  indignant  sense 
of  the  treatment  he  was  receiving. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft?" 

"  The  priest-hunter,  the  persecutor,  the 
robber,  the  murderer  ?  I  did,  Avith  disgust, 
with  hoiTor,  with  execration.  If  you  are  he, 
I  say  to  you  that  I  am,  as  you  see,  an  old 
man,  and  a  priest,  and  have  but  one  life  ;  take 
it,  you  vrCW  anticipate  my  death  only  by  a 
short  period  ;  but  I  look  by  the  hght  of  an 
innocent  conscience  into  the  future,  and  I 
now  tell  3'ou  that  a  woful  and  a  temble  ret- 
ribution is  hanging  over  your  head." 

"  In  the  meantime, '  said  Sir  Robert,  very 
calmly,  as  he  dismounted  from  his  horse, 
which  he  desired  one  of  the  men  to  hold,  "I 
have  a  warrant  fi'om  Government  to  arrest 
you,  and  send  yftu  back  again  to  your  own 
coimtry  without  delay.  You  are  here  as  a 
ypy,  an  incendiaiy,  and  must  go  on  your 
U'avels  forthwith.     In  this,   I  am  acting  as 


your  friend  and  protector,  and  so  is  Govern, 
ment,  who  do  not  wish  to  be  severe  upon 
you,  as  you  are  not  a  natural  subject.  See, 
sir,  here  is  another  warrant  for  your  an-est 
and  imjDrisonment.  The  fact  is,  it  was  left 
to  my  ovnx  discretion,  either  to  imprison  you, 
or  send  you  out  of  the  countiy.  Now,  sir, 
from  a  principle  of  lenity,  I  am  determined 
on  the  latter  course." 

"  But,"  replied  the  priest,  after  casting  his 
eye  over  both  documents,  "as I  am  conscious 
oi  no  offence,  either  against  your  laws  or 
your  Government,  I  decline  to  fly  like  a  crimi- 
nal, and  I  Avill  not ;  put  me  in  prison,  if  you 
wish,  but  I  certainly  shall  not  criminate  my- 
self, kno"^ing  as  I  do  that  I  am  innocent.  In 
the  meantime,  I  request  that  you  will  accom- 
pany me  to  the  castle  of  my  patron,  that  1 
may  acquaint  him  with  the  charges  against 
me,  and  the  cause  of  my  being  forced  to  leave 
his  family  for  a  time." 

"No,  su',"  rephed  Whitecraft,  "I  cannot 
do  so,  unless  I  betray  the  trust  which  Govern- 
ment reposes  in  me.  I  cannot  permit  you 
to  hold  any  intercourse  whatever  with  your 
patron,  as  you  caU  him,  who  is  justly  suspect- 
ed of  being  a  Papist  at  heart.  Sir,  you  have 
been  going  abroad  through  the  country, 
under  pretence  of  administering  consolation 
to  the  sick,  and  bestowing  alms  upon  the 
poor ;  but  the  fact  is,  you  have  been  stui-ing 
them  up  to  sedition,  if  not  to  open  rebeUion. 
You  must,  therefore,  come  along  with  us, 
this  instant.  Yoii  proceed  -nith  us  to  Shgo, 
from  whence  we  shall  ship  you  off  in  a  ves- 
sel bound  for  France,  which  vessel  is  com- 
manded by  a  friend  of  mine,  who  wiU  treat 
you  kindly  for  my  sake.  Wliat  shall  we  do 
for  a  horse  for  him  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  at 
his  men  for  information  on  that  jDoiut. 

"  That,  your  honor, we'll  provide  in  a  crack," 
replied  the  Red  Rapparee,  looking  up  the 
road;  '-'here  comes  Sterhng,  the  ganger, 
very  well  mounted,  and,  by  all  the  stills  he 
ever  seized,  he  must  walk  home  upon  shank's 
mare,  if  it  was  only  to  give  him  exercise  and 
improve  his  appetite." 

We  need  not  detail  this  open  robbery  on 
the  king's  ofl&cer,  and  on  the  king's  highway 
besides.     It  is  enough  to  say  that  the  Rap- 
paree, confident  of  protection  and  impunity, 
with  the  connivance,  although  not  by  the  ex- 
press orders  of  the  baronet,   deprived  the 
man  of  his  horse,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the 
;  poor  old  priest  was  placed  upon  the  saddle, 
i  and  the  whole  cavalcade  proceeded  on  their 
'  way  to  Shgo,  the  priest  in  the  centre  of  them. 
;  Fortunately  for  Sir  Robert's  project,   they 
reached  the  quay  just  as  the  vessel  alluded 
to  was  about  to  sail ;  and  as  there  was,  at 
that  peiiod,  no  novelty  in  seeing  a  priest 
shipped  out  of  the  country,   the  loungers 


WILLY  EEILLT. 


Ill 


about  the  place,  whatever  they  might  have 
thought  in  their  hearts,  seemed  to  take  no 
particular  notice  of  the  transaction. 

"  Your  honor,"  said  the  Eed  Rapparee,  ap- 
proaching and  giving  a  mihtary  salute  to  his 
patron,  "will  you  allow  me  to  remain  in 
town  for  an  hour  or  two  ?  I  have  a  scheme 
in  my  head  that  may  come  to  something.  I 
will  tell  your  honor  what  it  is  when  I  get 
home." 

"Very  well,  O'Donnel,"  replied  Sir  Robert; 
"  but  I'd  advise  j'ou  not  to  ride  late,  if  you 
can  avoid  it.  You  know  that  eveiy  man  in 
your  uniform  is  a  mark  for  the  vindictive  re- 
sentment of  these  Popish  rebels." 

"  Ah !  maybe  I  don't  know  that,  your 
honor  ;  but  you  may  take  my  word  for  it  that 
I  will  lose  httle  time." 

He  then  rode  down  a  by -street,  very  coolly, 
taking  the  ganger's  horse  along  with  him. 
The  reader  may  remember  the  fable  of  the 
cat  that  had  been  transformed  into  a  lady, 
and  the  unfortunate  mouse.  The  Rapparee, 
whose  original  propensities  were  strong  as 
ever,  could  not,  for  the  sovil  of  him,  resist 
the  temptation  of  seUing  the  horse  and 
pocketing  the  amount.  He  did  so,  and  very 
deliberately  proceeded  home  to  his  barracks, 
but  took  cai'e  to  avoid  any  private  communi- 
cation with  his  jDatron  for  some  days,  lest  he 
might  question  him  as  to  what  he  had  done 
with  the  animal. 

Li  the  meantime,  this  monstrous  outrage 
upon  an  unoffending  priest,  who  was  a  na- 
tural subject  of  France,  pei-petrated,  as  it 
was,  in  the  open  face  of  day,  and  witnessed 
by  so  many,  covdd  not,  as  the  reader  may 
expect,    be  long  concealed.     It  soon  reached 

the  eai'S  of  the  Marqms  of and  his  lady, 

who  were  deeply  distressed  at  the  disappear- 
ance of  their  aged  and  revered  fiiend.  The 
Marquis,  on  satisfying  himself  of  the  tnith 
of  the  report,  did  not,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  wait  upon  Sir  Robert  ^Miitecraft ; 
but  without  loss  of  time  set  sail  for  London, 
to  wait  upon  the  French  Ambassador,  to 
whom  he  detailed  the  whole  circumstances 
of  the  outrage.  And  here  we  shall  not 
further  proceed  with  an  account  of  those  cii'- 
cumstances,  as  they  will  necessarily  inter- 
mingle with  that  portion  of  the  narrative 
which  is  to  follow. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

Sir  Robert  ingeniously  extncates  Himself  out  of  a 
great  Difficulty. 

Ox  the  day  after  the  outrage  we  have  de- 
scribed, the  indignant  old  squire's  caniage 
stopped  at  the  hall-door  of  Sir  Robert  ^^'hite- 


craft,  whom  he  found  at  home.  As  yet,  th« 
latter  gentleman  had  heaixl  nothing  of  the 
contumehous  dismissal  of  Miss  Herbert  ; 
but  the  old  squire  was  not  ignorant  of  the 
felonious  abduction  of  the  priest.  At  any 
other  time,  that  is  to  say,  in  some  of  his 
peculiar  stretches  of  loyalty,  the  act  might 
have  been  a  feather  in  the  cap  of  the  loyal 
baronet  ;  but,  at  present,  he  looked  both  at 
him  and  his  exploits  through  the  medium 
of  the  insult  he  had  offered  to  his  daughter. 
Accordingly,  when  he  entered  the  baronet's 
hbraiy,  where  he  found  him  hterally  sunk 
in  papers,  anonymous  letters,  wan-ants,  re- 
ports to  Government,  and  a  vast  vaiiety  of 
other  documents,  the  worthy  Sir  Robert 
rose,  and  in  the  most  cordial  manner,  and 
with  the  most  extraordinary  suavity  of  as- 
pect, held  out  his  hand,  saying  : 

"  How  much  obhged  am  I,  Mr.  Folhard, 
at  the  kindness  of  this  visit,  especially  fi'om 
one  who  keejos  at  home  so  much  as  you  do." 

The  squii'e  instantly  repulsed  him,  and 
rephed  : 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  am  an  honest,  and,  I  tnist,  an 
honorable  man.  My  hand,  therefore,  shall 
never  touch  that  of  a  rillain. " 

"  A  villain ! — why,  jMi*.  Folhard,  these  are 
hard  and  harsh  words,  and  they  sui-prise  me, 
indeed,  as  proceeding  from  iiour  lij^s.  ^lay 
I  beg,  my  Mend,  that  vou  will  explain  your- 
self ?  " 

"  I  -nill,  sir.  How  dui'st  you  take  the 
liberty  of  sending  one  of  your  cast-off  stinim- 
pets  to  attend  personally  ujDon  my  pure  and 
vii'tuous  daughter  ?  For  that  insult  I  come 
this  day  to  demand  that  satisfaction  which 
is  due  to  the  outraged  feelings  of  my 
daughter — to  my  own  also,  as  her  father 
and  natiu'al  jDrotector,  and  also  as  an  Irish 
gentleman,  who  "svill  brook  no  insult  either 
to  his  family  or  himself.  I  say,  then,  name 
your  time  and  jolace,  and  yoiu-  weapon — 
sword  or  j^istol,  I  don't  care  which,  I  am 
ready." 

"  But,  my  good  sir,  there  is  some  mysteiy 
here  ;  I  certainly  engaged  a  female  of  that 
name  to  attend  on  ^liss  FoUiai'd,  but  most 
assui-edly  she  was  a  weU-conducted  person." 

""\Miat !  Madam  Herbert  well  conducted  ! 
Do  you  imagine,  sir,  that  I  am  a  fool  ?  Did 
she  not  admit  that  you  debauched  her  ?  " 

"  It  could  not  be,  ]\Ir.  Folliard  ;  I  know 
nothing  whatsoever  about  her,  except  that 
she  was  daughter  to  one  of  my  tenants,  who 
is  besides  a  sergeant  of  dx-agoons." 

"Ay,  yes,  sir,"  replied  the  squire  sarcas- 
tically ;  "and  I  tell  you  it  was  not  for  killing 
and  eating  the  enemy  that  he  was  promoted 
to  his  sergeantship.  But  I  see  yoirr  man- 
ceu-^Te,  Su'  Robert ;  you  wish  to  shift  the 
conversation,  and  sleep  in  a  whole  skin.     I 


/12 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


say  now,  I  have  provided  myself  with  a 
ti-iend,  and  I  ask.  A\-ill  you  fight  ?  " 

"  And  why  not  have  sent  yom-  fiiend,  IVIr. 
FoUiai-d,  as  \s  usuid  uj^ou  such  occasions  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  knocked  up,  after  a  fit  of 
di-ink,  and  I  cannot  be  just  so  cool,  under 
Buch  an  insult,  as  to  command  patience  to 
wait.  3kly  fiiend,  however,  -^xill  attend  us 
•on  the  gi-oimd  ;  but,  I  ask  again,  wiU  you 
fight  ? " 

"  Most  assuredly  not,  sir  ;  I  am  an  enemy 
to  duelling  on  principle  ;  but  in  your  case  I 
could  not  think  of  it,  even  if  I  were  not. 
What  I  raise  my  hand  against  the  life  of 
Helen's  father  ! — no,  sii',  I'd  sooner  die  than 
do  so.  Besides,  ]Mi\  Folhaixl,  I  am,  so  to 
speak,  not  my  own  property,  but  that  of  my 
King,  my  Government,  and  my  country ; 
and  imder  these  cii'cumstances  not  at  hberty 
to  dispose  of  my  hfe,  vmless  in  their  quar- 
rel." 

"  I  see,"  repUed  the  squire  bitterly;  "it 
is  certainly  an  admirable  description  of  loy- 
alty that  enables  a  man,  who  is  base  enough 
to  insult  the  veiy  woman  who  was  about  to 
become  his  ^ife,  and  to  involve  her  own 
father  in  the  insult,  to  ensconce  himself, 
hke  a  coward,  behind  his  loyalty,  and  re- 
fuse to  give  the  satisfaction  of  a  man,  or  a 
gentleman." 

"But,  ]\Ir.  FoUiard,  wiU  you  hear  me? 
there  must,  as  I  said,  be  some  mysteiy  here  ; 
I  certainly  did  recommend  a  young  female 
named  Herbert  to  you,  but  I  was  utterly 
ignorant  of  what  you  mention." 

Here  the  footman  entered,  and  whispered 
something  to  Sir  Robert,  who  apologized  to 
the  squire  for  leaving  him  two  or  three  min- 
utes. "Here  is  the  last  paper,"  said  he, 
"and  I  trust  that  befoi'e  you  go  I  wiU  be 
able  to  remove  cJearly  and  fully  the  preju- 
dices which  you  entertain  against  me,  and 
which  originate,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  in 
a  mysteiT  which  I  am  unable  to  penetrate." 

He  then  followed  the  sei'\'ant,  who  con- 
ducted him  to  Hennessy,  whom  he  found  in 
the  back  parlor. 

"Well,  Mr.  Hennessy,"  said  he,  impatient- 
ly, "  what  is  the. matter  now  ?  " 

"Why,"  rephed  the  other,  "I  have  one 
as  good  as  bagged.  Sir  Robert." 

"  One  what  ?  " 

"'SMiy,  a  priest,  sir." 

"Well,  ]\Ir.  Hennessy,  I  am  particularly 
engaged  now  ;  but  as  to  Reilly,  can  you  not 
come  upon  his  trail?  I  would  rather  have 
him  than  a  dozen  priests  ;  however,  remain 
here  for  about  twenty  minutes,  or  say  half 
an  hoiir,  and  I  wiU  talk  with  you  at  more 
lengtli.  For  the  present  I  am  most  pai-tic- 
ularly  engaged." 

"  Ver}'  well,  Sir  Robert,  I  shall  await  your 


leisure  ;  but,  as  to  Reilly,  I  have  every  reason 
to  think  that  he  has  left  the  countrj\" 

Su"  Robert,  on  going  into  the  hall,  saw  the 
porter  open  the  door,  and  Miss  Herbert  pre- 
sented herself. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "is  this  you?  I  am  glad 
you  came  ;  follow  me  into  the  fi'ont  parlor." 

She  accordingly  did  so  ;  and  after  he  had 
shut  the  door  he  addressed  her  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  Now,  teU  me  how  the  devil  you  were 
discovered  ;  or  were  you  accessory  yourself 
to  the  discovery,  by  yoiu-  egi-egious  folly  and 
vanity?" 

"  Oh,  la,  Sir  Robert,  do  you  think  I  am  a 
fool?" 

"I  fear  you  are  httle  short  of  it,"  he 
rephed  ;  "  at  all  events,  you  have  succeeded 
in  knocking  up  my  marriage  with  IVIiss  Fol- 
hard.  How  did  it  happen  that  they  found 
you  out  ?  " 

She  then  detailed  to  him  the  circumstan- 
ces exactly  as  the  reader  is  acquainted  with 
them. 

He  paused  for  some  time,  and  then  said, 
"  There  is  some  mystery  at  the  bottom  of 
this  which  I  must  fathom.  Have  you  any 
reason  to  know  how  the  family  became  ac- 
quainted ■udth  youi'  history  ?  " 

"No,  sii' ;  not  in  the  least." 

"  Do  you  think  ]\Iiss  FoUiard  meets  any 
person  privately  ?  " 

"Not,  sir,  while  I  was  with  her." 

"  Did  she  ever  attempt  to  go  out  by  her- 
self?" 

"  Not,  sir,  whUe  I  was  with  her." 

"  Ver}^  weU,  then,  I'U  teU  you  what  you 
must  do  ;  her  father  is  above  with  me  now, 
in  a  perfect  hurricane  of  indignation.  Now 
you  must  say  that  the  gii'l  Herbert,  whom  I 
recommended  to  the  squire,  was  a  friend  of 
yours  ;  that  she  gave  you  the  letter  of  rec- 
ommendation which  I  gave  her  to  IMi'.  Fol- 
hard  ;  that  having  manied  her  sweetheai't 
and  left  the  countiy  with  him,  you  were  tempt- 
ed to  present  yourself  in  her  stead,  and  to 
assume  her  name.  I  wiU  caU  you  up  by  and 
by  ;  but  what  name  wiU  you  take  ?  " 

"My  mother's  name,  sir,  was  Wilson." 

"Very  good;  what  was  her  Ckristian 
name  ?  " 

"  Catherine,  sir." 

"  And  you  must  say  that  I  know  nothing 
whatsoever  of  the  imposture  you  were  guilty 
of.  I  shaU  make  it  worth  your  whUe  ;  and  if 
you  don't  get  weU  through  with  it,  and  en- 
able me  to  bamboozle  the  old  feUow,  I  have 
done  ^\ith  you.     I  sh^iU  send  for  you  by  and 

by-" 

He  then  rejoined  the  squire,  who  w:;3 
walking  impatiently  about  the  room. 

" ]VIr.  FoUiard,"  said  he,  "I  have  to  apol 


WILLY  RE  ILLY, 


113 


ogize  to  you  for  this  seemiBg  neglect ;  I  had 
most  important  business  to  transact,  and  I 
merely  went  downstairs  to  tell  the  gentleman 
that  I  could  not  possibly  attend  to  it  now, 
and  to  request  him  to  come  in  a  couple  of 
hours  hence  ;  pray  excuse  me,  for  no  busi- 
ness could  be  so  important  as  that  hi  which 
I  am  now  engaged  "s^ith  you." 

"  Yes,  but  in  the  name  of  an  outraged 
father,  I  demand  again  to  know  whether  you 
will  give  me  satisfaction  or  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  aheady  answered  you,  my  dear 
sir,  and  if  you  will  reflect  upon  the  reasons 
I  have  given  you,  I  am  certain  you  -vAiU  admit 
that  I  have  the  laws  both  of  God  and  man  on 
my  side,  and  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  regulate 
my  conduct  by  both.  As  to  the  charge  you 
bring  against  me,  about  the  girl  HerlDert,  I 
am  both  ignorant  and  innocent  of  it." 

"  Why,  su',  how  can  you  say  so  ?  how  have 
you  the  face  to  say  so  ?  did  you  not  give  her 
a  letter  of  recommendation  to  me,  pledging 
yourself  for  her  moral  character  and  fidel- 
ity?" 

"  I  grant  it,  but  still  I  pledge  you  my  honor 
that  I  looked  upon  her  as  an  extremely  proper 
person  to  be  about  your  daiighter ;  you 
know,  sir,  that  you  as  well  as  I  have  had — 
and  have  still^apprehensions  as  to  Reilly's 
conduct  and  influence  over  her  ;  and  I  did 
fear,  and  so  did  you,  that  the  maid  who  then 
attended  her,  and  to  whom  I  was  told  she 
was  attached  with  such  imusual  aflection, 
might  have  availed  herseK  of  her  jDOsition, 
and  either  attempted  to  seduce  her  from  her 
faith,  or  connive  at  piivate  meetings  vdih 
ReiUy." 

"  Sir  Robert,  I  know  your  plausibility — 
and,  upon  my  soul,  I  jDay  it  a  high  comph- 
ment  when  I  say  it  is  equal  to  your  cowardice." 

"  Mr.  FoUiard,  I  can  bear  all  this  with 
patience,  especially  fr'om  you — "VMiat's  this  ?  " 
he  exclaimed,  addressing  the  footman,  who 
rushed  into  the  room  in  a  state  of  consider- 
able excitement. 

"  Wliy,  Sir  Robert,  there  is  a  young  wo- 
man below,  who  is  crs-ing  and  lamenting,  and 
saving  she  must  see  ^Ii'.  Folhard." 

"  Damnation,  sfr,"  exclaimed  Sir  Robert, 
"  what  is  this  ?  why  am  I  intennipted  in  such 
a  manner?  I  cannot  have  a  gentleman  ten 
minutes  in  my  study,  engaged  upon  piivate 
and  important  business,  but  in  bolts  some  of 
you,  to  interrupt  and  distiu'b  us.  What  does 
the  gu'l  want  with  me  ?  " 

"It  is  not  you  she  wants,  sir,"  rephed  the 
footman,  "  but  his  honor,  Mr.  Folhard." 

"  Well,  tell  her  to  wait  until  he  is  disen- 
gaged." 

"  No,"  rephed  Mr.  FoUiard,  "  send  her  up 
at  once  ;  what  the  devil  can  this  be  ?  but 
you  shall  witness  it." 


The  baronet  smiled  knowingly.  "  Well," 
said  he,  "Mr.  FoUiard,  upon  my  honor,  I 
thought  you  had  so\\'n  your  wild  oats  many 
a  year  ago  ;  and,  by  the  way,  according  to  all 
accc^mits — hem — but  no  matter  ;  this,  to  be 
sure,  wiU  be  rather  a  Late  crop." 

"No,  SU',  I  sowed  my  wild  oats  in  the 
right  season,  when  I  was  hot,  young,  and  im- 
petuous ;  but  long  before  yovu"  age,  sir,  that 
field  had  been  aUowed  to  lie  ban-en." 

j      He   had   scai'cely  concluded    when   Miss 

I  Herbert,  acting  upon  a  plan  of  her  own, 
which,  were  not  the  bai'onet  a  man  of  the 
most  imperturbable  coolness,  might  have 
staggered,  if  not  altogether  confounded  him, 

I  entered  the  room. 

"  Oh,  sfr  !  "  she  exclaimed,  with  a  flood  of 

j  teai's,  kneeling  before  Mr.  FoUiard,  "can you 
forgive  and  jDardon  me  ?  " 

I       "  It  is  not  against  you,  fooUsh  girl,  that 

'  my  resentment  is  or  shaU  be  dfrected,  but 

I  against  the  man  who  employed  you — and 
there  he  sits." 

"  Oh,  sir  ! "  she  exclaimed,  again  turning 
to  that  worthy  gentleman,  who  seemed  fiUed 
with  astonishment. 

I  "In  God"s  name ! "  said  he,  interrupting 
his  accomphce,  "what  can  this  mean ?  Who 
are  you,  my  good  girl  ?  " 

!      "My  name's  Catherine  Wilson,  sir." 

I       "  Catherine  WUson  !  "  exclaimed  the  squire 

I  — "why,  confound  your  brazen  face,  are  you 

'  not  the  person  who  styled  youi'self  ]Miss  Her- 
bert, and  who  hved,  thank  God,  but  for  a 
short  time  only,  in  my  famUy  ?  " 

"I  hved  in  yoiu-  famUy,  sfr,  but  I  am  not 
the  !Miss  Herbert  that  Sir  Robert  "WTiitecraft 

;  recommended  to  you." 

i       "I  certainly  know  nothing  about  you,  my 

;  good  gii'l,"  rephed  Sii-  Robert,  "nor  do  I 
recoUect  having  ever  seen  you  before  ;  but 
proceed  "nith  what  you  have  to  say,  and  let 
us  hear  it  at  once." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  perhaps  you  are  not  the 

'  gentleman  as  is  kno^Ti  to  be  Sir  Robert 
\\Tiitecraft — him  as  hunts  the  priests.  Oh, 
la,  rU  surely  be  sent  to  jaU.  Gentlemen,  if 
you  promise  not  to  send  me  to  jaU,  I'U  teU 
you  even'thiug." 

"  WeU,  then,  proceed,"   said   the   squire : 

,  "IwiU  not  send  you  to  jaU,  provided  you  teU 
the  truth." 

I  "Nor  I,  my  good  girl,"  added  Sir  Robert, 
"  but  upon  the  same  conditions." 

I  "WeU,  then,  gentlemen,  I  was  acquainted 
with  ^liss  Herbert — she  is  Hii-ish,  but  I'm 

j  English.  This  gentleman  gave  her  a  letter 
to  you,  'Sir.  FoUiard,  to  get  her  as  maid  to 
IMiss  Helen — she  told  me — oh,  my  goodness, 

j  I  shall  surely  be  sent  to  jaU." 

"Go  on,  girl,"  said  the  bai'onet  somewhat 

1  sternly,  by  which  tone  of  voice  he  intimated 


U4 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


to  her  that  she  was  pursuing  the  right  course, 
and  she  was  quick  enough  to  understand  as 
much. 

"Well,"  she  proceeded,  "after  IVIiss  Her- 
bert had  got  the  letter,  she  told  her  sweet- 
heiu-t,  who  wouldn't  by  no  means  allow  her  to 
take  sernce,  because  as  why,  he  wanted  to 
many  her  ;  well,  she  consented,  and  they  did 
get  married,  and  both  of  them  left  the  coun- 
try because  her  father  wasn't  consenting.  As 
the  letter  was  of  no  use  to  her  then,  I  asked 
her  for  it,  and  oft'ered  myself  in  her  name  to 
you,  sir,  and  that  was  the  way  I  came  into 
your  family  for  a  short  time." 

The  bai-onet  rose  uj),  in  well-feigned  agi- 
tation, and  exclaimed,  "  Unfortunate  gii-1 ! 
whoever  you  may  be,  you  know  not  the  seri- 
ous mischief  and  unhappiuess  that  your  im- 
posture was  nearly  entailing  upon  me." 

"  But  did  you  not  say  that  you  bore  an 
illegitimate  child  to  this  gentleman  ?  "  asked 
the  squire. 

"  Oh,  la !  no,  sir  ;  you  know  I  denied  that ; 
I  never  bore  an  illegitimate  child  ;  I  bore  a 
love-child,  but  not  to  him  ;  and  thex'e  is  no 
harm  in  that,  sure." 

"  "Well,  she  certainly  has  exculpated  you, 
Sii"  Eobert." 

"  Gentlemen,  -udll  you  excuse  and  pardon 
me  ?  and  will  you  j)romise  not  to  send  me 
to  jaH  ?  " 

"  Go  about  your  business,"  said  Sir  Rob- 
ert, "  you  unfortunate  girl,  and  be  guilty  of 
no  such  impostures  in  future.  Your  conduct 
has  nearly  been  the  means  of  putting  enmity 
between  two  families  of  rank  ;  or  rather  of 
alienating  one  of  them  from  the  confidence 
and  good-will  of  the  other.     Go." 

She  then  courtesied  to  each,  shedding,  at 
the  same  time,  what  seemed  to  be  bitter  tears 
of  remorse — and  took  her  departure,  each  of 
them  looking  after  her,  and  then  at  the 
other,  with  surprise  and  wonder. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Folliard,"  said  Sir  Robei't  sol- 
emnly, "  I  have  one  question  to  ask  you,  and 
it  is  this :  could  I  j)ossibly,  or  by  any  earthly 
natural  means,  have  been  apprised  of  the 
honor  of  your  visit  to  me  this  daj-  ?  I  ask 
you  in  a  serious — yes,  and  in  a  solemn  spir- 
it ;  because  the  happiness  of  my  futiu'e  life 
depends  on  your  reply." 

"Why,  no,"  replied  the  credulous  squire, 
"  hang  it,  no,  man — no,  Sir  Robert ;  I'll  do 
you  that  jiastice  ;  I  never  mentioned  my  in- 
tention of  coming  to  call  you  out,  to  any  in- 
dividual but  one,  and  that  on  my  way  hither  ; 
he  was  unwell,  too,  after  a  hard  night's 
drinking  ;  but  he  said  he  would  shake  him- 
self up,  and  be  ready  to  attend  me  as  soon  as 
the  place  of  meeting  should  be  settled  on. 
In  point  of  fact,  I  did  not  intend  to  see  you 
to-day,  but  to  send  him  with  the  message  ; 


but,  as  I  said,  he  was  knocked  up  for  a  time, 
and  you  know  my  natunil  impatience.  No, 
certainly  not,  it  was  in  eveiy  sense  impossi- 
ble that  you  could  have  exj^ected  me  :  yes. 
if  the  devil  was  in  it,  I  will  do  you  that  jus- 
tice." 

"  Well,  I  have  another  question  to  ask,  my 

dear  fiiend,  equally  important  with,  if  not 

more  so  than,  the  other.     Do  you  hold   me 

free  from  all  blame  in  what  has  happened 

i  through  the  imposture  of  that  wretched  girl  ?  " 

"  Why,  after  what  has  occurred  just  now, 
I  certainly  must,  Sir  Robert,  As  you  had 
no  anticijDation  of  my  visit,  you  certamly  could 
not,  nor  had  you  time  to  get  up  a  scene." 

"  Well,  now,  ]Mr.  Folliard,  you  have  taken 
a  load  off  my  heart ;  and  I  will  candidly 
confess  to  you  that  I  have  had  my  fi-ailties 
like  other  men,  sown  mj  wild  oats  like  other 
men  ;  but,  unhke  those  who  are  not  ashamed 
to  boast  of  such  exploits,  I  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  tiiimpet  my  o^ii  feelings.  I  do 
not  say,  my  dear  friend,  that  I  have  always 
been  a  saint." 

"  Why,  now,  that's  manly  and  candid.  Sir 
Eobert,  and  I  like  yow  the  better  for  it.  Yes, 
I  do  exonerate  you  from  blame  in  this.  There 
certainly  was  sincerity  in  that  wench's  tears, 
and  be  hanged  to  her  ;  for,  as  you  proper- 
ly said,  she  was  de^dlish  near  putting  be- 
tween our  families,  and  knocking  up  oiu'  in- 
timacy. It  is  a  dehghtful  thing  to  think  that 
I  shall  be  able  to  disabuse  poor  Helen's 
mind  ujion  the  subject ;  for,  I  give  yoxx  my 
honor,  it  caused  her  the  greatest  distress, 
and  excited  her  mind  to  a  high  pitch  of  in- 
dignation against  you ;  but  I  shall  set  aU  to 
rights." 

"  And  now  that  the  matter  is  settled,  Mr. 
Folliard,  we  must  have  lunch.  I  will  give 
you  a  glass  of  Burgnindy,  which,  I  am  sure, 
you  will  like." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  the  placable 
and  hearty  old  squire  ;  "  after  the  agitation 
of  the  day  a  good  glass  of  Burgundy  will 
serve  me  certainly." 

Lunch  was  accordingly  ordered,  and  the 
squire,  after  taking  half  a  dozen  bumj^ers  of 
excellent  wine,  got  into  fine  spirits,  snook 
hands  as  cordially  as  ever  with  tlie  baronet, 
and  drove  home  complete^  reheved  from 
the  suspicious  which  he  had  entertained. 

The  squire,  on  his  return  home,  immedi- 
ately called  for  his  daughter,  but  for  some 
time  to  no  pui^DOse.  The  old  man  began  to 
get  alarmed,  and  had  not  only  Helen's  room 
searched,  but  every  room  in  the  house.  At 
length  a  sen^ant  informed  him  that  she  was 
tending  and  arranging  the  gi*een-house  flow- 
ers in  the  garden. 

"Oh,  ay  !  "  said  he,  after  he  had  dismissed 
the  sei-vants,  "  Thank   God — thank  God !  I 


WILLY  REILLY. 


115 


will  go  out  to  the  dear  girl ;  for  she  is  a  dear 
girl,  and  it  is  a  sin  to  suspect  her.  I  wish 
to  heaven  that  that  scoundrel  Reilly  would 
turn  Protestant,  and  he  shoxild  have  her  with 
all  the  veins  of  m}'  heart.  Upon  my  soul, 
putting  rehgion  out  of  the  question,  one 
would  think  that,  in  other  respects,  they  were 
made  for  each  other.  But  it's  all  this  cursed 
pride  of  his  that  prevents  him  ;  as  if  it  signi- 
fied what  any  person's  rehgion  is,  provided 
he's  an  honest  man,  and  a  loyal  subject." 

He  thus  proceeded  with  his  soliloquy  un- 
til he  reached  the  garden,  where  he  found 
Eeilly  and  her  arranging  the  plants  and 
flowers  in  a  superb  gi-een-house. 

"  WeD,  Helen,  my  love,  how  is  the  green- 
house doing  ?  Eh  !  why,  what  is  this  ?  " 

At  this  exclamation  the  lovers  started,  but 
the  old  fellow  was  admiring  the  improvement, 
which  even  he  couldn't  but  notice. 

"  WTiy,  what  is  this  ?  "  he  proceeded  ;  "  by 
the  hght  of  day,  Helen,  you  have  made  this 
a  httle  paradise  of  flowers." 

"  It  was  not  I,  paj^a,"  she  replied; "  all  that 
I  have  been  able  to  contribute  to  the  order 
and  beauty  of  the  place  has  been  very  shght 
indeed.  It  is  all  the  result  of  this  poor  man's 
taste  and  skill.    He's  an  admirable  botanist." 

"  By  the  gi'eat  Bo^Tie,  my  gii'l,  I  think  he 
could  Hck  Malcomson  himself,  as  a  botanist." 

"  Shir,"  observed  Eeilly,"  the  young  lady  is 
underwaluin'  herself  ;  sure,  miss,  it  was  your- 
self du'ected  me  what  to  do,  and  how  to  do 
it." 

"Look  at  that  old  chap,  Helen,"  said  her 
father,  who  felt  in  gi'eat  good  humor  ;  first, 
because  he  found  that  Helen  was  safe  ;  and 
again,  because  Sir  Robert,  as  the  unsuspect- 
ing old  man -thought,  had  cleared  up  the 
circumstances  of  ^Nliss  Herbert's  imposture  ; 
"  I  say,  Helen,  look  at  that  old  chap  :  isn't 
he  a  nice  bit  of  goods  to  run  away  with  a 
pretty  gii'l  ?  and  what  a  taste  she  must  have 
had  to  go  with  him  !  Upon  my  soul,  it  beats 
cock-fighting — confound  me,  but  it  does." 

Helen's  face  became  crimson  as  he  spoke  ; 
and  yet,  such  was  the  ludicrous  appearance 
which  Eeilly  made,  when  put  in  connection 
with  the  false  scent  on  wnich  her  father  was 
proceeding  at  such  a  rate,  and  the  act  of 
gallantly  imputed  to  him,  that  a  strong  feel- 
ing of  humor  overcame  her,  and  she  burst 
into  a  loud  ringing  laugh,  which  she  could 
not,  for  some  time,  restrain  ;  in  this  she  was 
heartily  joined  by  her  father,  who  laughed 
till  the  tears  came  down  his  cheeks. 

"  And  yet,  Helen — ha — ha — ha,  he's  a  stal- 
wart old  rogue  still,  and  must  have  been  a 
devil  of  a  tyke  when  he  was  young." 

After  another  fit  of  laughter  from  both 
father  and  daughter,  the  squire  said  : 

"  Now,  Helen,  my  love,  go  in.    I  have  good 


news  for  you,  which  I  will  acquaint  you  with 
by  and  by." 

When  she  left  the  garden,  her  father  ad- 
dressed Eeilly  as  follows  : 

"  Now,  my  good  fellow,  will  you  tell  me 
how  you  came  to  know  about  ]\Iiss  Herbert 
having  been  seduced  bv  Su'  Eobert  WTiite- 
craft  ?  " 

"  Fnhy,  shir,  from  common  report,  shir." 

"Is  that  all?  But  don't  you  think,"  he 
rephed,  "that  common  report  is  a  common 
bar,  as  it  mostly  has  been,  and  is,  in  this 
case.  That's  all  I  have  to  say  upon  the  sub- 
ject. I  have  traced  the  affnii',  and  find  it  toi 
be  a  falsehood  fr'om  beginning  to  ending.. 
I  have.  And  now,  go  on  as  you're  doing,  and. 
I  will  make  ]\Ialcomson  raise  your  wages." 

"Thank  you,  shu-,"  and  he  touched  hii 
nondescript  with  an  air  of  great  thankfulness 
and  humility. 

"Helen,  my  dai'ling,"  said  her  father,  on 
entering  her  own  sitting-room,  "I  said  I  had 
good  news  for  you." 

Helen  looked  at  him  with  a  doubtful  face, 
and  simj^ly  said,  "I  hope  it  is  good,  papa." 

"AMiy,  my  child,  I  won't  enter  into  par- 
ticulars ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  I  discovered 
from  an  accidental  meeting  A\ith  that  MTetch- 
ed  girl  we  had  here  that  she  was  not  IVIiss 
Herbert,  as  she  called  herself,  at  all,  but 
another,  named  Catherine  Wilson,  who,  hav- 
ing got  from  Herbert  the  letter  of  recom- 
mendation which  I  read  to  you,  had  the  ef- 
fr-ontery  to  pass  herself  for  her ;  but  the 
other  report  was  false.  The  giii  Wilson,  ap- 
prehensive that  either  I  or  Sii-  Eobert  might 
send  her  to  jail,  ha\ing  seen  my  caiTiage 
stop  at  Sii-  Eobert's  house,  came,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  to  beg  that  if  we  would  not  pun- 
ish her  she  would  tell  us  the  truth,  and  she 
did  so." 

Helen  mused  for  some  time,  and  seemed 
to  decide  instantly  ujDon  the  course  of  ac- 
tion she  should  pursue,  or,  rather,  the  course 
which  she  had  preriously  proposed  to  her- 
self. She  saw  cleai-ly,  and  had  long  known, 
that  in  the  tactics  and  stratagems  of  life, 
her  blimt  but  honest  father  was  no  match 
at  all  for  the  deep  h^1Docrisv  and  deceitful 
plausibihty  of  Sfr  Robert  T^Tiitecraft.  The 
consequence  was,  that  she  allowed  her  father 
to  take  his  own  way,  witnout  either  remon- 
strance or  contradiction.  She  knew  very 
well  that  on  this  occasion,  as  on  every  other 
where  their  wdts  and  wishes  came  in  oppo- 
sition. Sir  Eobert  was  always  able  to  out- 
general and  overreach  him  ;  she  therefore 
resolved  to  agitate  herself  as  Httle  as  possi- 
ble, and  to  aUow  matters  to  flow  on  tran- 
quilly, until  the  crisis— the  moment  for  action 
came. 

"Papa,"  she  replied,    "this   inteUigence 


116 


WILLIAM  CARLETOX'S  WORKS. 


must  make  tout  mind  very  easy ;  I  hope, 
however,  you  ■will  restore  poor  faithful  Con- 
nor to  me.  I  never  had  such  an  affectionate 
and  kind  creature  ;  and,  besides,  not  one  of 
them  could  dress  me  with  such  skill  and 
taste  as  she  could.  Will  you  allow  me  to 
have  her  back,  sir  ?  " 

''I  will,  Helen  ;  but  take  care  she  doesn't 
make  a  Papist  of  you." 

'•  Indeed,  papa,  that  is  a  strange  whim : 
why,  the  poor  girl  never  opened  her  hps  to 
me  on  the  subject  of  rehgion  during  her  life  : 
nor.  if  I  saw  that  she  attempted  it,  would 
I  permit  her.  I  am  no  theologian,  papa, 
and  detest  polemics,  because  I  have  always 
heard  that  those  who  are  most  addicted  to 
polemical  controversy  have  least  rehgion." 

"  Well,  my  love,  you  shall  have  back  poor 
Connor  ;  and  now  I  must  go  and  look  over 
some  papers  in  my  study.  Good-by,  my 
love  :  and  observe,  Helen,  don't  stay  out  too 
late  in  the  garden,  lest  the  chill  of  the  air 
might  injure  your  health." 

"  But  you  know  /  never  do,  and  never 
did,  papa." 

"^^'ell,  good-by  again,  my  love." 

He  then  left  her,  and  withdrew  to  his 
study  to  sign  some  papers,  and  transact  some 
business,  which  he  had  allowed  to  run  into 
arrear.  When  he  had  been  there  better  than 
an  hoiu*.  he  rang  the  bell  and  desired  that 
^Malcomson,  the  gardener,  should  be  sent 
to  him,  and  that  self-sufficient  and  pedantic 
person  made  his  appearance  accordingly. 

"Well,  !Malcomson,"  said  he,  "how  do 
you  like  the  bearded  fellow  in  the  garden  ?  " 

"  Ou,  yer  honor,  weel  eneugh  ;  he  does 
ken  something  o'  the  sceence  o'  buttany,  an' 
'am  thinkin'  he  must  hae  been  a  gude  spell 
in  Scotland,  for  I  canna  guess  whm-e  else  he 
could  hae  l^ecome  acquent  wi'  it." 

"I  see  3Ialcomson,  you'll  still  persist  in 
your  confounded  pedantry  about  your  sci- 
ence. Now,  what  the  devil  has  science  to 
do  with  botany  or  gardening  ?  " 

"Weel,  your  honor,  it  wadna  just  become 
me  to  dispute  wi'  ye  upon  that  or  any  ither 
subjeck  ;  but  for  a'  that,  it  required  profoond 
sceence,  and  vera  extensive  leamin'  to  clas- 
sih'  an'  arrange  a'  the  plants  o'  the  yearth, 
an'  to  gie  them  names,  by  whilk  they  can  be 
known  throughout  a'  the  nations  o'  the 
warld." 

"Well,  well — I  suppose  I  must  let  you 
have  your  way." 

"  ^VTiy,  your  honor,"  rephed  Malcomson, 
"'am  sure  it  mair  becomes  me  to  let  you 
hae  yours ;  but  regerding  this  ould  carl,  I 
winna  say,  but  he  has  been  weel  indoctrin- 
ated in  the  sceence." 

"  Ahem  I  well,  well,  go  on." 

"  An'  it's  no  easy  to  gues.g  whare  he  could 


hae  gotten  it.  Indeed,  'am  of  opmion  tha* 
he's  no  without  a  hantle  o'  book  lair  ;  for,  to 
do  him  justice,  de'il  a  question  I  spier  at 
him,  anent  the  learned  names  o'  the  rare 
plants,  that  he  hasna  at  his  finger  ends,  and 
gies  to  me  off-hand.  Xaebody  but  a  man 
that  has  gotten  book  lair  could  do  yon." 

"  Book  lair,  what  is  that  ?  " 

"Ou,  just  a  correck  knowledge  o'  the 
learned  names  of  the  plants.  I  dinna  say, 
and  I  winna  say,  but  he's  a  velliable  assistant 
to  me,  an'  I  shouldna  wish  to  pairt  wi'  him. 
If  he'd  only  shave  off  yon  beard,  an'  let  him- 
sel'  be  decently  happed  in  good  claiths,  why 
he  might  pass  in  ony  gentleman's  gerden  for 
a  skeelful  buttanist." 

"Is  he  as  good  a  kitchen  gardener  as 
he  is  in  the  green-house,  and  among  the 
flowers  ? "' 

"  Weel,  your  honor,  gold  troth,  'am  sairly 
puzzled  there  ;  hoot,  no,  sir ;  de'il  a  thing 
almost  he  kens  about  the  kitchen  gerden — 
a'  his  strength  hes  among  the  flowers  and  in 
the  green-house." 

"'  Well,  weU,  that's  where  we  principally 
want  him.  I  sent  for  you,  ^lalcomson,  to 
desire  you'd  raise  his  wages — the  laborer  is 
worthy  of  his  hire  ;  and  a  good  Laborer  of 
good  hire.  Let  him  have  four  shillings  a 
week  additional" 

"  Troth,  your  honor,  'am  no  sayin'  but  he 
weel  deserves  it ;  but.  Lord  haud  a  care  o' 
us,  he's  a  queer  one,  yon." 

"  ^Tiy,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"'"Wliy,  de'il  heat  he  seems  to  care  about 
siQer  any  mair  than  if  it  was  sklate  stains. 
On  Saturday  last,  when  he  was  paid  his 
weekly  wages  by  the  stewaixl,  he  met  a  puir 
sickly-lookin'  auld  wife,  wi'  a  sti'ing  o'  siekly- 
lookmg  weans  at  the  body's  heels  ;  she  didna 
ask  him  for  chaiity,  for,  in  troth,  he  ap- 
peared, binna  it  weama  for  the  weans,  as 
great  an  objeck  as  hersel' ;  noo,  what  wad 
yer  honor  think '?  he  gaes  ower  and  gies  till 
her  a  hale  crown  o'  siller  out  o'  his  ain  wage. 
Was  ever  omi:hing  heard  like  yon  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  know  the  cause  of  it,  Malcomsom 
He's  under  a  penance,  and  can  neither  shave 
nor  change  his  dress  till  his  siUy  penance  is 
out ;  and  I  suppose  it  was  to  wash  off  a  part 
of  it  that  he  gave  this  fooHsh  chaiity 'to  the 
poor  woman  and  her  children.  Come,  al- 
though I  condemn  the  folly  of  it,  I  don't  like 
him  the  worse  for  it." 

"Hout  awa',  your  honor,  what  is  it  but 
rank  Papistry,  and  a  dependence  upon  filthy 
works.  The  doited  auld  cai-L  to  throw  aff 
liis  siUer  that  gate  ;  but  that's  Papistry-  a' 
ower — substituting  works  for  grace  and  faith 
— a'  Papistry,  a'  Papistry  I  Well  your  honor, 
I  sal  be  conform  to  your  wushes — it's  m^ 
duty,  that." 


WILLY  BEILLY. 


117 


CHAPTER  X^TI. 

A-wfvl  Conduct  of  Squire  FoUiard — Fergus  ReiUy 
begins  to  Contravene  the  lied  Baj)j)aree. 

After  Malcomson  quitted  him,  the  squire, 
with  his  golden-headed  cane,  went  to  saunter 
about  his  beautiful  grounds  and  his  noble 
demesne,  pi-oud,  certainly,  of  his  property, 
nor  insensible  to  the  beautiful  seen er}'- which 
it  presented  from  so  many  points  of  obser- 
vation. He  had  not  been  long  here  when  a 
poor-looliing  peasant,  dressed  in  shabby 
frieze,  ajjproached  him  at  as  fast  a  j)ace  as  he 
could  accomplish  ;  and  the  squire,  after  look- 
ing at  him,  exclaimed,  in  an  angry  tone  : 

"Well,  you  rascal,  what  the  devil  brings 
you  here  ? " 

The  man  stood  for  a  little,  and  seemed  so 
much  exhausted  and  out  of  breath  that  he 
could  not  siDcak. 

"I  say,  you  unfortunate  old  vagrant,"  re- 
peated the  squire,  "  what  brought  you 
bere  ?  " 

"It  is  a  case  of  either  life  or  death,  sir," 
replied  the  poor  peasant. 

"  ^\'lly,"  said  the  squire,  "  what  crime  did 
you  commit  ?  Or,  perhaps,  you  broke  prison, 
and  are  flying  from  the  officers  of  justice  ; 
eh  !  is  that  it  ?  And  you  come  to  ask  a 
magistrate  to  protect  3'ou  !  " 

"  I  am  flying  from  the  agents  of  persecu- 
tion, sir,  and  know  not  where  to  hide  my 
head  in  order  to  avoid  them." 

The  hard-pressed  but  amiable  priest— ^ for 
such  he  was — adopted  this  language  of  truth, 
because  he  knew  the  squire's  character,  and 
felt  that  it  wovdd  serve  him  more  effectually 
than  if  he  had  attempted  to  conceal  his  jDro- 
fession.  "  I  am  a  CathoUc  priest,  sii-,  and 
felt  from  bitter  experience  that  this  disguise 
was  necessary  to  the  preservation  of  my  Ufe. 
I  throw  myself  upon  yoiu'  honor  and  gener- 
osity, for  although  hasty,  sir,  you  are  report- 
ed to  have  a  good  and  kind  heart." 

"  You  are  disposed  to  place  confidence  in 
me,  then?" 

"  I  am,  sir ;  my  being  before  you  now, 
and  putting  myself  in  your  power,  is  a  proof 
of  it." 

"Who  are  i:)ursuiug  you?  Su'  Robert 
Whitecraft— eh  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  Captain  Smellpriest  and  his 
gang." 

"  Ay,  out  of  the  fi'ying  pan  into  the  fire  ; 
although  I  don't  know  that,  either.  They 
say  Smellpriest  can  do  a  generous  thing 
sometimes — but  the  other,  when  priest- 
hunting,  never.     What's  your  name?  " 

"I'll  teU  you,  without  hesitation,  sir — 
Macguu-e ;  I'm  of  the  IMacguires  of  Fer- 
managh." 


"  Ay !  ay  !  why,  then,  you  have  good 
blood  in  your  veins.  But  what  ofience  were 
you  guilty  of  that  you — but  I  need  not  ask ; 
it  is  enough,  in  the  present  state  of  the  laws, 
that  you  are  a  Cathohc  piiest.  In  the  mean- 
time, are  you  aware  that  I  myself  transported  a 
Catholic  pi-iest,  and  that  he  would  have 
swung  only  for  my  daughter,  who  went  to 
the  viceroy,  and,  with  much  difficulty,  got 
his  sentence  commuted  to  transportation  for 
life?  I  myself  had  ah-eady  tried  it,  and 
failed  ;  but  she  succeeded,  God  bless 
her  !  " 

"  Yes,  God  bless  her  !  "  repKed  the  priest, 
"  she  succeeded,  and  her  fame  has  gone  far 
and  near,  in  consequence  ;  yes,  may  God  of 
his  mercy  bless  and  guard  her  from  all  evil !  " 
and  as  the  poor  hunted  priest  spoke,  the 
tears  came  to  his  eyes.  This  sjonptom  of  re- 
spect and  affection,  pi;ompted  by  the  gener- 
ous and  heroic  conduct  of  the  far-famed 
Cooleen  Bawn,  touched  her  father,  and  saved 
the  priest. 

"Well,"  said  he,  after  musing  for  a  while, 
"  so  you  say  SmeDpriest  is  after  you  ?  " 

"  He  is,  sir  ;  they  saw  me  at  a  distance, 
across  the  country,  scrambling  over  the  jDai'k 
wall,  and  indeed  I  was  near  faUing  into  their 
hands  by  the  difficulty  I  had  in  getting  over 
it." 

"  Well,  come,"  replied  the  squire,  "  since 
you  have  had  the  courage  to  place  confidence 
in  me,  I  won't  abuse  it ;  come  along,  I  will 
both  conceal  and  protect  you.  I  presume 
there  is  little  time  to  be  lost,  for  those  priest 
hounds  will  be  apt  to  ride  round  to  the 
entrance  gate,  which  I  will  desire  the  porter 
to  close  and  lock,  and  then  leave  the  lodge." 

On  their  way  home  he  did  so,  and  ordered 
the  porter  up  to  the  house.  The  magnifi- 
cent avenue  was  a  serpentine  one,  and  our 
friends  had  barely  time  to  get  out  of  sight  of 
the  lodge,  by  a  turn  in  it,  when  they  heard 
the  voices  of  the  pursuers,  hallooing  for  the 
porter,  and  thundering  at  the  gate. 

"  Ay,  thunder  away,  only  don't  injure  my 
gate,  Smellpriest,  or  I'll  make  you  replace 
it ;  bawd  yourselves  hoarse — you  are  on  the 
wrong  side  for  once  !  " 

"WTien  they  were  approaching  the  hall-door, 
which  generally  lay  open — 

"Confound  me,"  said  the  squii-e,  "if  I 
know  what  to  do  with  you  ;  I  trust  in  God 
I  won't  get  into  odium  by  this.  At  all 
events,  let  us  steal  upstairs  as  quietly  as  we 
can,  and,  if  possible,  without  any  one  seeing 
us." 

To  the  necessity  of  this  the  priest  assented, 
and  they  had  reached  the  first  landing  of  the 
staircase  when  out  popped  right  in  their 
teeth  two  housemaids  each  with  binish  in 
hand.     Now  it    instantly  occurred  to  the 


118 


/WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


squire  that  in  this  unlucky  crisis  bribery  was 
the  safest  resource.  He  accordingly  ad- 
dressed them : 

"  Come  here,  you  jades,  don't  say  a  word 
about  this  man's  presence  here — don't 
breathe  it ;  here's  five  shillings  apiece  for 
you,  and  let  one  of  you  go  and  bring  me  up, 
secretly,  the  key  of  the  green-room  in  the 
gan'et ;  it  has  not  been  opened  for  some 
time.  Be  quick  now  ;  or  stay,  desii'e  Lani- 
gan  to  fetch  it,  and  refi'eshment  also  ;  there's 
cold  venison  and  roast  beef,  and  a  bottle  of 
wine  ;  teU  Lanigan  I'm  going  to  lunch,  and 
to  lay  the  table  in  my  study.  Lanigan  can 
be  depended  on,"  he  added,  after  the 
chambermaid  had  gone,  "  for  when  I  con- 
cealed another  priest  here  once,  he  was 
entrusted  with  the  secret,  and  was  faith- 
ful." 

Now  it  so  happei^d  that  one  of  those 
maids,  who  was  a  bitter  Protestant,  at  once 
recognized  Father  Maguire,  notwithstanding 
his  disguise.  She  had  been  a  servant  for 
four  or  five  years  in  the  house  of  a  wealthy 
farmer  who  hved  adjoining  him,  and  with 
whom  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  frequently 
dining  when  no  danger  was  to  be  apprehen- 
ded fi'om  the  operation  of  the  laws.  Indeed, 
she  and  Malcomson,  the  gardener,  were  the 
only  two  individuals  in  the  squire's  establish- 
ment who  were  not  Catholics.  Malcomson 
was  a  manoeu\Ter,  and,  as  is  pretty  usual  with 
individuals  of  his  class  and  country,  he  looked 
upon  "Papistry"  as  an  abomination  that 
ought  to  be  removed  from  the  land.  Still, 
he  was  cautious  and  shi-ewd,  and  seldom  or 
never  permitted  those  opinions  to  interfere 
with  or  obstruct  his  own  interests.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  the  secret  was  not  long  kept. 
Esther  Wilson  impeached  her  master's 
loyalty,  and  she  herself  was  indignantly  as- 
sailed for  her  treachery  by  MoUy  Finigan, 
who  hoped  in  her  soul  that  her  master  and 
young  mistress  would  both  die  in  the  true 
Church  yet. 

The  whole  kitchen  was  in  a  buzz  ;  in  fact, 
a  regular  scene  ensued.  Every  one  spoke, 
except  Lanigan,  who,  from  former  exjDeri- 
ence,  understood  the  case  perfectly  ;  but,  as 
for  Malcomson,  whose  zeal  on  this  occasion 
certainly  got  the  better  of  his  discretion,  he 
seemed  thunderstruck. 

"  Eh,  sirs  !  did  ony  one  ever  hear  the  hke  o' 
this  ? — to  hide  a  rebel  joriest  frae  the  oflfended 
laws  !  But  it  canna  be  that  this  puir  man  is 
athegether  right  in  his  head.  Lord  ha'e  a 
care  o'  us !  the  man  surely  must  be  dement- 
ed, or  he  wouldna  venture  to  bring  such  a 
person  into  his  ain  house — into  the  vara 
house.  I  think,  Maisther  Lanigan,  it  wad  be 
just  a  precious  bit  o'  service  to  religion  and 
our  laws  to  gang  and  teU  the  next  magistrate. 


Gude  guide  us !  what  an  example  he  ia 
settin'  to  his  loyal  neighbors,  and  his  hail 
connections !  That  ever  we  suld  see  the  like 
o'  this  waefu'  backsUding  at  his  years ! 
Lord  ha'e  a  care  o'  us,  I  say  aince  mair." 

"  Oh,  but  there's  more  to  come,"  said  one 
of  them,  for,  in  the  turmoil  produced  by 
this  shocking  intelligence,  they  had  forgotten 
to  deliver  the  message  to  Lanigan. 

"JVIr.  Lanigan,"  said  Esther,  and  her 
breath  was  checked  by  a  hysteric  hiccup, 
"Mr.  Lanigan,  you  are  to  bring  up  the  key 
of  the  gTeen-room,  and  plent}'  of  venison, 
roast  beef,  and  a  bottle  of  wine  !     There  !  " 

"  Saul,  Maisther  Lanigan,  I  winna  stay 
langer  under  this  roof ;  it's  nae  cannie  ;  I'U 
e'en  gang  out,  and  ha'e  some  nonsense 
clavers  wi'  j^on  queer  auld  carl  i'  the  gerden. 
The  Lord  ha'e  a  care  o'  us  ! — what  wiU  the 
warld  come  to  next !  " 

He  accordingly  rej)aired  to  the  garden, 
where  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  give  a 
fearful  account  to  Reilly  of  theu'  master's  po- 
litical profligacy.  The  latter  felt  surj:)ris- 
ed,  but  not  at  aU  at  Malcomson's  narrative. 
The  fact  was,  he  knew  the  exact  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  because  he  knew  the 
squire's  character,  which  was  sometimes 
good,  and  sometimes  the  reverse — ^just  ac- 
cording to  the  humor  he  might  be  in  :  and  in 
reply  observed  to  Malcomson,  that — 

"  As  his  honor  done  a  great  dale  o'  good 
to  the  poor  o'  the  counthry,  I  think  it 
wouldn't  be  daicent  in  us,  Misther  Malcom- 
son, to  go  for  to  publish  this  generous  act 
to  the  poor  priesht ;  if  he  is  wrong,  let  us 
lave  him  to  Gad,  shir." 

"  Ou  ay,  weel  I  diima  but  you're  ricbt ; 
the  mair  that  we  won't  hae  to  answer  for  his 
transgressions ;  sae  e'en  let  every  herring 
hang  by  its  ain  tail." 

In  the  meantime,  Lanigan,  who  under* 
stood  the  affair  well  enough,  addressed  th^' 
audience  in  the  kitchen  to  the  follo-sAingr 
effect : 

"Now,"  said  he,  "what  a  devil  of  a  hub- 
bub you  all  make  about  nothing !  Pray; 
young  lady,"  addressing  Esther  Wilson,  who 
alone  had  divulged  the  cii'cumstance,  "  die) 
his  honor  desire  you  to  keep  what  you  seen 
saicret  ?  " 

"  He  did,  cook,  he  did,"  repHed  Esther  ; 
"  and  gave  us  money  not  to  speak  about  it, 
which  is  a  proof  of  his  guilt." 

"  And  the  first  thing  you  did  was  to  blaze 
it  to  the  whole  kitchen  !  I'll  teU  you  what 
it  is  now — if  he  ever  hears  that  you  breathed 
a  syllable  of  it  to  mortal  man,  you  won't  be 
under  his  roof  two  hours." 

"Oh,  but,  surely,  cook — " 

"Oh,  but,  surely,  madam,"  replied  Lani- 
gan, "you  talk  of  what  you  don't  under- 


WILLY  REILLY. 


11« 


stand  ;  his  honor  knows  very  well  what  he's 
about,  and  has  authority  for  it." 

This  sobered  her  to  some  puri^ose ;  and 
,       Lanigan  pi'oceeded  to  execute  his  master's 
orders. 

It  is  true  Miss  Esther  and  Malcomson 
were  now  silent,  for  their  own  sakes  ;  but 
it  did  not  remove  their  indignation  ;  so  far 
from  that,  Lanigan  himself  came  in  for  a 
share  of  it,  and  was  secretly  looked  upon  in 
the  light  of  the  squire's  confidant  in  the 
transaction. 

Whilst  matters  were  in  this  position,  the 
Red  Rapparee  began  gradually  to  lose  the 
confidence  of  his  unscrupulous  employer. 
He  had  promised  that  worthy  gentleman  to 
betray  his  former  gang,  and  deliver  them  up 
to  justice,  in  requital  for  the  protection 
which  he  received  from  him.  This  he  would 
certainly  have  done,  were  it  not  for  Fergus, 
who,  haj^pening  to  meet  one  of  them  a  day 
or  two  after  the  Rapparee  had  taken  service 
with  Whitecraft  upon  the  aforesaid  condition, 
informed  the  robber  of  that  fact,  and  ad- 
vised him,  if  he  wished  to  provide  for  his 
own  safety  and  that  of  his  companions,  to 
desire  them  forthwith  to  leave  the  country, 
and,  if  possible,  the  kingdom.  They  accord- 
ingly took  the  hint ;  some  of  them  retired  to 
distant  and  remote  places,  and  others  went 
beyond  seas  for  their  security.  The  prom- 
ise, therefore,  which  the  Rapparee  had  made 
to  the  baronet  as  a  proof  of  gratitude  for 
his  protection,  he  now  found  himself  incap- 

i .  able  of  fulfillmg,  in  consequence  of  the  dis- 
persion and  disappearance  of  his  band. 
When  he  stated  this  fact  to  Sir  Robert,  he 
gained  little  credit  from  him  ;  and  the  con- 
sequence was  that  his  patron  felt  disposed 
to  think  that  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  de- 
pended on.  Still,  what  he  had  advanced  in 
his  own  defence  might  be  true  ;  and  although 
his  confidence  in  him  was  shaken,  he  re- 

\  solved  to  maintain  him  yet  in  his  serdce, 
and  that  for  two  reasons — one  of  which  was, 
that  by  having  him  under  his  eye,  and  within 
his  grasp,  he  could  pounce  upon  him  at  any 
moment ;  the  other  was,  that,  as  he  knew, 
from  the  previous  shifts  and  necessities  of 
his  own  lawless  life,  all  those  dens  and 
recesses  and  caverns  to  which  the  Catholic 
priesthood,  and  a  good  number  of  the  peoi^le, 
were  obliged  to  fly  and  conceal  themselves, 
he  must  necessarily  be  a  usefid  guide  to  him 
as  a  priest-hunter.  It  is  tiiie  he  assured  him 
that  he  had  procured  his  pardon  from 
Government,  principally,  he  said,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  own  influence,  and  because,  in 
all  his  robberies,  it  had  not  been  known  that 

;  he  ever  took  away  human  life.  In  genei'al, 
however,  this  was  the  policy  of  the  Rapparees, 
unless  when  they  identified  themselves  with 


pohtical  contests  and  outrages,  and  on  those 
occasions  they  were  savage  and  crasl  as 
fiends.  In  simple  robbery  on  the  king's  high- 
way, or  in  burglaries  in  houses,  they  seldom, 
almost  never,  committed  murder,  unless  when 
resisted,  and  in  defence  of  their  lives.  On 
the  contrary,  they  were  quite  gallant  to 
females,  whom  they  treated  with  a  kind  of 
rude  courtesy,  not  unfi-equently  returning 
the  lady  of  the  house  her  gold  watch — but 
this  only  on  occasions  when  they  had  secured 
a  large  booty  of  plate  and  money.  The 
Threshei^s  of  1805-G  and  '7,  so  far  as  cruelty 
goes,  were  a  thousand  times  worse  ;  for  they 
spared  neither  man  nor  woman  in  their  in- 
famous and  nocturnal  visits  ;  and  it  is  enough 
to  say,  besides,  that  their  cowardice  was 
equal  to  their  cruelty.  It  has  been  proved, 
at  sjjecial  commissions  held  about  those 
periods,  that  four  or  five  men,  with  red  coats 
on  them,  have  made  between  two  or  three 
hundi-ed  of  the  miscreants  run  for  their  hves, 
and  they  tolerably  well-armed.  Whether  Sir 
Robert's  account  of  the  Raj)paree's  pardon 
was  true  or  false  will  ajjpear  in  due  time  ;  for 
the  truth  is,  that  Whitecraft  was  one  of  those 
men  who,  in  consequence  of  his  staunch 
loyalty  and  burning  zeal  in  carrying  out  the 
inhuman  measures  of  the  then  Government, 
was  permitted  with  impunity  to  run  into  a 
Hcentiousness  of  action,  as  a  useful  public 
man,  which  no  modern  government  would,  or 
dare,  permit.  At  the  period  of  which  we 
write,  there  was  no  press,  so  to  speak,  in  Ii-e- 
land,  and  consequently  no  opportunity  of  at 
once  bringing  the  acts  of  the  Irish  Govern- 
ment, or  of  public  men,  to  the  test  of  pubhc 
opinion.  Such  men,  therefore,  as  Whitecraft, 
looked  upon  themselves  as  invested  with  ir- 
resj)ousible  power  ;  and  almost  in  every  in- 
stance their  conduct  was  approved  of,  recog- 
nized, and,  in  general,  rewarded  by  the 
Government  of  the  day.  The  Beresford 
family  enjoyed  something  like  this  unenviable 
privilege,  during  the  rebellion  of  '98,  and  for 
some  time  afterwards.  We  have  alluded  to 
Mrs.  Oxley,  the  slierifi;'"s  fat  wife  ;  whether 
fortunatety  or  unfortunately  for  the  poor 
sheriff,  who  had  some  generous  touches  of 
chai'acter  about  him,  it  so  happened  that  at 
this  period  of  our  narrative  she  popped  oflf 
one  day,  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and  he  found 
himself  a  widower.  Now,  our  acquaintance, 
Fergus  Reilly,  who  was  as  deeply  disguised 
as  our  hero,  had  made  his  mind  up,  if  pos- 
sible, to  bring  the  Rapparee  into  trouble. 
This  man  had  led  his  patron  to  several  places 
where  it  was  likely  tliat  the  persecuted  priests 
might  be  found  ;  and,  for  this  reason,  Fergus 
knew  that  he  was  serious  in  his  object  tc 
betray  them.  This  unnatural  treachery  as 
the  robber  envenomed  his  heart  against  him, 


ISO 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOJilCS. 


and  he  resolved  to  run  a  risk  in  watching  his 
motions.  He  had  no  eai-thly  doubt  that  it 
was  he  who  robbed  the  sheritf.  He  knew, 
from  fnrtive  observations,  as  well  as  from 
general  report,  that  a  discreditable  mtimacy 
existed  between  him  and  Mary  Mahon.  This 
woman's  little  house  was  very  convenient  to 
that  of  AMoitecraft,  to  whom  she  was  very 
useful  in  a  certain  capacity.  She  had  now 
given  up  her  trade  of  fortune-telling — a  trade 
which,  at  that  period,  in  consequence  of  the 
ignorance  of  the  people,  Avas  very  general  in 
L'elaud.  She  was  now  more  beneficially 
employed.  Fergus,  thei-efore,  confident  in 
his  disguise,  resolved  upon  a  bold  and  haz- 
ardous stroke.  He  began  to  apprehend  that 
if  ever  Tom  Steeple,  fool  though  he  was,  kept 
too  much  about  the  haunts  and  resorts  of 
the  Eappai'ee,  that  cunning  scoundrel,  who 
was  an  adejDt  in  all  the  various  schemes  and 
forms  of  detection,  might  take  the  alarm, 
and,  aided  probably  by  Whitecraft,  make  his 
escape  out  of  the  country.  At  best,  the  fool 
could  only  assure  him  of  his  whereabouts ; 
but  he  felt  it  necessary,  in  addition  to  this, 
to  prociu-e,  if  the  matter  were  possible, 
such  e\idence  of  his  guilt  as  might  render 
his  conxiction  of  the  robbery  of  the  sheriff 
complete  and  cei-tain.  One  evening  a  wTetched- 
iooking  old  man,  repeating  his  j^rayers,  with 
beads  in  hand,  entered  her  cottage,  which 
consisted  of  two  rooms  and  a  kitchen  ;  and 
after  h.T\-ing  presented  himself,  and  j)u.t  on 
his  hat — for  we  need  scarcely  say  that  no 
Cathohc  ever  prays  covered — he  asked  lodg- 
ing in  Ii-ish,  for  the  night,  and  at  this  time 
it  was  dusk. 

"Well,  good  man,"  she  rephed,  "you  can 
have  lodgings  here  for  this  night.  God 
forbid  I'd  put  a  poor  wandherer  out,  an'  it 
nearly  dark." 

Fergus  stared  at  her  as  if  he  did  not  under- 
stand what  she  said  ;  she,  however,  covdd 
speak  L'ish  right  well,  and  asked  him  in  that 
language  if  he  could  sj^eak  no  Enghsh — 
"  Wuil  Bearlha  agud  ?  "  (Have  you  English  ?) 

"Ha  neil  foccal  vaun  Bearlha  agum."  (I 
haven't  one  word  of  English.) 

"  Well,"  said  she,  proceeding  with  the  fol- 
lowing short  conversation  in  Ii'ish,  "j'ou  can 
sleep  here,  and  I  will  bring  you  ia  a  wap  o' 
straw  from  the  garden,  when  I  have  it  to 
feed  my  cow,  which  his  honor.  Sir  Robert, 
gives  me  grass  for  ;  he  would  be  a  very  kind 
man  if  he  was  a  httle  more  genex'ous — ha ! 
ha!  ha!" 

"  Ay,  but  doesn't  he  hunt  an'  hang,  an' 
transport  our  priests  ?  " 

"  \Vliy,  indeed,  I  beheve  he  doesn't  like  a 
bone  in  a  priest's  body  ;  but  then  he's  of  a 
different  religion — and  it  isn't  for  you  or  me 
to  construe  him  after  our  own  way." 


"  Well,  well,"  said  Fergus,  "  it  isn't  hini 
I'm  thinking  of  ;  but  if  I  had  a  mouthful  or 
two  of  something  to  ait  I'd  go  to  sleep — foi 
deal-  knows  I'm  tired  and  hungry." 

"Why,  then,  of  coorse  you'll  have  some- 
thing to  ait,  poor  man,  and  while  you're  eatin' 
it  I'U  fetch  in  a  good  bunch  of  straw,  and 
make  a  comfortable  shake-down  for  you." 

"  God  mai'k  you  to  grace,  avoui-neen  ! " 

She  then  furnished  him  with  plenty  of 
oaten  bread  and  mixed  milk,  and  while  he 
was  helping  himself  she  brought  in  a  large 
bunch  of  straw,  which  she  shook  out  and  set- 
tled for  him. 

"I  see,"  said  she,  "  that  you  have  your  own 
blankets." 

"I  have,  acushla.  Cheerna,  but  this  is 
darlin'  bread  !  AiTa  was  this  baked  upon  a 
griddle  or  against  the  muddhia  arran  ?"  * 

"  A  gi'iddle  !  W^hy,  then,  is  it  the  likes  o' 
me  would  have  a  griddle  ?  that  indeed !  No  ; 
but,  any  how,  sui'e  a  griddle  only  scalds  the 
bread  ;  but  you'll  find  that  this  is  not  too 
much  done  ;  bekaise  you  know  the  ould 
proverb,  '  a  raw  dad  makes  a  fat  lad.'  " 

"  Troth,"  rej)lied  Fergus,  "  it's  good  bread, 
and  fills  the  boad  •(■  of  a  man's  body  ;  but 
now  that  I've  made  a  good  supper,  I'll  thi'ow 
myself  on  the  straw,  for  I  feel  as  if  my  eyeUds 
had  a  millstone  apiece  upon  them.  I  never 
shtrip  at  night,  but  just  throws  my  blanket 
over  me,  an'  sleeps  like  a  toj).  Glory  be  to 
God  !  Oh,  then,  there's  nothing  like  the 
health  ma'am  :  may  God  sj^ai-e  it  to  us ! 
Amin,  this  night !  " 

He  accordingly  threw  himself  on  the  shake- 
doxNTi,  and  in  a  short  time,  as  was  erident  by 
his  snoring,  fell  into  a  profound  sleep. 

This  was  an  experiment,  though  a  hazard- 
ous one,  as  we  have  said  ;  but  so  fai"  it  was 
successful.  In  the  coui'se  of  half  an  hour-  the 
Red  Rapparee  came  in,  di-essed  in  his  uni- 
form. On  looking  about  him  he  exclaimed, 
with  an  oath, 

"  W^ho  the  hell  is  here  ?  " 

"  Why,"  replied  Mary  Mahon,  "  a  poor 
ovdd  man  that  axed  for  charity  an'  lodgin'  for 
the  night." 

"  And  why  did  you  give  it  to  him  ?  " 


*  The  muddhia  arran  was  a  forked  branch,  cut 
from  a  tree,  and  shaped  exactly  like  a  letter  A — ■ 
with  a  small  stick  behind  to  support  it.  A  piece  of 
hoop  iron  was  nailed  to  it  at  the  bottom,  on  which 
the  cake  rested — not  hoiizontally,  but  opposite  the 
fire.  When  one  side  was  done  the  other  was  turned, 
and  thus  it  was  baked. 

f  Boitat — a  figurative  term,  taken  from  a  bra<rga- 
docio  or  boaster;  it  applies  to  any  thing  that  ia 
hollow  or  deceitful  :  lor  instance,  when  some  pota- 
toes that  grow  unusually  large  are  cut  in  two.  an 
empty  space  is  found  in  bhe  centre,  and  that  potato 
is  termed  boast^  or  empty. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


121 


"  Bekaise  my  charity  to  him  may  take 
away  some  of  my  sins. " 

"  Some  of  your  devils  !  "  replied,  the  sav- 
age, "  and  I  think  you  have  enough  of  them 
about  you.  Didn't  you  know  I  was  to  come 
here  to-night,  as  I  do  almost  everj'  night,  for 
an  hour  or  two  ?  " 

"  You  was  drinkin',"  she  repHed,  "  and 
you're  dinink." 

"  I  am  drunk,  and  I  will  be  drank  as  often 
as  I  can.  It's  a  good  man's  case.  Why  did 
you  give  a  lodgin'  to  this  ould  vagabone  ?  " 

" I  tould  you  the  raison," she  replied  ;  "but 
you  needn't  care  about  him,  for  there's  not  a 
word  of  English  in  his  cheek." 

"  Faith,  but  he  may  have  something  in  his 
purse,  for  all  that.     Is  he  ould  ?  " 

"A  poor  ould  man." 

"  So  much  the  betther ;  be  the  Uvin'  111 
try  whether  he  has  any  ould  coins  about  him. 
Many  a  time — no,  I  don't  say  many  a  time — 
but  twic't  I  did  it,  and  found  it  well  worth 
my  while,  too.  Some  of  these  ould  scamers 
die  wid  a  purse  o'  goolden  guineas  under 
their  head,  and  won't  confess  it  till  the  last 
moment,  ^^^lo  knows  what  tliis  ould  lad  may 
have  about  him  ?  I"U  thry  anyhow,"  said  the 
drunken  ruffian  ;  "  It's  not  aisy  to  give  uj)  an 
ould  custom,  j\Iolly — the  sheriff,  my  darhn', 
for  that.  I  aised  him  of  his  fines,  and  was 
near  strikin'  a  double  blow — I  secured  his 
pocket-book,  and  made  a  good  attempt  to 
hang  "Willy  Reilly  for  the  robbery  into  the 
bargain.  Now,  hang  it,  Molly,  didn't  I  look 
a  gentleman  in  his  clothes,  shoes,  silver 
buckles,  and  all ;  wasn't  it  well  we  secured 
them  before  the  house  was  buraed  ?  Here," 
he  added,  "take  a  sneeshin  of  this,"  pulling 
at  the  same  time  a  pint  bottle  of  whiskey  out 
of  his  pocket ;  "  it'll  rise  your  spirits,  an'  I'll 
see  what  cash  this  ould  codger  has  about  liim  ; 
an',  b}'  the  way,  how  the  de^il  do  we  know 
that  he  doesn't  understand  eveiy  word  we 
say.  SujDpose,  now — (hiccup) — that  he  heai'd 
me  say  I  robbed  the  sherifl",  wouldn't  I  be  in 
a  nice  pickle  ?  But,  tell  me,  can  you  get  no 
trace  of  ReiUy  ?  " 

"  Devil  a  trace  ;  they  say  he  has  left  the 
countiy." 

"If  I  had  what  that  scoundrel  has  prom- 
ised me  for  findin'  him  out  or  securin'  him 
— here's — here's — here's  to  you — I  say,  if  I 
had,  yoii  and  I  would  " — Here  he  pointed 
with  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  as  much 
AS  to  say  they  would  tiT  another  climate. 

"And  now,"  he  jjroceeded,  "for  a  search 
on  the  shake-down.  "NMio  knows  but  the 
ould  fellow  has  the  yeUow  boys  (guineas) 
about  him  ?  " — and  he  was  proceeding  to 
eeai-ch  Fergus,  when  Mary  flew  at  him  like 
a  tigress. 

•'  Stop,    you  cowardly   robber ! "   she  ex- 


claiiiied  ;  "would  you  bring  down  the  curse 
and  the  vengeance  of  God  upon  both  of  us. 
We  have  enough  and  too  much  to  answer 
for,  let  alone  to  rob  the  ould  an'  the  poor." 

"Be  aisv  now,"  said  he,  "I'll  make  the 
search  ;  sure  j.'iii  undherthe  scoundrel  White- 
craft's  pi'otection." 

"  Yes,  you  are,  and  you're  xmdher  my  pro- 
tection too  ;  and  I  tell  you,  if  you  lay  a 
hand  upon  him  it'll  be  worse  for  you." 

"  ^Miat — what  do  you  mane  ?  " 

"  It's  no  matther  what  I  mane  ;  find  it 
out." 

"  How  do  I  know  but  he  has  heard  us  ?  " 

We  must  now  obsei-ve  that  Fergus's  style 
of  sleeping  was  admirably  adajDted  for  his 
pui*pose.  It  was  not  accompanied  by  a  loud 
and  unbroken  snore  ;  on  the  contrary,  after 
it  had  risen  to  the  highest  and  most  disa- 
greeable intonations,  it  stopped  short,  with 
a  loud  and  indescribable  backsnort  in  his 
nose,  and  then,  after  a  lull  of  some  length, 
during  which  he  gi'oaned  and  muttered  to 
himself,  he  again  resumed  liis  sternutations 
in  a  manner  so  natiu'al  as  would  have  im- 
posed uj^on  Satan  himself,  if  he  had  been 
present,  as  there  is  httle  doubt  he  was, 
though  not  exactly  visible  to  the  eye's  of  his 
two  precious  agents. 

"  Listen  to  that,"  repHed  the  woman  ;  "do 
you  think,  now,  he's  not  asleep  ?  and  even  if 
he  was  sitting  at  the  fire  beside  us,  de^il  a 
syllable  we  said  he  could  understand.  I 
sj)oke  to  him  in  English  when  he  came  in, 
but  he  didn't  know  a  word  I  said." 

"Well,  then,  let  the  ould  feUow  sleep 
away  ;  I  won't  touch  him." 

"  AMiy,  now,  that's  a  good  boy  ;  go  home 
to  your  baiTacks,  and  take  a  good  sleep 
yourself." 

"  Ay,  yes,  certainly  ;  but  have  you  Re  illy 's 
clothes  safe — shoes,  silver  buckles,  and  all  ?  " 

"  Ay,  as  safe  as  the  head  on  your  shoul 
ders  ;  and,  upon  my  soul,  a  great  dale  safer, 
if  vou  rob  any  more  sheriffs." 

"  AMiere  ai-e  they,  then  ?  "  - 

""SMiy,  they're  in  my  flat  box,  behind  the 
bed,  where  nobody  could  see  them." 

"  Very  well,  Molly,  that  will  do  ;  I  may 
want  them  wanst  more,"  he  repHed.  pointing 
again  with  his  thumb  over  his  shoiilder  to- 
wards "VMiitecraft's  residence ;  "so  good- 
night ;  be  a  good  gii'l,  and  take  care  of  your- 
self." 

"  No,"  she  rephed,  "  but  cTo  you  be  a  good 
boy,  and  take  care  of  yourself."  And  so 
they  pai-ted  for  the  night. 

The  next  day  Fergus,  possessed  of  very 
important  evidence  against  the  Rapparee, 
was  ti'avelling  along  the  public  road,  not 
more  than  hjilf  a  mile  from  the  residence 
of  Sir  Robert  "Whitecraft,  when  whom*  should 


[22 


WILLIAM  CAliLETON'S  WORKS. 


Qe  meet  but  the  identical  sheriff,  on  horse- 
back, that  tlie  Eapparee  had  robbed.  He  put 
his  hand  to  his  hat,  and  asked  him  for  chai-ity. 

"  Help  a  poor  ould  man,  for  the  love  and 
honor  of  God." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  work — why  don't 
you  go  to  work  ?  "  repHed  the  sheriff. 

"  I  am  not  able,  sir,"  returned  Fergus  ;  "it 
wouldn't  be  good  for  my  health,  your  honor." 

"  Well,  pass  on  and  don't  trouble  me  ;  I 
have  nothing  for  you." 

"Ah!  thin,  sir,  if  you'd  give  me  a  trifle, 
maybe  I'd  make  it  worth  your  while." 

"AVhat  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  sheriff, 
who  knew  that  persons  like  him  had  opjDor- 
tunities  of  healing  and  knowing  more  about 
local  circumstances,  in  consequence  of  their 
vagrant  life,  than  any  other  class  of  persons 
in  society. 

"  "^Tiat  do  you  mean  by  what  3-ou  have 
just  said  ?  " 

"  Ai-en't  you  the  sheriff,  su*,  that  was  rob- 
bed some  time  ago  ?  " 

"lam." 

"Ah,  su',  I  see  you  are  dressed  in  black  ; 
and  I  heai'd  of  the  death  of  the  misthress,  sir." 

"Well,  but  what  has  that  to  do  Mithwhat 
you  have  just  now  said — that  you  would 
make  it  worth  my  while  if  I  gave  you  alms  ?  " 

"I said  so,  sir  ;  and  I  can,  if  you  will  be 
guided  by  me." 

"  Speak  out ;  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  the  man  that  rob- 
bed you,  sir,  and  would  you  know  him  if  you 
did  see  him  ?  " 

"Unquestionably  I  would  know  him. 
They  say  it  was  Eeilly,  but  I  have  seen  Eeilly 
since  ;  and  although  the  dress  was  the  same 
which  Reilly  usually  wears,  yet  the  faces 
were  different." 

"  Is  3'our  honor  going  far  ?  "  asked  Fergus. 

"  No,  I  am  going  over  to  that  farm-house, 
Tom  Brady's  ;  i\<o  or  three  of  his  family  are 
ill  of  fever,  and  I  wish  to  do  something  for 
him  ;  I  am  about  to  make  him  m}'^  land 
baQiff." 

"  What  stay  will  you  make  there,  your 
honor  ?  " 

"  A  veiy  short  one — not  more  than  ten  or 
fifteen  minutes." 

"  Would  it  be  inconvenient  for  yoiu-  honor 
to  remain  there,  or  somewhere  about  the 
house,  for  an  hour,  or  may  be  a  little  longer  ?  " 

"For  what  purjjose?  You  are  a  mysteri- 
ous old  fellow."' 

"  Bekaise,  if  you'd  wish  to  see  the  man  that 
robbed  you,  I'll  undhertake  to  show  him  to 
you,  face  to  face,  within  that  time.  Will 
your  honor  promise  this  ?  " 

The  sheriff  paused  upon  this  proposal, 
coming  as  it  did  from  such  an  equivocal 
^authority.     What,  thought  he,  if  it  should 


be  a  plot  for  my  life,  in  consequence  of  the 
fines  which  I  have  been  forced  to  levy  upon 
the  Catholic  priests  and  bishops  in  my  offi- 
cial capacity.  God  knows  I  feel  it  to  be  a 
painful  duty. 

"  What  is  your  religion  ?"  he  asked,  "and 
why  should  a  gentleman  in  my  condition  of 
hfe  place  any  confidence  ujDon  the  word  of  a 
common  vagrant  like  you,  who  must  necessa- 
rily be  imbued  with  all  the  prejudices  of 
your  creed — for  I  sujDpose  you  ai*e  a  Ca- 
thohc?" 

"  I  am,  sir ;  but,  for  all  that,  in  half  an 
hour's  time  I'll  be  a  rank  Protestant." 

The  sheriff  smiled  and  asked,  "  How  the 
deril'sthat?" 

"  You  are  dressed  in  black,  sir,  in  murnin' 
for  your  wife.  I  have  seen  you  go  into  Tom 
Brady's  to  give  the  sick  creatures  the  rites  of 
their  Church.  I  give  notice  to  Su'  Robert 
"WTiitecraft  that  a  priest  is  there  ;  and  my 
word  to  you,  he  and  his  hounds  wiU  soon  be 
upon  you.  The  man  that  robbed  you  will 
be  among  them — no,  but  the  foremost  of 
them  ;  and  if  you  don't  know  him,  I  can't 
heljD  it — that's  all,  your  honor." 

"  Well,"reiDlied  the  sheriff",  "I  shall  give 
you  nothing  now ;  because  I  know  not 
whether  what  you  say  can  be  relied  upon  or 
not.  In  the  meantime,  I  shall  remain  an 
hovu-  or  better,  in  Brady's  house ;  and  if 
your  words  are  not  made  good,  I  shall  send 
to  Sir  Eobert  AVhitecraft  for  a  mihtary  party 
to  escort  me  home." 

"I  know,  your  honor,"  replied  Fergus, 
"that  Sir  Robert  and  his  men  are  at  home 
to-day  ;  and  if  I  don't  fulfil  my  words,  I'U 
give  your  honor  lave  to  wliip  me  thi'ough  the 
county." 

"WeU,"  said  the  sheriff,  "I  shall  remain 
an  hour  or  so  in  Brady's  ;  but  I  tell  you  that 
if  you  are  deceiving  me  you  shall  not  escape 
me  ;  so  look  to  it,  and  think  if  what  you  pro- 
pose to  me  is  honest  or  not — if  it  be  not,  woe 
betide  you." 

Fergus  immediately  repaired  to  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft,  to  whom  he  represented  himself 
as  a  poor  Protestant  of  the  name  of  Bing- 
ham, and  informed  him  that  a  Pojiish  priest 
was  then  in  Tom  Brady's  house,  administer- 
i  ing  the  rites  of  Poperj'  to  those  who  were 
sick  in  the  family. 

"I  seen  him,  your  honor,  go  into  the 
house  ;  and  he's  there  this  minute.  If  j'our 
honor  makes  haste  you'll  catch  him." 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  liour  Sir 
Robert  and  his  crew  were  in  stirrups,  and 
on  their  way  to  Tom  Bi-ady's ;  and  in  the 
meantime,  too,  the  sheriff,  dressed  as  he  was, 
in  black,  came  outside  the  door,  from  time 
to  time,  more  in  apprehension  of  a  plot  against 
his  hfe  than  of  a  visit  from  Whiteci'aft,  whicli 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


123 


he  knew  must  end  in  nothing.  Now,  "White- 
craft  and  his  followers,  on  approaching 
Brady's  house,  caught  a  glimpse  of  him — a 
circumstance  which  not  only  confirmed  the 
bai'onet  in  the  coiTCctness  of  the  information 
he  had  received,  but  also  satisfied  the  sheriff 
that  the  mendicant  had  not  deceived  him. 
Rajjid  was  the  rush  they  made  to  Brady's 
house,  and  the  veiy  fii-st  that  entered  it  was 
the  Bed  Bapparee.  He  was  about  to  seize 
the  sheriff,  whom  he  pretended  not  to  know  ; 
but  in  a  moment  Su-  Bobert  and  the  rest 
entered,  when,  on  recognizing  each  other,  an 
explanation  took  place,  with  all  due  apologies 
to  the  fvmctiouai-y,  who  said* 

"  The  mistake,  Sir  Bobert,  is  ver\'  natural. 
I  certainly  have  a  clerical  appearance,  as  I 
am  in  mourning  for  my  wife.  I  trust  you 
will  neither  hang  nor  transport  me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  indeed,  ]Mr.  Oxley  ;  but 
I  only  acted  on  information  received." 

"And  I  don't  doubt,  Su'  Bobert,"  rejDlied 
the  sheriff,  "that  the  person  who  gave  you 
the  information  may  have  been  deceived  him- 
self by  my  ecclesiastical  looking  dress.  I  am 
sorry  you  have  had  so  much  trouble  for 
nothing ;  but,  upon  my  word,  I  feel  ex- 
tremely delighted  that  I  am  not  a  priest." 

In  the  meantime  the  sheriff  had  recogiiized 
the  Bappai-ee,  by  a  single  glance,  as  the  man 
that  had  robbed  him.  He  was  now  certain  ; 
but  he  took  cai'e  not  to  bestow  the  least  sign  j 
of  recognition  uj)on  him  ;  so  far  from  that, 
he  appeared  to  pay  no  attention  whatsoever 
to  the  men  ;  but  chatted  Arith  Sii*  Bobert  for 
some  time,  who  returned  home  deeply  dis-  [ 
appointed,  though  without  imputing  blame  j 
to  his  informant,  who,  he  thought,  was  veiy 
naturally  misled  by  the  dress  of  the  sheriff. 
Fergus,  however,  apprehensive  of  being  in- 
volved in  the  prosecution  of  the  Bappai-ee,  | 
and  thus  discovered,  made  a  point  to  avoid 
the  sheriff,  whose  cross-examination  a  con- 
sciousness of  his  previous  life  led  him  to 
dread.  Still,  he  had,  to  a  certain  extent, 
though  not  definitely,  resolved  to  become  eri- 
dence  against  him  ;  but  only,  as  we  have  said, 
on  the  condition  of  preriously  receiving  ii 
full  pardon  for  his  own  misdeeds,  which  was 
granted.  For  upwards  of  a  month,  however, 
the  sheriff  was  confined  to  his  bed,  having 
caught,  whilst  in  Brady's,  the  mahgnant 
fever  which  then  raged  throughout  the 
coimtry. 


CH.U>TEB  XVHL 

Bomething  not  very  Pleasant  for  all  Parties. 

The  position  of  England  at  this  period  was 
any  thing  but  an  easy  one.     The  Bebellion 


of  '45  had  commenced,  and  the  young  Pre- 
tender had  gained  some  signal  victories.    In- 
dependently of  this,  she  was  alarmed  by  th« 
rumor  of  a  French  invasion  on  her  southern 
coast.  Apprehensive  lest  the  Irish  Catholics, 
galled  and  goaded  as  they  were  by  the  influ- 
ence of  the  penal  laws,  and  the  dreadful  per- 
secution which  they  caused  them  to  suffer, 
should   flock    to    the    standard    of    Prince 
Charles,   himself  a  Catholic,  she  deemed  it 
expedient,  in  due  time,  to  relax  a  httle,  and 
accordingly   she    "checked   her   hand,   and 
changed  her  pride."     Milder  measures  were 
soon  resorted  to,  during  this  crisis,  in  order 
that  by  a  more  Hberal  administration  of  jus- 
tice the  resentment  of  the  suffering  Cathohcs 
might    be    conciliated,    and    their    loyalty 
secured.     This,  however,  was  a  proceeding 
less  of  justice  than  expediency,  and  resulted 
more  from  the  actual  and  impending  diffi- 
culties  of  England   than  from  any  sincere 
wish  on  her  part  to  give  civil  and  rehgious 
fi'eedom  to  her  CathoKc  subjects,  or  pros- 
perity to  the  country  jn  which,  even  then, 
their  numbers  largely  predominated.     Yet, 
singular   to   say,  when   the  Bebellion   fii*st 
broke  out,  all  the  chapels  in  Dublin  were 
closed,  and  the  Administration,  as  if  guided 
by  some  iniintelligible  infatuation,  issued  a 
proclamation,     commanding     the     Catholic 
priesthood  to  depart  fi'om  the  city.     Those 
who   refused   this   senseless   and    impolitic 
edict  were  threatened  vnth  the  utmost  sever- 
ity of  the  law.     Harsh  as  that  law  was,  the 
CathoHcs  obeyed  it ;  yet  even  this  obedience 
did  not  satisfy  the  Protestant  party,  or  rather 
that  portion  of  them  who  were  active  agents 
in  carrying  out  this  imprudent  and  unjusti- 
fiable  i-igor   at  such  a  period.     They  were 
seized  by  a  kind  of  j^^nic,  and  imagined  for- 
sooth that  a  broken  do'^vai  and  disai-med  jdco- 
ple  might  engage  in  a  general  massacre  of  the 
Irish  Protestants.     AVhether  this  incompre- 
hensible terror  was  real,  is  a  matter  of  doubt 
and  uncertainty  ;  or  whether  it  was  assumed 
as  a  justification  for  assaihng  the  Cathohcs 
in  a  general  massacre,  similar'  to  that  which 
they   apprehended,  or  pretended  to  appre- 
hend, is  also  a  matter  of  question  ;  yet  cer- 
tain it  is,  that  a  proposal  to  massacre  them 
in  cold  blood  was  made  in  the  Tiixj  Council. 
"But,"  says  O'Connor,   "the   humanity   of 
the  members  rejected   this  bai-bai'ous  pro- 
posal, and  crushed  in  its  infancy  a  conspiracy 
hatched  in  Lurgan  to  extii-pate  the  Catholics 
of  that  town  and  ricinity." 

In  the  meantime,  so  active  was  the  perse- 
cuting spirit  of  such  men  as  Whitecraft  and 
Smellpriest  that  a  gi-eat  number  of  the  un- 
fortunate priests  fled  to  the  metropoHs, 
where,  in  a  large  and  populous  city,  they 
had  a  better  chance  of  remaining  incogniti 


124 


<VILLIAM  CAULETON'S  WORKS. 


than  when   livin<T  in  the  country,   exposed 
and  Ukely  to  be  mox-e  marked  by  spies  and 
informers.    A  very  dreadful  catastrophe  took 
place  about  this  time.     A  con^-egution   of 
Catholic  people  had  heard  mass  upon  an  old 
loft,  which  had  for  many  years  been  decayed  I 
— in  fact,  actually  rotten.     Mass  was  over,  I 
and  the  priest  was  about  to  give  them  the 
parting  benediction,  when   the   floor  went 
do'rni  with  a  ten-itic  crash.     The  result  was 
dreadful.     The  priest  and  a  gi-eat  many  of ; 
the    congregation  were  killed  on  the  spot,  | 
and  a  vast  number  of  them  wounded   and  i 
maimed  for  life.    The  Protestant  inhabitants  j 
of  Dubhn  sympathized  deeply  with  the  suf- 
ferers, whom  they  relieved  and  succored  as  ; 
far  as  in  them  lay,  and,  by  their  remonstran-  i 
ces,   Govei'nment  was  shamed  into  a  more 
human  administration  of  the  laws.  1 

In  order  to  satisfy  our  readers  that  we  ! 
have  not  overdra"u"n  our  pictm'e  of  what  the 
Catholics  suffered  in  those  unhappy  times, 
we  shall  give  a  quotation  fi'om  the  Messrs. 
Chambers,  of  Edinl^irgh,  themselves  fau' 
and  liberal  men,  and  as  impai'tial  as  they 
are  able  and  weU  informed  : 

"  Since  the  pacification  of  Limerick,  Ire- 
land had  been  niled  exclusively  by  the 
Protestant  pai-ty,  who,  under  the  influence 
of  feehngs  arising  from  local  and  rehgious 
antipathies,  had  visited  the  Cathohcs  with 
many  severities.  The  oath  which  had  ex- 
cluded the  Cathohcs  fi'om  office  had  been 
followed,  in  1698,  by  an  Act  of  the  Ii-ish 
Pf  rhament,  commanding  all  Eomish  priests 
to  leave  the  kingdom,  under  the  penalty  of 
transportation,  a  return  from  which  was  to 
be  punishable  bj'  death.  Another  law  de- 
creed forfeiture  of  property  and  civil  rights 
to  all  who  should  send  theii'  childi-en  abroad 
to  be  educated  in  the  Cathohc  faith."  * 

Can  any  reasonable  person  be  in  doubt 
for  a  moment  that  those  laws  were  laws  of 
extermination  ?  In  the  meantime,  let  us 
hear  the  Messrs.  Chambers  further  : 

"After  the  death  of  William,  who  was 
much  opposed  to  severities  on  account  of 
rehgion,  Acts  of  still  greater  rigor  were 
passed  for  preventing  the  gi'owth  of  Popery. 
Any  child  of  a  Roman  Catholic  who  should 
declare  himself  a  Protestant  was  entitled  to 
become  the  heir  of  his  estate,  the  father 
merely  holding  it  for  his  hfetime,  and  hav- 
ing no  command  over  it.  Catholics  were 
made  incapable  of  succeeding  to  Protestants, 
and  lands,  passing  over  them,  were  to  go 
to  the  next  Protestant  heii'.  Catliohc  parents 
were  prevented  from  being  guardians  to 
their  own  children  ;   no  Protestant  possess- 

*  "  History  and  Present  State  of  the  British 
Empire."     Edinburgh,  W.  and  11.  Chambers. 


ing  property  was  to  be  permitted  to  marrj 
a  Catholic  ;  and  Cathohcs  were  rendered 
incapable  of  purchasing  landed  property  ol 
enjoying  long  leases.  These  measures  na- 
turally rendered  the  Cathohcs  discontented 
subjects,  and  led  to  much  tui-bulence.  The 
common  people  of  that  persuasion,  being 
denied  aU  access  to  justice,  took  it  into  theu' 
o^^^l  hands,  and  acquired  all  those  lawless 
habits  for  which  they  have  since  been  remark- 
able. Treacheiy,  cruelty,  and  all  the  lower 
passions,  were  called  into  vigorous  exercise. 
Even  the  Protestants,  for  their  own  sakes, 
were  often  obliged  to  connive  at  the  evasion 
of  laws  so  extr^nely  severe,  and  which  in- 
troduced much  difficulty  in  their  dealings 
^rith  Catholics;  but,  when  any  Protestant 
wished  to  be  revenged  upon  a  Catholic,  or 
to  extort  money  from  him,  he  found  in  these 
laws  a  ready  instiniment  for  his  purpose. 
By  an  additional  Act,  in  172G,  it  was  or- 
dained that  a  Pioman  Catholic  priest,  rnari-y- 
ing  a  Protestant  to  a  Catholic,  should  suffer 
death  ;  and  in  order  that  legal  redress  might 
be  still  less  accessible  to  the  Cathohcs,  it 
was  enacted,  in  1728,  that  no  one  should  bb 
entitled  to  practise  as  an  attorney  who  had 
not  been  two  years  a  Protestant." 

This  is  a  clear  and  succinct  ej)itome  of  the 
penal  laws ;  true,  much  more  might  be 
added ;  but  it  is  enough  to  say  that  those 
who  sow  the  wind  will  reap  the  whu'lwind. 
It  is  not  by  placing  restrictions  upon  cr <?eds 
or  ceremonies  that  rehgion  can  evor  be 
checked,  much  less  extingxiished.  Like  the 
camomile  plant,  the  more  it  is  ti-ampled  on 
the  more  it  will  spread  and  grow  ;  as  the 
nide  winds  and  the  inclemency  c-f  the  ele- 
ments only  harden  and  make  more  vigorous 
the  constitutions  of  those  who  are  exposed 
to  them.  In  o\u'  state  of  the  world,  those 
who  have  the  admmistration  of  ]>olitical  laws 
in  their  hands,  if  they  ever  read  history,  or 
can  avail  themselves  of  the  esperiences  of 
ages,  ought  to  know  that  it  is  not  by  severity 
or  persecution  that  the  affections  of  their 
fellow-subjects  can  be  concihated.  We  our- 
selves once  knew  a  brutal  ruffian,  who  was  a 
dealer  in  finiit  in  the  httle  to\vn  of  Maynooth, 
and  whose  princijDle  of  correcting  his  cliil- 
dren  was  to  continue  whipping  the  poor 
things  until  they  Avere  for(X>d  to  laugh  !  A 
person  was  one  day  preseu  t  when  he  com- 
menced chastising  one  of  them — a  child  of 
about  seven — upon  this  barbarous  principle. 
This  individual  was  then  young  and  strong, 
and  somethmg  besides  of  a  pugilist ;  but  on 
witnessing  the  affecting  efforts  of  the  httle 
fellow  to  do  that  which  was  not  within  the 
compass  of  any  natural  effort,  he  deliberately 
knocked  the  ruffian  doA\Ti,  after  having  first 
remonstrated  with  him  to  no  j^urpose.     He 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


125 


arose,  however,  and  attacked  the  other,  but, 
thanks  to  a  <?ood  ai-m  and  a  quick  eye,  he 
prostrated  him  again,  and  again,  and  again  ; 
he  then  caught  him  by  the  tlu'oat,  for  he 
was  ah-eady  subdued,  and  squeezing  his 
windpipe  to  some  pm-pose,  the  fellow  said, 
in  a  choking  voice,  "  Ai-e  you  going  to  kill 
me?" 

"No,"repHed  the  other,  "I  only  want  to 
see  the  length  of  yoiu-  tongue  ;  don't  be 
alarmed,  the  whole  thing  will  end  merrily  ; 
come,  now,  give  three  of  the  heartiest  laughs 
you  ever  gave  in  your  life,  or  doMTi  goes  your 
apple-caii — you  know  what  that  means  ?  " 
"  I — I  c — a — n' — t,"  said  he. 
"  Yes,  you  can,"  rephed  his  castigator ; 
"  nothing's  more  easy  ;  come,  be  merry." 

The  caitift",  for  he  was  a  coward,  and 
wanted  bottom,  upon  getting  a  little  wind, 
whilst  the  other  held  him  by  the  throat, 
gave  three  of  the  most  ludicrous,  but  dis- 
astrous, howls  that  ever  were  witnessed. 
On  his  opponent  letting  him  go,  he  took  to 
his  heels,  but  got  a  kick  on  going  out  that 
was  rather  calculated  to  accelerate  his  flight. 
Legislators,  therefore,  ought  to  know  that 
no  political  whipping  will  ever  make  a  people 
laugh  at  the  pleasure  of  it. 

But  to  resume  our  narrative.  England, 
now  apprehensive,  as  we  have  said,  of  a  de- 
scent of  the  French  upon  her  southern 
coast,  and  startled  by  the  successes  of  the 
young  Pretender,  who  had  cut  Cope's  army 
to  pieces,  deemed  it  expedient  to  send  over 
the  celebrated  Earl  of  Chesterfield  as  Vice- 
roy, \dt\i  instructions  to  relax  the  rigor  of 
the  laws,  and  concHiate  the  Catholics,  as  well 
as  he  could,  so,  at  least,  as  to  prevent  them 
from  joining  the  Pretender,  whose  object  it 
was  understood  to  be  to  cross  the  frontier 
and  march  upon  Loudon.  Lord  Chester- 
field's pohcy  alibrded  great  gi*atification  to 
\  the  Catholics,  who  were  now  restored  to 
J  their  usual  privileges  ;  and  its  political  ob- 
[  ject  was  so  far  successful  that,  as  we  have 
\  said,  not  a  single  man  of  them  ever  joined 
the  Pretender.  Still,  the  hberal  Protestants, 
or,  as  they  were  termed,  the  patriotic  pai'ty, 
were  not  satisfied  with,  the  mere  removal  of 
the  Catholic  restrictions.  L'eland,  at  that 
time,  was  studded  with  men,  or  rather  with 
monsters,  Uke  Smellpriest  and  "W^iitecraft, 
who  were  stained  with  the  blood  of  their 
fellow-siabjects  and  fellow-Christians.  Sir 
liobert  Whitecraft,  especially,  was  now  in  a 
bad  position,  although  he  himself  was  igno- 
rant of  it.  The  French  Ambassador  de- 
manded satisfaction,  in  the  name  of  his 
Court  and  the  French  nation,  for  the  out- 
rage that  had  been  committed  upon  a  French 
subject,  and  by  which  international  law  was 
so  gi'ossly  -violated.     AVe  must  say  here  that 


"VMiitecraft,  in  the  abundance  of  his  loyalty 
and  zeil,  was  in  the  habit,  in  liis  searches 
after  priests,  and  suspected  lay  Catholics,  to 
pay  domiciliary  visits  to  the  houses  of  many 
Protestant  magistrates,  clerg;s'men,  and  even 
gentlemen  of  wealth  and  distinction,  who 
were  suspected,  from  then-  kno^vn  enmity  to 
persecution,  of  harboring  Cathohc  priests 
and  others  of  that  persuasion ;  so  that,  in 
point  of  fact,  he  had  created  more  enemies 
in  the  country  than  any  man  Hving.     The 

Mai'quis  of ,  ]\Ir.  Hastings,  JkJJr.  Brown, 

together  with  a  great  number  of  the  patriotic 
party,  had  ah'eady  transmitted  a  petition  to 
the  Lord  Lieutenant,  under  the  former  Ad- 
ministration ;  but  it  was  not  attended  to, 
the  only  answer  they  got  ha\ing  been  a 
simple  acknowledgment  of  its  receipt.  This, 
on  coming  to  Sii'  Robert's  ears,  which  it  did 
fi'om  one  of  the  underlings  of  the  Castle, 
only  gave  a  spiu'  to  his  insolence,  and  still 
more  fiercely  stimulated  his  persecuting 
spiiit.  He  felt  conscious  that  Government 
would  protect  him,  or  rather  reward  him, 
for  any  acts  of  -violence  which  he  might  com- 
mit against  the  Cathohc  pariy,  and  so  far, 
under  his  own  pet  Administration,  he  was 
right. 

The  petition  we  have  alluded  to  ha%ing 
been  treated  with  studied  contempt,  the  per- 
sons and  party  ah-eady  mentioned  came  to 
the  determination  of  transmitting  another, 
still  more  full  and  lu-gent,  to  the  new  Viceroy, 
whose  feeling  it  was,  for  the  reasons  we  have 
stated,  to  reverse  the  pohcy  of  his  predeces- 
sor. 

His  hberal  administration  encouraged 
them,  therefore,  to  send  him  a  clear  state- 
ment of  the  barbarous  outrages  committed 
by  such  men  as  SmeUpriest  and  Sir  Robert 
"VVTiitecraft,  not  only  against  his  Majesty's 
Roman  Cathohc  subjects,  but  against  many 
loyal  Protestant  magistrates,  and  other 
Protestants  of  distinction  and  projierty,  mere- 
ly because  they  were  supposed  to  entertain 
a  natural  sjTupathy  for  their  persecuted  fel- 
low-subjects and  fellow-countiymen.  They 
said  that  the  conduct  of  those  men  and  of  the 
Government  that  had  countenanced  and  en- 
couraged them  had  destroyed  the  prosperity 
of  the  country  by  interi-upting  and  annulling 
all  bona  fide  commercial  transactions  between 
Protestants  and  Cathohcs.  That  those  men 
had  not  only  transgressed  the  instructions 
they  received  fi-om  his  predecessor,  but  all 
those  laws  that  go  to  the  security  of  life  and 
property.  That  they  were  g^iilty  of  several 
ciniel  and  atrocious  murders,  ai'sons,  and 
false  imprisonments,  for  which  they  were 
never  brought  to  account ;  and  that,  in  fine, 
they  were  steeped  in  crime  and  blood,  be- 
cause they  knew  that  his  predecessor,  igno- 


f26 


WILLIAM   CAULETON'S  WOUKS. 


rant,  perhaps,  of  tlie  extent  of  their  guilt, 
threw  his  shield  over  them,  and  held  them 
irresponsible  to  the  laws  for  those  savage 
outrages. 

They  then  stated  that,  in  their  humble 
judgment,  a  mere  relaxation  in  the  operation 
of  the  severe  and  penal  lav^'S  against  Catholics 
would  not  be  an  act  of  sufficient  atonement 
to  them  for  all  they  had  pre^'iously  sufiered  ; 
that  to  overlook,  or  connive  at,  or  protect 
those  great  criminals  would  be  at  vai'iance, 
not  only  with  all  piinciples  of  justice,  but 
with  the  spirit  of  the  British  Constitution 
itself,  which  never  recognizes,  much  less  en- 
courages, a  wicked  and  dehberate  violation 
of  its  own  laws.  That  the  present  was  a 
critical  moment,  which  demanded  great  judg- 
ment and  equal  humanity  in  the  administra- 
tion of  the  laws  in  Ii-eland.  A  rebellion  was 
successfully  j^rogressing  in  Scotland,  and  it 
appeared  to  them  that  not  only  common  jus- 
tic(j  but  sound  policy  ought  to  prompt  the 
Government  to  attract  and  conciliate  the 
Catholic  population  of  Ireland  by  allo-wdng 
them  to  panicij^ate  in  the  benefits  of  the 
Constitution,  which  hitherto  existed  not  for 
them,  thousands  of  whom,  finding  their 
countiy  but  a  bed  of  thorns,  might,  from  a 
mere  sense  of  relief,  or,  what  was  more  to 
be  dreaded,  a  spirit  of  natural  vengeance, 
flock  to  the  standard  of  the  Pretender. 

His  excellency,  ah-eady  aware  of  the  start- 
ling but  just  demand  which  had  been  made 
by  the  French  Ambassador,  for  the  national 
insult  by  "WTiitecraft  to  his  countiy,  was  him- 
self startled  and  shocked  by  the  atrocities  of 
those  blood-stained  deUnquents. 

His  rej^ly,  however,  was  brief,  but  to  the 
purpose. 

His  secretary  acknowledged  the  receipt  of 
the  memorial,  and  stated  that  the  object  of 
his  Excellency  was  not  to  administer  the  laws 
in  cinielty,  but  in  mercy  ;  that  he  considered 
all  classes  of  his  Majesty's  subjects  equally 
entitled  to  therr  jDrotection  ;  and  that  with 
respect  to  the  persons  against  whom  such 
serious  charges  and  allegations  had  been 
made,  he  had  only  to  say,  that  if  they  were 
substantiated  against  them  in  a  court  of  jus- 
tice, they  must  suffer  hke  other  criminals — 
if  they  can  be  proved,  Government  will  leave 
them,  as  it  would  any  common  felons,  to  the 
laws  of  the  country.  His  Excellency  is  de- 
tei-mined  to  administer  those  laws  with  the 
strictest  impartiahty,  and  without  leaning  to 
any  particular  class  or  creed.  So  far  as  the 
laws  will  allow  him,  their  protection  shall  be 
extended,  on  just  and  equal  principles  to  the 
poor  and  to  the  rich,  to  the  Catholic  and  to 
the  Protestant. 

This  commvmication,  which  was  kept 
strictly  secret,  reached  the  Marquis  of 


at  a  critical  period  of  oiir  narrative.  "White- 
craft,  who  was  ignorant  of  it,  but  sufficient- 
ly aware  of  the  milder  measures  which  tha 
new  Administration  had  adopted,  finding 
that  the  trade  of  priest-hunting  and  perse- 
cution was,  for  the  present,  at  an  end,  re« 
solved  to  accelerate  his  marriage  with  ]\Iisa 
Folliard,  and  for  this  purpose  he  waited 
upon  her  father,  in  order  to  secure  his  con- 
sent. His  object  was  to  retire  to  his  Eng- 
lish estates,  and  there  pass  the  remainder 
of  his  life  with  his  beautiful  but  reluctant 
bride.  He  paid  his  visit  about  two  o'clock, 
and  was  told  that  INliss  Folliard  and  her 
father  were  in  the  garden.  Hither  he  ac- 
cordingly repau'ed,  and  tound  the  squire, 
his  daughter,  and  Eeilly,  in  the  green-house. 
"When  the  squire  saw  him  he  cried  out,  with 
something  of  a  mahcious  triumph  : 

"  Hallo,  Sir  Eobert !  '  why  art  thou  so 
pale,  young  lover  ?  why  art  thou  so  pale  ? ' 
— and  why  does  thy  lip  hang,  Sir  Eobert  ? — 
new  men,  new  measures.  Sir  Eobert — and  so, 
'  Othello's  occupation's  gone,'  and  the  Earl  of 
Chesterfield  goes  to  mass  every  Sunday,  and 
is  now  able  to  repeat  his  padareens  in  L'ish." 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  you  so  pleasant,  IVIr. 
Folliard  ;  lout  I'm  delighted  to  see  the  beau- 
tiful state  of  your  gTcen-house — oh,  IVIiss 
Folliard  ! — excuse  me.  Your  back  was  to 
me,  and  you  were  engaged  in  trailing  that 
beautiful  shrub ;  allow  me  the  honor  of 
shaking  hands  with  you." 

"  Sir  Eobert,  I  bid  you  good-day,  but  you 
see  that  I  have  my  gai'den  gloves  on  ;  you 
will  excuse  me." 

"Oh,  Miss  FoUiard,"  he  replied,  "your 
will  is  the  spirit  of  the  British  Constitution 
to  me." 

"  A  spirit  which,  I  fear,  you  have  too  fre- 
quently violated,  Sir  Eobert ;  but,  as  papa 
says,  I  believe  your  cruel  occupation  is  gone 
— at  least  I  hope  so." 

"  'Gad,  you  got  it  there.  Sir  Eobert,"  re- 
plied her  father,  laughing. 

"  I  must  confess  it,"  replied  the  baronet ; 
"but  I  think,  in  order  to  ingratiate  myself 
with  Miss  Folliard,  I  shall  take  whatever 
side  she  recommends  me.  How,  IVIr.  Fol- 
liard," he  proceeded,  fixing  his  e^'es  upon 
Eeilly — "  what  the  deuce  is  this?  Have  you 
got  Eobinson  Crusoe  here?" 

"  We  have,"  replied  the  squire  ;  "but  hia 
man  Friday  has  got  married  to  a  Tipperaiy 
woman,  and  he's  now  in  quest  of  a  desert 
island  for  him  and  her  to  settle  in." 

"I  think,  jDapa,"  said  Helen,  "that  if  the 
principles  of  Sir  Eobert  and  his  class  were 
canied  out,  he  would  not  have  far  to  go  to 
look  for  one." 

"  Another  hit.  Bob,  you  dog — another  hit 
Well  said,  Helen — ^weU  said,  I  say.     Crusoet 


WILLY  BEILLY. 


127 


you  villain,  hold  up  your  head,   and  thank 
God  you're  clu-istened." 

"  Wid  de  help  o'  Gad,  shir,  I  was  chris- 
thened  af whore,  sure,  by  de  priesht." 

This  -v^sit  occurred  alDout  six  weeks  after 
the  appointment  of  the  new  Viceroy  to  the 
Government  of  Ireland,  and  about  five  after 
the  sheriff's  illness. 

"Come,  Whitecraft,"  said  the  squire, 
"  come  and  let  us  have  lunch :  I'll  hold  a 
crown  I  give  you  as  good  a  glass  of  Bur- 
gundy as  you  gave  me  the  other  day,  and 
will  say  done  first." 

"  Won't  Miss  Folliard  join  us  at  lunch  ?  " 
asked  Whitecraft,  looking  to  her  for  an  as- 
sent. 

"  Why,  I  suppose  so,"  repHed  her  father ; 
"won't  you  come,  Helen?" 

"  You  know,  papa,  I  never  lunch." 

"  'Gad,  and  neither  you  do,  Helen.  Come, 
Sir  Robert,  we  will  have  a  mouthfiil  to  eat, 
and  something  good  to  wash  it  domi ;  come 
along,  man,  what  the  devil  are  you  scrutin- 
izing poor  old  Robinson  Crusoe  for  ?  Come 
along.  I  say,  the  old  chap  is  making  the 
green-house  thrive ;  he  beats  Malcomson. 
\  Here,  Malcomson,  you  know  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Hout,  your  honor,  wha'  disna  ken  Sir 
Robert  Whitecraft  ?  Isn't  his  name  far  and 
near,  as  a  braw  defender  o'  the  faith,  and 
a  putter  down  o'  Papistry  ?  " 

"By  the  way,  Malcomson,"  said  Sir  Rob- 
ert, "where  did  you  get  Robinson  Crusoe, 
by  which  I  mean  that  wild-looking  man  in 
the  green-house?" 

"  Saul,  sir,  it's  a  question  I  never  speered 

at  him.     He  cam'  here  as  a  gaberlunzie,  and 

on  stating  that  he  was  indoctrinated  in  the 

sceence  o'  buttany,  his  honor  gari'ed  me  em- 

r       plo}'-  him.     De'il  hae't  but  the  truth  I'U  tell 

L      — he's  a  clever  buttanist,  and  knows  a'  the 

^      sceentific  names  aff  hand." 

"  So  that's  all  you  know  about  him  ?  "  said 
Sir  Robert.  "  He  has  a  devil  of  a  beard,  and  is 
shockingly  dressed.    Why  doesn't  he  shave  ?  " 

"  Ou,  just  some  Pajiistry  nonsense,"  replied 
the  gardener  ;  "but  we  hae  naething  to  do 
wi'  that,  sae  lang's  we  get  the  worth  o'  our 
siller  out  o'  him." 

"Here's  a  shilling,  Malcomson,"  said  Sir 
Robert. 

"  Na,  na,  your  honor  ;  a  shilling's  no  for  a 
J  man  that  understands  the  sceence  o'  buttany  : 
a  shilling's  for  a  flunky  in  livery  ;  but  as  for 
me,  I  couldna  conscientiously  condescend 
upon  less  than  ten  o'  them,  or  may  be  a  pund 
British,  but  I'm  feart  that's  contrair  to  your 
honor's  habits." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Sir  Robert,  "  I  have  no 
more  silver,  and  so  I  leave  you  to  the  agree- 
;    ,j*ble  society  of  Robinson  Crusoa" 


Reilly  had  watched  Sir  Robert's  motions, 
as  weU  as  his  countenance,  in  a  manner  aa 
furtively  as  possible.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he 
stared  at  him  broadly,  and  with  a  stupid, 
oafish  look,  and  again  j)laced  himself  in  such 
a  position  behind  the  i-ange  of  flower-pots 
which  were  placed  upon  the  ledges,  that  he 
could  observe  him  without  being  perceived 
himself.  The  force  of  habit,  however,  is  ex- 
traordinaiy.  Our  hero  was  a  man  exceed- 
ingly remarkable  for  personal  cleanliness, 
and  consequently  made  a  point  to  wash  his 
hands  morning  and  evening  with  peculiar 
care.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Ijmx  eye  of  Sir 
Robert  observed  their  whiteness,  and  he 
instantly  said  to  himself,  "  This  is  no  common 
laborer  ;  I  know  that  he  is  not,  fi-om  the 
wliiteness  of  his  hands.  Besides,  he  is  dis- 
guised ;  it  is  evident  from  the  length  of  his 
beai'd,  and  the  unnecessary  coarseness  of  his 
apparel.  Then  his  figure,  the  symmetry  and 
size  of  which  no  disguise  can  conceal ;  this, 
and  ever}i,hing  else,  assiu-es  me  that  he  is 
disguised,  and  that  he  is,  besides,  no  other 
individual  than  the  man  I  want,  WiUiam 
Reilly,  who  has  been  hitherto  my  evil  genius  ; 
but  it  shall  go  hard  with  me,  or  I  shall  be  liis 
now."  Such  were  his  meditations  as  he 
passed  along  with  the  squii-e  to  join  him  at 
lunch. 

When  they  had  left  the  garden,  Reilly  ad- 
dressed his  Cooleen  Baton  as  follows : 

"Helen,  I  am  discovered." 

"Discovered !     O  my  God,  no  !' 

"Unquestionably,  there  is  no  doubt  of  it, 
it  is  certain." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  that  it  is  certain  ?  " 

"  Because  I  obsen^ed  that  "WTiitecraft's  eyes 
were  never  off  my  hands ;  he  knew  that  a 
common  laborer  could  not  possibly  have  such 
hands.  Helen,  I  am  discovered,  and  must  fly." 

"  But  you  know  that  there  is  a  change  of 
Administration,  and  that  the  severity  of  the 
laws  has  been  relaxed  against  Catholics." 

"  Yes,  you  told  me  so,  and  I  have  no  fear 
for  myself  ;  but  what  I  apprehend  is  that 
this  discovery,  of  which  I  feel  certain,  wiU 
precipitate  your  marriage  with  that  mis- 
creant ;  they  will  entrap  you  into  it,  and  then 
I  am  miserable  for  ever." 

"Then,  William,  we  must  fly  this  very 
night ;  we  will  proceed  to  the  Continent,  to 
some  Protestant  state,  where  we  can  get 
maiiied  without  any  danger  to  the  clergj^- 
man  who  may  unite  us." 

"  It  is  all  that  is  left  for  us,"  replied  Reilly  ; 
"I  should  sooner  lose  life  than  you,  my 
beloved  Helen  ;  and  now,  what  is  to  be  done  ? 
fly  we  must  ;  and  in  anticipation  of  the 
necessity  of  this  step  I  left  a  suit  of  clothes 
with  Lanigan  :  or  rather  with  a  poor  widow, 
who  was  a  pensioner  of  mine — a  Mrs.  Buck- 


128 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ley,  from  whom  Laiiigaii  got  them,  and  has 
them.  I  could  not  think  of  accompanjang 
you  in  this  vile  dress.  On  your  way  in,  try 
to  see  Lanigan,  and  desire  him  to  come  out 
to  me.  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost ; 
and,  my  de'ir  Helen,  show  no  marks  of  agi- 
tation f  be  Cidm  and  firm,  or  we  are  un- 
done." 

"Eely  on  me,  dear  Eeilly,  rely  on  me  ;  I 
shall  send  Lanigan  to  you." 

She  left  him,  and  went  to  her  room,  when 
she  rang  the  bell,  and  her  maid,  the  faithful 
Connor,  who  had  been  restored  to  her  ser- 
vice, came  to  her. 

"Connor,"  said  she,  "I  shall  not  be  able 
to  dine  with  papa  to-day,  especially  as  that 
wretch  "NMiitecraft  is  hkely  to  dine  with  him. 
Go  to  Lanigan,  and  tell  him  to  come  to  me, 
for  I  wish  to  know  if  he  has  any  thing  light 
and  delicate  that  he  could  send  to  my  room  ; 
Connor,  I  am  very  unhappy." 

"  But,  miss,  sure  they  say  that  the  laws 
are  changed,  and  that  IVIr.  KeiUy  may  go  at 
large  if  he  wishes." 

"  I  know  that,  Connor  ;  but  send  Lanigan 
to  me  immediately." 

"^^^len  Lanigan  er^tered  he  found  the  Coo- 
leen  Baicn  in  tears. 

"  My  God,  Miss  FolHarfl,"  said  he,  "  what 
is  the  matter  with  you  ?  why  are  you  crying, 
or  what  have  they  done  to  you  ? '[ 

"  Lanigan,"  she  repHed,  wiping  her  eyes, 
"  you  and  Connor  only  are  in  our  secret ; 
we  must  fly  this  night." 

"  This  night,  j\Iiss  FoUiard  !  " 

"  This  night,  Lanigan  ;  and  you  must  assist 
as." 

"  To  the  last  drop  of  my  blood,  I  -will." 

"Lanigan,  ReiUy  is  discovered." 

"  Discovered,  miss  !  good  God,  how  was  he 
discovered  ?  " 

"  By  his  hands — by  the  whiteness  of  his 
beautiful  hands.  Now,  Lanigan,  Sir  Robert, 
aware  that  he  cannot  act  the  tyrant  at  pres- 
ent, as  he  used  to  do,  will  instigate  my  father 
to  some  act  of  outrage  against  him  ;  for 
you  know,  Lanigan,  how  cowardly,  how 
cruel,  how  vindictive,  the  detestable  villain 
is  ;  and  most  assuredly  he  will  make  my 
credulous  and  generous,  but  hot-tempered, 
father  the  instmment  of  his  vengeance  upon 
ReiDy ;  and,  besides,  he  will  certainly  urge 
him  to  bring  about  an  immediate  marriage 
between  himself  and  me,  to  which,  it  is  true, 
I  would,  and  will  die,  sooner  than  consent. 
I  will  dine  here,  Lanigan,  for  I  cannot  bear 
to  look  upon  my  dear  father,  whom  I  am 
about  to — "  Here  her  tears  intennipted  her, 
and  she  covdd  proceed  no  farther  ;  at  length 
she  recovered  herself,  and  resumed :  "  I 
know,"  she  added,  "  that  AMiitecraft  is  now 
detailing  his  discovery  and  his  plans.     Oh  ! 


that,  for  Reilly's  sake,  I  could  become  ao 
quainted  with  them  !  " 

"  What  woTild  you  wish  for  dinner.  Miss 
Folliai'd  ?  "  asked  Lanigan  calmly. 

"For  dinner?  oh,  anything,  any  thing; 
I  care  not  what ;  but  see  Reilly,  teU  him  I 
have  a  second  key  for  the  back  gate  in  the 
garden,  and  also  for  the  front ;  and,  Lani- 
gan—" 

"  Well,  IMiss  FoUiard  ;  but,  for  God's  sake, 
don't  cry  so  ;  your  eyes  will  get  red,  and 
your  father  may  notice  it." 

"  True,  thank  you,  Lanigan  ;  and  Reilly, 
besides,  told  me  to  keep  myself  calm  ;  but 
how  can  I,  Lanigan  ?  Oh,  my  father  !  my 
beloved  father  !  how  can  I  abandon — desert 
him  ?  No,  Lanigan,  I  will  not  go  ;  say  to 
Reilly — say  I  have  changed  my  mind  ;  tell 
him  that  my  affection  for  my  father  hag 
overcome  my  love  for  him  ;  say  I  will  never 
marry — that  my  heart  is  his,  and  never  will 
or  can  be  another's.  But  then  again — he, 
the  noble-minded,  the  brave,  the  generous, 
the  disinterested— alas  !  I  know  not  Avhat 
to  do,  Lanigan,  nor  how  to  act.  If  I  remain 
here,  they  wiU  strive  to  force  this  odious 
marriage  on  me  ;  and  then  some  fearful  ca- 
tastrojDhe  wall  happen  ;  for,  sooner  than  many 
W^hitecraft,  I  would  stab  either  him  or  my- 
self. Either  that,  Lanigan,  or  1  should  go 
mad ;  for  do  you  know,  Lanigan,  that  there 
is  insanity  in  our  family,  by  my  father's 
side  ?  " 

"  Unfortunately  I  know  it.  Miss  FoUiard ; 
your  tmcle  died  in  a  mad-house,  and  it  was 
in  that  way  the  estate  came  to  your  father. 
But  remember  what  you  say  ]\Ii'.  Reilly  told 
you  ;  be  calm ;  I  wiU  send  up  some  light 
nourishing  dinner  to  you,  at  the  usual  hour  ; 
and  in  the  meantime  I  wUl  see  him  before 
then,  and  forge  some  excuse  for  bringing  it 
ujj  myself." 

"  Stay,  Lanigan,  I  am  sadly  perplexed  ;  I 
scarcely  know  what  I  say  ;  I  am  in  a  state  of 
inconceivable  distraction.  Suppose  I  should 
change  my  mind  ;  it  is  not  unlikely  ;  I  am 
whirled  about  by  a  crowd  of  contending 
emotions  ;  but — well — let  me  see — oh,  yes 
— it  wiU  be  as  weU,  Lanigan,  to  have  two 
horses  ready  saddled  ;  that  is  no  crime,  I 
hope,  if  we  should  go.  I  must,  of  cotu'se, 
put  on  my  riding  habit." 

"Begging  your  pardon.  Miss  FoUiard, 
you'U  do  no  such  thing  ;  would  you  wish  to 
have  yourself  discovered  in  the  first  inn  you 
might  put  up  at  ?  No  :  dress  yourself  in  one 
of  Connor's  dresses  so  that  you  may  apjDear 
as  humble  as  possible,  and  any  thing  but  a 
lady  of  rank  ;  othenvise,  it  will  be  difficult 
for  you  to  escape  observation." 

"  WeU,  Lanigan,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  he 
and  I  shaU  place  ourselves  under  your  advice 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


129 


and  guidance.  But  my  father — oh,  my  dear 
father  !  "  And  again  she  wi-uug  her  hands 
and  wept  bitterly. 

"Miss  Helen,"  said  he,  "as  sure  as  the 
Lord's  in  heaven,  j-ou  Avill  discover  j-ourself  ; 
and,  after  all,  how  do  you  know  that  Sir 
Robert  /lo-s  found  out  Mr.  Reilly  ?  Sure  it's 
nothing  but  bare  suspicion  on  both  your 
parts.  At  any  rate,  I'll  saddle  Paudeen 
O'Rafferty  wid  my  own  hands,  and  I'll  put 
on  Molly  Crudden's  big  pillion,  for  you  know 
she's  too  fat  to  walk  to  mass,  and  you  will 
feel  yourself  quite  easy  and  comfortable  in 
it." 

"  No,  no,  Lanigan  ;  I  know  not  why  the 
impression  is  on  me  ;  but  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
never  to  experience  comfort  more.  Go  to 
Mr.  Reilly  ;  make  what  arrangements  he  and 
you  may  think  proper,  and  afterwards  j^ou 
can  acquaint  me  with  them.  You  see, 
Lanigan,  in  what  a  state  of  excitement  and 
uncertainty  I  am.  But  tell  Reilly  that,  rather 
than  be  forced  into  a  nmrriage  with  Whitecraft 
— rather  than  go  dMracted — rather  than  die — 
I  shall  fly  with  him." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

B.eUly^s  Disguise  Penetrated — He  Escapes — Fergus 
IteWfi  is  on  the  Trail  of  the  liapparee — Sir  liub- 
ert  begins  to  feel  Confident  of  Success. 

Lanigan,  on  passing  the  dining  parlor, 
heard  what  he  conceived  to  be  loud  and 
angry  voices  inside  the  room,  and  as  the 
coast  was  clear  he  dehberately  put  his  eai*  to 
the  key-hole,  which  ear  drank  in  the  follow- 
ing conversation  : 

"I  say,  Sir  Robert,  I'll  shoot  the  villain. 
Do  not  hold  me.  My  pistols  are  unloaded 
and  loaded  every  day  in  the  year  ;  and  ever 
since  I  ti'ansiiorted  that  rebel  priest  I  never 
go  without  them.  But  are  you  sui"e.  Sir 
Robert?  Is  it  not  possible  you  may  be 
mistaken  ?  I  know  you  are  a  suspicious 
fellow  ;  but  still,  as  I  said,  you  are,  for  that 
very  reason,  the  more  liable  to  be  wrong. 
But,  if  it  is  he,  what's  to  be  done,  unless  I 
shoot  him  ?  " 

"Under  the  last  Administration,  sir,  I 
could  have  answered  yoiu-  question  ;  but 
you  know  that  if  you  shoot  him  now  you 
will  be  hanged.  All  that's  left  for  us  is 
simply  to  effect  this  mai'riage  the  day  after  to- 
morrow ;  the  documents  are  all  read},  and  in 
the  course  of  to-morrow  the  license  caA  be 
procured.  In  the  meantime,  you  must  dis- 
patch him  to-night." 

" "S\Tiat  do  you  mean.  Sir  Robert?" 


"  I  say  you  must  send  him  about  his  busi- 
ness. In  point  of  fact,  I  think  the  fellow 
knows  that  he  is  discovered,  and  it  is  not 
unlikely  that  he  may  make  an  effort  to  carry 
off' your  daughter  this  very  night." 

"  But,  Sir  Robert,  can  we  not  seize  him 
and  surrender  him  to  the  authorities?  Is 
he  not  an  outlaw  ?  " 

"  Unfortunately,  iMr,  FoUiaixl,  he  is  not  an 
outlaw  ;  I  stretched  a  little  too  far  there. 
It  is  true  I  got  his  name  put  into  the  Hue^ 
and-Cry,  but  upon  reiDresentations  which  I 
cannot  prove." 

"And  why  did  you  do  so,  Sir  Robert?** 

"Why,  ]\Ir.  Folliai'd,  to  save  your  daugh- 
ter." 

The  old  man  paused. 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  is  a  bad  busi- 
ness— I  mean  for  you,  Sir  Robert ;  but  we 
will  talk  it  over.  You  shall  stop  and  dine 
with  me ;  I  want  some  one  to  talk  with — ■ 
some  one  who  will  support  me  and  keep  me 
in  spirits ; "  and  as  he  sjDoke  he  sobbed 
bitterly.  "I  wish  to  God,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  that  neither  I  nor  Helen — my  dear  Helen 
— had  ever  seen  that  fellow's  face.  You  will 
dine  with  me.  Bob  ? " 

"  I  will,  upon  the  strict  condition  thet  you 
keep  3^ourself  quiet,  and  won't  seem  to 
understand  any  thing." 

"  Would  you  recommend  me  to  lock  her 
up?" 

"By  no  means;  that  would  only  make 
matters  worse.  I  shall  dine  mth  you,  but 
you  must  be  calm  and  quiet,  and  not  seem 
to  entertain  any  suspicions." 

"  Very  well,  I  shall ;  but  what  has  become 
of  our  lunch?     Touch  the  bell." 

This  hint  sent  Lanigan  do^vnstairs,  who 
met  the  butler  coming  up  Arith  it. 

"WTiy,  Pat,"  said  he,  "what  kept  you  so 
long  "nith  the  lunch  ?  " 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  replied  Pat,  "how 
it  would  be  possible  to  poison  that  ugly,  ill- 
made,  long-legged  scoundrel,  without  poison- 
ing my  master.  What's  to  be  done,  Lani- 
gan ?  He  will  marry  this  darHu'  in  sjiite  of 
us.  And  sure,  now  we  have  om*  privileges 
once  more,  since  this  great  Earl  came  to  rule 
over  us ;  and  sure,  they  say,  he's  a  gi'eater 
gentleman  than  the  king  himself.  All  I  can 
say  is,  that  if  this  same  Sir  Robert  forces  the 
Cooleen  Bawn  to  such  an  unnatural  marriage, 
I'll  try  a  dose,  hit  or  miss,  for  a  cowheel 
anyway." 

Lanigan  laughed,  and  the  butler  passed  on 
with  the  lunch. 

We  may  state  here  that  the  squire,  not- 
withstanding his  outspoken  manner  against 
Popery,  like  a  terrible  reverend  baronet  not 
long  deceased,  who,  not-odthstanding  his  dis- 
covery of  the  most  awful  Popish  plots,  and 


130 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


notwithstanding  the  most   extravagant  de-  j 
uunciations   against   Popery,   like   liim,   we 
say,  the  old  squire  seldom  hatl  more  than  ] 
one  or  two  Protestant  servants  imder  his  [ 
roof.      Pat  hated  Longshanks,  as  he  termed  \ 
him,  as  did  all  the  household,  which,  indeed,  j 
was  very  natural,   as  he  was  such  a   noto- 
rious persecutor  of  theu'  religion  and  then* 
clergy. 

Laiiigan  lost  no  time  in  acquainting  Eeilly 
with  what  he  had  heard,  and  the  heart  of 
the  latter  palpitated  with  alarm  on  hearing 
that  the  next  day  but  one  was  likely  to  join 
his  Cooleen  Baion,  by  violent  and  unnatural 
proceedings,  to  the  man  whom  she  so  much 
detested.  He  felt  that  it  was  now  time  to  act 
in  order  to  save  her.  AiTangements  were  con- 
sequently made  between  them  as  to  the  time 
and  manner  of  their  escape,  and  those  ar- 
rangements," together  with  the  dialogue  he 
had  overheard,  Lanigan  communicated  to 
the  Cooleen  Baicn. 

The  squire  on  that  day  experienced  strange 
alternations  of  feehng.  His  spirits  seemed  to 
rise  and  sink,  as  the  c[uicksilver  in  the  glass 
is  affected  by  the  state  of  the  atmosj^here. 
He  looked  into  the  future  with  terror,  and 
again  became,  to  the  astonishment  of  his 
guest — we  now  talk  of  their  conduct  after 
dinner — actuated  by  some  thought  or  im- 
pulse that  put  him  into  high  spirits.  ^Miite- 
craft,  cool  and  cautious,  resolved  to  let  him 
have  his  way  ;  for  the  squire  was  drinking 
deejDly,  and  the  Burgundy  was  good  and 
strong. 

"Bob,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "you  don't  drink, 
and  that  is  a  bad  sign.  You  have  either  a 
bad  head  of  late,  or  a  bad  heart,  which  is 
worse.  Hang  you,  sir,  why  don't  you  drink  ? 
I  have  seen  you  lay  lots  of  my  guests  under 
the  table  Avhen  you  were  quite  cool ;  but 
now,  what  are  j'ou  at?  They  can't  run  away 
to-night.  Helen  doesn't  know  that  the  dis- 
covery has  been  made.  And  now.  Bob,  you 
dog,  listen  to  me,  I  say — would  you  have  had 
the  manliness  and  courage  to  expose  your- 
self for  the  sake  of  a  pretty  ghi  as  he  did  ? 
— that  is — here's  a  bumper  to  Helen  !  Curse 
you,  will  nothing  make  you  drmk  ?  No, 
faith,  he  hadn't  seen  Helen  at  the  time  ;  it 
was  for  a  worthless  old  fellow  like  me  that 
he  exposed  himself  ;  but  no  matter,  you  may 
be  right ;  perhaps  it  xuai<  a  plot  to  get  ac- 
quainted with  her.  Still,  I'm  not  sure  of 
that ;  but  if  it  was,  I'll  make  him  smart." 

After  dinner  the  squire  drank  deeply — so 
deejily,  indeed,  that  AVhitecraft  was  obliged 
to  call  up  some  of  the  male  sen'ants  to  cany 
him  to  his  chamber  and  i5ut  him  to  bed.  Li 
this  task  Lanigan  assisted,  and  thanked 
his  stars  that  he  was  incapacitated  fi-om 
^vatchin^  the  lovers,  or  taking  any  means  to 


prevent  their  escape.  As  for  WhitecrafL 
thought  he,  I  "s^ill  soon  send  him  about  his 
business.  Now,  this  gentleman's  suspicions 
were  tlie  moi-e  deeply  excited,  in  conse- 
quence of  Helen's  refusal  to  meet  him  at 
either  lunch  or  dinner,  a  refusal  which  she 
gave  on  the  p)lea  of  indisposition.  He  had 
therefore  made  up  his  mind  to  watch  the 
motions  of  Cooleen  Baicn,  and  he  would  have 
included  Reilly  in  his  su7-ceillancevfere  it  not 
that  Lanigan  informed  him  of  what  he 
termed  the  mj'sterious  disappearance  of  the 
vmder-gardener. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Whitecraft,  "is  he 
gone  ?  " 

"  He  has  gone,  Sir  Eobert,  and  he  left  his 
week's  wages  behind  him,  for  he  never  came 
to  the  steward  to  ask  it.  And  now,  Sir 
Eobert,  to  tell  you  the  ti-uth,  I'm  not  soriy  he's 
gone  ;  he  was  a  disagreeable  old  fellow,  that 
nobod}'  could  make  either  head  or  tail  of  ; 
but,  Sir  Eobert,  listen — wait,  sir,  till  I  shut 
the  door — it  Avill  soon  be  getting  dusk  :  you 
know  you're  not  liked  in  the  countiy,  and 
now  that  ive — I  mean  the  Catholics — have 
the  countenance  of  Government,  I  think 
that  riding  late  won't  be  for  your  health. 
The  night  aii-,  you  know,  isn't  wholesome  to 
some  people.  I  am  merely-  givin'  you  a  hint, 
Sir  Eobert,  bekaise  you  are  a  friend  of  my 
masther's,  and  I  hope  for  j'our  own  sake 
3'ou'll  take  it.  The  sooner  you  mount  your 
horse  the  better  ;  and  if  j-ou  be  guided  by 
me,  you'll  try  and  reach  jour  own  house  be- 
fore the  darkness  sets  in.  'SYho  knows  what 
Eeilly  may  be  plotting?  You  know  he 
doesn't  Hke  a  bone  in  your  honor's  skin  ; 
and  the  Eeillys  are  cruel  and  desjoerate." 

"But,  Lanigan,  are  j'ou  aware  of  any  plot 
or  conspiracy  that  has  been  got  ujd  against 
my  life  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,  your  honor  ;  but  I  put  it  to 
yourself,  sir,  whether  you  don't  feel  that  I'm 
speaking  the  truth." 

"  I  certainly  know  very  well,"  replied  the 
baronet,  "  that  I  am  exceedingly  unjDopular 
■vNdth  the  Popish  jDarty  ;  but,  in  my  conduct 
towards  them,  I  onh'  carried  out  the  laws 
that  had  been  passed  against  them." 

"  I  know  that,  Su-  Eobert,  and,  as  a  Cath- 
oHc,  I  am  sorry  that  3'ou  and  others  were 
supported  and  egged  on  by  such  laws.  Why, 
sir,  a  hangman  could  give  the  same  excuse, 
because  if  he  put  a  rope  about  your  neck, 
and  tied  his  cursed  knot  nately  under  your 
left  ear,  what  was  he  doin'  but  fulfillin'  the 
law  as  you  did  ?  And  now.  Sir  Eobert,  who 
would  shake  hands  with  a  hangman,  unless 
some  unfortunate  highway  robber  or  mur- 
derer, that  gives  him  his  hand  because  he 
knows  that  he  will  never  see  his  purty  fac© 
agin.     T^h^H  dis'^oiu'se  is  aU  folly,  however-^ 


WILLY  REILLY. 


131 


you  haven't  a  minute  to  lose — shall  I  order 
your  horse ) " 

"  Yes,  you  had  better,  Lanigan,"  rephed 
the  other,  with  a  dogged  appearance  of  cow- 
ardice and  revenge.  He  could  not  forgive 
Lanigan  the  illustration  that  involved  the 
comparison  of  the  hangman  ;  still  his  con- 
science and  his  cowardice  both  whispered  to 
him  that  the  cook  was  in  the  right. 

This  night  was  an  eventful  one.  The 
course  of  our  narrative  brings  us  and  our 
readei's  to  the  house  of  Captain  Smellpriest, 
who  had  for  his  next-door  neighbor  the 
stalwart  curate  of  the  parish,  the  Eev.  Sam- 
son Strong,  to  whom  some  allusion  has  been 
already  made  in  these  pages.  Now  tlie  dif- 
ference between  Smellpriest  and  ^Miitecraft 
was  this  —  Smellpriest  was  not  a  magistrate, 
as  "\Miitecraft  Avas,  and  in  his  priest-hunting 
expeditions  only  acted  upon  warrants  issued 
by  some  bigoted  and  persecuting  magistrate 
or  other  who  lived  in  the  district.  But  as  his 
propensity  to  hunt  those  unfortunate  persons 
was  known,  the  execution  of  the  wan-ants 
was  almost  in  every  instance  entrusted  to  his 
hands.  It  was  not  so  with  Su'  Eoberi,  who, 
being  himself  a  magistrate,  might  be  said  to 
have  been  iu  the  position  at  once  of  judge 
and  executioner.  At  all  events,  the  race  of 
blood  was  pretty  equal  between  them,  so  ftu- 
as  the  clergy  was  concerned  ;  but  in  general 
enmity  to  the  CathoUc  community  at  large, 
Whitecraft  was  far  more  cruel  and  compre- 
hensive in  his  vengeance.  It  is  indeed  an 
obsen'ation  founded  upon  truth  and  experi- 
ence, that  iu  all  creeds,  in  proportion  to  his 
ignorance  and  bigotry,  so  is  the  violence  of 
the  persecutor.  Whitecraft,  the  self-consti- 
tuted chami:)ion  of  Protestantism,  had  about 
as  much  religion  as  Satan  himself — or  indeed 
less,  for  we  are  told  that  he  beUeves  and 
trembles,  while  "Wliitecraft,  on  the  contrary, 
neither  believed  nor  trembled.  But  if  he  did 
not  fear  God,  he  certainly  feared  man,  and 
on  the  night  in  question  went  home  with  as 
craven  a  heart — thanks  to  Lanigan — as  ever 
beat  in  a  coward's  bosom.  Smellpriest, 
however,  differed  fi'om  Whitecraft  in  many 
points  ;  he  was  brave,  though  cruel,  and  ad- 
dicted to  deep  potations.  WTiitecraft,  it  is 
time,  dnank  more  deejjly  still  than  he  did  ; 
but,  by  some  idios^Ticrasy  of  stomach  or 
constitution,  it  had  no  more  etiect  upon  him 
than  it  had  upon  the  cask  from  which  it  had 
been  drawn,  unless,  indeed,  to  reduce  him 
to  greater  sobriety  and  shai-pen  his  pre- 
judices. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Rev.  Samson  Strong 
made  his  appearance  in  Smellpriest's  house 
with  a  warrant,  or  something  in  the  shajoe  of 
one,  which  he  placed  in  the  gallant  captain's 
hands,  "^ho  Tiras  drunk. 


"What's  this,  oh,  Samson  the  Strong?' 
said  SmeUpriest,  laughing  and  hiccuping 
both  at  the  same  time. 

"  Its  a  hunt,  my  dear  friend.  One  of 
those  priests  of  Baal  has  united  in  unholy 
bands  a  Protestant  subject  Avith  a  subject  of 
the  harlot  of  abominations." 

"  Samson,  my  buck,"  said  Smellpriest, 
"  I  hope  tliis  Popish  priest  of  yours  will 
not  turn  out  to  be  a  wild-goose.  You  know  you 
have  sent  me  upon  many  a  \rild-goose  chase 
before  ;  in — in — in  fact,  you  nev — never  sent 
me  ui^on  any  other.  You're  a  blockhead, 
oh,  divine  Samson  ;  and  that — that  thick 
head  of  yours  would  flatten  a  cannon-baU. 
But  what  is  it? — an  intermarriage  between 
the  two  P"s — Popish  and  Protestant  ?  " 

"My  dear,"  stiid  liis  A\ife,  "you  mu.st  be 
aware  that  the  Popishers  have  only  got  hb- 
erty  to  clatter  their  beads  in  j)ubHc  ;  but  not 
to  many  a  Popisher  to  a  Protestanter.  This 
is  a  glorious  opportunity  for  you  to  come 
home  with  a  feather  in  your  cap,  my  dear. 
Has  he  far  to  go,  ]Mi-.  Strong?  because  he 
never  goes  out  after  the  black  game,  as  you 
call  them,  sir,  that  I  don't  feel  as  if  I — but  I 
can't  express  what  I  feel  at  his  dear  absence." 

Now  we  have  said  that  Smellpriest  was 
dnink,  which,  in  point  of  fact,  was  tnie  ;  but 
not  .so  diimk  but  that  he  observed  some  in- 
telligent glances  pass  between  his  wife  and 
the  broad-shouldered  curate. 

"  No,  madam,  only  about  two  miles. 
Smellpriest,  you  know  Jack  Houlaghan's 
stripe  ?  " 

"  Yes — I  know  Jack  Houlaghan's  stripe,  in 
Kilrudden." 

"  WeD,  when  you  get  to  the  centre  of  the 
stripe,  look  a  httle  to  your  right,  and — as 
the  night  is  Ught  enough — you  will  see  a 
house — a  cottage  rather ;  to  this  cottage 
bring  your  men,  and  there  you  will  find  your 
game.  I  would  not,  captain,  under  other 
circumstances,  advise  you  to  recruit  your 
spirits  with  an  additional  glass  or  two  of 
liquor  ;  but,  as  the  night  is  cold,  I  really  do 
recommend  you  to  fortify  yourself  with  a 
little  refreshment." 

He  was  easily  induced  to  do  so,  and  he 
accordingly  took  a  couj^le  of  glasses  of 
punch,-  and  when  about  to  mount  his  horse, 
it  was  found  that  he  could  not  do  so  with- 
out the  assistance  of  his  men  who  were  on 
duty,  in  all  about  six,  every  one  of  whom, 
as  well  as  the  captain  himself,  was  weU 
armed.  It  is  unnecessary  to  state  to  the 
reader  that  the  pursuit  was  a  vain  one. 
They  searched  the  house  to  no  purpose ; 
neither  priest  or  friar  was  there,  and  he, 
consequently,  had  the  satisfaction  of  per- 
forming another  wild-goose  chase  with  his 
usual  success,   whenever  the  'Jiev.    SamsoD 


132 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Strong  sent  him  in  pursuit.  In  the  mean- 
time the  moon  went  down,  and  the  night 
became  exceedingly  dark  ;  but  the  captain's 
spirits  were  high  and  boisterous,  so  much 
so  that  they  began  to  put  themselves  forth 
in  song,  the  song  in  question  being  the  once 
celebrated  satire  upon  Jamef}  the  Second 
and  T^Tc'onnell,  called  "Lillibullero,"  now 
"The  "Protestant  Boys."  How  this  song 
gained  so  much  popularity  it  is  difficult  to 
guess,  for  we  are  bound  to  say  that  a  more 
pointless  and  stupid  production  never  came 
from  the  brain  of  man.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
we  must  leave  the  gallant  captain  and  his 
gang  singing  it  in  full  chorus,  and  request 
our  readers  to  accompany  us  to  another 
locality. 

The  sheriff  had  now  recovered  from  a 
di'eadful  attack  of  the  prevailing  epidemic, 
and  was  able  to  resume  his  duties.  Li  the 
meantime  he  had  heaixl  of  the  change  Avhich 
had  taken  place  in  the  administration  of 
afl'airs  at  headquarters — a  change  at  which 
he  felt  no  regi-et,  but  rather  a  good  deal  of 
satisfaction,  as  it  relieved  him  from  the 
perforraaiice  of  very  disagreeable  and  invid- 
ious duties,  and  the  execution  of  many 
severe  and  inhuman  laws.  He  was  now 
looking  over  and  signing  some  papers,  when 
he  rang  the  bell,  and  a  servant  entered. 

"Tom,"  said  he,  "there  is  an  old  man,  a 
poor  mendicant,  to  call  here,  who  was  once 
a  servant  in  oiu'  family ;  when  he  comes 
show  him  into  the  office.  I  expect  some 
important  family  information  from  him  re- 
specting the  property  which  we  are  disputing 
about  in  the  Court  of  Chancer}'." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  rei^Hed  the  servant,  "I 
shall  do  so." 

This  occuiTcd  on  the  day  of  Whitecraft's 
visit  to  Squire  Folliard,  and  it  was  on  the 
evening  of  the  same  that  Smellpriest  was 
sent  uj)on  the  usual  chase,  on  the  infor- 
mation of  the  Rev.  Samson  Strong  ;  so  that 
the  events  to  which  we  have  alluded  oc- 
curred, as  if  by  some  secret  relation  to  each 
other,  on  the  same  day. 

At  length  our  friend  Fergus  entered  the 
office,  in  his  usual  garb  of  an  aged  and 
confirmed  mendicant. 

"Well,  Reilly,"  said  the  sheriff,  "I  am 
^^lad  you  have  come.  I  could  have  taken  up 
this  ruffian,  this  Red  Rapparee,  as  he  is 
properly  called,  upon  suspicion  ;  but  that 
would  have  occasioned  delay  ;  and  it  is  my 
object  to  lodge  him  in  jjiil  this  night,  so  as 
to  give  him  no  chance  of  escape  unless  he 
breaks  prison  ;  but  in  order  to  prevent 
that,  I  shall  give  strict  injunctions,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  danger  to  be  apprehended 
fi'om  so  powerful  and  desperate  a  character, 
that  he  be  kept  in  strong  irons." 


"  If  it  be  within  the  strength  of  man,  sii, 
to  break  prison,  he  will ;  he  done  it  twice 
before  ;  and  he's  under  the  notion  that  he 
never  was  born  to  be  hanged  ;  some  of  the 
ovdd  projDhecy  men,  and  Mary  Mahon,  it 
seems,  tould  him  so," 

"  In  the  meantime,  Reilly,  we  shall  test 
the  truth  of  such  prophecies.  But  Hsten. 
What  is  yom-  wish  that  I  should  do  for  you, 
in  addition  to  what  I  have  already  done. 
You  know  what  I  have  promised  you,  and 
that  for  some  time  past,  and  that  I  have  the 
Secretary's  letter  stating  that  you  are  fi'ee, 
and  have  to  di-ead  neither  aiTest  nor  punish- 
ment ;  but  that  is  ujDon  the  condition  that 
you  shall  give  all  the  evidence  against  this 
man  that  you  are  possessed  of.  In  that  case 
the  Government  will  also  bountifully  reward 
you  besides." 

"  The  Government  need  not  think  of  any 
such  thing,  your  honor,"  replied  Reilly  ;  "a 
penny  of  Government  money  will  never  cross 
my  pocket.  It  isn't  for  any  reward  I  come 
against  this  man,  but  because  he  joined  the 
blood-hounds  of  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft 
against  his  own  priests  and  his  own  reh- 
gion  ;  or  at  laste  against  the  rehgion  he 
professed,  for  I  don't  think  he  ever  had 
any." 

"  Well,  then,  I  can  make  you  one  of  my 
officers." 

"  Is  it  to  go  among  the  poor  and  distressed, 
sir,  and  help,  maybe,  to  take  the  bed  fi'om 
undher  the  sick  father  or  the  sick  mother, 
and  to  leave  them  without  a  stick  undher  the 
ould  roof  or  naked  walls  V  No,  sir  ;  sooner 
than  do  that  I'd  take  to  the  highway  once 
more,  and  rob  like  a  man  in  the  face  of  dan- 
ger. That  I  may  never  see  to-morrow,"  he 
j)roceeded,  with  vehemence,  "  but  I'd  rather 
rob  ten  rich  men  than  harish  one  poor  fami- 
ly. It  was  that  work  that  druv  me  to  the 
coorse  I  left — that  an'  the  persecution  tliat 
was  upon  US'.  Take  my  word,  sir,  that  in 
nineteen  cases  out  of  twenty  it  was  the  laws 
themselves,  and  the  poverty  they  brought 
upon  the  country,  that  made  the  robbers." 

"  But  could  you  not  give  evidence  against 
some  others  of  the  gang  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  there  is  not  one  of  them  in  this 
part  of  the  kingdom,  and  I  believe  the  most 
of  them  all  are  out  of  it  altogether.  But, 
even  if  they  were  not,  I,  sir,  am  not  the 'man 
to  betray  them  ;  the  Red  Rapparee  would,  il 
he  could  get  at  them  ;  but,  thank  God,  I've 
put  every  man  of  them  beyond  his  reach." 

"  You  did  !  and  pray,  now,  why,  may  I  ask, 
did  that  hajDpen  ?  " 

"  Bekaise  it  came  to  my  ears  that  it  was 
his  intention  to  inform  against  them,  and  to 
surrender  them  all  to  the  Government." 

"  Well,  Reilly,  after  all,  I  beheve  you  to  be 


WILLY  liElLLi 


133 


fln  honest  fellow,  even  although  you  were 
once  a  robber  ;  but  the  question  now  is,  what 
is  to  be  done  ?  Are  you  sui-e  of  his  where- 
abouts ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  sir  ;  or,  if  I  am  not,  I  know 
one  that  is.  But  I  have  an  observation  to 
make.  You  know,  sir,  I  would  a'  gone  abroad, 
a  freeman  before  this  time,  only  that  it's  neces- 
Bary  I  should  still  keep  on  my  disguise,  in 
oixlher  that  I  may  move  about  as  I  wish  until 
I  secure  this  Red  Rajjpai-ee.  After  that,  sir, 
please  God,  I'll  taste  a  mouthful  of  freedom. 
In  the  meantime  I  know  one,  as  I  said,  that 
will  enable  us  to  make  sure  of  him." 

"  Pray,  who  is  that  ?  " 

"  Tom  Steeple,  sir." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  poor  fool  of  that  name 
— or  rather,  I  believe,  of  that  nickname  ?  " 

"  I  do,  sir  ;  and  in  many  things  he's  less 
of  a  fool  than  wiser  men.  He  has  been  dodg- 
in'  him  for  the  last  two  or  three  days  ;  and 
he's  a  person  that  no  one  would  ever  susj^ect, 
unless,  indeed,  the  cautious  and  practised 
Rtipparees  ;  but  in  ordher  to  meet  any  such 
suspicion,  I  have  got  i;pon  the  right  trail  my- 
self —we're  sure  of  him  now,  I  think." 

"Well,  ReiUy,"  proceeded  the  sheriff,  "I 
leave  the  management  of  the  captui'e  of  this 
man  to  yourself.  You  shall  have  a  strong 
and  determined  party  to  sujoport  you.  Do 
you  only  show  them  the  man,  and,  take  my 
word  for  it,  they  will  secure  the  robber. 
After  this  affair  is  over  you  must  thi'ow  off 
those  rags.  I  will  furnish  you  with  decent 
clothes,  and  you  can  go  out  at  large  'v^ithout 
fear  or  risk,  and  that  under  your  own  name 
too.  I  took  your  hint,  and  dechned  swear- 
ing the  informations  against  him  before  the 
old  squire,  as  I  had  intended,  from  an  ap- 
prehension that  he  might  possibly  blab  the 
fact  to  Whitecraft,  who,  if  your  information 
be  correct,  would  have  given  him  notice  to 
fly,  or  otherwise  concealed  him  from  jus- 
tice." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Reilly,  "it's  my  opinion 
that  the  Rapparee  -svill  lodge  in  Sligo  jail  be- 
fore to-morrow  mornin' ;  and  it's  a  thousand 
pities  that  Whitecraft  shouldn't  be  sent  there 
to  keep  him  companj^" 

"  He  certainly  is  the  most  unpopular  man 
Hving.  In  the  exuberance  of  his  loyalty  he 
has  contrived  to  offend  almost  every  liberal 
Protestant  in  the  county,  and  that  with  an 
unjustifiable  degree  of  wanton  and  overbear- 
ing insolence,  arising  from  his  consciousness 
of  impunity.  However,  thank  God,  his  day 
is  gone  by.  But,  mark  me,  Reilly — I  had  al- 
most forgotten — don't  neglect  to  secure  the 
clothes  in  which  the  villain  robbed  me  ;  they 
will  be  impoi'tant." 

"I  had  no  intention  of  forgetting  them, 
Bii'  ;  and  that  scheme  for  throwing  the  guilt 


of  his  own  villany  on  Mr.  Reilly  is  anothei 
reason  why  I  appear  against  him." 

It  was  not,  indeed,  very  easy  for  the  Rap- 
paree to  escape.  Whitecraft  got  home  safe, 
a  little  before  dusk,  after  putting  his  unfortu- 
nate horse  to  more  than  his  natural  speed. 
On  his  arrival  he  ordered  wine  to  be  brought, 
and  sat  down  to  meditate  upon  the  most 
feasible  plan  for  reinstating  himself  in  the 
good  graces  of  the  new  Government.  After 
pondering  over  many  speculations  to  that 
effect,  it  occurred  to  him  that  to  secure  the 
RapjDaree,  now  that  he  could,  as  an  agent 
and  a  guide,  be  of  no  further  use  to  him,  was 
the  most  hkely  procedure  to  effect  his  pur- 
l^ose.  He  accordingly  rang  for  his  usual  at- 
tendant, and  asked  him  if  he  knew  where 
O'Donnel  was.  The  man  replied  that  he  was 
generally  in  or  about  Mary  Mahon's. 

" Then,"  proceeded  his  master,  "let  him 
be  with  me  to-morrow  morning  at  eleven 
o'clock." 

"If  I  see  him,  sii*,  I  shall  tell  him." 

"  And  say  that  I  have  something  to  his 
advantage  to  mention  to  him." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  I  shan't  forget  it." 

"  Now,"  said  he,  after  the  seiwant  had 
withdrawn,  and  taking  a  bumper  of  wine, 
"  I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  I  feel  very  uii- 
comfortable  somehow.  I  certaintly  did  not 
expect  a  change  in  the  Administration,  nor 
a  relaxation  in  the  carrying  out  of  the  laws 
against  Papists  ;  and,  under  this  impression, 
I  fear  I  have  gone  too  far,  and  that  I  may  be 
brought  over  the  coals  for  my  conduct.  I 
understand  that  the  old  French  Ahhe  is  re- 
turned, and  once  more  a  resident  in  the 
family  of  that  cursed  marquis.  I  think,  by 
the  way,  I  should  go  and  apologize  to  both 
the  marquis  and  the  Ahhe,  and  thi'ow  the 
blame  of  my  own  violence  upon  the  conduct 
and  instructions  of  the  last  Government ; 
that,  and  the  giving  up  of  this  ruffianly 
Rapparee  to  the  j)resent,  may  do  something 
for  me.  This  country,  however,  nov/  that 
matters  have  taken  such  an  unexpected  tvuTi, 
shall  not  long  be  my  place  of  residence.  As 
for  ReiUy,  my  marriage  on  the  day  after  to- 
morrow with  that  stubborn  beauty,  Helen 
FoUiard,  will  place  an  impassable  barrier  be- 
tween lum  and  her.  I  am  glad  he  has  es- 
caped, for  he  will  not  be  in  our  way,  and 
we  shall  start  for  my  Enghsh  estates  im- 
mediately after  the  ceremony.  To-moiTOw, 
however,  I  shall  secffre  the  Rapparee,  and 
hand  him  over  to  the  authorities.  I  could 
have  wished  to  hang  Reilly,  but  now  it  is 
impossible  ;  still,  we  shall  start  for  England 
immediately  after  the  nujitial  knot  is  tied, 
for  I  don't  think  I  could  consider  mysell 
safe,  now  that  he  is  at  large,  and  at  Uberty 
to  appeal*  in  his  proper  name  and  person, 


13i 


WILLIAM    CARLETOK'S   WORKS. 


especially  after  all  the  mischief  I  have  done 
him,  in  addition  to  the  fact  of  mv  bearing 
ftway  his  Cooleen  Bawn,  as  she  is  called." 

In  fact,  the  man's  mind  was  a  turbid  chaos 
of  reflections  upon  the  past  and  the  futm-e, 
in  which  sellisluiess,  disappointed  vengeance, 
terror,  hypocritical  policy,  and  every  feehng 
that  could  fill  the  imagination  of  a  man 
possessed  of  a  vacillating,  cowardty,  and 
cruel  heart,  with  the  exception  only  of  an}' 
thing  that  could  border  upon  penitence  or  re- 
morse. That  Miss  Folliard  was  not  indif- 
ferent to  him  is  true  ;  but  the  feeling  which 
he  experienced  towards  her  contained  only 
two  elements — sensuality  and  avance.  Of 
love,  in  its  purest,  highest,  and  holiest  sense, 
he  Avas  utterly  incapable  ;  and  he  was  not 
ignorant  himself  that,  in  the  foul  attachment 
which  he  bore  her,  he  was  only  carrying 
into  effect  the  princij^les  of  his  previous  life 
— those  of  a  private  debauchee,  and  a  miser. 
That  amiable,  but  iinhaiDpy  and  distracted, 
lady  spent  that  whole  evening  in  making 
preparations  for  her  flight  with  Eeilly.  Her 
manner  was  wild  and  excited  ;  indeed,  so 
much  so  that  the  presence  of  mind  and  cool 
good  sense,  for  which  her  maid  Connor  was 
remarkable,  were  scarcely  sufficient  to  guide 
and  dii-ect  her  in  this  distressing  emergency. 
She  seemed  to  be  absorbed  by  but  one 
thought,  and  that  was  of  her  father.  His 
affection  for  her  enlarged  and  exj)anded  it- 
self in  her  loving  heart,  with  a  force  and 
tenderness  that  nearly  drove  her  into  de- 
lirium. Connor,  in  the  meantime,  got  all 
things  read}',  she  herself  having  entrusted 
the  management  of  every  thing  to  her.  The 
unhappy  girl  paced  to  and  fi*o  her  room, 
sobbing  and  weeping  bitterly,  wringing  her 
hands,  and  exclaiming  from  time  to  time  : 

"  Oh,  my  father !  my  dear  and  loving 
father !  is  this  the  return  I  am  making  you 
for  your  tenderness  and  affection  ?  what  am 
I  about  to  do?  what  steps  am  I  going  to 
take  ?  to  leave  you  desolate,  with  no  heart 
for  yours  to  repose  upon  !  Alas  !  there  was 
but  one  heart  that  you  cared  for,  and  in  the 
duty  and  affection  of  that  all  yoiu'  hopes  for 
my  happiness  lay  ;  and  now,  when  you  awake, 
you  will  find  that  that  heart,  the  very  heart 
on  which  you  rested,  has  deserted  you  ! 
When  you  come  down  to  breakfast  in  the 
morning,  and  find  that  j'our  owti  Helen, 
your  only  one,  has  gone— oh  !  who  will  sus- 
tain, or  soothe,  or  calm  you  in  the  i'rcnzi^l 
gi'ief  of  your  desolation  ?  But  alas !  what 
can  I  do  but  escape  from  that  cowardly  and 
vindictive  villain — the  very  incarnation  of 
oppression  and  jDersecution  ;  the  hypocrite, 
the  secret  debauchee,  the  mean,  the  dastai'dly, 
whose  inhuman  ambition  was  based  upon 
and  nurtured  by  blood  ?    Alas  !  I  have  but 


the  one  remedy  —  flight  with  my  noble« 
minded  lover,  whom  that  dastardly  villsiin 
would  have  lumted,  even  to  his  murder,  or 
an  ignominious  death,  which  would  have 
been  worse.  This  flight  is  not  spontaneously 
mine  ;  I  am  forced  to  it,  and  of  two  evils  I 
will  choose  the  least ;  surely  I  am  not  bound 
to  seal  my  own  misery  forever." 

Connor  had  by  this  time  attempted,  as  far 
as  she  could,  to  disguise  her  in  one  of  her 
oAvn  dresses  ;  but  nothing  could  conceal  the 
elegance  and  exquisite  proportion  of  her 
figui'e,  nor  the  ladylike  harmony  and  grace  ol 
her  motions.  She  then  went  to  the  oaken 
cabinet,  mentioned  by  her  father  in  the  open- 
ing of  our  narrative,  and  as  she  always  had 
the  key  of  that  portion  of  it  which  contained 
her  ovm  diamonds,  and  other  property,  she 
took  a  casket  of  jewels  of  immense  value 
from  it,  and  returned  to  her  room,  where  she 
found  Connor  before  her. 

"  Mr.  Eeilly  is  ready,  miss,"  she  said,  "  and 
is  waiting  for  you  behind  the  garden  ;  the 
only  one  I  dread  in  the  house  is  Andy  Cum- 
miskey  ;  he  is  so  much  attached  to  the  mas- 
ter that  I  think  if  he  knew  you  were  about 
to  escape  he  would  tell  him." 

"Well,  Connor,  we  must  only  avoid  him 
as  well  as  we  can  ;  but  where,  or  how,  shaE 
I  carry  these  jewels  ?  in  these  slight  pockets 
of  yours,  Connor,  they  could  not  be  safe." 

"  Well,  then,  can't  you  give  them  to  him 
to  keep,  and  they'll  be  safe  ?  " 

"  True,  Connor,  so  they  will ;  but  I  give 
him  a  heart  which  he  prizes  above  them  all. 
But,  alas !  my  father !  oh !  Connor,  shall  ] 
abandon  him  ?  " 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself,  my  dear  Miss 
Folliard  ;  your  father  loves  yoii  too  much  to 
hold  out  his  anger  against  you  long.  Did 
you  not  tell  me  that  if  Reilly  was  a  Protestant 
your  father  siid  he  would  rather  marry  you 
to  him  than  to  Sir  Eobert,  the  villain,  with 
all  his  wealth  ?  " 

"  I  did,  Connor,  and  my  father  certainly 
said  so  ;  but  the  serpent,  Connor,  ent^vined 
himself  about  the  poor  credulous  man,  and 
succeeded  in  embittering  him  against  Eeilly, 
who  would  rather  go  to  the  scaffold — yes, 
and — which  he  would  consider  a  greater  sac- 
rifice— rather  abandon  even  me  than  his  re- 
ligion. And  do  you  think,  Connor,  that  I  do 
not  love  my  noble-minded  Eeilly  the  more 
deeply  for  this  ?  I  tell  you,  Connor,  that  if 
he  renounced  his  religion  ujDon  no  other 
principle  than  his  love  for  me,  I  should  de- 
spise him  as  a  dishonorable  man,  to  whom 
it  would  not  be  safe  for  me  to  entrust  my 
happiness." 

"  Well,  well ;  but  now  it  is  time  to  start, 
and  Eeilly,  as  I  said,  is  waiting  for  you  be 
hind  the  erai'den." 


WILLY  RKILLY. 


13a 


"  Oh,  Connor,  and  is  it  come  to  this  ?  my 
dear  jjapa !  but  I  cannot  go  until  I  see  him  ; 
no,  Connor,  I  could  not  ;  I  shall  go  quietly 
into  his  room,  and  take  one  look  at  him  ; 
probably  it  may  be  the  lad.  Oh,  my  God  ! 
what  am  I  about  to  do  !  Connor,  keep  this 
casket  until  I  return  ;  I  shall  not  be  long." 

She  then  went  to  his  chambei*.  The  blinds 
and  curtains  of  the  windows  had  not  been 
dra\\ai,  and  it  occurred  to  her  that  as  her 
dress  was  so  dili'erent  from  any  which  her 
father  had  ever  seen  on  her,  some  suspicion 
might  be  created  should  he  observe  it.  She 
therefore  left  the  candlestick  which  she  had 
brought  with  her  on  the  inside  sill  of  a  lobby 
window,  having  observed  at  the  door  that 
the  moonlight  streamed  in  through  the  win- 
dows upon  his  bed.  Judge  of  her  conster- 
nation, however,  when,  on  entering  the  room, 
her  father,  turning  himself  in  the  bed,  asked  : 

"  Is  that  Helen  ?  " 

"  It  is,  papa ;  I  thought  3'ou  had  been 
asleejD,  and  I  came  up  to  steal  m}^  good-night 
kiss  without  any  intention  of  awakening 
you." 

"  I  drank  too  much,  Helen,  with  Wliite- 
craft,  whom  wine — my  Biu'gundy — instead 
of  warming,  seems  to  tui'n  into  an  icicle. 
However,  he  is  a  devilish  shrewd  fellow. 
Helen,  darhng,  there's  a  jug  of  water  on  the 
table  there  ;  will  you  hand  it  to  me  ;  I'm  all 
in  a  flame  and  a  fever." 

She  did  so,  and  her  hand  trembled  so  much 
that  she  was  near  spilling  it.  He  took  a  long 
draught,  after  which  he  smacked  his  hps,  and 
seemed  to  breathe  more  fi'eely. 

"Helen,"  said  he. 

"WeU,  dear  papa." 

"Helen,  I  had  something  to  mention  to 
you,  but — " 

"Don't  disturb  yourself  to-night,  papa; 
you  are  somewhat  feverish,"  she  added,  feel- 
ing his  pulse ;  if  you  Avill  excuse  me,  papa, 
I  think  you  drank  too  much  ;  your  pulse  is 
very  quick  ;  if  you  could  fall  into  rest  again 
it  would  be  better  for  you." 

"  Yes,  it  would  ;  but  my  mind  is  uneasy 
and  sorrowful.  Helen,  I  thought  you  loved 
me,  my  dai-ling." 

"  Oh,  could  3'ou  doubt  it,  papa  ?  You  see 
I  am  come  as  usual — no,  not  as  usual,  either 
— to  kiss  you  ;  I  will  place  my  cheek  against 
yours,  as  I  used  to  do,  dear  papa,  and  you 
will  allow  me  to  weep — to  weep — and  to  say 
that  never  father  deseiwed  the  love  of  a 
laughter  as  you  have  deserved  mine  ;  and 
never  did  daughter  love  an  aftectionate  and 
indulgent  father  more  tenderly  than  your 
Cooleen  Baum  does  you." 

"  I  know  it,  Helen,  I  know  it ;  your  whole 
life  has  been  a  proof  of  it,  and  will  be  a  proof 
of  it ;  I  know  you  have  no  other  object  in 


this  world  than  to  make  papa  happy  ;  I  kno-v* 
I  feel  that  you  are  great-minded  enough  to 
saciihce  everything  to  that." 

"Well,  but,  jwpa,"  she  continued,  "for  all 
my  former  ofl'ences  against  you  will  you  pity 
and  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  both,  you  foolish  darhng  ;  but  what 
makes  you  speak  so  ?  " 

"  Because  I  feel  melancholy  to-night,  papa ; 
and  now,  papa,  if  ever  I  should  do  any  thing 
wrong,  won't  3'ou  pity  and  forgive  3'our  own 
Cooleen  Baicn  ?  " 

"  Get  along,  you  gipsy — don't  be  crying. 
What  could  you  do  that  papa  wouldn't  for- 
give you,  unless  to  run  away  with  Eeilly? 
Don't  you  know  that  you  can  wind  me  round 
your  finger  ?  " 

"Farewell,  papa,"  she  said,  weeping  all  the 
time,  for,  in  truth,  she  found  it  impossible 
to  control  herself ;  "  farewell — good  night ! 
and  remember  that  you  may  have  a  great 
deal  to  forgive  your  own  Cooleen  Baton  some 
of  these  days." 

On  leaving  the  bedroom,  where  she  was 
hurried  by  her  feehngs  into  this  indiscreet 
dialogue,  she  found  herself  nearly  incapable 
of  walking  without  support.  The  conten  ding 
affections  for  her  father  and  her  lover  had 
nearly  overcome  her.  By  the  aid  of  the  stair- 
case she  got  to  her  own  room,  where  she  w  s 
met  by  Connor,  into  whose  arms  she  _^'ll 
almost  helpless. 

"  All,  Connor,"  she  said,  alluding  to  hei 
father,  whom  she  could  not  trust  herself  to 
name,  "  to-morrow  morning  what  will  become 
of  him  when  he  finds  that  I  am  gone  ?  But 
I  know  his  affectionate  heart.  He  will  relent 
— he  will  relent  for  the  sake  of  his  own  Cooleen 
Bawn.  The  laws  against  Catholics  are  now 
relaxed,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  But  I  have  one 
consolation,  my  dear  girl,  that  I  am  trusting 
myself  to  a  man  of  honor.  We  will  pi-oceed 
directly  to  the  Continent — that  is,  if  no  ca- 
lamitous occurrence  should  take  place  to  pi'O- 
vent  us  ;  and  there,  after  our  nuptials  shall 
have  been  duly  celebrated,  I  will  live  hapjiy 
with  Reilly — that  is,  Connor,  as  hap])y  as 
absence  fi-om  my  dear  father  v.dll  permit  me 
— and  Eeilly  will  hve  happy,  and,  at  least, 
fi-ee  from  the  persecution  of  bad  laws,  and 
such  villains  as  base  and  vindictive  ^Mlite- 
craft.  You,  Connor,  must  accompany'  me  to 
the  back  of  the  garden,  and  see  me  off.  Take 
this  purse,  Connor,  as  some  compensation  for 
your  tiiith  and  the  loss  of  your  situation." 

It  was  now,  when  the  moment  of  separation 
approached,  that  Connor's  tears  began  to 
flow,  far  less  at  the  generosity  of  her  mistress 
than  her  aft'ection,  and  that  which  she  looked 
upon  as  probably  theii'  final  separation. 

"Deal*  Connor,"  said  her  mistress.  "T 
would  expect  that  support  to  my  break  in'.; 


i36 


^ILL/AM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


heart  whicli  I  have  hitherto  experienced  from 
you.  Be  firm  now,  for  you  see  /  am  not  firm, 
and  your  tears  only  render  me  less  adequate 
to  encounter  the  unknovm  vicissitudes  which 
he  before  me." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  be  firm,  my  dear  mis- 
tress ;  and  I  tell  you  that  if  there  is  a  God  in 
heaven  that  rewards  virtue  and  goodness 
like  yours,  you  will  be  happy  yet.  Come, 
now,  he  is  waiting  for  you,  and  the  less  time 
we  lose  the  better.  We  shall  go  out  by  the 
back  way — it  is  the  safest." 

They  accordingly  did  so,  and  had  nearly 
reached  the  back  wall  of  the  garden  w^hen 
they  met  Malcomson  and  Cummiskey,  on 
their  way  into  the  kitchen,  in  order  to  have  a 
mug  of  strong  ale  together.  The  two  men, 
on  seeing  the  females  approach,  withdrew  to 
the  shelter  of  a  clump  of  trees,  but  not  until 
they  were  known  by  Connor. 

"  Come,  my  deai*  mistress,"  she  whispered, 
"  there  is  not  one  second  of  time  to  be  lost. 
Cummiskey,  who  is  a  Catholic,  might  over- 
look our  being  here  at  this  hour ;  because, 
although  he  is  rather  in  the  hght  of  a  fi'iend 
than  a  servant  to  your  father,  still  he  is  a 
friend  to  Reilly  as  well ;  but  as  for  that  ugly 
Scotchman,  that  is  nothing  but  bone  and 
skin,  I  would  place  no  deiDendence  whatever 
jpon  him." 

We  %A"ill  not  describe  the  meeting  between 
ReiUy  and  the  Cooleen  Baton.  They  had  no 
time  to  lose  in  the  tender  expressions  of  their 
feelings.  Each  shook  hands  with,  and  bid 
farewell  to,  poor  affectionate  Connor,  who 
was  now  drowned  in  tears  ;  and  thus  they 
set  off,  with  a  view  of  leaving  the  kingdom, 
and  getting  themselves  legally  married  in 
Holland,  where  they  intended  to  reside. 


CHAPTER  XX.* 

J%e  Ra/pparee  Secured — Reilly  and  the  Cooleen  Baton 
Eisco/pe,  and  are  Cuptiired. 


are  ( 
3riva 


CuMJiiSKEY  had  a  private  and  comfortable 
room  of  his  own,  to  which  he  and  the  cannie 
Scotchman  j^roceeded,  after  having  ordered 
from  the  butler  a  tankard  of  strong  ale. 
There  was  a  cheerful  fire  in  the  gi-ate,  and 
when  the  tankard  and  glasses  were  placed 
upon  the  table  the  Scotchman  obsen-ed  : 

"De'il  be  fi'ae  my  saul,  maisther  Cummis- 
key, but  ye're  vera  comfortable  here." 

"Wliy,  in  troth,  I  can't  complain,  Mr. 
Malcomson  ;  here's  your  health,  su',  and 
after  that  we  must  drink  another." 

"Mony  thanks,  Andrew." 

"  Hang  it,  I'm  not  Andrew  ;  that  sounds 
'iice  Scotch  ;  I'm  Andy,  man  aUve." 


"Week  mony  thanks,  Andy  ;  but  for  the 
maitter  o'  that,  what  the  de'il  waur  wad  it  be 
gin  it  were  Scotch  ?  " 

"  Bekaise  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  considered 
a  Scotchman,  somehow." 

"  Weel,  Andrew — Andy — I  do  just  supposa 
as  muckle  ;  gin  ye  war  considered  Scotch, 
muckle  more  might  be  expeck'  fi'ae  you 
than,  being  an  Iiisher  as  jon  are,  you  could 
be  prepared  to  answer  to  ;  whereas — " 

"Why,  hang  it,  man  alive,  we  can  give 
three  answers  for  your  one." 

"  Weel,  but  how  is  that  now,  Andy  ? 
Here's  to  ye  in  the  meantime  ;  and  'am  no 
sayin'  but  this  yill  is  just  richt  gude  drink  ; 
it  warms  the  jjit  o'  the  stamach,  man." 

"  You  mane  by  that  the  pit  o'  the  stomach, 
I  sujDjJose." 

"  Ay,  just  that." 

"  Troth,  ]VIr.  jMalcomson,  you  Scotchera 
bring  everything  to  the  pit  o'  the  stomach — 
no,  begad,  I  ax  yoiu'  jDardon,  for  although  you 
take  care  of  the  pratie  bag,  you  don't  forget 
the  pocket." 

"  And  what  for  no,  Andy  ?  why  the  de'il 
war  pockets  made,  gin  they  wama  to  be 
fiUed  ?  but  how  hae  ye  Iiishers  three  answers 
for  our  ane  ?  " 

"  Why,  first  with  our  tongue  ;  and  even 
with  that  we  bate  ye — flog  3'ou  hollow.  You 
Scotchmen  take  so  much  time  in  givin'  an 
answer  that  an  Iiishman  could  say  his  pat- 
therin  aves  before  you  spake.  You  think 
first  and  spake  aftherwards,  and  come  out  in 
sich  a  wa}'  that  one  would  suppose  you  say 
gi'ace  for  every  word  you  do  spake ;  but  it 
isn't  '  for  what  we  are  to  receive  '  3'ou  ought 
to  say  '  may  the  Lord  make  us  thankful,'  but 
for  what  we  are  to  lose — that  is,  your  Scotch 
nonsense  ;  and,  in  troth,  we  ought  to  be 
thankful  for  losin'  it." 

"  W^eel,  man,  here's  to  ye,  Andy — ou,  man, 
but  this  yiU  is  exti-aordinar'  gude." 

"  Why,"  rejDlied  Andy,  who,  by  the  way, 
seldom  went  sober  to  bed,  and  who  was  even 
now  nearly  three  sheets  in  the  mnd,  "  it  is, 
Mr.  Malcomson,  the  right  stuff.  But,  as  I  was 
sayin',  you  Scotchmen  think  first  and  spake 
afther — one  of  the  most  unlucky  practices 
that  ever  anybody  had.  Now,  don't  you 
see  the  advantage  that  the  Ii-ishman  has  over 
you  ;  he  sjDakes  first  and  thinks  aftherwards, 
and  then,  you  know,  it  gives  him  plenty  of 
time  to  think — here's  God  bless  us  ad,  any- 
how— but  that's  the  way  an  Irishman  bates 
a  Scotchman  in  givin'  an  answer ;  for  if  he 
fails  by  word  o'  mouth,  why,  whatever  he's 
deficient  in  he  makes  up  by  the  fist  or  cudgel  ; 
and  there's  oxir  three  Iiish  answers  for  one 
Scotch." 

"  Weel,  man,  a'  richt — a'  richt — we  winna 
quarrel  aboot  it ;  but  I  thocht  ye  promised 


WILLY  LtKlLLl 


137 


to  gie  us  another  toast — de'il  be  frae  my 
saul,  man,  but  I'll  drink  as  mony  as  you  like 
wisiccan  liquor  as  this." 

"  Ay,  troth,  I  did  say  so,  and  devil  a  thing 
but  your  Scotch  nonsense  put  it  out  o'  my 
head.  And  now,  Mi*.  Mtilcomson,  let  me 
advise  you,  as  a  friend,  never  to  attempt  to 
have  the  whole  conversation  to  yourself ;  it 
isn't  daicent." 

"  Weel,  but  the  toast,  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ay  ;  troth,  your  nonsense  would  put 
any  thing  out  of  a  man's  head.  Well,  you 
see  this  comfortable  room  ?  " 

"  Ou,  ay  ;  an  vara  comfortable  it  is  ;  ma 
faith,  I  wuss  I  had  ane  hke  it.  The  auld 
squii-e,  however,  talks  o'  buildin'  a  new  ger- 
den-hoose." 

"Well,  then,  fill  your  bumper.  Here's  to 
her  that  got  me  this  room,  and  had  it  fur- 
nished as  you  see,  in  order  that  I  might  be 
at  my  aise  in  it  for  the  remaindher  o'  my 
^  hfe — I  mane  the  Cooleen  Baxon — the  Lily  of 
the  Plains  of  Boyle.  Come,  now,  off  "odth  it ; 
and  if  you  take  it  from  your  lantern  jaws 
till  it's  finished,  di\il  a  wet  Hp  ever  I'll  give 

you." 

The  Scotchman  was  not  indisposed  to 
honor  the  toast ;  first,  because  the  ale  was 
both  strong  and  mellow,  and  secondly, 
because  the  Cooleen  Bawn  was  a  gTeat  favorite 
of  his,  in  consequence  of  the  deference  she 
paid  to  him  as  a  botanist. 

"  Eh,  sirs,"  he  exclaimed,  after  finishing 
his  bumper,  "  but  she's  a  bounie  lassie  that, 
and  as  gude  as  she's  bonnie — and  de'il  a 
higher  comj^hment  she  could  get,  I  think. 
But,  Andy,  man,  don't  they  talk  some  clash 
and  havers  anent  her  predilection  for  that 
weel-farrant  callan,  Reilly  ?  " 

"Ah,  my  poor  girl,"  rephed  Cummiskey, 
shaking  his  head  soiTOwfully  ;  "I  pity  her 
there  ;  but  the  thing's  impossible — they  can't 
be  man-ied — the  law  is  against  them." 

"  Weel,  And}',  they  must  e'en  thole  it ; 
but  'am  thinkin'  they'll  just  break  bounds  at 
last,  an'  tak'  the  law,  as  you  Irish  do,  into 
their  aiu  hands." 

"  What  do  you  mane  by  that  ? "  asked 
Andy,  whose  temper  began  to  get  warm  by 
the  observation. 

"  Ah,  man,"  rephed  the  Scotchman,  "  dinna 
let  your  bu'ses  rise  at  that  gate.  Noo, 
there's  the  filbert  trees,  ma  friend,  of  whilk 
ane  is  male  and  the  titlier  female  ;  and  the 
upshot  e'en  is,  Andy,  that  de'il  a  pickle  o' 
fruit  ever  the  female  produces  until  there's 
a  braw  halesome  male  tree  planted  in  the 
same  gerden.  But,  ou,  man,  Andy,  wasna 
yon  she  and  that  bonnie  jaud,  Connor,  that 
we  met  the  noo  ?  De'il  be  fi-ae  my  saul,  but 
I  jalouse  she's  aff  wi'  him  this  vara  nicht." 

"  Oh,    dear,    no ! "    rephed    Cummiskey, 


starting  ;  "  that  would  kill  her  father  ;  and 
yet  there  must  be  something  in  it,  or  what 
would  bring  them  there  at  such  an  hour  ? 
He  and  she  may  love  one  another  as  much 
as  they  like,  but  /  must  think  of  my  mas- 
ther." 

"  In  that  case,  then,  our  best  plan  is  to  gi& 
the  alarm." 

"Hould,"  rephed  Andy;  "let  us  be 
cautious.  They  wouldn't  go  on  foot,  I  think  ; 
and  before  we  rise  a  ruction  in  the  house, 
let  us  find  out  whether  she  has  made  off  or 
not.  Sit  you  here,  and  I'll  try  to  see  Con- 
nor, her  maid." 

"  Ah,  but,  Andy,  man,  it's  no  just  that 
pleasant  to  sit  here  dry-Hpped  ;  the  tankard's 
oot,  ye  ken." 

"  Divil  tankard  the  Scotch  sowl  o' you — 
who  do  you  suppose  could  think  of  a  tank- 
ard, or  any  thing  else,  if  what  we  suspect 
has  happened  ?     It  will  kill  him." 

He  then  proceeded  to  look  for  Connor, 
whom  be  met  in  tears,  which  she  was  utterly 
unable  to  conceal. 

"Well,  Miss  Connor,"  he  asked,  "what's 
the  matther  ?     You're  crj'in',  I  persave." 

"Ah,  Cummiskey,  my  mistress  is  unweU." 

"  Unwell !  why  she  wasn't  unwell  a  while 
ago,  when  the  gardener  and  I  met  her  and 
you  on  your  way  to  the  back  o'  the  garden." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  rephed  Connor  ;  "I  forced  her 
to  come  out,  to  try  what  a  httle  cool  air 
might  do  for  her." 

"  Ay,  but,  Connor,  did  you  force  her  to 
come  in  again  ?  " 

"  Force !  there  was  no  force  necessary, 
Cummiskey.  She's  now  in  her  own  room, 
quite  ill." 

"  Oh,  then,  if  she's  quite  ill,  it's  right  thai 
her  father  should  know  it,  in  ordher  that  a 
docther  may  be  sent  for." 

"  Ah,  but  she's  now  asleep,  Cummiskey^ 
that  sleep  may  set  her  to  rights  ;  she  maj 
waken  quite  recovered  ;  but  you  know  i1 
might  be  dangerous  to  disturb  her." 

"Ah,  I  beheve  you,"  he  rephed,  dissem- 
bhng  ;  for  he  saw  at  once,  by  Connor's  agi- 
tated manner,  that  every  word  she  uttered 
was  a  he  ;  "  the  sleep  will  be  good  for  her, 
the  darhn' ;  but  take  care  of  her,  Connor,  for 
the  masther's  sake  ;  for  what  would  become 
of  him  if  any  thing  hajDpened  her?  You 
know  that  if  she  died  he  wouldn't  live  a 
week." 

"That's  true,  indeed,"  she  rephed  ;  "  and 
if  she  get's  worse,  Cummiskey,  I'll  let  the 
master  know." 

"That's  a  good  girl ;  ma  gragal  that  you 
war — good-by,  acushla,"  and  he  immediately 
returned  to  his  own  room,  after  having  ob- 
served that  Connor  went  down  to  the  kit- 
chen. 


138 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Now,  Mr.  IMalcomson,"  said  he,  "  there 
is  a  good  fire  before  you.  I  ax  your  pardon 
— just  sit  iu  the  hght  of  it  for  a  minute  or 
so  ;  I  want  this  candle." 

"  'Am  savin',  Andy,  gin  ye  haud  awa  to  the 
kitchen,  it  Avadna  be  a  crime  to  send  up 
anithex-  tankard  o'  that  yill." 

To  this  the  other  made  no  reply,  but 
Valked  out  of  the  room,  and  very  deliberate- 
ly proceeded  to  that  of  Helen.  The  door 
was  open,  the  bed  uuslept  upon,  the  window- 
curtains  undrawn  ;  in  fact,  the  room  was 
tenantless,  Connor  a  liar  and  an  accomplice, 
and  the  suspicions  of  himself  and  Malcomson 
well  founded.  He  then  followed  Connor  to 
the  kitchen  ;  but  she  too  had  disappeared, 
or  at  least  hid  herself  from  him.  He  then 
desired  the  other  female  sei^ants  to  ascertain 
whether  Miss'  FoUiard  was  within  or  not, 
giving  it  as  his  opinion  that  she  had  eloped 
with  Willy  Reilly.  The  uproar  then  com- 
menced, the  house  w^as  searched,  but  no 
Cooleen  Haion  was  found.  Cummiskey  him- 
self remained  comparatively  tranc]uil,  but 
his  tranquilhty  was  neither  more  nor  less  than 
an  inexi^ressible  sorrow  for  what  he  knew 
the  affectionate  old  man  mvist  suffer  for  the 
idol  of  his  heart,  upon  whom  he  doted  with 
such  unexampled  tenderness  and  affection. 
On  ascertaining  that  she  was  not  in  the 
house,  he  went  upstairs  to  his  master's  bed- 
room, haAdng  the  candlestick  in  his  hand, 
and  tapped  at  the  door.  There  was  no  reply 
from  within,  and  on  his  entering  he  found 
the  old  man  asleep.  The  case,  however, 
was  one  that  admitted  of  no  delay  ;  but  he 
felt  that  to  communicate  the  melancholy 
tidings  was  a  fearful  task,  and  he  scarcely 
knew  in  what  words  to  shape  the  event  which 
had  occurred.  At  length  he  stm-ed  him 
gently,  and  the  old  man,  haK  asleep,  ex- 
claimed : 

"Good -night,  Helen  —  good -night,  dar- 
ling !  I  am  not  well  ;  I  had  something  to 
tell  you  about  the  discovery  of — but  I  will 
let  you  know  it  to-morrow  at  breakfast.  For 
your  sake  I  shall  let  him  escajDe  :  there  now, 
go  to  bed,  my  love." 

"  Sir,"  said  Cummiskey,  "  I  hope  you'll 
excuse  me  for  disturbing  vou." 

"What?  who?  who's  there?  I  thought 
it  was  my  daughter." 

"No,  sir,  I  wish  it  was;  I'm  come  to  tell 
you  that  Miss  Folhard  can't  be  found  :  we 
have  searched  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
house  to  no  purpose  :  wherever  she  is,  she's 
not  undher  this  roof.  I  came  to  tell  you  so, 
and  to  bid  you  get  up,  that  we  may  see 
what's  to  be  done." 

"  What,"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up,  "  my 
child  ! — my  child — my  child  gone  !  God  of 
heaven  !     God  of  heaven,  suj)poi't  me  ! — my 


darling !  my  treasure !  my  delight ! — Oh, 
Cummiskey  ! — but  it  can't  be — to  desert  me  ! 
— to  leave  me  in  misery  and  sorrow,  broken- 
hearted, distracted  ! — she  that  was  the  prop 
of  my  tige,  that  loved  me  as  never  child  loved 
a  father !  Begone,  Cummiskey,  it  is  not  so, 
it  can't  be,  I  say  :  search  again  ;  she  is  some- 
w^here  in  the  house  ;  you  don't  know,  sirra, 
how  she  loved  me  :  why,  it  was  only  this 
night  that,  on  taking  her  good-night  kiss, 
she — ha — what  ?  what  ? — she  wept,  she  ■uept 
bitterly,  and  bade  me  farewell !  and  said — 
Here,  Cummiskey,  assist  me  to  dress.  Oh,  I 
see  it,  Cummiskey,  I  see  it !  she  is  gone ! 
she  is  gone  !  yes,  she  bade  me  farewell ;  but 
I  was  unsteady  and  unsettled  after  too  much 
drink,  and  did  not  comj^rehend  her  mean- 
mg.' 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  almost 
frantic  distraction  of  that  loving  fathei*,  who, 
as  he  said,  had  no  projD  to  lean  uiDon  but  his 
Cooleen  Baini,  for  he  himself  often  loved  to 
call  her  bj*  that  apjiellation. 

"Cummiskey,"  he  proceeded,  "we  will 
pursue  them — we  must  have  my  darling 
back :  yes,  and  I  will  forgive  her,  for  what 
is  she  but  a  child,  Cummiskey,  not  yet 
twenty'.  But  in  the  meantime  I  will  shoot 
him  dead — dead — dead — if  he  had  a  thou- 
sand lives  ;  and  from  this  night  out  I  shall 
pursue  Popery,  in  all  its  shapes  and  dis- 
guises ;  I  will  imprison  it,  transport  it,  hang 
it—  hang  it,  Cummiskey,  as  round  as  a.  hoop. 
Eing  the  bell,  and  let  Lanigan  unload,  and 
then  reload  my  pistols  ;  he  always  does  it ; 
his  father  was  my  grandfather's  gamekeeijer, 
and  he  understands  fire-arms.  Here,  though, 
help  me  on  with  my  boots  first,  and  then  I 
will  be  dressed  immediately.  After  giving 
the  pistols  to  Lanigan,  desu'e  the  grooms 
and  hostlers  to  saddle  all  the  horses  in  the 
stables.  We  must  set  out  and  pursue  them. 
It  is  possible  we  may  overtake  them  yet.  I 
will  not  level  a  pistol  against  my  cliild  ;  but, 
by  the  great  Boyne !  if  we  meet  them,  come 
uj)  with  them,  overtake  them,  his  guilty  spiiit 
wiU  stand  before  the  throne  of  judgment  thia 
night.  Go  now,  give  the  pistols  to  Lanigan, 
and  tell  him  to  reload  them  steadily." 

We  leave  them  now,  in  order  that  we  may 
follow  the  sheriff  and  his  party,  who  went  to 
secure  the  bod}^  of  the  Red  Eapjjaree.  This 
w'orthy  person,  not  at  all  aware  of  the  fiiendly 
office  which  his  j^atron,  Sir  Robert,  intended 
to  discharge  towai'ds  him,  felt  himself  quite 
safe,  and  consequently  took  very  little  pains 
to  secure  his  concealment.  Indeed,  it  could 
hardly  be  exjDected  that  he  should,  inasmuch 
as  Whitecraft  had  led  him  to  understand,  as 
we  have  said,  that  Government  had  pardoned 
him  his  social  trangTCssions,  as  a  per  contra 
for  those  poUtical  ones  which  they  stili  ex* 


V/IZ^.r  RE  ILLY. 


130 


pected  from  him.  Such  was  his  own  view  of 
the  case,  although  he  was  not  altogether 
free  fi-om  misgiving,  and  a  certain  vague 
appi'ehension.  Be  this  as  it  may,  he  had 
yet  to  learn  a  lesson  which  his  employer 
was  not  disposed  to  teach  him  by  any 
other  means  than  handing  him  over  to  the 
authorities  on  the  following  day.  How 
matters  might  have  terminated  between  him 
and  the  baronet  it  is  out  of  our  power  to  de- 
tail. The  man  was  at  all  times  desperate 
and  dreadful,  where  either  revenge  or  anger 
was  excited,  especially  as  he  labored  under 
the  superstitious  imjjression  that  he  was 
never  to  be  hanged  or  perish  by  a  violent 
death,  a  sentiment  then  by  no  means  un- 
common among  persons  of  his  outrageous 
and  desperate  life.  It  has  been  observed, 
and  with  txiith,  that  the  Irish  Eapparees  sel- 
dom indulged  in  the  habit  of  intoxication  or 
intemperance,  and  this  is  not  at  all  to  be 
wondered  at.  The  meshes  of  authority  were 
always  spread  for  them,  and  the  very  con- 
sciousness of  this  fact  sharpened  their  wits, 
and  kept  them  perpetually  on  their  guard 
against  the  possibility  of  arrest.  Nor  was 
this  all.  The  very  nature  of  the  lawless  and 
outrageous  hfe  they  led,  and  their  frequent 
exposure  to  dangei",  rendered  habits  of  cau- 
tion necessary — and  those  were  altogether 
incompatible  with  habits  of  intemperance. 
Self-preservation  rendered  this  policy  neces- 
sary, and  we  believe  there  are  but  few  in- 
stances on  record  of  a  Eaj^paree  having  been 
aiTested  in  a  state  of  intoxication.  Their 
laws,  in  fact,  however  barbarous  they  were 
in  other  matters,  rendered  three  cases  of 
drunkenness  a  cause  of  expulsion  from  the 
gang.  O'Donnel,  however,  had  now  relaxed 
from  the  rigid  observation  of  his  own  rales, 
principally  for  the  reasons  we  have  ah'eady 
stated — by  which  we  mean,  a  conviction  of 
his  own  impunity,  as  falsely  communicated 
to  him  by  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft.  The 
sheriff  had  not  at  first  intended  to  be  person- 
ally present  at  his  capture  ;  but  upon  second 
consideration  he  came  to  the  determination 
of  heading  the  party  who  were  authorized  to 
secure  him.  This  resolution  of  Oxley's  had, 
as  will  px'esently  be  seen,  a  serious  effect 
upon  the  fate  and  fortunes  of  the  Cuoleen 
Bawn  and  her  lover.  The  party,  who  were 
guided  b}'  Tom  Steeple,  did  not  go  to  Mary 
Mahon's,  but  to  a  neighborhig  cottage,  which 
was  inhabited  by  a  distant  relative  of  O'Don- 
nel. A  quarrel  had  taken  place  between  the 
fortune-teller  and  him,  arising  from  his 
jealousy  of  Sir  Robert,  which  caused  such 
an  estrangement  as  prevented  him  for  some 
time  from  visiting  her  house.  Tom  Steeple, 
however,  had  haunted  him  as  his  shadow, 
without  ever  coming  in.  contact  with  iiim  per- 


sonally, and  on  this  night  he  had  him  set  as  a 
soho  man  has  a  hare  in  her  form.  Guided, 
thei-efore,  by  tlie  intelligent  idiot  and  Fer- 
gus, the  party  reached  the  cottage  in  which 
the  Rapparee  resided.  The  house  was  in» 
stantly  surrounded  and  the  door  knocked  at, 
for  the  party  knew  that  the  man  was  inside. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman 
who  kept  the  cottage. 

"  Open  the  door  instantly,"  said  the  sher- 
iff, "or  we  shall  smash  it  in." 

"No,  I  won't,"  she  rephed  ;  "no,  I  won't, 
you  bosthoon,  whoever  you  are.  I  never 
did  nothin'  agin  the  laws,  bad  luck  to  them, 
and  I  won't  open  my  door  to  any  strolling 
vagabone  like  you." 

"  Produce  the  man  we  want,"  said  the 
sheriff,  "  or  we  shall  arrest  you  for  harbor- 
ing an  outlaw  and  a  murderer.  Your  house 
is  now  surrounded  by  mihtary,  acting  under 
the  king's  orders." 

"Give  me  time,"  said  the  crone  ;  "I  was 
at  my  jjrayers  when  you  came  to  distm-b 
me,  and  I'U  finish  them  before  I  open 
the  door,  if  you  were  to  burn  the  house 
over  my  head,  and  myself  in  it.  Up," 
said  she  to  the  Rapparee,  "through  the  roof 
— get  that  ould  table  uudher  your  feet — the 
thatch  is  thin — sHp  out  and  lie  on  the  roof 
till  they  go,  and  tlien  let  them  whistle  jigs  to 
the  larks  if  they  hke." 

The  habits  of  escape  pecuHar  to  the  Rap- 
parees  were  well  known  to  Fergus,  who 
cautioned  those  who  suxTOiinded  the  house 
to  watch  the  roof.  It  was  well  they  did  so, 
for  in  less  time  than  we  have  taken  to  de- 
scribe it  the  body  of  the  Rapparee  was  seen 
jDrojecting  itself  upwards  thi'ough  the  thin 
thatch,  and  in  an  instant  several  muskets 
were  levelled  at  him,  accompanied  by  instant 
orders  to  surrender  on  pain  of  being  shot. 
Under  such  circumstances  there  was  no  al- 
ternative, and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  hand- 
cuffed and  a  prisoner.  The  jjarty  then  pro- 
ceeded along  the  road  on  which  some  of  the 
adventures  already  recorded  in  this  narx'ative 
had  taken  place,  when  they  were  met,  at  a 
shai'p  angle  of  it,  by  Reilly  and  his  Cuoleen 
Bawn,  both  of  whom  were  alixxost  in.stantly 
recognized  by  the  shex-iff  and  his  pai'ty. 
Their  axTest  Avas  immediate. 

"Mx-.  Reilly,"  said  the  shex'iff,  "I  am  sox-x-y 
for  this.  You  must  feel  aware  that  I  neither 
am  or  ever  was  disposed  to  be  your  enemy  ; 
but  I  now  find  you  carrying  away  a  Protes- 
tant heix'ess,  the  daughter  of  my  fi'iexid, 
contx'ax-y  to  the  laws  of  the  land,  a  fact  which 
in  itself  gives  me  the  power  and  aixthox-ity  to 
take  you  into  custody,  which  I  accoi'dingly 
do  in  his  Majesty's  name.  I  owe  you  no  ill 
will,  but  in  the  meantime  you  must  return 
with  me  to  Squii'e  Folhard's  hoxise.      Mi;.-. 


140 


WILLIAM.    CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


Folliard,  you  must,  as  you  know  me  to  be 
your  father's  friend,  f^onsider  that  I  feel  it 
my  duty  to  restore  you  to  liim." 

""I  am  not  without  means  of  defence," 
rephed  Keilly,  "but  the  exercise  of  such 
means  would  be  useless.  Two  of  yom-  hves 
I  might  take  ;  but  xjours,  ]\Ii\  Sheriff,  could 
not  be  one  of  them,  and  that  you  must  feel." 

"I  feel,  IMr.  Reilly,  that  you  are  a  man  of 
honor  ;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  there  is  ample 
apology  for  youi-  conduct  in  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  the  yovmg  lady  who  accompanies 
you ;  but  I  must  also  feel  for  her  father, 
whose  bereavement,  occasioned  by  her  loss, 
would  most  assm-edly  break  his  heai't." 

Here  a  deep  panting  of  the  bosom,  ac- 
companied by  violent  solos,  was  heard  by  the 
party,  and  Coleen  Baicn  whispered  to  Reilly, 
in  avoice  nearly  stifled  by  grief  and  excite- 
ment : 

"  Dear  Reilly,  I  love  you  ;  but  it  was  mad- 
ness in  us  to  take  this  step  ;  let  me  return  to 
mv  father — only  let  me  see  him  safe?" 
'"But^^^litecraft?" 

"  Death  sooner.  ReOly,  I  am  HI,  I  am  ill ; 
this  straggle  is  too  much  for  me.  What 
shall  I  do  ?     My  head  is  swimming." 

She  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words  when 
her  father,  accompanied  by  his  servants, 
dashed  rapidly  up,  and  Cummiskey,  the  old 
htmtsman,  instantly  seized  ReOly,  exclaim- 
ing, "jNIi-.  Reilly,  we  have  you  now;"  and 
whilst  he  spoke,  his  impetuous  old  master 
dashed  his  horse  to  one  side,  and  dischai-ged 
a  pistol  at  our  hero,  and  this  failing,  he  dis- 
charged another.  Thanks  to  Lanigan,  how- 
ever, they  were  both  harmless,  that  worthy 
man  ha\ing  forgotten  to  put  in  buUets,  or 
even  as  much  powder  as  wotdd  singe  an  or- 
dinary whisker. 

"Forbeai-,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  sheriff,  ad- 
dressing Cummiskey  ;  "  unhand  j\Ir.  ReiUy. 
He  is  already  in  custody,  and  you,  'Mr.  Fol- 
liard, may  thank  God  that  you  are  not  a 
murderer  tliis  night.  As  a  father,  I  grant 
that  an  apology  may  be  made  for  your  re- 
sentment, but  not  to  the  shedding  of  blood." 

"  Lanigan  !  villain  !  treacherous  and  de- 
ceitful villain!"  shouted  the  squire,  "it  was 
your  pei-fidy  that  deprived  me  of  my  revenge. 
Begone,  you  sneaking  old  profligate,  and 
never  let  me  see  your  fape  again.  You  did 
not  load  my  pistols  as  you  ought." 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Lanigan,  "and  I  thank 
God  that  I  did  not.  It  wasn't  my  intention 
to  see  your  honor  hanged  for  murder." 

"  jVIr.  Folliard,"  obsel'^'ed  the  sheriff,  you 
ought  to  bless  God  that  gave  you  a  prudent 
servant,  who  had  too  much  conscience  to 
become  the  instrument  of  your  vengeance. 
Restrain  your  resentment  for  the  present, 
uvid  leave  Mi-.  Reilly  to  the  laws  of  his  coun- 


try. We  shall  now  proceed  to  yovu:  house, 
where,  as  a  magistrate,  you  can  commit  him 
to  prison,  and  I  will  see  the  warrant  exec  at* 
ed  this  night.  We  have  also  another  piis- 
oner  of  s.ome  celebrity,  the  Red  Raj)pai'ee." 

"  By  sun  and  moon,  I'll  go  bail  for  him," 
replied  the  infuriated  squii'e.  "I  like  that 
fellow  because  Reilly  does  not.  Sir  Robert 
spoke  to  me  in  his  favor.  Yes,  I  shall  go 
bail  for  him,  to  any  amount." 

"  His  offence  is  not  a  bailable  one,"  said 
the  cool  sheriff;  "nor,  if  the  thing  were 
possible,  would  it  be  creditable  in  \ou,  as 
a  magistrate,  to  offer  yourself  as  bail  for  a 
common  robber,  one  of  the  most  notorious 
highwaymen  of  the  day." 

"WeU,  but  come  along,"  replied  \ihe 
squire  ;  "  I  have  changed  my  mind  ;  we 
shall  hang  them  both  ;  Sir  Robert  will  assist 
and  support  me.  I  could  overlook  the  of- 
fence of  a  man  w^ho  only  took  my  purse  ; 
yes,  I  could  overlook  that,  but  the  man  who 
would  rob  me  of  my  child — of  the  solace 
and  prop  of  my  heart  and  life — of — of — 
of—" 

Here  the  tears  came  down  his  cheeks  so 
copiously  that  his  sobs  prevented  him  from 
proceeding.  He  recovered  himself,  however, 
for  indeed  he  was  yet  scarcely'  sober  after 
the  evening's  indulgence,  and  the  two  parties 
retui'ned  to  his  house,  where,  after  having 
two  or  thi-ee  glasses  of  Burgundy  to  make 
his  hand  steady,  he  prej)ared  himself  to  take 
the  sheriff's  informations  and  sign  unfor- 
tunate Reilly 's  committal  to  SUgo  jail.  The 
vindictive  tenacity  of  resentment  by  which 
the  heart  of  the  iiiffian  RajDparee  was  ani- 
mated against  that  joung  man  was  e\T.nced, 
on  this  occasion,  by  a  satanic  ingenuity  of 
malice  that  was  comj)letely  in  keeping  "\^•ith 
the  ruffian's  character.  It  was  quite  clear, 
from  the  cii'cumstances  we  are  about  to  relate, 
that  the  red  miscreant  had  intended  to  rob 
FoDiard's  house  on  the  night  of  his  attack 
upon  it,  in  addition  to  the  violent  abduction 
of  his  daughter.  We  must  premise  here  that 
Reilly  and  the  Rapparee  were  each  strongly 
guai'ded  in  different  rooms,  and  the  first 
thing  the  latter  did  was  to  get  some  one  to 
inform  ]\Ir.  Folliard  that  he  had  a  matter  of 
importance  concerning  ReiUy  to  mention  to 
him.  This  was  immediately  on  their  return, 
and  before  the  informations  against  Reilly 
were  drawn  up.  Folliard,  w^ho  knew  not 
what  to  think,  paused  for  some  time,  and  at 
last,  taking  the  sheritt'  along  with  him,  went 
to  hear  what  O'Donnel  had  to  say. 

"Is  that  i-uffian  safe?"  he  asked,  before 
entering  the  room  ;  "  have  you  so  secui-ed  him 
that  he  can't  be  mischievous  ? " 

"  Quite  safe,  your  honor,  and  as  harmlesa 
I  as  a  lamb." 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


141 


He  and  the  sheriff  then  entered,  and  found 
the  hup;e  savage  champing  his  teeth  and 
churning  M'ith  his  jaws,  until  a  hue  of  wliite 
froth  encii'cled  his  mouth,  rendering  him  a 
hideous  and  fearful  object  to  look  at. 

"  What  is  this  you  want  with  me,  you  mis- 
begotten villain,"  said  the  squire.  "Stand 
between  the  ruffian  and  me,  fellows,  in  the 
meantime — what  is  it,  sirra  ?  " 

"Who's  the  robber  now,  ]Mi-.  Folhard?" 
he  asked,  with  something,  however,  of  a 
doubtfvd  triumph  in  his  red  glaring  eye. 
"Your  daughter  had  jewels  in  a  black  cabi- 
net, and  I'd  have  secured  the  same  jewels  and 
your  daughter  along  with  them,  on  a  certain 
night,  only  for  Eeilly ;  and  it  was  very 
natural  he  should  out-general  me,  which  he 
did  ;  but  it  was  only  to  get  both  for  himself. 
Let  him  be  searched  at  wanst,  and,  although 
I  don't  say  he  has  them,  j^et  I'd  give  a  hun- 
dred to  one  he  has  ;  .sAe  would  never  carry 
them  while  he  was  with  her." 

The  old  squire,  who  would  now,  with 
peculiar  pleasure,  have  acted  in  the  capacity 
of  hangman  in  Reilly's  case,  had  that  unfor- 
tunate young  man  been  doomed  to  undergo 
the  penalty  of  the  law,  and  that  no  j^erson  in 
the  shape  of  Jack  Ketch  was  forthcoming 
— he,  we  say — the  squire — started  at  once 
to  the  room  where  Reilly  was  secxu'ed,  ac- 
companied also  by  the  sheriff,  and,  after 
rushing  in  with  a  countenance  inflamed  by 
passion,  shouted  out : 

"  Seize  and  examine  that  villain  ;  he  has 
robbed  me — examine  him  instantly  :  he  has 
stolen  the  family  jewels." 

Reilly's  countenance  fell,  for  he  knew  his 
fearful  position ;  but  that  which  weighed 
heaviest  upon  his  heart  was  a  consciousness 
of  the  misintei'pretations  which  the  world 
might  put  upon  the  motives  of  his  conduct 
in  this  elopement,  imputing  it  to  selfishness 
and  a  mercenary  spirit.  When  about  to  be 
searched,  he  said  : 

"  You  need  not ;  I  will  not  submit  to  the 
indignity  of  such  an  examination.  I  have 
and  hokl  the  jewels  for  IMiss  Fohiard,  whose 
individual  property  I  believe  they  are  ;  nay, 
I  am  certain  of  it,  because  she  told  me  so, 
and  requested  me  to  keep  them  for  her.  Let 
her  be  sent  for,  and  I  shall  hand  them  back 
to  her  at  once,  but  to  no  other  jDerson  with- 
out riolence." 

"  But  she  is  not  in  a  condition  to  receive 
them,"  rephed  the  sheriff  (which  was  a  fact) ; 
"  I  pledge  my  honor  she  is  not." 

"  Well,  then,  ]VIi\  Sheiiff,  I  place  them  m 
your  hands  ;  you  can  do  with  them  as  you 
wish — that  is,  either  return  them  to  IVIiss 
Folliard,  the  legal  owner  of  them,  or  to  her 
father." 

The  sheriff  received  the  casket  which  con- 


tained them,  and  immediately  handed  it  to 
INIi*.  Folliard,  who  put  it  in  his  pocket,  eX' 
claiming  : 

"  Now,  Reilly,  if  we  can  hang  you  for  noth- 
ing else,  we  can  hang  you  for  this ;  and  we 
will,  sir." 

"You,  sir,"  said  Reilly,  with  melancholy 
indignation,  "  are  privileged  to  insult  me  ; 
so,  alas  !  is  every  man  now  ;  but  I  can  retire 
into  the  integrity  of  my  own  heart  and  find 
a  consolation  there  of  which  you  cannot 
dej)rive  me.  My  hfe  is  now  a  consideration 
of  no  importance  to  myself  since  I  shall  die 
with  the  consciousness  that  your  daughter 
loved  me.  You  do  not  hear  this  for  the  first 
time,  for  that  daughter  avowed  it  to  your- 
self !  and  if  I  had  been  mean  and  unprin- 
cipled enough  to  have  abandoned  my  religion, 
and  that  of  my  persecuted  forefathei's,  I 
might  ere  this  have  been  her  husband." 

"  Come,"  said  Folliard,  who  was  noi  pre- 
pared with  an  answer  to  this,  "  come,"  said 
he,  addressing  the  sheriff,  "come,  till  we 
make  out  his  mittimus,  and  give  him  the  first 
shove  to  the  gallows." 

They  then  left  him. 


CHAPTER  XXL     . 

Sir  Robert  Accepts  of  an  Invitation. 

The  next  morning  rumor  had,  as  they  say, 
her  hands  and  tongues  very  full  of  business. 
Reilly  and  the  Red  Rapparee  were  lodged  in 
Shgo  jail  that  night,  and  the  next  morning 
the  fact  was  carried  by  the  aforesaid  rumor 
far  and  wide  over  the  whole  country.  One 
of  the  first  whose  ears  it  reached  was  the 
gallant  and  virtuous  Sir  Robert  Wliitecraft, 
who  no  sooner  heard  it  than  he  ordered  his 
horse  and  rode  at  a  rapid  rate  to  see  jMi\  Fol- 
hard, in  order,  now  that  Reilly  was  out  of  the 
way,  to  i^ropose  an  instant  marriage  with  the 
Cooleen  Bawn.  He  found  the  old  man  in  a 
state  very  difficult  to  be  described,  for  he 
had  only  just  returned  to  the  drawing-room 
fi'om  the  strongly  sentinelled  chamber  of  his 
daughter.  Indignation  against  Reilly  seem- 
ed now  nearly  lost  in  the  melancholy  situation 
of  the  wTetched  Cooleen  Bawn.  He  had  just 
seen  her,  but,  somehow,  the  interview  had 
saddened  and  depressed  his  heart.  Her 
position  and  the  state  of  her  feelings  would 
have  been  pitiable,  even  to  the  eye  of  a 
sti-anger  ;  what,  then,  must  they  not  have 
been  to  a  father  who  loved  her  as  he  did  ? 
!  "  Helen,"  said  he,  as  he  took  a  chau'  in  her 
'  room,  after  her  guards  had  been  desired  to 
withdi'aw  for  a  time,  "Helen,  ai'e  you  aware 
'  that  you  have  eternally  disgraced  your  own 


U2 


WILL/AM  CARLETON'S  WORKS, 


name,  and  that  of  your  father  and  your  fam- 
Uy?" 

Helen,  who  was  as  pale  as  death,  looked 
at  him  with  vacant  and  unrecognizing  eyes, 
but  made  no  reply,  for  it  was  evident  that 
she  either  had  not  heard,  or  did  not  under- 
stand, a  word  he  said. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  "did  you  hear  me?" 

She  looked  upon  him  with  a  long  look  of 
distress  and  misery,  but  there  was  the  vacancy 
still,  and  no  recognition. 

This,  I  suppose,  thought  the  father,  is  just 
the  case  with  eveiy  love-sick  gii-1  in  her  con- 
dition, who  Anil  not  be  allowed  to  have  her 
own  way  ;  but  of  what  use  is  a  father  unless 
he  puts  all  this  nonsense  down,  and  substi- 
tutes his  o-mi  judgment  for  that  of  a  silly 
girl.  I  will  say  something  now  that  will 
startle  her,  and  I  will  say  nothing  but  what 
I  will  bring  about. 

"  Helen,  my  darhng,"  he  said,  "  are  you 
both  deaf  and  blind,  that  you  can  neither  see 
nor  hear  your  father,  and  to-morrow  your 
wedding-day  ?  Su-  Robert  Whitecraft  will  be 
here  early  ;  the  sj)ecial  hcense  is  procured, 
and  after  marriage  you  and  he  start  for  his 
English  estates  to  spend  tho  honeymoon  there, 
after  which  you  both  must  return  and  live 
with  me,  for  I  need  scarcely  say,  Helen,  that 
I  could  not  live  without  you.  Now  I  thmk 
you  ought  to  be  a  happy  girl  to  get  a  hus- 
band possessed  of  such  immense  proi^erty." 

She  started  and  looked  at  him  with  some- 
thing hke  returning  consciousness.  "But 
where  is  Willy  Eeilly  ?  "  she  asked. 

"The  villain  that  would* have  robbed  me 
of  my  property  and  my  daughter  is  now  safe 
in  Sligo  jail." 

A  flash  of  something  like  joy — at  least  the 
father  took  it  as  such — sj^arkled  in  a  strange 
kind  of  triumph  from  her  eyes. 

"Ha,"  said  she,  "is  that  villain  safe  at 
last?  Dear  papa,  I  am  tired  of  all  this — 
this — yes,  I  am  tired  of  it,  and  it  is  time  I 
should  ;  but  you  tallied  about  something 
else,  did  you  not?  Something  about  Sir 
Robert  Whitecraft  and  a  marriage.  And 
what  is  my  reply  to  that  ?  why,  it  is  this, 
papa  :  I  liace  but  one  life,  sir.  Now  begone, 
and  leave  me,  or,  upon  my  honor,  I  will  piish 
you  out  of  the  room.  Have  I  not  consented 
to  all  yoiu-  terms.  Let  Sir  Robert  come  to- 
moi'row  and  he  shall  call  me  his  wife  before 
the  sun  reaches  his  meridian.  Now,  leave 
me  ;  leave  me,  I  say." 

In  this  uncertain  state  her  father  found 
himself  compelled  to  retire  to  the  drawing- 
room,  where  Sir  Robert  and  he  met. 

"  Mr.  FoUiard,"  said  the  baronet,  "  is 
this  true  ?  " 

"  Is  what  tnae,  Sir  Robert  ? "  said  he 
sbai-ply. 


"  Why,  that  Reilly  and  the  Red  Rappares 
are  both  in  Sligo  jrdl  ?  " 

"  It  w  true.  Sir  Robert ;  and  it  must  be  h 
cursed  thing  to  be  in  jail  for  a  capital 
crime." 

"  Are  you  becoming  penitent,"  asked  the 
other,  "  for  bringing  the  laws  of  the  land  to 
bear  upon  the  villain  that  would  have  dis- 
graced, and  might  have  ruined,  your  only 
daughter  ?  " 

The  father's  heart  was  stung  by  the  dia- 
bohcal  joungency  of  this  question. 

"  Sir  Robert,"  said  he,  "  we  will  hang  him, 
if  it  was  only  to  get  the  villain  out  of  the 
way  ;  and  if  you  will  be  here  to-morrow  at  ten 
o'clock,  the  marriage  must  take  place.  I'll 
suffer  no  further  nonsense  about  it ;  but, 
mark  me,  after  the  honeymoon  shall  have 
passed,  j'ou  and  she  must  come  and  reside 
here  ;  to  think  that  I  could  live  without  her 
is  impossible.  Be  here,  then,  at  ten  o'clock  ; 
the  special  license  is  ready,  and  I  have 
asked  the  Rev.  Samson  Strong  to  perform 
the  ceremony.  A  couple  of  my  neighbor 
Ashford's  daughters  will  act  as  bridesmaids, 
and  I  myself  will  give  her  anvaj :  the  mar- 
riage ai'ticles  are  drawn  up,  as  j'ou  know, 
and  there  A\-ill  be  little  time  lost  in  signing 
them  ;  and  yet,  it's  a  pity  to — but  no  matter 
— be  here  at  ten." 

Whitecraft  took  his  leave  in  high  spirits. 
The  arrest  and  imprisonment  of  Reilly  had 
removed  the  great  imiDcdiment  that  had 
hitherto  lain  in  the  way  of  his  marriage  ; 
but  not  so  the  imjirisonment  of  the  Red 
Rapparee.  The  bai-onet  regretted  that  that 
public  and  notorious  malefactor  had  been 
taken  out  of  his  ovm.  hands,  because  he 
wished,  as  the  reader  knows,  to  make  the 
delivering  of  him  up  to  the  Government  one 
of  the  elements  of  his'  reconcihation  to  it. 
Still,  as  matters  stood,  he  felt  on  the  whole 
gratified  at  what  had  happened. 

Folhard,  after  the  baronet  had  gone,  knew 
not  exactly  how  to  disjDose  of  himself.  The 
truth  is,  the  man's  heart  was  an  anomaly — a 
series  of  contradictions,  in  which  one  feeling 
opposed  another  for  a  brief  space,  and  then 
was  obhged  to  make  way  for  a  new  prejudice 
equally  transitory  and  evanescent.  AVhite- 
ci'aft  he  never  heartily  liked  ;  for  though  the 
man  was  blunt,  he  could  look  through  a 
knave,  and  appreciate  a  man  of  honor,  Avith 
a  gi'eat  deal  of  shrewd  accuracy.  To  be 
sui'e,  Whitecraft  was  enormously  rich,  but 
then  he  was  penurious  and  mhospitable, 
two  vices  strongly  and  decidedly  ojaposed  to 
the  national  feeling. 

"  Curse  the  long-legged  scoundrel,"  he 
exclaimed  ;  "  if  he  should  beget  me  a  young 
breed  of  Wliitecrafts  like  himself  I  would 
rather  my  daughter  were  dead   than  marry 


WIZLT  REILLY. 


143 


aim.  Then,  on  the  other  hand,  Reillv ; 
hang  the  fellow,  had  he  only  recanted  his 
nonsensical  creed,  I  could — but  then,  again, 
he  might,  after  mai-riage,  bring  her  over 
to  the  Papists,  and  then,  by  the  Boyne,  all 
my  immense  property  would  become  Roman 
Catholic.  By  Strougbow,  he'd  teach  the  very 
rivers  that  run  through  it  to  sing  Popish 
psalms  in  Latin  :  he  would.  However,  the 
best  way  is  to  hang  him  out  of  the  way,  and 
when  Jack  Ketch  has  done  with  him,  so  has 
Helen.     Curse  Whitecraft,  at  all  events  !  " 

We  may  as  well  hint  here  that  he  had 
touched  the  Burgundy  to  some  pui-pose  ;  he 
was  now  in  that  state  of  mental  imbecility 
where  reason,  baffled  and  prostrated  by 
severe  mental  suftering  and  agitation,  was 
incapable  of  sustaining  him  without  having 
recoui'se  to  the  bottle.  In  the  due  progi-ess 
of  the  night  he  was  helped  to  bed,  and  had 
scarcely  been  placed  and  covered  up  there 
when  he  fell  fast  asleep. 

Whitecraft,  in  the  meantime,  suspected, 
of  course,  or  rather  he  was  perfectly  aware 
of  the  fact,  that  unless  by  some  ingenious 
manoeuvre,  of  which  he  could  form  no  con- 
ception, a  maiTiage  with  the  C'o(jle.en  Bawn 
would  be  a  matter  of  surpassing  difficulty ; 
but  he  cared  not,  provided  it  could  be  efiect- 
ed  by  any  means,  w'hether  foul  or  fair.  The 
attachment  of  this  scoundrel  to  the  fair  and 
beautiful  Cooleen  Bawn  was  composed  of 
two  of  the  worst  principles  of  the  heart — 
sensuality  and  avarice  ;  but,  in  this  instance, 
avarice  came  in  to  support  sensuahty.  What 
the  licentious  passions  of  the  debauchee 
might  have  failed  to  tempt  him  to,  the  con- 
sideration of  her  large  fortune  accomplished. 
A-nd  such  Avas  the  sordid  and  abominable 
union  of  the  motives  which  spvuTed  him 
on  to  the  marriage. 

The  next  morning,  being  that  which  was 
fixed  for  his  wedding-day,  he  was  roused  at 
an  eai'ly  hour  by  a  loud  rapping  at  his  hall- 
door.  He  started  on  his  elbow  in  the  bed. 
And  ringing  the  bell  for  his  valet,  asked, 
when  that  gentleman  entered  his  apartment 
half  dressed,  "  What  was  the  matter  ?  what 
ciu'sed  knocking  was  that  ?  Don't  they  know 
I  can  hunt  neither  priest  nor  Papist  now, 
since  this  polite  viceroy  came  here." 

"I  don't  know  what  the  matter  is.  Sir 
Robert ;  they  are  at  it  again  ;  shall  I  open 
the  door,  sir  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  open  the  door  immediately." 

"  I  think  you  had  better  di*ess.  Sir  Robert, 
and  see  what  they  want." 

The  baronet  threw  liis  long  fleshless 
shanks  out  of  the  bed,  and  began  to  get  on 
his  clothes  as  fast  as  he  could. 

"  Ha ! "  said  he,  when  he  was  nearly 
dressed,  "  what  if  this  should  be  a  Govern- 


ment prosecution  for  what  I  have  undertaken 
to  do  on  my  own  responsibility  during  the 
last  Administration  ?  But  no,  surely  it  can- 
not be  ;  they  would  have  given  me  some  in- 
timation of  theu'  proceedings.  This  waa 
due  to  my  rank  and  station  in  the  countiy, 
and  to  my  exertions,  a  zealous  Protestant,' 
to  sustain  the  existence  of  Church  and  State. 
Curse  Church  and  State  if  it  be !  I  have 
got  myself,  perhaps,  into  a  pretty  mess  by 
them." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  last  words 
when  Mr.  Hastings,  accompanied  by  two  or 
three  officers  of  justice,  entered  his  bedroom. 

"  Ah,  Hastings,  my  dear  fiiend,  what  is 
the  matter  ?  Is  there  any  thing  wi-ong,  or 
can  I  be  of  any  assistance  to  you  ?  if  so,  com- 
mand me.  But  we  are  out  of  power  now, 
you  know.  Still,  show  me  how  I  can  assist 
you.  How  do  you  do  ? "  and  as  he  spoke 
he  put  his  hand  out  to  shake  hands  with 
'Mx.  Hastings. 

"No,  Sir  Robert,  I  cannot  take  your 
hand,  nor  the  hand  of  any  man  that  is  red 
Avith  the  blood  of  mxu-der.  This,"  said  he, 
turning  to  the  officers,  "  is  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft ;  arrest  him  for  murder  and  arson." 

"Why,  bless  me,  ISIx.  Hastings,  are  you 
mad  ?  Surely,  I  did  nothing,  unless  imder 
the  sanction  and  by  the  insti-uctions  of  the 
last  Government  ?  " 

"That  remains  to  be  seen,  Sir  Robert: 
but,  at  all  events,  I  cannot  enter  into  any 
discussion  with  you  at  present.  I  am  here 
as  a  magistrate.  Informations  have  been 
sworn  against  you  by  several  parties,  and 
you  must  now  consider  yourself  our  prisoner 
and  come  along  with  us.  There  is  a  party 
of  cavah'y  below  to  escort  you  to  Shgo  jail" 

"  But  how  am  I  to  be  conveyed  there  ?  I 
hope  I  will  be  allowed  my  own  carriage  ?  " 

"Unquestionably,"  replied  Mr.  Hastings; 
"  I  was  about  to  have  proposed  it  myself. 
You  shall  be  treated  with  every  respect,  air." 

"May  I  not  breakfast  before  I  go?" 

"  Certainly,  sir  ;  we  wash  to  discharge  owe 
duty  i#  the  mildest  j^ossible  manner." 

"  Thank  you,  Hastings,  thank  you  ;  you 
were  always  a  good-hearted,  gentlemanly 
fellow.  You  will,  of  course,  breakfast  with 
me  ;  and  these  men  must  be  attended  to." 

And  he  rang  the  bell. 

"I  have  already  breakfasted.  Sir  Robert  ; 
but  even  if  I  had  not,  it  would  not  become 
me,  as  your  prosecutor,  to  do  so  ; .  but  per- 
haps the  men — " 

"  Wliat,"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  inter- 
rupting him,  "  you  my  prosecutor !  For 
what,  pray  ?  " 

"That  will  come  in  time,"  repUed  the 
other  ;  "  and  you  may  rest  assured  that  I 
would  not  be  here  now  were  I  not  made 


144 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


aware  that  you  were  about  to  be  married  to 
that  sweet  girl  Avhom  you  have  i^ersecutecl 
with  such  a  mean  and  unmanly  spirit,  and 
designed  to  start  with  her  for  England  this 
day." 

\Miitecraft,  now  that  he  felt  the  dreadful 
conseqvaeuces  of  the  awful  position  in  which 
be  was  placed,  became  the  very  picture  of 
despair  and  pusillanimity  ;  his  complexion 
turned  haggard,  his  eyes  -wild,  and  his  hands 
trembled  so  much  that  he  was  not  able  to 
bring  the  tea  or  bread  and  butter  to  his  hps  ; 
in  fact,  such  an  impersonation  of  rank  and 
unmanly  cowardice  coidd  not  be  witnessed. 
He  rose  up,  exclaiming,  in  a  faint  and  hollov/ 
voice,  that  echoed  no  other  sensation  than 
that  of  horror : 

"  I  cannot  breakfast ;  I  can  eat  nothing. 
What  a  fate  is  this  !  on  the  very  day,  too, 
which  I  thought  would  have  consummated 
my  haj^piness  !     Oh,  it  is  dreadful !  " 

His  servant  then,  hj  ]\Ir.  Hastings'  orders, 
packed  up  changes  of  linen  and  ajiparel  in 
his  trunk,  for  he  saw  that  he  himself  had 
not  the  presence  of  mind  to  pay  attention  to 
any  thing.  Li  the  course  of  a  few  minutes 
the  carriage  was  ready,  and  with  tottering 
steps  he  went  down  the  staii'S,  and  was 
obliged  to  be  assisted  into  it  by  two  con- 
stables, who  took  their  places  beside  him. 
Ml*.  Hastings  bowed  to  him  coldly,  but  said 
nothing ;  the  coachman  smacked  his  whip, 
a,nd  was  about  to  start,  when  he  tui'ned 
round  and  said  : 

"  Where  am  I  to  drive.  Sir  Robert  ?  " 

"  To  Sligo  jail,"  replied  one  of  the  con- 
stables, "as  quick  as  you  can  too." 

The  horses  got  a  lash  or  two,  and  bounded 
on,  whilst  an  escort  of  cavalry,  with  swords 
drawn,  attended  the  coach  until  it  reached  its 
gloomy  destination,  where  we  ■will  leave  it  for 
the  present. 

The  next  morning,  as  matters  approached 
to  a  crisis,  the  unsteady  old  squire  began  to 
feel  less  comfortable  in  his  mind  than  he 
could  have  expected.  To  say  truth,  he  had 
often  felt  it  rather  an  unnatural  process  to 
maiTy  so  lovely  a  girl  to  "  such  an  ugly  stork 
of  a  man  as  Wliitecraft  was,  and  a  knave  to 
boot.  I  cannot  forget  how  he  took  me  in 
by  the  '  Hop-and-go-constant '  affair.  But 
then  he's  a  good  Protestant— not  that  I  mean 
he  has  a  single  spark  of  religion  in  his  non- 
descrijit  carcass  ;  but  in  those  times  it's  not 
canting  and  psalm-singing  we  want,  but  good 
political  Protestantism,  that  will  enable  us  to 
maintain  our  ascendancy  by  other  means  than 
praying.  Curse  the  hound  that  keeps  him  ? 
Is  this  a  day  for  him  to  be  late  on  ?  and  it 
now  half  past  ten  o'clock  ;  however,  he  must 
come  soon  ;  but,  upon  my  honor,  I  dread 
what  will  happen  when  he  does.     A  scene 


there  will  be  no  doubt  of  it ;  however,  we 
must  only  straggle  through  it  as  well  as  wft 
can.  I'll  go  and  see  Helen,  and  try  to  re- 
concile her  to  this  chap,  or,  at  all  events,  to 
let  her  know  at  once  that,  be  the  consequences 
what  they  may,  she  m  ust  marry  him,  if  I  were 
myself  to  hold  her  at  the  altar." 

When  he  had  concluded  this  soliloquy, 
Ellen  Connor,  without  whose  society  Helen 
could  now  scai'cely  live,  and  who,  on  this  ac- 
count, had  not  been  discharged  after  her 
elopement,  she,  we  say,  entered  the  room, 
her  eye  resolute  with  determination,  and 
sparkling  with  a  feeling  which  evinced  an  in- 
dignant sense  of  his  cruelty  in  enforcing  this 
odious  match.  The  old  man  looked  at  her 
with  surprise,  for  it  was  the  first  time  she 
had  ever  ventured  to  obtnide  her  conversa- 
tion upon  him,  or  to  speak,unless  when  spoken 
to. 

"  Well,  madam,"  said  he,  "  what  do  you 
want  ?  Have  you  any  message  from  your 
mistress  ?  if  not,  what  brings  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  message  fi-om  my  mistress," 
she  repUed  in  a  loud,  if  not  in  a  vehement, 
voice  ;  "  I  don't  think  my  mistress  is  capable 
of  sending  a  message  ;  but  I  came  to  tell  you 
that  the  God  of  heaven  will  soon  send  you  a 
message,  and  a  black  one  too,  if  you  allow 
this  cursed  marriage  to  go  on." 

"  Get  out,  you  jade — leave  the  room ;  how 
is  it  }'our  affau'  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  what  you  want — a  heart 
of  pity  and  affection  in  my  breast.  Do  you 
want  to  drive  your  daughter  mad,  or  to  take 
her  life  ?  " 

"  Begone,  you  impudent  hussy  ;  why  do 
you  dare  to  come  here  on  such  an  occasion, 
only  to  annoy  me  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  begone,"  she  replied,  with  a 
glowing  cheek,  "  unless  I  am  put  out  by  force 
— until  I  jDoint  out  the  consequences  of  your 
selfish  tyranny  and  weakness.  I  don't  come 
to  annoy  you,  but  I  come  to  warn  you,  and 
to  tell  3'ou,  that  I  know  your  daughter  better 
than  you  do  youi'self.  This  marriage  must 
not  go  on  ;  or,  if  it  does,  send  without  delay 
to  a  lunatic  asylum  for  a  keejDer  for  that  only 
daughter.  I  know  her  well,  and  I  tell  you 
that  that's  what  it'll  come  to." 

The  squire  had  never  been  in  the  habit 
of  being  thus  addressed  by  any  of  his  ser- 
vants ;  and  the  consequence  was  that  the 
thing  was  new  to  him  ;  so  much  so  that  he 
felt  not  only  annoyed,  but  so  much  astound' 
ed,  that  he  absolutely  lost,  for  a  brief  period, 
the  use  of  his  speech.  He  looke  1  at  her  with 
astonishment — then  about  the  room — then 
up  at  the  ceihng,  and  at  length  spoke  : 

"  What  the  deuce  does  all  this  mean  ?  "WTiat 
are  you  driving  at  ?  Prevent  the  marriage, 
you  say  ?  " 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


145 


"  If  the  man,"  proceeded  Connor,  not  even 
waiting  to  give  him  an  answer — "if  the  man 
had  but  one  good  jDoint  — one  good  quahty 
— one  virtue  in  his  whole  comjoosition  to  re- 
deem him  from  contempt  and  hatred — if  he 
had  but  one  feature  in  liis  face  only  as 
handsome  as  the  worst  you  could  find  in  the 
devil's — yes,  if  he  had  but  one  good  thought, 
or  one  good  feature  in  either  his  soul  or  bodj', 
why — %ale  as  it  would  be — and  barbarous  as 
it  would  be — and  shameful  and  cruel  as  it 
would  be — still,  it  would  have  the  one  good 
thought,  and  the  one  good  feature  to  justify 
it.  But  here,  in  this  deep  and  WTctched  vil- 
lain, there  is  nothing  but  one  mass  of  "\ice 
and  Clime  and  deformity  ;  all  that  the  eye 
can  see,  or  the  heart  discover,  in  his  soul  or 
body,  is  as  black,  odious,  and  repiilsive  as 
could  be  conceived  of  the  worst  imp  of  per- 
dition. And  this  is  the  man — the  persecutor 
— the  miser — the  debauchee — the  hj'pocrite 
— the  murderer,  and  the  coward,  that  you  are 
going  to  join  your  good — virtuous — sj)otless 
— and  beautiful  daughter  to  !  Oh,  shame 
upon  you,  you  heartless  old  man  ;  don't  dare 
to  say,  or  pretend,  that  you  love  her  as  a 
father  ought,  when  you  would  sacrifice  her 
to  so  base  and  damnable  a  \-illain  as  that. 
And  again,  and  what  is  more,  I  tell  you  not 
to  prosecute  Reilly  ;  for,  as  sure  as  the  Lord 
above  is  in  heaven,  your  daughter  is  lost,  and 
you'll  not  only  curse  "\\Tiitecraft,  but  the  day 
and  hour  in  which  you  were  born — black  and 
hopeless  ■svill  be  3'our  doom  if  you  do.  And 
now,  sir,  I  have  done  ;  I  felt  it  to  be  my  duty 
to  tell  you  this,  and  to  warn  you  against  what 
I  know  will  happen  imless  you  go  back  ujDon 
the  steps  you  have  taken." 

She  then  courtesied  to  him  respectfully, 
and  left  the  room  in  a  bui'st  of  grief  which 
seized  her  when  she  had  concluded. 

Ellen  Connor  was  a  giii  by  no  means  de- 
ficient in  education — thanks  to  the  care  and 
kindness  of  the  Cooleen  Bawn,  who  had  her- 
seK  instnicted  her.  'Tis  true,  she  had  in 
ordinary'  and  familiar  conversation  a  touch 
of  the  brogue  ;  but,  when  excited,  or  holding 
converse  with  respectable  persons,  her  lan- 
guage was  such  as  would  have  done  no  dis- 
credit to  many  persons  in  a  much  higher 
rank  of  Hfe. 

After  she  had  left  the  room,  FoUiard 
looked  towards  the  door  by  which  she  had 
taken  her  exit,  as  if  he  had  her  still  in  his  vi- 
sion. He  paused — he  meditated— he  walked 
about,  and  seemed  taken  thoroughly  aback. 

"  By  earth  and  sky,"  he  exclaimed,  "  but 
that's  the  most  comical  affair  I  have  seen  yet. 
Comical !  no,  not  a  touch  of  comicality  in  it. 
Zounds,  is  it  possible  that  the  jade  has  co- 
erced and  beaten  me  ? — dared  to  beard  the 
lion  in  his  own  den — to  strip  him,  as  it  were. 


of  his  claws,  and  to  pull  the  very  fangs  out 
of  his  jaws,  and,  after  all,  to  walk  away  in 
triumph?  Hang  me,  but  I  must  have  a 
strong  touch  of  the  coward  in  me  or  I  would 
not  have  knuckled  as  I  did  to  the  jade.  Yet, 
hold — can  I,  or  ought  I  to  be  angry  with 
her,  when  I  know  that  this  hellish  racket  all 
proceeded  fi'om  her  love  to  Helen.  Hang 
me,  but  she  s  a  precious  bit  of  goods,  and 
I'll  contrive  to  make  her  a  j)resent,  somehow, 
for  her  courage.  Beat  me  !  by  sun  and  sky 
she  did." 

He  then  proceeded  to  Helen's  chamber, 
and  ordered  her  attendants  out  of  the  room  ; 
but,  on  looking  at  her,  he  felt  surjarised  to 
perceive  that  her  complexion,  instead  of 
being  pale,  was  quite  flushed,  and  her  eyes 
flashmg  with  a  strange  wild  light  that  he 
had  never  seen  in  them  before. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  "  what's  the  matter,  love  ? 
are  you  unweU  ?  " 

She  placed  her  two  snowy  hands  on  her 
temples,  and  pressed  them  tightly,  as  if 
striving  to  compress  her  brain  and  bring  it 
within  the  influence  of  reason. 

"I  fear  you  are  unwell,  darhng,"  he  con 
tinned  ;  "  you  look  flushed  and  feverish. 
Don't,  however,  be  alarmed ;  if  you're  not 
well,  I'd  see  that  knave  of  a  fellow  hanged 
before  I'd  mai'ry  you  to  him,  and  3'ou  in  that 
state.  The  thing's  out  of  the  question,  my 
darhng  Helen,  and  must  not  be  done.  No  : 
God  forbid  that  I  should  be  the  means  of 
mui'dering  my  own  child." 

So  much,  we  may  faMy  presume,  pro- 
ceeded from  the  pithy  lecture  of  JEHlen 
Connor ;  but  the  truth  was,  that  the  unde- 
finable  old  squire  was  the  gTeatest  parental 
coward  in  the  world.  In  the  absence  of  his 
daughter  he  would  rant  and  swear  and  vapor, 
strike  the  gi'ound  with  his  staff,  and  give 
other  indications  of  the  most  extraordinaiy 
resolution,  combined  with  fiery  passion,  that 
seemed  alarming.  No  sooner,  however,  did 
he  go  into  her  presence,  and.  contemplate 
not  only  her  wonderful  beauty,  but  her 
goodness,  her  tenderness  and  affection  for 
himself,  than  the  bluster  departed  fi'om 
him,  his  resolution  feU,  his  courage  oozed 
away,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  fairly  subdued, 
under  which  circumstances  he  generally 
entered  into  a  new  treaty  of  friendship  and 
affection  with  the  enemy. 

Helen's  head  was  aching  dreadfully,  and 
she  felt  feverish  and  distracted.  Her  father's 
words,  however,  and  the  affection  which 
they  expressed,  went  to  her  heart ;  she 
threw  her  arms  about  him,  kissed  him,  and 
was  relieved  by  a  copious  flood  of  teai's. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  "you  are  both  kind  and 
good  ;  sui'ely  you  wouldn't  kill  your  poor 
Helen?" 


i46 


WILLIAM  OABLETON'S   WOJiKS. 


"  Me  kill  you,  Helen  ! — oh,  no,  faith.  If 
Whiteeruft  were  hanged  to-morrow  it 
wouldn't  give  me  hsxlf  so  much  pain  as  if 
your  little  linger  ached." 

Just  at  this  progress  of  the  dialogue  a 
smai't  and  impatient  knock  came  to  the 
door. 

*'  ^Vll0  is  that  ?  "  said  the  squire  ;  "  come 
in — or,  stay  till  I  see  who  you  are."  He 
then  opened  the  door  and  exclaimed,  "  What ! 
Lanigan  ! — why,  you  infernal  old  scoundrel ! 
how  dare  you  have  the  assurance  to  look  me 
in  the  face,  or  to  come  under  my  roof  at  all, 
after  what  I  said  to  you  about  the  pistols  ?  " 

"  Ay,  but  you  don't  know  the  good  news 
I  have  for  you  and  Miss  Helen." 

"Oh,  Lanigan,  is  Keilly  safe? — is  he  set 
at  large  ?  Oh,  I  am  sure  he  must  be.  Never 
was  so  noble,  so  pure,  and  so  innocent  a 
heart." 

"  Curse  him,  look  at  the  eye  of  him," 
uaid  her  father,  pointing  his  cane  at  Lani- 
gan ;  "it's  like  the  eye  of  a  sharp-shooter. 
\\Tjat  are  you  grinning  at,  joa  old  scoun- 
drel ?  " 

"Didn't  you  expect  Sir  Eobert  "Whitecraft 
here  to-day  to  marry  Miss  Folliard,  sir  ?  " 

"I  did,  sirra,  and  I  do  ;  he'll  be  here  im- 
mediately." 

"De^•ll  a  foot  he'll  come  to-da}',  I  can  tell 
you ;  and  that's  the  way  he  treats  yoiu- 
daughter ! " 

" ^Miat  does  this  old  idiot  mean,  Helen? 
Have  you  been  drinking,  siiTa?" 

"Not  yet,  SU-,  but  plaise  the  Lord  I'll 
Boon  be  at  it." 

"  Lanigan,"  said  Helen,  "will  you  state  at 
once  what  you  have  to  saj-  ?  " 

"I  will,  miss;  but  first  and  foremost,  I 
must  show  you  how  to  dance  the  '  Little 
House  under  the  Hill,'"  and  as  he  spoke  he 
commenced  whisthng  that  celebrated  air  and 
dancing  to  it  with  considerable  alacrity  and 
vigor,  making  allowances  for  his  age. 

The  father  and  daughter  looked  at  each 
other,  and  Helen,  notwithstandmg  her  brok- 
en spirits,  could  not  avoid  smiling.  Lanigan 
continued  the  dance,  kept  wheeling  about  to 
aU  parts  of  the  room,  like  an  old  madcap, 
cutting,  capering,  and  knocking  up  his  heels 
against  his  ham,  with  a  vivacity  that  was  a 
perfect  mysteiy  to  his  two  spectators,  as  was 
his  whole  conduct. 

"  Now,  you  dnmken  old  scoundrel,"  said 
his  master,  catching  him  by  the  coUar  and 
flourishmg  the  cane  over  his  head,  "  if  you 
don't  give  a  direct  answer  I  will  cane  you 
,  within  an  inch  of  youi-  life.  AMiat  do  you 
mean  when  you  say  that  Sir  Robert  White- 
craft  won't  come  here  to-day  ?  " 

"Bekaise,  sir,  it  isn't  convanient  to  him." 

"  Why  isn't  it  convenient,  you  scoundi-el  ?  " 


"  Bekaise,  sir,  he  took  it  into  his  head  to 
trj'  a  change  of  air  for  the  benefit  of  his 
health  before  he  starts  upon  his  journey ; 
and  as  he  got  a  very  friendly  invitation  to 
spend  some  time  in  Sligo  jail  he  accepted  it, 
and  if  you  go  there  you  will  find  him  before 
you.  It  seems  he  started  this  morning  in 
gi*eat  state,  with  two  nice  men  belonging  to 
the  law  in  the  carriage  with  him,  to  see  that 
he  should  want  for  nothing,  and  a  party  of 
cavaky  surroundin'  his  honor's  coach,  as  if  he 
was  one  of  the  judges,  or  the  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant." 

The  figui'ative  style  of  his  narrative  would 
unquestionably  have  caused  him  to  catch  the 
weight  of  the  cane  aforesaid  had  not  Helen 
interfered  and  saved  him  for  the  nonce. 

"Let  me  at  him,  Helen,  let  me  at  him — 
the  drunken  old  rip  ;  Avhy  does  he  dare  to 
humbug  us  in  this  manner  ?  " 

"Well,  then,  sir,  if  you  wish  to  hear  the 
good  news,  and  esjDecially  you,  Miss  Folliard. 
it  will  probably  relieve  your  heai't  when  I 
teU  you  that  Sir  Eobert  Whitecraft  is,  before 
this  time,  in  the  jail  of  Sligo,  for  a  charge 
of  muixlher,  and  for  burnin'  Mr.  ReiUj^'s 
house  and  premises,  which  it  now  seems 
aren't  IMr.  KeiUy's  at  all — nor  ever  were — 
but  belong  to  ]\Ii'.  Hastings." 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  exclaimed  the  squu'e^i 
"  this  is  dreadful :  but  is  it  true,  sirra?  " 

"  ^^'^ly,  su-,  if  you  go  to  his  house  you'll 
find  it  so." 

"Oh,  papa,"  said  Helen,  "surely  they 
wouldn't  hang  him?" 

"  Hang  him,  Helen ;  w^hy,  Helen,  the 
tide's  turned  ;  they  want  to  make  him  an 
example  for  the  outrages  that  he  and  others 
have  committed  against  the  unfortunate  Pap- 
ists. Hang  him  ! — as  I  live,  he  and  the  Red 
Rapparee  will  both  swing  fi'om  the  same  gal- 
lows ;  but  there  is  one  thing  I  say  -  if  he 
hangs  I  shall  take  care  that  that  obstinate 
scoundrel,  Reilly,  shall  also  swing  along  with 
him." 

Helen  became  as  pale  as  ashes,  the  flush 
had  disapjDeared  from  her  countenance,  and 
she  burst  again  into  tears. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  she  exclaimed,  "  spare  Eeilly : 
he  is  innocent." 

"I'U  hang  him,"  he  rej^lied,  "if  it  should 
cost  me  ten  thousand  jDounds.  Go  you, 
sirra,  and  desire  one  of  the  grooms  to  saddle 
me  Black  Tom  ;  he  is  the  fastest  horse  in 
my  stables  ;  I  cannot  rest  till  I  ascertain  the 
truth  of  this." 

On  passing  the  draA\'ing-room  he  looked 
in,  and  found  ]\Ii-.  Strong  and  the  two  Misses 
Ashford  waiting,  the  one  to  perfonn,  and  the 
others  to  attend,  at  the  ceremony. 

"Mr.  Strong  and  ladies,"  said  he,  with 
looks  of  great  distraction,  "I  fear  there  wdll 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


147 


be  no  marriage  here  to-day.  An  accident, 
I  beUeve,  has  happened  to  Su-  Robert  White- 
craft  that  will  prevent  his  being  a  party  in 
the  ceremony,  for  this  day  at  least." 

"  An  accident !  "  exclaimed  the  ladies  and 
the  clergA-man.  "Pray,  Mr.  Folliard,  what 
is  it  ?  how  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"I  am  just  going  to  ride  over  to  Sir 
Robert's  to  learn  everything  about  it,"  he 
replied  ;  "I  -^dll  be  but  a  short  time  absent. 
But  how ! "  he  added,  "  here's  his  butler, 
and  I  ^vill  get  everything  fi'om  him.  Oh, 
Thomas,  is  this  you  ?  follow  me  to  my  study, 
Thomas." 

As  the  reader  already  knows  all  that 
Thomas  could  tell  him,  it  is  only  necessarj 
to  say  that  he  returned  to  the  di'awing-room 
with  a  sad  and  melanchoh'  aspect. 

"There  is  no  use,"  said  he,  addressing 
them,  "in  concealing  what  will  soon  be 
kno\yn  to  the  world.  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft 
has  been  arrested  on  a  charge  of  murder 
and  arson,  and  is  now  a  prisoner  in  the 
county  jail." 

This  was  startling  inteUigence  to  them  all, 
especially  tc  the  parson,  who  found  that  the 
hangman  was  likely  to  cut  him  out  of  his 
fees.  The  ladies  screamed,  and  said,  "it 
was  a  shocking  thing  to  have  that  delightfxil 
man  hanged  ; "  and  then  asked  if  the  bride- 
elect  had  heard  it. 

"  She  has  heard  it,"  replied  her  father, 
^'  and  I  have  just  left  her  in  tears  ;  but  upon 
my  soul,  I  don't  think  there  is  one  of  them 
shed  for  )dm.  Well,  Mr.  Strong,  I  believe, 
after  all,  there  is  hkely  to  be  no  marriage, 
but  that  is  not  your  fault  ;  you  came  here  to 
do  your  duty,  and  I  think  it  only  just — a 
word  with  you  in  the  next  apartment,"  he 
added,  and  then  led  the  way  to  the  dining- 
room.  "I  was  about  to  say,  Mr.  Strong, 
that  it  would  be  neither  just  nor  reasonable 
to  deprive  you  of  your  fees  ;  here  is  a  ten- 
pound  note,  and  it  would  have  been  twenty 
had  the  mai-riage  taken  place.  I  must  go  to 
Sligo  to  see  the  unfortunate  baronet,  and 
try  what  can  be  done  for  him — that  is,  if 
anything  can,  which  I  greatly  doubt." 

The  pai'son  protested  against  the  receipt 
of  the  ten-pound  note  very  much  in  the  style 
of  a  bashfial  schoolboy,  who  pretends  to  re- 
fuse an  apple  fi'om  a  strange  relation  when 
he  comes  to  pa}-  a  \-isit,  whilst,  at  the  same 
time,  the  young  monkey's  chops  are  watering 
for  it.  With  some  faint  show  of  reluctance 
he  at  length  received  it,  and  need  we  say 
that  it  soon  disappeai-ed  in  one  of  his  sancti- 
fied pockets. 

"  Strong,  my  dear  fellow,"  proceeded  the 
squii'e,  "you  will  take  a  seat  with  these 
ladies  in  theii*  carriage  and  see  them  home." 

"  I  would,  with  pleasui'e,  my  dei^r  fi-iend, 


j  but  that  I  am  called  upon  to  console  poor 
j  ]\lrs.  Smellpriest  for  the  loss  of  the  captain." 

"  The  captain !  why,  what  has  happened 
him?" 

"Alas!  sir,  an  unexpected  and  unhappy 
fate.  He  went  out  last  night  a  priest-hunt- 
ing, like  a  godly  sportsman  of  the  Church, 
as  he  was,  and  on  his  return  from  an  un- 
successful chase  fell  off  his  horse  while  in 
the  act  of  singing  that  far-famed  melody 
called  'Lillibullero,'  and  sustained  such 
severe  injuries  that  he  died  on  that  very 
night,  expressing  a  very  ungodly  penitence 
for  his  loyalty  in  persecuting  so  many  trea- 
sonable Popish  priests." 

The  squire  seemed  amazed,  and,  after  a 
pause,  said  : 

"  He  repented,  you  say ;  upon  my  soul, 
then,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  for  it  is  more 
than  I  expected  from  him,  and,  between  you 
and  me.  Strong,  I  fear  it  must  have  taken  a 
devilish  lai-ge  extent  of  rejDentance  to  clear 
him  from  the  crimes  he  committed  against 
both  priests  and  Popery." 

"Ah,"  replied  Strong,  with  a  groan  of 
deep  despondency,  "  but,  unfortunately,  my 
dear  sir,  he  did  not  repent  of  his  sins — that 
is  the  worst  of  it — Satan  must  nave  tempted 
him  to  transfer  his  repentfmce  to  those  very 
acts  of  his  hfe  upon  which,  as  Christian 
champion,  he  should  have  depended  for 
justification  above — I  mean,  devoting  his 
gi'eat  energies  so  zealously  to  the  extermina- 
tion of  idolatry  and  error.  What  was  it  but 
repenting  for  his  chief  virtues,  instead  of  re- 
lying, like  a  brave  and  dauntless  soldier  of 
our  EstabUshmeut,  upon  his  praiseworthy 
exertions  to  rid  it  of  its  insidious  and  relent- 
less enemies  ?  " 

The  squire  looked  at  him. 

"I'll  tell  you  what.  Strong — by  the  great 
Boyne,  I'd  give  a  trifie  to  see  3'ou  get  a 
smart  touch  of  jDersecution  in  j-our  own  per- 
son ;  it  might  teach  you  a  little  more  charity 
towards  those  who  difter  with  you ;  but, 
upon  my  honor,  if  any  change  in  our  national 
parties  should  soon  take  place,  and  that  the  Pa- 
pists should  get  the  upper  hand,  I  tell  you  to 
your  teeth  that  if  ever  your  fat  ribs  should 
be  tickled  by  the  whip  of  persecution,  they 
would  render  you  great  injustice  who  should 
do  it  for  the  sake  of  religion — a  commodity 
with  which  I  see,  from  the  spirit  of  your 
present  sentiments,  you  are  not  over-bur- 
dened. However,  in  the  meantime,  I  daresay 
that  whatever  portion  you  possess  of  it,  you 
will  chaiitably  expend  in  consoling  his  widow, 
as  you  say.     Good-morning  !  " 

We  must  return,  however,  to  the  close  of 
Smellpriest's  veiy  sudden  and  premature  de- 
parture from  the  scene  of  his  cruel  and 
merciless  labors.     Having  rea<iied  the  stripe 


.48 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


already  described  to  him  by  Mr.  Strong,  and 
to  whicL  he  Avas  guided  by  his  men,  he  him- 
self having  been  too  for  advanced  in  liquor 
to  make  out  his  way  with  any  kind  of  cer- 
tainty, he  proceeded,  still  under  their  direc- 
tion, to  the  cottage  adjoining,  which  was  im- 
mediately surrounded  by  the  troopers.  After 
knocking  at  the  door  with  violence,  and 
demanding  instant  admittance,  under  the 
threat  of  smashing  it  in,  and  burning  the 
house  as  a  harbor  for  rebellious  priests,  the 
door  was  immediately  opened  by  a  gray- 
headed  old  man,  feeble  and  decrepit  in  ap- 
pearance, but  yet  without  any  manifestation 
of  terror  either  in  his  voice  or  features.  He 
held  a  candle  in  his  hand,  and  asked  them, 
in  a  calm,  composed  voice,  what  it  was  they 
wanted,  and  why  they  thus  came  to  disturb 
him  and  his  family  at  such  an  unseasonable 
hour. 

"  Why,  you  treasonable  old  scoundrel," 
shouted  Smellpriest,  "  haven't  you  got  a  rebel 
and  recusant  PoiDish  priest  in  the  house  ?  I 
say,  you  gray-headed  old  villain,  turn  him 
out  on  the  instant,  or,  if  you  hesitate  but 
half  a  minute,  we'll  make  a  bonfire  of  you, 
him,  the  house,  and  all  that's  in  it.  Zounds, 
I  don't  see  Avhy  I  shouldn't  burn  a  house  as 
well  as  Whitecraft.  That  cursed  baronet  is 
getting  ahead  of  me,  but  I  tliink  I  am  en- 
titled to  a  bonfire  as  well  as  he  is.  Shall  we 
burn  the  house  ?  "  he  added,  addressing  his 
men. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  not,  captain,"  re- 
plied the  principal  of  them  ;  "  recollect  there 
are  new  reg"ulatious  now.  It  wouldn't  be 
safe,  and  might  only  end  in  hanging  every 
man  of  us — yourself  among  the  rest." 

"But  why  doesn't  the  old  rebel  produce 
the  priest  ?  "  asked  their  leader.  "  Come 
here,  siiTa — hear  me — produce  that  lurking 
priest  immediately." 

"  I  don't  exactly  understand  you,  captain," 
replied  the  old  man,  who  apjseared  to  know 
Smellpriest  right  well.  "  I  don't  think  it's  to 
my  house  you  should  come  to  look  for  a 
priest." 

""N^^y  not,  you  villain?  I  have  been 
directed  here,  and  told  that  I  would  find  my 
game  under  your  roof." 

"In  the  first  place,"  replied  the  old  man, 
with  a  firm  and  intrejiid  voice,  "I  am  no 
villain  ;  and  in  the  next,  I  say,  that  if  any 
man  directed  you  to  this  house  in  quest  of  a 
priest,  he  must  have  purposely  sent  j^ou  upon 
a  fool's  errand.  I  am  a  Protestant,  Captain 
Smellpriest ;  but,  Protestant  as  I  am,  I  tell 
you  to  your  face  that  if  I  could  give  shelter 
to  a  poor  persecuted  priest,  and  save  him 
from  the  clutches  of  such  men  as  you  and 
Sir  Robert  ^Vhitecraft,  I  w'ould  do  it.  In 
the  meantime,  there  is   neither  priest  nor 


fi-iar  under  this  roof ;  you  can  come  in  and 
search  in  the  house,  if  you  wish." 

"  AMiy,  gog's  ouns,  father,"  exclaimed  one 
of  the  men,  "  how  does  it  come  that  we  find 
you  here  ?  " 

"  Very  simply,  John,"  replied  his  father — 
for  such  he  was — "  I  took  this  cottage,  and 
the  bit  of  land  that  goes  with  it,  from  honest 
Andy  Morrow,  and  we  are  not  many  hours  in 
it.  The  house  was  empty  for  the  last  six 
months,  so  that  I  saj'  again,  whoever  sent 
CajDtain  Smellpriest  here  sent  him  upon  a 
fool's  eiTand — ujaou  a  wild-goose  chase." 

The  gallant  cajstain  started  upon  heaiing 
these  latter  words. 

"  "Wliat  does  he  say,"  he  asked — "  a  wild 
goose  chase  !  Rightr— right,"  he  added,  in  t 
soliloquy  ;  "  Strong  is  at  the  bottom  of  it 
the  black  scoundrel !  but  still,  let  us  seai'cl 
the  house  ;  the  old  fellow  admits  that  he 
loould  shelter  a  priest.  Search  the  house  I 
say. 

"  '  There  was  an  old  prophecy  found  in  a  bog, 
LillibuUero,  bullen  ala,  &c.,  &c.'  " 

The  house  was  accordingly  searched,  but 
it  is  unnecessai-y  to  add  that  neither  priest 
nor  friar  was  found  under  the  roof,  nor  any 
nook  or  corner  in  which  either  one  or  the 
other  could  have  been  concealed. 

The  party,  who  then  directed  their  steps 
homewards,  were  proceeding  across  the  fields 
to  the  mountain  road  which  ran  close  by, 
and  parallel  with  the  stripe,  when  they  per- 
ceived at  once  that  Smellpriest  was  in  a  rage, 
by  the  fact  of  his  singing  "LillibuUero;" 
for,  whenever  either  his  rage  or  loyalty  hap- 
pened to  run  high,  he  unifgrmly  made  a 
point  to  indulge  himself  in  singing  that  cele- 
brated ballad. 

"By  jabers,"  said  one  of  them  to  his  com- 
panions, "  there  will  be  a  battle  royal  between 
the  caj)tain  and  Mr.  Strong  if  he  finds  the 
parson  at  home  before  him." 

"  If  there  won't  be  a  fight  with  the  parson, 
there  will  with  the  wife,"  repHed  the  other. 
"  Hang  the  same  j)arson,"  he  added ;  "many 
a  dreary  chase  he  has  sent  us  upon,  with 
nothing  but  the  fatigue  of  a  dark  and  slarish 
journey  for  our  pains.  With  what  bitterness 
he's  giving  us  'LillibuUero,'  and  he  scarcely 
able  to  sit  on  his  horse  !  I  think  I'll  advance, 
and  ride  beside  him,  otherwise,  he  may  get 
an  ugly  tumble  on  this  hard  road." 

He  accordingly  did  so,  obsei-ving,  as  he 
got  near  him,  "I  have  taken  the  liberty  to 
ride  close  beside  you,  lest,  as  the  night  is 
dark,  yovu-  horse  might  stumble." 

"  What !  do  you  think  I'm  drunk,  you 
scoundrel? — ftill  back,  sir,  im.mediately. 

"  '  LillibuUero,  bullen  ala.' 

"  I  say  I'm  not  drunk  ;  but  I'm  in  a  terrible 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


149 


passion  at  that  treacherous  scoundrel ;  but 
no  matter,  I  saw  something  to-night — never 
mind,  I  say. 

"  '  There  was  an  old  prophecy  found  in  a  bo?, 

Lillibnllero,  buUen  ala  ; 
That  Ireland  should  be  ruled  by  an  Ass  and  a  Dog, 

Lillibnllero,  bullen  ala; 
And  now  thatsame  prophecy  has  come  to  pass — 

Lillibnllero,  bullen  ala  ; 
For  Talbot's  the  Dog,  and  James  is  the  Ass, 

'  LillibuUero,  bullen  ala.' 

"  Never  mind,  I  say  ;  hang  me,  but  I'll  crop 
the  villain,  or  crop  both,  which  is  better 
stiU — steady,  Schomberg — curse  you." 

The  same  rut  or  chasm  across  the  more 
open  road  on  which  they  had  now  got  out, 
and  that  had  nearly  been  so  fatal  to  Mr.  Brown, 
became  decidedly  so  to  tmfortunate  Smell- 
priest.  The  horse,  as  his  riJer  spoke,  stop- 
ped suddenly,  and,  slicing  quickly  to  the  one 
side,  the  captain  was  pitched  off,  and  fell 
with  his  whole  weight  ujDon  the  hard  pave- 
ment. The  man  was  an  unwieldy,  and  con- 
sequently a  heavy  man,  and  the  unexpected 
fall  stunned  him  into  insensibility.  After 
about  ten  minutes  or  so  he  recovered  his  con- 
sciousness, however,  and  having  been  once 
more  j^laced  upon  his  horse,  was  conducted 
home,  two  or  three  of  his  men,  with  much 
difficulty,  enabling  him  to  maintain  his  seat 
in  the  saddle.  Li  this  manner  they  reached 
his  house,  where  they  stripped  and  j^ut  him 
to  bed,  having  observed,  to  their  conster- 
nation, that  strong  gushes  of  blood  welled, 
every  three  or  four  minutes,  from  his  mouth. 

The  grief  of  his  faithful  wife  was  outrage- 
ous ;  and  Mr.  Strong,  who  was  stiU  there 
kindly  awaiting  his  safe  return,  endeavored 
to  compose  her  distraction  as  well  as  he 
could. 

"My  dear  madam,"  said  he,  "why  will 
you  thus  permit  your  gi'ief  to  overcome  you  ? 
You  wiU  most  assuredly  injure  your  own 
precious  health  by  this  dangerous  outburst 
of  sorrow.  The  zealous  and  truly  loyal  caj)- 
tain  is  not,  I  trust,  seriously  injured  ;  he  will 
recover,  under  God,  in  a  few  days.  You  may 
rest  assured,  my  dear  Mrs.  Smellpriest,  that 
his  hfe  is  too  valuable  to  be  taken  at  this  un- 
happy period.  No,  he  will,  I  trust  and  hojie, 
be  sj^ared  until  a  strong  anti-Popish  Govern- 
ment shall  come  in,  when,  if  he  is  to  lose  it, 
he  will  lose  it  in  some  great  and  godly  ex- 
ploit against  the  harlot  of  abominations." 

"Alas!  my  deai'  IMi-.  Strong,  that  is  all 
very  kind  of  you,  to  support  my  breaking 
heai't  with  such  comfort ;  but,  when  he  is 
gone,  what  will  become  of  me  ?  " 

"  You  will  not  be  left  desolate,  my  dear 
madam — you  A\'ill  be  supported — cheered — 
consoled.  Captain,  my  fiiend,  how  do  you 
feel  now  ?   Are  vou  easier  ?  " 


"  I  am,"  replied  the  captain  feebly — for  he 
had  not  lost  his  speech — "  come  near  me, 
Strong." 

"  With  pleasure,  dear  captain,  as  becomes 
my  duty,  not  only  as  a  friend,  but  as  an  hum- 
ble and  unworthy  minister  of  rehgion.  I 
trust  you  are  not  in  danger,  but,  under  any 
cii'cumstances,  it  is  best,  you  know,  to  be 
prepared  for  the  Avorst.  Do  not  then  be  cast 
down,  nor  allow  your  heart  to  sink  into  de- 
spair. Remember  that  you  have  acted  the 
part  of  a  zealous  and  faithful  champion  on 
behaK  of  our  holy  Church,  and  that  you  have 
been  a  blessed  scourge  of  Popery  in  this  Pope- 
ridden  countiy.  Let  that  reflection,  then,  be 
your  consolation.  Think  of  the  many  priests 
you  have  hunted — and  hunted  successfully 
too ;  think  of  how  many  bitter  Papists  of 
every  class  you  have  been  the  blessed  means 
of  committing  to  the  justice  of  our  laws  ; 
think  of  the  numbers  of  Popish  priests  and 
bishops  3'ou  have,  in  the  faithful  discharge 
of  your  pious  duty,  committed  to  chains,  im- 
jorisonment,  transportation,  and  the  scaffold 
— think  of  all  these  things,  I  say,  and  take 
comfort  to  your  soul  by  the  retrospect. 
Would  you  wieh  to  receive  the  rites  and  con- 
solations of  religion  at  my  hands  ?  " 

"Come  near  me.  Strong." repeated  Smell- 
priest.  "  The  rites  of  religion  fi'om  you — 
the  rights  of  perdition  as  soon,  you  hypo- 
critical scoundrel  ; "  and  as  he  spoke  he 
caught  a  gush  of  blood  as  it  issued  from  his 
mouth  and  filing  it  with  all  the  strength  he 
had  left  right  into  the  clergyman's  face. 
"  Take  that,  you  villain,"  he  added  ;  "  I  die 
in  every  sense  with  my  blood  upon  you. 
And  as  for  my  hunting  of  priests  and  Papists, 
it  is  the  only  thing  that  lies  at  this  moment 
heav}'  over  my  heart.  And  as  for  that  wife 
of  mine,  I'm  sorry  she's  not  in  my  place.  I 
know,  of  course,  I'U  be  damned  ;  but  it  can't 
be  helijed  now.  If  I  go  down,  as  down  I 
will  go,  won't  I  have  plenty  of  friends  to 
keep  me  in  countenance.  I  know — I  feel 
I'm  dying  ;  but  I  must  take  the  conse- 
quences. In  the  meantime,  my  best  word 
and  wish  is,  that  that  rile  jade  shan't  be 
permitted  to  approach  or  touch  my  body 
after  I  am  dead.  My  curse  upon  you  both  ! 
for  you  brought  me  to  this  untimely  death 
between  you." 

"Why,  my  deal*  Smellpriest — "  exclaimed 
the  wife. 

"  Don't  call  me  Smellpriest,"  he  replied, 
interrupting  her ;  "  my  name  is  Norbury. 
But  it  doesn't  matter — it's  all  up  mth  me, 
and  I  know  it  will  soon  be  all  down  with  me  ; 
for  down,  down  I'll  go.  Strong,  you  hypo- 
critical scoundrel,  don't  be  a  persecutor  : 
look  at  me  on  the  very  brink  of  perdition 
for  it      A,nd  now  the  only  comfori  I  have  is, 


i50 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


that  I  let  the  poor  Popish  bishop  off.  I 
could  not  shoot  him,  or  at  any  rate  make  a 
prisoner  of  him,  and  he  engaged  in  the  wor- 
ship of  God." 

"Alas!"  whispered  Strong,  "the  poor 
man  is  verging  on  rank  Popery — he  is  hope- 
less." 

"But,  Tom,  dear,"  said  the  wife,  "why 
are  you  displeased  with  me,  your  own  faith- 
ful partner  ?  I  that  was  so  lo%dng  and  affec- 
tionate to  you  ?  I  that  urged  you  on  in  the 
path  of  dut}'?  I  that  scoured  your  arms 
and  regimentals  with  my  own  hands — that 
mixed  3'ou  your  punch  before  you  went  after 
the  black  game,  as  you  used  to  saj',  and, 
again,  had  it  ready  for  you  when  you  re- 
turned to  precious  'Mi:  Strong  and  me  after 
a  long  hunt.  Don't  die  in  anger  with  your 
OAvn  Grizzey,  as  you  used  to  call  me,  my 
dear  Tom,  or,  if  you  do,  I  feel  that  I  won't 
long  survive  you." 

"Ah!  you  jade,"  rephed  Tom,  "didn't  I 
see  the  wink  between  you  to-night,  although 
you  thought  I  was  di-unk?  Ah,  these  wild- 
goose  chases ! " 

"  Tom,  dear,  we  are  both  innocent.  Oh, 
forgive  your  own  Grizzey  !  " 

"  So  I  do,  you  jade — my  curse  on  you 
both." 

"Wliether  it  was  the  effort  necessary  to 
speak,  in  addition  to  the  excitement  occa- 
sioned by  his  susjDicions,  and  whether  these 
suspicious  were  well  founded  or  not,  we  do 
not  jjresume  to  say ;  but  the  fact  was,  that, 
after  another  outgulji  of  blood  had  come  ujd, 
he  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh,  his  under-jaw 
fell,  and  the  "WTetched,  half-penitent  Captain 
Smellpriest  breathed  his  last.  After  which 
his  wife,  whether  from  sorrow  or  remorse, 
became  insensible,  and  remained  in  that 
state  for  a  considerable  time  ;  but  at  length 
she  recovered,  and,  after  expressing  the 
most  violent  soitow,  literally  drove  the  Kev. 
IVli*.  Strong  out  of  the  house,  with  many 
deep  and  bitter  curses.     But  to  return  : 

In  a  few  minutes  the  parties  dispersed, 
and  Folliard,  too  much  absorbed  in  the  fates 
of  Reiliy  and  Whitecraft,  prepared  to  ride 
to  Sligo,  to  ascertain  if  any  thing  could  be 
done  for  the  baronet.  In  the  meantime, 
while  he  and  his  old  fi-iend  Cummiskey  are 
on  their  way  to  see  that  gentleman,  we  will 
ask  the  attention  of  our  readers  to  the  state 
of  Helen's  mind,  as  it  was  affected  by  the 
distressing  events  which  had  so  rajDidly  and 
recently  occurred.  We  need  not  assure 
them  that  deep  anxiety  for  the  fate  of  her 
unfortunate  lover  lay  upon  her  heart  hke 
gloom  of  death  itself.  His  image  and  his 
natural  nobility  of  character,  but,  above  all, 
the  purity  and  delicacy  of  his  love  for  her- 
self ;  his  manly  and  faithful  attachment  to 


his  rehgion,  under  temptations  which  few 
heai'ts  could  resist — temptations  of  which 
she  herself  was,  beyond  all  comparison,  the 
most  trying  and  the  most  difficult  to  be 
withstood  ;  his  refusal  to  leave  the  country 
on  her  account,  even  when  the  bloodhounds 
of  the  law  were  pursuing  him  to  his  death 
in  eveiy  direction  ;  and  the  reflection  that 
this  resolution  of  abiding  by  her,  and  watch- 
ing over  her  welfare  and  hapi^iuess,  and 
guarding  her,  as  far  as  he  could,  from  do- 
mestic persecution — all  these  reflections,  in 
short,  crowded  upon  her  mind  ^vith  such 
fearfid  force  that  her  reason  began  to  totter, 
and  she  felt  apprehensive  that  she  might 
not  be  able  to  bear  the  trial  which  Reiliy 'a 
position  now  placed  before  her  in  the  most 
hideous  colors.  On  the  other  hand,  there 
was  Whitecraft,  a  man  cei'tainly  who  had 
committed  many  crimes  and  murders  and 
burnings,  often,  but  not  always,  upon  his 
own  respousibiht}^  ;  a  man  who,  she  knew, 
entertained  no  manly  or  tender  affection  for 
her  ;  he  too  about  to  meet  a  violent  death  ! 
That  she  detested  him  with  an.  abhoiTence 
as  deep  as  ever  woman  entertained  against 
man  was  time  ;  yet  she  ivas  a  woman,  and 
this  unhappy  fate  that  impended  over  him 
was  not  excluded  out  of  the  code  of  her 
heai't's  humanity.  She  wished  him  also  to 
be  saved,  if  only  that  he  might  withdraw 
fi*om  Ii'eland  and  rej^ent  of  his  crimes.  Al- 
together she  was  in  a  state  bordej-ing  on 
fi'euzy  and  desjjau*,  and  was  often  incapable 
of  continuing  a  sustained  conversation. 

When  Whitecraft  reached  the  jail  in  his 
carriage,  attended  by  a  guard  of  troopers, 
the  jailer  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it ;  but 
seeing  the  carriage,  which,  after  a  glance  or 
two,  he  immediately  recognized  as  that  of 
the  well-known  grand  juror,  he  came  out, 
with  hat  in  hand,  bowing  most  obsequiously. 

"I  hoj^e  your  honor's  well ;  you  are  com- 
ing to  insi^ect  the  prisoners,  I  suppose? 
Always  active  on  behalf  of  Church  and  State, 
Sir  Eobert." 

"  Come,  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy,"  said  one  of 
the  constables,  "get  on  with  no  nonsense. 
You're  a  mighty  Church  and  State  man  now ; 
bvit  I  remember  Avhen  there  was  as  rank  a 
rebel  under  your  coat  as  ever  thumped  a 
craw.  Sir  Robert,  sir,  is  here  as  our  pris- 
oner, and  will  soon  be  yours,  for  murder 
and  arson,  and  God  knows  what  besides. 
Be  pleased  to  walk  into  the  hatch,  Sir 
Robert,  and  there  we  surrender  3'OU  to  ]\Ir. 
O'Shaughnessy,  who  will  treat  you  well  if  you 
pay  him  well." 

They  then  entered  the  hatch.  The  con- 
stable produced  the  milt imint  and  the  baro- 
net's person  both  together,  after  which  they 
withdrew,  having  failed  to  get  the  price  oi 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


151 


fi  glass  from  the  baronet  as  a  reward  for 
their  chihty. 

Such  scenes  have  been  described  a  hun- 
(b-ed  times,  and  we  consequently  shall  not 
delay  our  readers  upon  this.  Ihe  baronet, 
indeed,  imagined  that  fi-om  his  I'ank  and 
influence  the  jailer  might  be  induced  to  give 
him  comfortable  apartments.  He  was  in, 
however,  for  two  capital  felonies,  and  the 
jailer,  who  was  acquainted  -n-ith  the  turn 
that  public  affairs  had  taken,  told  him  that 
upon  his  soul  and  conscience  if  the  matter 
lay  with  him  he  would  not  put  his  honor 
among  the  felons  ;  but  then  he  had  no  dis- 
cretion, because  it  was  as  much  as  his  place 
was  worth  to  break  the  rules — a  thing  he 
couldn't  think  of  doing  as  an  honest  man 
and  an  iipright  officer. 

"  But  whatever  I  can  do  for  you,  Sir 
Robert,  lU  do." 

"  You  will  let  me  have  pen  and  ink,  won't 
you  ?  " 

"  Well,  let  me  see.  Yes,  I  will,  Sir 
Robert ;  I'll  stretch  that  far  for  the  sake  of 
ould  times." 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

The  Squire  Comforts  Whitecraft  in  his  Affliction.. 

The  old  squire  and  Cummiskey  lost  little 
time  in  getting  over  the  ground  to  the  iovm. 
of  Sligo,  and,  in  order  to  reach  it  the  more 
quickly,  they  took  a  short  cut  by  the  old 
road  which  we  have  described  at  the  begin- 
ning of  this  narrative.  On  arriving  at  that 
part  of  it  from  which  they  could  view  the 
spot  where  Eeilly  rescued  them  from  the 
murderous  violence  ^f  the  Red  Rapparee, 
Cummiskey  pointed  to  it. 

"  Does  your  honor  remember  that  place, 
where  you  see  the  ould  buildin'  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  Is  not  that  the  place 
where  the  cursed  Rapparee  attacked  vis  ?  " 

"  It  is,  sir  ;  and  where  poor  ReHly  saved 
both  our  lives  ;  and  yet  yom-  honor  is  goin' 
to  hang  him." 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it,  you  old 
blockhead.  It  was  all  a  plan  got  up  by  Reil- 
ly  and  the  Rapparee  for  the  puii^ose  of  get- 
ting introduced  to  my  daughter,  for  his  o^vn 
base  and  selfish  puiposes.  Yes,  I'll  hang 
him  certainly — no  doubt  of  that." 

""Well,  sir,"  replied  Cummiskey,  "  it's  one 
comfort  that  he  won't  hang  by  himself." 

'•'No,"  said  the  other,  "he  and  the  Rap- 
paree will  stretch  the  same  roj^e." 

"The  Rapparee!  faith,  sir,  hell  have 
worse  company." 

"  "\\niat  do  you  mean,  siiTa  ?  " 

"  Why,  Sii'"Robert  Wliitccraft,  sir ;  he  al- 


ways had  gallows  written  in  his  face  ;  but, 
upon  my  soul,  he'll  soon  have  it  about  his 
neck,  please  God." 

"  Faith,  I'm  afraid  you  are  not  far  from 
the  truth,  Cummiskey,"  replied  his  master; 
"  however,  I  am  going  to  make  aiTangements 
with  him,  to  see  what  can  be  done  for  the 
imfortunate  man." 

"  If  you'll  take  my  advice,  sir,  you'll  have 
nothing  to  do  with  liim.  Keep  your  hand 
out  o'  the  pot ;  there's  no  man  can  skim 
boihng  lead  with  his  hand  and  not  bum  his 
fingers — but  a  tinker." 

"  Don't  be  saucy,  you  old  dog ;  but  ride 
on,  for  I  must  put  Black  Tom  to  his  speed." 

On  arriving  at  the  prison,  the  squire  found 
Sir  Robert  pent  up  in  a  miserable  cell,  with 
a  table  screwed  to  the  floor,  a  pallet  bed, 
and  a  deal  form.  Perhaps  his  comfort 
might  have  been  improved  through  the  me- 
dium of  his  purse,  were  it  not  that  the  Prison 
Board  had  held  a  meeting  that  very  day, 
subsequent  to  his  committal,  in  which,  with 
some  dissentients,  they  considered  it  their 
d«ty  to  warn  the  jailer  against  granting  him 
any  indulgence  beyond  what  he  was  entitled 
to  as  a  felon,  and  this  under  pain  of  their 
eai'nest  disj^leasure. 

When  the  squire  entered  he  found  the 
melancholy  baronet  and  priest-hunter  sitting 
upon  the  hard  form,  his  he  id  hanging  down 
ujion  his  breast,  or,  indeed,  we  might  say 
much  farther  ;  for,  in  consequence  of  the 
almost  unnatural  length  of  his  neck,  it  ap- 
peared on  that  occasion  to  be  growing  out  of 
the  middle  of  his  body,  or  of  that  fleshless 
vertebral  column  which  passed  for  one. 

"  Well,  baronet,"  exclaimed  Folliard  pretty 
loudly,  "  here's  an  exchange  !  fi*om  the  altar 
to  the  halter  ;  fi'om  the  matrimonial  noose  to 
honest  Jack  Ketch's — and  a  devihsh  good  es- 
cape it  would  be  to  many  imfortunate 
wi'etches  in  this  same  world." 

"Oh,  "Sir.  Folliard,"  said  the  biironet,  "is 
not  this  misei'able  ?  What  wih  become  of 
me?" 

"  Now,  I  tell  you  what,  ^Miitecraft,  I  am 
come  to  speak  to  you  upon  yom-  position  ; 
but  before  I  go  farther,  let  me  say  a  word  or 
two  to  make  you  repent,  if  possible,  for  what 
you  have  done  to  others." 

"  For  what  I  have  done,  Mr.  Folliard  !  why 
should  I  not  repent,  when  I  find  I  am  to  be 
hanged  for  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  hanged  you  will  be,  there  is  no 
doubt  of  that ;  but  now  consider  a  httle  ; 
here  you  are  with  a  brown  loaf,  and — is  that 
water  in  the  jug  ?  " 

"  It  is." 

"  Very-  well ;  here  you  are,  hard  and  fast-. 
3'ou  who  were  accustomed  to  luxuries,  to  the 
richest  meats,  and  the  richest  wines — here 


(52 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


you  are  with  a  bro's\Ti  loaf,  a  jug  of  water, 
and  the  gallows  before  you  !  However,  if 
you  wish  to  repent  truly  and  sincerely,  reflect 
upon  the  numbers  that  j'ou  and  your  blood- 
hounds have  consigned  to  places  hke  this, 
and  sent  from  this  to  the  gibbet,  while  you 
were  rioting  in  luxury  and  triumph.  Good 
God,  sir,  hold  up  j-our  head,  and  be  a  man. 
WTiat  if  you  are  hanged?  Many  a  better 
man  was.     Hold  up  your  head,  I  say." 

"  I  can't,  my  dear  FoUiard  ;  it  won't  stay 
up  for  me." 

"  Egad  !  and  you'll  soon  get  a  receipt  for 
holding  it  up.  Why  the  mischief  can't  you 
have  sjDunk  ?  " 

"  Spunk  ;  how  the  deuce  could  you  expect 
spunk  from  any  man  in  my  condition?  It 
is  difficult  to  understand  you,  ]\Ii\  FoUiard  ; 
you  told  me  a  minute  ago  to  repent,  and  now 
you  tell  me  to  have  spunk  ;  pray  what  do  you 
mean  by  that  ?  " 

"\\liy,  confound  it,  I  mean  that  you 
should  rejDent  with  spunk.  However,  let  us 
come  to  more  important  matters  ;  what  can 
be  done  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  know  not ;  I  am  incapable  of  think- 
ing on  any  thing  but  that  damned  gallows 
without ;  yet  I  should  wish  to  make  my 
wm." 

"  Your  will !  ^\Tiy,  I  think  you  have  lost 
your  senses  ;  don't  you  know  that  when  you're 
hanged  every  shilling  and  acre  you  ai'e  pos- 
sessed of  will  be  forfeited  to  the  crown  ?  " 

"  True,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  had  forgot- 
ten that.  Could  Hastings  be  induced  to  de- 
cline prosecuting  ?  " 

"  ^Miat !  to  compromise  a  felony,  and  be 
transported  himself.  Thank  you  for  nothing 
baronet ;  that's  rather  a  blue  look  up.  No, 
our  only  plan  is  to  try  and  influence  the  gTand 
^ury  to  throw  out  the  bills  ;  but  then,  again, 
"jiiere  are  indictments  against  you  to  no  end. 
Hastings'  case  is  only  a  single  one,  and,  even 
if  he  failed,  it  would  not  better  youi'  con- 
dition a  whit.  Under  the  late  Administration 
we  could  have  saved  you  b}'  getting  a  jjacked 
jui-y  ;  but  that's  out  of  the  question  now.  All 
we  can  do,  I  think,  is  to  get  up  a  memorial 
strongl}'  signed,  supi:)licating  the  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant to  commute  your  sentence  from  hang- 
ing to  transportation  for  life.  I  must  con- 
fess, however,  there  is  little  hope  even  there. 
They  will  come  do\\ai  with  their  cursed  rea- 
soning and  tell  us  that  the  rank  and  educa- 
tion of  the  offender  only  aggravate  the  ofltence  ; 
and  that,  if  they  allow  a  man  so  convicted  to 
escape,  in  consequence  of  his  high  position 
in  life,  every  humble  man  foiind  guilty  and 
executed  for  the  same  crime — is  murdered. 
They  will  tell  us  it  would  be  a  prostitution 
of  the  prerogative  of  the  Crown  to  connive  at 
crime  in  the  rich  and  punish  it  in  the  poor. 


And,  again,  there's  the  deAol  of  it ;  your  beg* 
garly  want  of  hospitality  in  the  first  place,  and 
the  cursed  swaggeiing  sevex'ity  with  which 
you  carried  out  your  loyalty,  by  making  un- 
exj)ected  domicihary  visits  to  the  houses  of 
loyal  but  humane  Protestant  famihes,  with 
the  exjDectation  of  finding  a  priest  or  a  Papist 
under  their  protection  :  both  these,  I  say, 
have  made  you  the  most  unpopular  man  in 
the  county  ;  and,  upon  my  soul.  Sir  Robert, 
I  don't  think  there  will  be  a  man  upon  the 
grand  jiuy  whose  family  you  have  not  insulted 
by  your  inveterate  loyalty.  No  one,  I  teU 
you,  likes  a  ptersecutor.  Still,  I  say,  I'll  try 
what  I  can  do  with  the  grand  jury.  I'd  see 
my  fi'iends  and  yours — if  you  have  any  non.\ 
make  out  a  list  of  them  in  a  daj'  or  two — and 
3'ou  may  rest  assured  that  I  will  leave  nothing 
undone  to  extricate  you." 

"  Thank  you,  IVIi-.  FoUiard ;  but  do  you 
know  xi-hy  I  am  here? " 

"To  be  sure  I  do." 

"  No,  you  don't,  sir.  WiUiam  Eeilly,  the 
Jesuit  and  Papist,  is  the  cause  of  it,  and  wiU 
be  the  cause  of  my  utter  iniin  and  ignomini- 
ous death." 

"  How  is  that  ?  IMake  it  jDlain  to  me  ;  only 
make  that  plain  to  me." 

"He  is  the  bosom  fiiend  of  Hastings,  and 
can  sway  him  and  move  him  and  manage  him 
as  a  father  would  a  chUd,  or,  rather,  as  a  chUd 
would  a  doting  father.  Reilly,  sir,  is  at  the 
bottom  of  this,  his  great  object  always  hav- 
ing been  to  prevent  a  marriage  between  me 
and  your  beautiful  daughter  ;  I,  who,  after 
aU,  have  done  so  much  for  Protestantism, 
am  the  victim  of  that  Jesuit  and  Papist.' 

This  rindictive  suggestion  took  at  once, 
and  the  impetuous  old  squire  started  as  if  a 
new  light  had  been  let  in  upon  his  mind.  We 
caU  him  impetuous,  because,  if  he  had  re- 
flected only  for  a  moment  upon  the  diabolical 
jDersecution,  both  in  jDerson  and  property, 
which  EeiUy  had  sustained  at  the  baronet's 
hands,  he  ought  4iot  to  have  blamed  him  had 
he  shot  the  scoundrel  as  if  he  had  been  one 
of  the  most  rabid  dogs  that  ever  ran  frothing 
across  a  countr}'.  We  say  the  suggestion, 
poisoned  as  it  was  by  the  most  specious 
falsehood,  failed  not  to  accomplish  the  vil- 
lain's object. 

FoUiard  grasped  him  by  the  hand.  "  Never 
mind,"  said  he  ;  "keep  yourself  quiet,  and 
leave  Eeilly  to  me  ;  I  have  him, that's  enough." 

"No,"  repUed  the  baronet,  "it  is  not 
enough,  because  I  know  what  wiU  hajipen : 
Miss  FoUiard's  influence  over  3'ou  is  a  pro- 
verb ;  now  she  wiU  cajole  and  flatter  and  be- 
guile you  until  she  prevaUs  uj^on  3'Ou  to  let 
the  treacherous  Jesuit  slip  through  your 
fingers,  and  then  he  wiU  get  off  to  the  Con- 
tinent, and  laugh  at  you  all,  after  having  tak- 


WILLY  REILLY. 


15.^ 


en  her  with  him  ;  for  there  is  nothing  more 
certain,  if  he  escapes  death  thi-ough  your  in- 
dulgence, than  that  you  A\ill,  in  the  coui-se  of 
a  few  years,  find  youi'self  grandfather  to  a 
brood  of  young  Papists  ;  and  when  I  say  Pa- 
pists, need  I  add  rebels  ?  " 

"  Come,"  replied  the  hot-headed  old  man, 
"  don't  insvdt  me  ;  I  am  master  of  my  o\vn 
house,  and,  well  as  I  love  my  daughter,  I 
w'ould  not  for  a  moment  sufler  her  to  inter- 
fere in  a  pubHc  matter  of  this  or  any  other 
kind.  Now  good-by  ;  keep  your  spiiits  up, 
and  if  you  are  to  die,  why  die  like  a  man." 

They  then  separated  ;  and  as  Folliard  was 
passing  through  the  hatch,  he  called  the 
jailer  into  his  own  office,  and  strove  to  pre- 
vail upon  him,  not  ineffectually,  to  smuggle 
in  some  wine  and  other  comforts  to  the  bar- 
onet. The  man  told  him  that  he  would  with 
pleasure  do  so  if  he  dared  ;  but  that  the 
caution  against  it  which  he  had  got  that  very 
day  from  the  Board  rendered  the  thing  im- 

Eossible.  Ei-e  the  squire  left  him,  however, 
is  sciiiples  were  overcome,  and  the  baronet, 
before  he  went  to  bed  that  night,  had  a 
roast  duck  for  supjDer,  with  two  bottles  of  ex- 
cellent claret  to  wash  it  down  and  lull  his 
conscience  into  slumber. 

"  Confound  it,"  the  squii-e  soliloquized,  on 
their  way  home,  "  I  am  as  stupid  as  "VMiite- 
craft  himself,  who  was  never  stupid  imtil 
aow  ;  there  have  I  been  ^vdth  him  in  that 
cui'sed  dungeon,  and  neither  of  us  ever 
thought  of  taking  measures  for  his  defence. 
Why,  he  must  have  the  best  lawyers  at  the 
Bai',  and  fee  them  hke  princes.  Gad  !  I  have 
a  great  notion  to  ride  back  and  speak  to  him 
on  the  subject ;  he's  in  such  a  confounded 
trepidation  about  his  hfe  that  he  can  think 
of  nothing  else.  No  matter,  I  shall  write  to 
him  by  a  special  messenger  early  in  the 
morning.  It  would  be  a  cursed  slap  in  the 
face  to  have  one  of  our  leading  men  hanged 
— only,  after  all,  for  carrying  out  the  wishes 
of  an  anti-Papist  Government,  who  connived 
at  his  conduct,  and  encoui-aged  him  in  it.  I 
know  he  expected  a  coronet,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  but  he'd  have  got  one  had  his  party 
remained  in  ;  but  now  all  the  unfortunate 
devil  is  likely  to  get  is  a  rope — and  be  hanged 
to  them !  However,  as  to  my  o^ti  case 
about  Reilly — I  must  secure  a  strong  bar 
against  him  ;  and  if  we  can  only  prevail  upon 
Helen  to  state  the  facts  as  they  occurred, 
there  is  httle  doubt  that  he  shall  suffer  ;  for 
hang  he  must,  in  consequence  of  the  dis- 
grace he  has  brought  ujion  my  daughter's 
name  and  mine.  Whatever  I  might  have 
forgiven,  I  will  never  forgive  him  that." 

He  then  rode  on  at  a  rapid  pace,  and  did 
not  slacken  his  speed  until  he  reached  home. 
Dinner  was  ready,  and  he  sat  down  with  none  : 


but  Helen,  who  could  scarcely  touch  a  mor- 
sel. Her  father  saw  at  once  the  state  of  hei 
mind,  and  felt  that  it  would  be  injudicious 
to  introduce  any  subject  that  might  be  cal- 
culated to  excite  her.  They  accordingly 
talked  upon  commonplac^  topics,  and  each 
assumed  as  much  cheer^'ulness,  and  more 
than  they  could  command.  It  was  a  miser- 
able sight,  when  properly  understood,  to  see 
the  father  and  daughter  forced,  by  the  pain- 
ful pecuharity  of  their  circumstances,  thus 
to  conceal  their  natural  sentiments  fi-om  each 
other.  Love,  however,  is  often  a  disturber 
of  famihes,  as  in  the  case  of  Eeilly  and  Coo- 
leen  Baton  ;  and  so  is  an  avaricious  ambition, 
when  united  to  a  selfish  and  a  sensual  attach- 
ment, as  in  the  case  of  Whitecraft. 

It  is  unnecessaiy  now,  and  it  would  be 
only  tedious,  to  dwell  upon  the  energetic 
prei^arations  that  were  made  for  the  thi-ee  ap- 
proaching trials.  Pubhc  rumor  had  taken 
them  up  and  sent  them  abroad  thi'oughout 
the  greater  portion  of  the  kingdom.  ITie 
thi-ee  culj^rits  were  notorious — Sii'  Robert 
"WTiitecraft,  the  priest-hunter  and  prose- 
cutor ;  the  notorious  Red  Piapparee,  whose 
exploits  had  been  commemorated  in  a  thou- 
sand ballads  ;  and  "  Willy  Reilly,"  whose 
love  for  the  far-famed  Cooleen  Baicn,  togethei 
%rith  her  unconquerable  jDassion  for  him,  had 
been  kno\\"n  thi'oughout  the  empire.  In 
fact,  the  interest  which  the  public  felt  in  the 
result  of  the  approaching  trials  was  intense, 
not  only  in  Ii-eland,  but  tlu'oughout  England 
and  Scotland,  where  the  circumstances  con- 
nected with  them  were  borne  on  the  wings 
of  the  iDress.  Love,  however,  esjDeciaUy  the 
romance  of  it — and  here  were  not  only 
romance  but  reahty  enough — love,  we  say, 
overcomes  all  collateral  interests — and  the 
history  of  the  loves  of  Willy  Reilly  and  his 
"  dear  Cooleen  Baicn"  even  then  touched  the 
hearts  of  thousands,  and  moistened  many  a 
young  eye  for  his  calamities  and  early  fate, 
and  the  sorrows  of  his  Cooleen  Baicn. 

Helen's  father,  inspired  by  the  devilish 
suggestions  of  "WTiitecraft,  now  kept  aloof 
fi'om  her  as  much  as  he  could  with  decency 
do.  He  knew  his  own  weakness,  and  felt 
that  if  he  suffered  her  to  gain  that  portion  of 
his  society  to  which  she  had  been  accustom- 
ed, his  resolution  might  break  down,  and 
the  veiy  result  prognosticated  by  ^Miitecraft 
might  be  brought  about.  Indeed  his  time 
was  so  little  his  own,  between  his  actirity 
in  defence  of  that  villain  and  his  energetic 
operations  for  the  prosecution  of  Reilly,  that 
he  had  not  much  to  spare  her,  except  at 
meals.  It  was  not,  however,  through  him- 
self that  he  wished  to  win  her  over  to  pros- 
ecute Reill3\  No  ;  he  felt  his  difficulty,  and 
knew  that  he  could  not  attempt  to  infiuence 


154 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ner  with  a  good  grace,  or  any  force  of  argu- 
ment. He  resolved,  therefore,  to  set  his  at- 
torney to  work,  who,  as  he  understood  all 
tlie  quirks  and  intricacy  of  the  law,  might  be 
able  to  puzzle  her  into  compliance.  This 
gentleman,  hoover,  who  possessed  at  once 
a  rapacious  heart  and  a  stujaid  head,  might 
have  fleeced  half  the  country  had  the  one 
been  ujDon  a  par  with  the  other.  He  was, 
besides,  in  his  own  estimation,  a  lady-killer, 
and  knew  not  how  these  interviews  with  the 
fail'  Cooleen  Buwn  might  end.  He,  at  all 
events,  was  a  sound  Protestant,  and  if  it  were 
often  said  that  you  might  as  well  ask  a  High- 
lander for  a  knee-buckle  as  an  attorney  for 
rehgion,  he  could  conscientiousl}^  faU  back 
upon  the  fact  that  political  Protestantism  and 
rehgion  were  very  different  things — for  an 
attorney. 

Insti'ucted  by  Folliard,  he  accordingly 
waited  upon  her  jjrofessionally,  in  her  father's 
study,  during  his  absence,  and  opened  his 
case  as  follows : 

"I  have  called  upon  you.  Miss  Folhard, 
by  the  direction  of  your  father,  j^rofesdopally, 
and  indeed  I  thank  my  stars  that  any  pro- 
fessional business  should  give  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  admiring  so  far-famed  a  beauty." 

"  Ai-e  you  not  Mi'.  Doldrum,"  she  asked, 
"  the  celebrated  attorney  ?  " 

"  Doldi'um  is  certainly  my  name,  my  lovely 
chent." 

"  Well,  IMi'.  Doldrum,  I  think  I  have  heard 
of  you  ;  but  jDermit  me  to  say  that  before  you 
make  love,  as  you  seem  about  to  do,  I  think 
it  better  you  should  mention  your  profes- 
sional business." 

"  It  is  very  simple,  ]\Iiss  Folhard  ;  just  to 
know  whether  you  have  any  objection  to 
appear  as  an  evidence  against — he-hem — 
against  Mr.  ReiUy." 

"  Oh,  then  your  business  and  time  Avith  me 
will  be  very  brief,  INIr.  Doldi'um.  It  is  my 
intention  to  see  justice  done,  and  for  that 
purpose  I  shall  attend  the  trial,  and  if  I  find 
that  my  evidence  will  be  necessai-y,  I  assure 
you  I  shaU  give  it.  But,  IVlr.  Doldrum,  one 
word  with  you  before  you  go." 

"A  hundred — a  thousand,  my  dear  lady." 

"It  is  this:  I  beg  as  a  personal  favor  that 
you  will  use  your  great  influence  with  my 
father  to  prevent  him  from  talking  to  me  on 
■^his  subject  until  the  day  of  trial  comes.  By 
Being  kind  enough  to  do  this  you  will  save 
me  from  much  anxiety  and  annoyance." 

"I  pledge  you  my  honor,  madam,  that 
your  wishes  shall  be  complied  with  to  the 
letter,  as  far,  at  least,  as  any  influence  of 
mine  can  accomplish  them." 

"  Thank  you,  sir  ;  I  wish  you  a  good-morn- 
ing." 

"  Good-morning,  madam ;  it  shaU  not  be 


my  fault  if  you  are  harassed  upon  this  mos^ 
painful  subject ;  and  I  pledge  you  my  repu- 
tation that  I  never  contributed  to  hang  a  man 
in  my  life  with  more  regret  than  I  experience 
in  this  unfortunate  case." 

It  is  quite  a  common  thing  to  find  vanitj 
and  stuj)idity  united  in  the  same  indi\idual, 
as  they  were  in  Mr.  Doldrum.  He  was  ]\Ir. 
Folliard's  country  attorney,  and,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  strong  Protestant  politics,  was 
engaged  as  the  law  agent  of  his  property ; 
and  for  the  same  reason — that  is,  because  he 
was  a  violent,  he  was  considered  a  vei-y  able 
man. 

There  is  a  class  of  men  in  the  world 
who,  when  they  once  engage  in  a  pursuit 
or  an  act  of  any  importance,  will  persist 
in  working  it  out,  rather  than  be  sup' 
posed,  by  rehnquishing  it,  when  they 
discover  themselves  wrong,  to  cast  an 
imputation  on  their  own  judgments.  To 
such  a  class  belonged  ]\L'.  Folliard,  who 
never,  in  point  of  fact,  acted  upon  any  fixed 
or  distinct  princii^le  whatsoever  ;  yet  if  he 
once  took  a  matter  into  his  head,  under  the 
influence  of  caprice  or  imi3ulse,  no  man 
could  evince  more  obstinacy  or  perseverance, 
apart  fi'om  all  its  justice  or  moral  associations, 
so  long,  at  least,  as  that  caprice  or  imi3ulse 
lasted.  The  reader  may  have  perceived  from 
liis  dialogue  with  Helen,  on  the  morning  ap- 
pointed  for  her  marriage  with  Whitecraft, 
that  the  worthy  baronet,  had  he  made  hia 
appearance,  stood  a  strong  chance  of  being 
sent  about  his  business  as  rank  a  bachelor  aa 
he  had  come.  And  yet,  because  he  was  cun- 
ning enough  to  make  the  hot-brained  and 
credulous  old  man  believe  that  EeiUy  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  plan  for  his  destruction, 
and  Hastings  only  the  passive  agent  in  hia 
hands ;  we  say,  because  he  succeeded  in 
making  this  impression,  which  he  knew  to  be 
deliberately  false,  upon  his  plastic  nature,  he, 
FoUiard,  worked  himself  up  into  a  vindictive 
bitterness  peculiar  to  little  minds,  as  well  as 
a  fixed  determination  that  Eeilly  should  die  ; 
not  by  any  means  so  much  because  he  took 
away  his  daughter  as  that  his  death  might  be 
marked  in  this  conflict  of  pai'ties  as  a  set-ofl 
against  that  of  ^Yhitecraft. 

In  the  meantime  he  and  Helen  entertained 
each  a  different  apprehension  ;  he  dreaded 
that  she  might  exercise  her  influence  over 
him  for  the  purpose  of  soiiening  him  against 
Reilly,  whom,  if  he  had  suffered  himself  to 
analyze  his  own  heart,  he  would  have  found 
there  in  the  shape  of  something  very  like  a 
favorite.  Helen,  on  the  contrary,  knew  that 
she  was  expected  to  attend  the  trial,  in  order 
to  give  evidence  arfainst  her  lover  ;  and  she 
lived  for  a  few  days  after  his  committal 
under  the   constant  dread   that  hei-  father 


yVlLLY  RE  ILLY. 


^5i 


would  persecute  her  with  endless  ar^ments 
to  induce  her  attendance  at  the  assizes. 
Such,  besides,  was  her  love  of  tnith  and 
candor,  and  her  hatred  of  dissimulation  in 
every  shape,  that,  if  either  her  father  or  the 
attorney  had  asked  her,  in  explicit  terms, 
what  the  tendency  of  her  evidence  was  to  be, 
she  would  at  once  has'e  satisfied  them  that  it 
should  be  in  favor  of  her  lover.  In  the 
meantime  she  felt  that,  as  they  did  not  press 
her  on  this  point,  it  would  have  been  mad- 
ness to  volunteer  a  disclosure  of  a  matter  so 
important  to  the  \'indication  of  Reilly's  con- 
duct. To  this  we  may  add  her  intimate 
knowledge  of  her  father's  whimsical  charac- 
ter and  unsteadiness  of  pui*pose.  She  was 
not  ijrnorant  that,  even  if  he  were  absolutely 
aware  that  the  tenor  of  her  evidence  was  to 
go  against  Reilly,  his  mind  might  change  so 
decidedly  as  to  call  upon  her  to  give  evidence 
in  his  defence.  Under  these  cu-cumstances 
she  acted  with  singular  pradeuce,  in  never 
allud'.ng  to  a  topic  of  such  difficulty,  and 
which  involved  a  contingency  that  might 
alfe  't  her  lover  in  a  double  sense. 

H.^r  father's  conduct,  however,  on  this  oc- 
casion, saved  them  both  a  vast  deal  of 
trouble  and  annoyance,  and  the  consequence 
was  that  they  met  as  seldom  as  possible.  In 
addition  to  this,  we  may  state  that  Doldrum 
communicated  the  successful  result  of  his 
interview  with  IMiss  Folliard — her  willingness 
to  attend  the  trial  and  see  justice  done,  upon 
condition  that  she  should  not  have  the  sub- 
ject obtruded  on  her,  either  by  her  father  or 
any  one  else,  until  the  appointed  day  should 
ar)-ive,  when  she  would  jDunctually  attend. 
In  this  state  were  the  relative  jjositions  and 
feehngs  of  father  and  daughter  about  a 
mouth  before  the  opening  of  the  assizes. 

In  the  meantime  the  squire  set  himself  to 
work  for  the  baronet.  The  ablest  lawyers 
were  obtained,  but  Whitecraft  most  positive- 
ly objected  to  Folliard's  jDi-ojoosal  of  engaging 
Doldrum  as  his  attorney ;  he  knew  the  stu- 
pidity and  ignorance  of  the  man,  and  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him  as  the  conduc- 
tor of  his  case.  His  own  attorney,  Mr. 
Shaii^ly,  was  engaged ;  and  indeed  his 
selection  of  a  keen  and  able  man  such  as  he 
was  did  credit  both  to  his  sagacity  and 
foresight. 

Considenng  the  state  of  the  countrj'  at 
that  pai'ticular  period,  the  matter  began  to 
assume  a  most  important  aspect.  A  jjortion 
of  the  Protestant  party,  by  which  we  mean 
those  who  had  sanctioned  all  Wliitecraft's  j 
brutal  and  murderous  excesses,  called  every 
energ}'  and  exertion  into  work,  in  order  to 
defeat  the  Government  and  protect  the  lead- 
ing man  of  theii*  own  clique.  On  the  other  ! 
hand,  there  was  the  Government,  firm  and  ! 


decided,  by  the  just  operation  of  the  laws, 
to  make  an  example  of  the  man  who  had  not 
only  availed  himself  of  those  laws  when  they 
were  wuth  bim,  but  who  scrupled  not  to  set 
them  aside  when  they  were  against  him,  and 
to  force  his  bloodthirsty  instincts  upon  his 
own  responsibility.  The  Government,  how- 
ever, were  not  without  large  and  active  sup- 
port from  those  liberal  Protestants,  who  had 
been  disgusted  and  sickened  by  the  irre- 
sponsible outrages  of  such  persecutors  as 
Whitecraft  and  Smellpnlest.  Upon  those 
men  the  new  Government  relied,  and  relied 
with  safety.  The  country  was  in  a  tumult, 
the  bigoted  party  threatened  an  insun-ection  ; 
and  they  did  so,  not  because  they  felt  them- 
selves  in  a  position  to  efTect  it,  but  in  order 
to  alaiTn  and  intimidate  the  Government. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  Catholics,  who  had 
given  decided  proofs  of  their  loyalty  by  re- 
fusing to  join  the  Pretender,  now  expressed 
their  determination  to  support  the  Govern- 
ment if  an  outbreak  among  that  section  ol 
the  Protestant  party  to  which  we  have  just 
alluded  should  take  place. 

But  perhaps  the  real  cause  of  the  conduct 
of  the  Government  might  be  traced  to  White- 
craft's  outrage  upon  a  French  subject  in  the 

person  of  the  Abbe .     The  matter,  as  we 

have  stated,  was  seriously  taken  up  by  the 
French  Ambassador,  in  the  name,  and  by 
the  most  positive  instructions,  of  his  Court. 
The  villain  Wliitecraft,  in  consequence  of 
that  wanton  and  unjustifiable  act,  Avent  far 
to  involve  the  two  nations  in  a  bitter  and 
bloody  war.  England  was  eveiy  day  under 
the  apprehension  of  a  French  invasion, 
which,  of  course,  she  dreaded  ;  something 
must  be  done  to  satisfy  the  French  Coui't. 
Perhaps,  had  it  not  been  for  this,  the  general 
outrages  committed  upon  the  vmfoi'tunate 
Catholics  of  Ireland  would  never  have  be- 
come the  subject  of  a  detailed  investigation. 
An  investigation,  however,  took  place,  by 
which  a  system  of  the  most  incredible  per- 
secution was  discovered,  and  a  milder  ad- 
ministi-ation  of  the  laws  was  found  judicious, 
in  order  to  conciliate  the  Catholic  party,  and 
prevent  them  fi'om  embracing  the  cause  of 
the  Pretender.  At  all  events,  what  between 
the  necessity  of  satisfying  the  claims  of  the 
French  Government,  and  in  ai:)prehension  of 
a  Catholic  defection,  the  great  and  principal 
criminal  was  selected  for  punishment.  The 
L-ish  Government,  hov/ever,  who  were  al- 
ready prepared  with  their  chai'ges,  found 
themselves  ah-eady  antici]:)ated  by  jMr. 
Hastings,  a  fact  which  enabled  them  to  lie 
on  their  oars  and  await  the  result. 

Such  was  the  state  and  condition  of  affairs 
as  the  assizes  were  within  ten  days  of  open* 
ing. 


156 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


One  evening  about  this  time  the  old 
squii-e,  who  never  remained  long  in  the 
same  mode  of  feehng,  sent  for  his  daughter 
to  the  dining-room,  where  he  was  engaged 
at  his  Burgundy.  The  poor  girl  feared  that 
he  was  about  to  introduce  the  painful  sub- 
ject which  she  dreaded  so  much — that  is  to 
say,  the  necessity  of  giving  her  evidence 
agiiinst  Keilly,  After  some  conversation, 
however,  she  was  reheved,  for  he  did  not 
allude  to  it ;  but  he  did  to  the  fate  of  Reilly 
himself,  the  very  subject  which  was  wringing 
her  heai't  with  agony. 

"Helen,"  said  he,  "I  have  been  thinking 
of  Reilly 's  affair,  and  it  strikes  me  that  he 
may  be  saved,  and  become  your  husband 
still  -,  because,  you  know,  that  if  Whitecraft 
was  acquitted,  now  that  he  has  been  publicly 
disgraced,  I'd  see  the  devil  picking  his  bones 
•  —and  very  hard  picking  he'd  find  them — 
before  I'd  give  you  to  him  as  a  wife." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  papa ;  but  let  me 
ask.  why  it  is  that  you  are  so  active  in  stir- 
ring up  his  party  to  defend  such  a  man  ?  " 

"  Foohsh  gii'l,"  he  replied  ;  "it  is  not  the 
man,  but  the  cause  and  principle,  we  de- 
fend." 

"  What,  papa,  the  cause !  bloodshed  and 
persecution  !  I  beheve  you  to  be  possessed  of 
a  humane  heart,  papa  ;  but,  notwithstanding 
his  character  and  his  crimes,  I  do  not  wish 
the  unfortunate  man  to  be  stinick  into  the 
grave  without  repentance." 

"Repentance,  Helen!  How  the  deuce 
could  a  man  feel  repentance  who  does  not 
believe  the  Christian  religion  ?  " 

"  But  then,  sir,  has  he  not  the  reputation 
of  being  a  sound  and  leading  Protestant  ?  " 

"  Oh,  hang  his  reputation  ;  it  is  not  of 
him  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,  but  ReiUy." 

Helen's  heart  beat  rapidly  and  thickly, 
but  she  spoke  not. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "I  have  a  project  in  my 
dead  that  I  think  may  save  Reilly." 
"  Pray,  what  is  it,  may  I  ask,  jDapa?" 
"  No,  you  may  not ;  but  to-morrow  I 
will  give  him  an  early  call,  and  let  you 
know  how  I  succeed,  after  my  return  to 
dinner ;  yes,  I  wall  tell  you  after  dinner. 
But  listen,  Helen,  it  is  the  opinion  of  the 
baronet's  fiiends  that  they  will  be  able  to 
save  him." 

"  I  hope  they  may,  sir  ;  I  should  not  wish 
to  see  any  fellow-creature  brought  to  an 
ignominious  death  in  the  midst  of  his 
offences,  and  in  the  prime  of  life." 

"  But,  on  the  contrary,  if  he  swings,  we 
are  bound  to  saciifice  one  of  the  Papist 
party  for  him,  and  Reilly  is  the  man.  Now 
don't  look  so  pale,  Helen — don't  look  as  if 
death  was  settled  in  your  face  ;  his  fate  may 
be  avoided  ;  but  ask  me  nothing — the  pro- 


ject's my  own,  and  I  will  communicate  it  to 
no  one  until  after  I  shall  have  ascertained 
whether  I  fail  in  it  or  not." 

"I  trust,  sir,  it  will  be  nothing  that  will 
involve  him  in  anything  dishonorable  ;  but 
why  do  I  ask  ?    He  is  incapable  of  that." 

"  Well,  well,  leave  the  matter  in  my  hand; 
and  now,  upon  the  strength  of  my  project, 
I'll  take  another  bumper  of  Bui'gundy,  and 
dimk  to  its  success." 

Helen  pleaded  some  cause  for  withdraw- 
ing, as  she  entertained  an  apprehension  that 
he  might  introduce  the  topic  which  she 
most  dreaded — that  of  her  duty  to  give 
evidence  against  Reilly.  When  she  was 
gone  he  began  to  jDonder  over  several  sub- 
jects connected  with  the  principal  characters 
of  this  narrative  until  he  became  drowsy, 
during  which  period  halters,  gibbets,  gal- 
lowses, hangmen,  and  judges  jumbled  each 
other  alternately  through  his  fancy,  until  he 
fell  fast  asleep  in  his  easy-chair. 


CHAPTER  XXHL 

TTie  Squire  becomes  Theological  and  a  Proselytizer^ 
but  signally  fails. 

The  next  morning  he  and  Cummiskey 
started  for  Sligo,  and,  as  usual,  when  they 
reached  the  jail  the  turnkey  was  about  to 
conduct  the  squire  to  Sir  Robert's  room, 
when  the  former  turned  and  said  : 

"  I  wish  to  see  Mr.  Reilly  ;  lead  me  to  his 
ceU." 

"  ReiUy,  sir  !  "  exclaimed  the  man  in  aston- 
ishment. "  Ai'e  you  siu-e,  sir,  it's  not  Sir 
Robert  WTiitecraft  you  want  ?  " 

"Are  you  sure,  sir,  that  it's  not  a  cut  of 
my  whip  about  the  ears  you  want  ?  Con- 
duct me  to  where  Reilly  is,  you  rascal ;  do 
you  pretend  to  know  the  individual  I  wish 
to  see  better  than  I  do  myself  ?  Push  along, 
siiTa." 

The  turnkey  accordingly  conducted  him 
to  Reilly's  cell,  which,  considerably  to  his 
surprise,  was  a  much  more  comfortable  one 
than  had  been  assigned  to  the  baronet. 
When  they  had  reached  the  con-idor  in 
which  it  was  situated,  FolHai'd  said,  "Knock 
at  the  door,  and  when  he  appears  teU  him 
that  /  -nish  to  see  him." 

"I  will,  your  honor." 

"  Say  I  won't  detain  him  long." 

"I  will,  your  honor." 

"  Hang  your  honor,  go  and  do  what  I  de- 
sire you." 

"  I  wiU,  your  honor." 

Reilly's  astonishment  was  beyond  belief 
on  learning  that  his  vindictive  prosecutor 


WILLY  REILLY. 


151 


had  called  upon  him ;  but  on  more  mature 
reflection,  and  comparing  what  had  hap- 
pened before  with  the  only  motive  which  he 
could  assign  for  such  a  visit,  he  felt  pretty 
certain  that  the  squii-e  came  to  re\'ive,  in  his 
own  person,  a  subject  which  he  had  before 
proposed  to  him  thi'ough  his  daughter. 
There  was  no  other  earthly  object  to  which 
he  could  attribute  his  visit ;  but  of  course  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  receive  him  with  eveiy 
courtesy.  At  length  Folliard  entered,  and, 
before  Reilly  had  time  to  utter  a  syllable, 
commenced  : 

"Reilly,"  said  he,  "you  are  astonished  to 
see  me  here  ?  " 

"  I  am,  sir,"  replied  Reilly,  "  very  much." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  you  would  ;  and  very 
few  persons,  except  myself,  would  come 
upon  such  an  errand  to  the  man  that  has 
disgraced  my  daughter,  myself,  and  my 
family  ;  you  have  stained  our  name,  sir — a 
name  that  was  never  associated  with  any 
thing  but  honor  and  purity  until  you  came 
among  us." 

"  If  you  have  paid  me  this  ^isit,  sii',  only 
for  the  purpose  of  uttering  language  which 
you  know  must  be  very  painful  to  me,  I 
would  rather  you  had  declined  to  call  upon 
me  at  all.  I  perceive  no  object  you  can 
have  in  it,  iinless  to  gratify  a  feehng  of  en- 
mity on  your  part,  and  excite  one  of  sorrow 
on  mine.  I  say  sorrow,  because,  on  consid- 
ering our  relative  positions,  and  knowing 
the  impetuosity  of  your  temper,  I  am  soriy 
to  see  you  here  ;  it  is  scai'cely  generous  in 
you  to  come,  for  the  purpo.se  of  indtdging 
in  a  poor,  and  what,  after  all,  may  be  an 
equivocal  and  prematiu'e  triumjDh  over  a 
man  whose  love  for  your  daugliter,  you  must 
know,  will  seal  his  lips  against  the  exjDres- 
sion  of  one  offensive  word  towards  you." 

"But  how,  let  me  ask,  sir,  do  you  know 
what  brought  me  here  ?  I  didn't  come  to 
scold  you,  nor  to  triumph  over  you  ;  and  I 
have  already  said  the  worst  I  shall  say.  I 
know  very  well  that  you  and  Whiteci'aft 
will  be  hanged,  probably  fi-om  the  same 
rope  too,  but,  in  the  meantime,  I  would  save 
you  both  if  I  could.  I  fear  indeed  that  to 
save  him  is  out  of  the  question,  because  it 
appeal's  that  there's  a  cart-load  of  indict- 
ments against  him." 

"How  could  you  doubt  it,  sir,  when  you 

know  the  incredible  extent  of  his  \-illany, 

,  both  private  and  public  ?  and  yet  this  is  the 

man  to  whom  j-ou  would  have  married  your 

daughter  !  " 

"  No  ;  when  I  found  Helen  reduced  to 
such  a  state  the  morning  on  which  they 
were  to  be  married,  I  told  her  at  once  that 
as  she  felt  so  bitterly  against  him  I  would 
never  suffer  him  to  become   her  husband. 


Neither  will  I;  if  he  were  acquitted  to- 
morrow I  would  tell  him  so  ;  but  you,  Reilly, 
love  my  daughter  for  her  own  sake." 

"For  her  o^vn  sake,  su-,  as  you  have  said, 
I  love  her.  If  she  had  millions,  it  could  not 
increase  my  atiection,  and  if  she  had  not  a 
penny,  it  would  not  diminish  it." 

"  Well,  but  you  can  have  her  if  you  wish, 
notwithstanding." 

Reilly  first  looked  at  him  with  amazement  ; 
but  he  was  so  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
his  character,  both  fi-om  what  he  had  seen 
and  heaixl  of  it,  that  his  amazement  passed 
away,  and  he  simply  rephed  : 

"  Pray  how,  sir  ?  " 

"  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what,  Reilly  ;  except 
with  respect  to  poUtical  principles,  I  don't 
think,  after  aU,  that  there's  the  ditterence  of  a 
a  rush  between  the  Papist  and  the  Protestant 
Churches,  as  mere  rehgions.  My  o^\•n  opin- 
ion is,  that  there's  neither  of  them  any  great 
shakes,  as  to  any  effect  they  have  on  society, 
unless  to  disturb  it.  I  have  kno\NTi  as  good 
Papists  as  ever  I  did  Protestants,  and  indeed 
I  don't  know  why  a  Papist  should  not  be  as 
good  a  man  as  a  Protestant ;  nor  why  a 
Protestant  should  not  be  as  good  a  man  as  a 
Papist,  on  the  other  hand.  Now,  do  you  see 
what  I'm  driving  at  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  can't  exactly  say  that  I  do,"  re- 
phed Reilly. 

"  Then  the  upshot  of  the  argument  is 
this,  that  there  is  not  a  toss-up  betwecB 
them,  and  any  man  getting  into  a  scrape, 
and  who  could  get  out  of  it  by  changing 
from  one  to  the  other — of  course  I  mean 
fi-om  Popery  to  Protestantism — would  prove 
himself  a  man  of  good  sound  sense,  and 
above  the  prejudices  of  the  world." 

The  truth  is,  ReiUy  saw  ere  this  what  Fol- 
hard  was  approaching,  and,  as  he  deteiToined 
to  allow  him  full  scope,  his  reply  was  brief : 

"You  seem  fond  of  indulging  in  specula- 
tion, sir, 'rephed  Reilly,  with  a  smile  ;  "  but  I 
should  be  glad  to  know  why  you  introduce 
this  subject  to  me?" 

"  To  you  ?  "  replied  FoUiard  ;  "  why,  who 
the  derii  else  should  or  could  I  introduce  it 
to  with  such  propriety  ?  Here  now  are  two  re- 
ligions ;  one's  not  sixpence  better  nor  worse 
than  the  other.  Now,  you  belong  to  one  of 
them,  and  because  you  do  you're  here  snug 
and  fast.  I  say,  then,  I  have  a  proposal  to 
make  to  you  :  you  are  yourself  in  a  difficulty 
— you  have  placed  me  in  a  difficulty — and 
you  have  placed  poor  Helen  in  a  difficulty — 
which,  if  any  thing  happens  you,  I  think 
will  break  her  heart,  poor  child.  Now  you 
can  take  her,  yourself,  and  me,  out  of  iill  our 
difficulties,  if  you  have  only  sense  enough  to 

shove  over  from  the  old  P to  the  young 

P .     As   a  Protestant,   you   can   many 


rss 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Helen,  Eeilly— but  as  a  Papist,  never !  and 
you  know  the  rest ;  for  if  you  ai-e  obstinate, 
and  blind  to  your  own  interests,  I  must  do 
m}'  duty." 

"  Wni  you  allow  me  to  ask,  sir,  whether 
lliss  Foiiiard  is  aware  of  this  mission  of 
yours  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  aware  !  She  never  dreamt  of  it ;  but 
I  have  promised  to  tell  her  the  res\ilt  after 
dinner  to-day." 

"Well,  SU-,"  replied  Eeilly,  "will  you  al- 
low me  to  state  to  yon  a  few  facts  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  go  on." 

"In  the  lirst  jjlace,    then,    such   is   youi' 
daughter's  high  and  exquisite  sense  of   in- 
tegi-ity  and  honor  that,  if  I  consented  to  the  j 
terms  you  propose,  she  would  reject  me  with  | 
indignation  and  scorn,  as  she    ought  to  do. 
There,  then,  is  your  project  for  accomplish-  i 
ing  my  seltish  and  dishonest  apostacy  given  j 
to  the  -ninds.      Your  daughter,   sir,   is  too  | 
pure  in  all  her  moral  feelings,  and  too  noble-  I 
minded,  to   take   to   her   arms   a  renegade  j 
husband — a  renegade,  too,  not  from  convic-  j 
tion,  but  from  selfish  and  mercenary'  pur- 
poses." I 

"  Confound  the  thing,  this  is  but  splitting 
hairs,  Eeilly,  and  talking  big  for  effect. 
Speak,  however,  for  yourself ;  as  for  Helen, 
I  know  very  well  that,  in  spite  of  your  he- 
roics and  her's,  she'd  be  devilish  glad  you'd 
become  a  Protestant  and  marry  her." 

"lam  sorry  to  say,  sir,  that  you  don't 
know  your  own  daughter  ;  but  as  for  me, 
Mr.  FoUiard,  if  one  word  of  your's,  or  of  her's, 
could  place  me  on  the  British  throne,  I 
would  not  abandon  my  religion.  Under  no 
circumstances  would  I  abandon  it ;  but  least 
of  all,  now  that  it  is  so  barbarously  jDerse- 
cuted  by  its  enemies.  This,  sir,  is  my  final 
determination. " 

"  But  do  you  know  the  alternative  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  nor  do  you." 

"  Don't  I,  faith  ?  ^Vhy,  the  alternative  is 
simply  this — either  marriage  or  hanging  !  " 

"  Be  it  so  ;  in  that  case  I  will  die  like  a 
man  of  honor  and  a  true  Christian  and  Cath- 
olic, as  I  hope  I  am." 

"As  a  trvic  fool,  Eeilly — as  a  true  fool. 
I  took  this  step  j^rivately,  out  of  respect  for 
your  character.  See  how  many  of  your  creed 
become  Protestants  for  the  sake  of  mere 
property  ;  think  how  many  of  them  join  our 
Church  for  the  purpose  of  ousting  their  ovnx  \ 
fathers  and  relatives  from  their  estates  ;  and  j 
what  is  it  all,  on  their  parts,  but  the  conse- 
quence of  an  enlightened  judgment-  that 
shows  them  the  errors  of  tl>eir  old  creed, 
and  the  tiiith  of  ours  ?  I  think,  Eeilly,  you 
are  loose  about  the  brains." 

"  That  may  be,  sir,  but  you  will  never  find 
me  loose  about  my  principles." 


"  Are  you  awai-e,  sir,  that  Helen  is  to  appear 
against  you  as  an  evidence  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  am  not,  neither  do  I  believe  it. 
But  now,  sir,  I  beg  you  to  terminate  this 
useless  and  unpleasant  interview.  I  can  look 
into  my  own  conscience  with  satisfaction,  and 
am  prepared  for  the  worst.  If  the  scaffold 
is  to  be  my  fate,  I  cannot  but  remember  that 
man}'  a  noble  spirit  has  closed  the  cares  of  an 
unhappy  hfe  upon  it.  I  wish  you  good-day, 
Mr.  Foiiiard." 

"  By  the  BojTie  !  you  are  the  most  obstinate 
blockhead  that  ever  lived ;  but  I've  done  ;  I 
did  all  in  my  jDOwer  to  save  you — yet  to  no 
purpose.  Upon  my  soul,  I'll  come  to  your 
execution." 

"  And  if  3'ou  do,  you  will  see  me  die  like  a 
man  and  a  gentleman  ;  may  I  humbly  add, 
like  a  Christian  ! " 

The  squire,  on  his  way  home,  kept  up  a 
long,  low  whistle,  broken  only  by  occasional 
soliloquies,  in  which  Eeilly's  want  of  common- 
sense,  and  neglect  not  only  of  his  temporal 
interests,  but  of  his  life  itself,  were  the  pre- 
vailing sentiments.  He  regretted  his  want  of 
success,  which  he  imputed  altogether  to 
Eeilly's  obstinacy,  instead  of  his  integrity, 
firmness,  and  honor. 

This  train  of  reflection  threw  him  into  one 
of  those  cajiricious  fits  of  resentment  so 
peculiar  to  his  unsteady  temper,  and  as  he 
went  along  he  kept  lashing  himself  up  into  a 
red  heat  of  indignation  and  vengeance  against 
that  unfortunate  gentleman.  After  dinner 
that  day  he  felt  somewhat  puzzled  as  to 
whether  he  ought  to  communicate  to  his 
daughter  the  result  of  his  interview  with 
Eeilly  or  not.  Ui^ou  consideration,  however, 
he  deemed  it  more  prudent  to  avoid  the 
subject  altogether,  for  he  felt  aj^iDrehensive 
that,  however  she  might  approve  of  her  lover's 
conduct,  the  knowledge  of  his  fate,  which 
dei^ended  on  it,  would  only  plunge  her  into 
deeper  distress.  The  evening  consequently 
passed  without  any  allusion  to  the  subject, 
unless  a  peculiar  tendency  to  melody,  on  his 
part,  might  be  taken  to  mean  something  ;  to 
this  Ave  might  add  short  abruj)t  ejaculations 
unconsciously  uttered — such  as — "Whew, 
whew,  whew-o-wliew-o — hang  the  fellow ! 
Whew,  whew-o-whew — he's  a  cursed  goose, 
but  an  obstinate — Avhew,  whew-o-whew-o. 
Ay,  but  no  matter— well — whew,  whew-o, 
whew,  whew !  Helen,  a  cu])  of  tea.  Now, 
Helen,  do  you  know  a  discovery  I  have  made 
— but  how  could  you  ?  .No,  you  don't,  of 
course  ;  but  listen  and  pay  attention  to  me, 
because  it  deeply  aff'ects  myself." 

The  poor  girl,  api^rehensive  that  he  was 
about  to  divulge  some  painful  secret,  became 
pale  and  a  good  deal  agitated  ;  she  gave  him 
a  long,  inquiiing  look,  but  said  nothing. 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


159 


••  Ves,  Helen,  and  the  discovery  is  this  :  I 
finfT  from  experience  that  tea  and  Burgundy 
— or,  indeed,  tea  and  any  kind  of  wine — 
don't  agree  with  my  constitution  :  curse  the 
fel — whew,  whew,  whew,  whew-o-whew  ;  no, 
the  confounded  mixture  turns  my  stomach 
into  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  bag 
of  aquafortis — if  he  had  but  common — 
whew — " 

"  Well,  but,  papa,  why  do  you  take  tea, 
then?" 

"  Because  I'm  an  old  fool,  Helen  ;  and  if  I 
am,  there  are  some  yomig  ones  besides  ;  but 
it  can't  be  helped  now — whew,  whew — it  was 
done  for  the  best." 

In  this  manner  he  went  on  for  a  consider- 
able time,  ejaculating  mysteries  and  enigmas, 
until  he  finished  the  second  bottle,  after 
which  he  went  to  bed. 

It  may  be  necessaiy  to  state  here  that,  not- 
withstanding the  incredible  force  and  tendex'- 
ness  of  his  affection  for  his  daughter,  he  had, 
ever  since  her  eloj)ement  with  ReiUy,  kept 
her  under  the  strictest  surveillance,  and  in 
the  greatest  seclusion — that  is  to  say,  as  the 
proverb  has  it,  "  he  locked  the  stable  door 
when  the  steed  was  stolen  ; "  or  if  he  did  not 
realize  the  aphorism,  he  came  very  near  it. 

Time,  however,  passes,  and  the  assizes 
were  at  hand,  a  fearful  Avatar  of  judicial 
power  to  the  guilty.  The  struggle  between 
the  parties  who  were  interested  in  the  fate  of 
Whitecraft,  and  those  who  felt  the  extent  of 
his  unparalleled  guilt,  and  the  necessity  not 
merely  of  making  him  an  examj^le  but  of 
punishing  him  for  his  enormous  crimes,  was 
dreadful.  The  infatuation  of  political  rancor 
on  one  side,  an  infatuation  which  could  per- 
ceive nothing  but  the  virtue  of  high  and  res- 
olute Protestantism  in  his  conduct,  bhnded 
his  sujoporters  to  the  enormity  of  his  conduct, 
and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  they  left  no  stone 
unturned  to  save  his  life.  As  we  said,  how- 
ever, they  wei*e  outnumbered  ;  but  still  they 
did  not  desj^air.  Reilly's  friends  had  been 
early  in  the  legal  market,  and  succeeded  in 
retaining  some  of  the  ablest  men  at  the  bar, 
his  leading  counsel  being  the  celebrated  ad- 
vocate Fox,  who  was  at  that  time  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  men  at  the  Irish  bar. 
Helen,  as  the  assizes  approached,  broke  down 
so  completely  in  her  health  that  it  was  felt, 
if  she  remained  in  that  state,  that  she  would 
be  unable  to  attend  ;  and  although  Reilly's 
tri:d  was  first  on  the  list,  his  ojiposiug  counsel 
succeeded  in  getting  it  postponed  for  a  day 
or  two.  in  order  that  an  important  witness, 
then  ill,  he  said,  might  be  able  to  ajDpear  on 
their  part. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  go  through  the 
details  of  the  trial  of  the  Red  Rapparee.  The 
evidence  of  Mary  Mahon,  Fergus  O'Reilly, 


and  the  sheriff,  was  complete  ;  the  chain  was 
unbroken  ;  the  change  of  apparel — the  dia- 
logue in  Maiy  Mahou's  cabin,  in  which  he 
avowed  the  fact  of  his  having  robbed  the 
sheriff — the  identification  of  his  person  by 
the  said  sheriff  in  the  farmer's  house,  as 
before  stated,  left  nothing  for  the  jury  to  do 
but  to  bring  in  a  verdict  of  guilty.  Mercy 
was  out  of  the  question.  The  hardened  ruffian 
— the  treacherous  ruffian — who  had  lent  him- 
self to  the  bloodthirsty  schemes  of  White- 
craft — and  all  this  came  out  upon  his  trial, 
not  certainly  to  the  advantage  of  the  baro- 
net— this  hardened  and  treacherous  ruffian, 
we  say,  who  had  been  a  scourge  to  that  part 
of  the  country  for  years,  now  felt,  when  the 
verdict  of  guilty  was  brought  in  against  him, 
just  as  a  smith's  anvil  might  feel  when  struck 
by  a  feather.  On  hearing  it,  he  growled  a 
hideous  laugh,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  To  the  divil  I  pitch  you  all ;  I  wish,  though, 
that  I  had  Tom  Bradley,  the  jDrophecy  man, 
here,  who  tould  me  that  I'd  never  be  hanged, 
and  that  the  rope  was  never  bora  for  me." 

"  If  the  rope  was  not  born  for  you,"  ob- 
served the  judge,  "  I  fear  I  shall  be  obhged 
to  inform  you  that  you  were  born  for  the 
rope.  Your  life  has  been  an  outi'age  upon 
civilized  society." 

"  Why,  you  ould  dog ! "  said  the  Rap- 
paree, "you  can't  hang  me  ;  haven't  I  a  j^ar- 
don  ?  didn't  Sir  Robert  Whiteci'aft  get  me  a 
pardon  from  the  Government  for  turuin' 
against  the  Catholics,  and  tellin'  him  where 
to  find  the  priests  ?  Why,  you  joulter-headed 
ould  dog,  you  can't  hang  me,  or,  if  you  do, 
I'll  leave  them  behind  me  that  will  put  such 
a  half  ounce  pill  into  your  guts  as  will  make 
you  turn  up  the  whites  of  your  ej^es  hke  a 
duck  in  tundher.  You'll  bang  me  for  rob- 
bery, you  ould  sinner  !  But  Avhat  is  one  half 
the  world  doin'  but  robbin'  the  other  half? 
and  what  is  the  other  half  doin'  but  robbin' 
them  ?  As  for  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  if  he 
desaved  me  by  lies  and  falsehoods,  as  I'm 
afraid  he  did,  all  I  say  is,  that  if  I  had  him 
here  for  one  minute  I'd  show  him  a  trick 
he'd  never  teU  to  mortal.  Now  go  on,  big- 
wig." 

Notwithstanding  the  solemnity  of  the  posi- 
tion in  which  this  obdurate  ruffian  was 
placed,  the  judge  found  it  nearly  impossible 
to  silence  the  laughter  of  the  audience  and 
preserve  order  in  the  court.  At  length  he 
succeeded,  and  continued  his  brief  addi'ess 
to  the  Rapi)aree  : 

"  Hardened  and  impenitent  reprobate,  in 
the  course  of  mj'  judicial  duties,  onerous  and 
often  painful  as  tbey  are  and  have  been,  I 
must  say  that,  although  it  has  fallen  to  my 
lot  to  pronounce  the  awful  sentence  of  death 
upon  many  an  unfeehng  felon,  I  am  boimd 


160 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


to  say  that  a  public  malefactor  so  utterly 
devoid  of  all  the  feelings  wliich  belong  to 
man,  and  so  strongly  impregnated  with  those 
of  the  savage  animal  as  you  are,  has  never 
stood  in  a  dock  before  me,  nor  probabty 
before  any  other  judge,  living  or  dead. 
Would  it  be  a  waste  of  language  to  enforce 
upon  you  the  necessity  of  repentance  ?  I 
fear  it  would  ;  but  it  matters  not ;  the  guilt 
of  impenitence  be  on  yoiu*  o-ssm  head,  still  I 
must  do  my  duty  ;  try,  then,  and  think  of 
death,  and  a  far  more  awful  judgment  than 
mine.  Think  of  the  necessity  you  have  for 
supplicating  mercy  at  the  throne  of  your  Re- 
deemer, who  himself  died  for  you,  and  for 
all  of  us,  between  two  thieves." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  case  ;  I 
never  was  a  thief  ;  I  robbed  like  an  honest 
man  on  the  king's  highways ;  but  as  for 
thie\dn',  why,  you  ould  sinner,  I  never  stole 
a  farthing's  worth  in  my  life.  Don't,  then, 
pitch  such  beggarly  comparisons  into  my 
teeth.  I  never  did  what  you  and  \ovix  class 
often  did  ;  I  never  robbed  the  poor  in  the 
name  of  the  blessed  laws  of  the  land  ;  I  never 
oppressed  the  widow  or  the  oi-jDhan  ;  and  for 
all  that  I  took  from  those  that  did  oppress 
them,  the  divil  a  grain  of  sorrow  or  repent- 
ance I  feel  for  it,  nor  ever  ■oill  feel  for  it. 
Oh  !  mother  of  Moses !  if  I  had  a  glass  of 
whiskey  ! " 

The  judge  was  obliged  to  enforce  silence 
a  second  time  ;  for,  to  tell  the  ti-uth,  there 
"was  something  so  ludicrously  imjjenitent  in 
the  conduct  of  this  hardened  convict  that  the 
audience  could  not  resist  it,  especiall}'  when 
it  is  remembered  that  the  symj^athies  of  the 
lower  Ii'ish  are  always  with  such  culiDrits. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  judge,  when  silence 
was  again  restored,"  your  unparalleled  obdu- 
racy has  gained  one  point ;  it  was  my  inten- 
tion to  have  ordered  you  for  execution  to- 
morrow at  the  hour  of  twelve  o'clock  ;  but, 
as  a  Christian  man,  I  could  not  think  for  a 
moment  of  hurrying  you  into  eternity  in  your 
present  state.  The  sentence  of  the  court 
then  is  that  you  be  taken  from  the  dock  in 
which  you  now  stand  to  the  prison  fi'om 
whence  you  came,  and  that  from  thence  you 
be  brought  to  the  place  of  execution  on  nest 
Saturday,  and  there  be  hanged  by  the  neck 
vmtil  you  be  dead,  and  may  God  have  mercy 
on  your  soul !  " 

The  Rapparee  gazed  at  him  with  a  look  of 
the  most  hardened  effrontery,  and  exclaimed, 
"Is  it  in  earnest  you  are?"  after  which  he 
was  once  more  committed  to  his  cell,  loaded 
with  hea^y  chains,  which  he  wore,  by  the 
way,  during  his  trial. 

Now,  in  order  to  account  for  his  outrage- 
ous conduct,  we  must  make  a  disclosure  to 
the  reader.     There  is  in  and  about  all  jails  a 


certain  officer  yclept  a  hangman — an  officer 
who  is  permitted  a  fi-eer  ingress  and  egress 
than  almost  any  other  person  connected  with 
those  gloomy  establishments.  This  hangman, 
who  resided  in  the  prison,  had  a  brother 
whom  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft  had  hanged, 
and,  it  was  thought,  innocently.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  the  man  in  question  was  heard  to  ut- 
ter strong  threats  of  vengeance  against  Sir 
Robert  for  having  his  brother,  whose  inno- 
cence he  asserted,  brought  to  execution.  In 
some  time  after  this  a  pistol  was  fired  one 
night  at  Sir  Robert  from  behind  a  hedge, 
which  missed  him  ;  but  as  his  myrmidons 
were  •s\dth  him,  and  the  night  was  hght,  a 
pursuit  took  place,  and  the  guilty  wretch  was 
taken  prisoner,  with  the  pistol  on  his  person, 
still  warm  after  havmg  been  discharged.  The 
consequence  was  that  he  was  condemned  to 
death.  But  it  so  happened  that  at  this  pe^ 
riod,  although  there  were  five  or  six  executions 
to  take  place,  yet  there  was  no  hangman  to 
be  had,  that  officer  haring  died  suddenly, 
after  a  fit  of  liquor,  and  the  sheriff  would 
have  been  obliged  to  discharge  the  office  with 
his  own  hands  unless  a  finisher  of  the  law 
could  be  found.  In  brief,  he  was  found,  and 
in  the  jDerson  of  the  individual  alluded  to, 
who,  in  consequence  of  his  consenting  to  ac- 
cept the  office,  got  a  pardon  fi'om  the  Crown. 
Now  this  man  and  the  Raj^paree  had  been 
old  acquaintances,  and  renewed  their  friend- 
ship in  i^rison.  Through  the  means  of  the 
hangman  O'Donnel  got  in  as  much  whiskey 
as  he  pleased,  and  we  need  scarcely  say  that 
they  often  got  intoxicated  together.  The  se- 
cret, therefore,  which  we  had  to  disclose  to 
the  reader,  in  explanation  of  the  Rappai'ee's 
conduct  at  his  trial,  was  simply  this,  that  the 
man  was  thi'ee-quarters  drunk. 

After  trial  he  was  placed  in  a  darker  dtm- 
geon  than  before  ;  but  such  was  the  influence 
of  the  worthy  executioner  with  every  officer 
of  the  jail,  that  he  was  permitted  to  go  either 
in  or  out  without  search,  and  as  he  often  gave 
a  "  slug,"  as  he  caUed  it,  to  the  turnkeys,  they 
consequently  allowed  him,  in  this  respect, 
whatever  privileges  he  wished.  Even  the 
Rapparee's  dungeon  was  not  impenetrable  to 
him,  esj^ecially  as  he  put  the  matter  on  a  re- 
ligious footing,  to  wit,  that  as  the  unfortu- 
nate robber  was  not  allowed  the  spiritual  aid 
of  his  o\\n  clerg5%  he  himself  was  the  only 
person  left  to  prepare  him  for  death,  Avhicb 
he  did  with  the  whiskey-bottle. 

The  assizes  on  that  occasion  were  protract- 
ed to  an  unusual  length.  The  country  waa 
in  a  most  excited  state,  and  pai'ty  feeling  ran 
fearfully  high.  Nothing  was  talked  of  but  the 
two  trials,  j)ar  excellence,  to  wit,  that  of  White- 
craft  and  Reilly  ;  and  scarcely  a  fair  or  mar- 
ket, for   a  considerable  time  previous,  evei 


WILLY  REILLY. 


101 


came  round  in  which  there  was  not  a  battle 
on  the  subject  of  either  one  or  the  other  of 
them,  and  not  vmfrequently  of  both.  Nobody 
was  surprised  at  the  conAiction  of  the  Red 
Rapparee  ;  but,  on  the  conti-ary,  eveiy  one 
was  glad  that  the  countiy  had  at  last  got  rid 
of  him. 

Poor  Helen,  however,  was  not  permitted 
to  remain  quiet,  as  she  had  expected.  When 
l^Ii".  Doldrum  had  furnished  the  leading 
counsel  with  his  brief  and  a  list  of  the  wit- 
nesses, the  latter  gentleman  was  surprised  to 
see  the  name  of  Helen  Folliai'd  among  them. 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  he  inquired  ;  "is  not  this 
the  celebrated  beauty  who  eloped  with  him  ?  " 

"  It  is,  sir,"  replied  Doldiixm. 

"But,"  proceeded  the  other,  "you  have 
not  instructed  me  in  the  natiu'e  of  the  eri- 
dence  she  is  prepared  to  give." 

"  She  is  deeply  penitent,  sir,  and  in  a  very 
feeble  state  of  health ;  so  much  so  that  we 
were  obhged  to  leave  the  tendency  of  her 
evidence  to  be  brought  out  on  the  trial." 

"Have  you  subpoenaed  her?  " 

"No,  sii\" 

"  And  why  not,  ^Ir.  Doldrum  ?  Don't  you 
know  that  there  is  no  understanding  the 
caprices  of  women  ?  You  ought  to  have  sup- 
potnaed  her,  because,  if  she  be  a  leading 
evidence,  she  may  still  change  her  mind  and 
leave  us  in  the  liu'ch." 

"  I  certainly  did  not  subpoena  her,"  rephed 
Doldrum,  "  because,  when  I  mentioned  it  to 
her  father,  he  told  me  that  if  I  attempted  it 
he  would  break  my  head.  It  was  enough, 
he  said,  that  she  had  given  her  promise — a 
thing,  he  added,  which  she  was  never 
knoMTi  to  break." 

"  Go  to  her  again,  Doldnim  ;  for  unless 
we  know  what  she  can  prove  we  will  be  only 
working  in  the  dai'k.  Trj*  her,  at  all  events, 
and  glean  what  you  can  out  of  her.  Her 
father  teUs  me  she  is  somewhat  better,  so  I 
don't  apprehend  you  Tvill  have  mu«h  diffi- 
culty in  seeing  her." 

Doldnim  did  see  her,  and  was  astonished 
at  the  striking  change  which  had,  in  so  short 
a  time,  taken  place  in  her  appearance.  She 
was  pale,  and  exhibited  all  the  symptoms  of 
an  invahd,  with  the  exception  of  her  eyes, 
which  were  not  merely  bi-illiaut,  but  dazz- 
ling, and  full  of  a  fire  that  flashed  from  them 
with  something  Hke  triumph  whenever  her 
attention  was  dii'ected  to  the  pui-jjort  of  her 
testimony.  On  this  subject  they  saw  that  it 
would  be  quite  useless,  and  probably  worse 
than  useless,  to  press  her,  and  they  did  not, 
consequently,  put  her  to  the  necessity  of 
apecifj-ing  the  pui-port  of  her  evidence. 

"I  have  already  stated,"  said  she,  "that  I 
shall  attend  the  trial ;  that  ought,  and  must 
be,  sufficient  for  you.     I  beg,  then,  you  will 


withdraw,  sir.  My  improved  health  will 
enable  me  to  attend,  and  you  may  rest 
assm-ed  that  if  I  have  Life  I  shall  be  there,  as 
I  have  ah-eady  told  you  ;  but,  I  say,  that  if 
you  wish  to  press  me  for  the  natui'e  of  my 
evidence,  you  shall  have  it,"  and,  as  she 
spoke,  her  eyes  flashed  fearfully,  as  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  doing  whenever  she  felt 
deeply  excited.  FoUiard  himself  became 
apprehensive  of  the  danger  which  might 
result  from  the  discussion  of  any  subject 
calculated  to  disturb  her,  and  insisted  that 
she  shovild  be  allowed  to  take  her  o\sn  way. 
In  the  meantime,  after  they  had  left  her,  at 
her  own  request,  her  father  infonned  the 
attorney  that  she  was  getting  both  strong 
and  cheerful,  in  spite  of  her  looks. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  he,  "  she  is  pale  !  but 
that's  only  natui-al,  after  her  recent  shght 
attack,  and  all  the  excitement  and  agitation 
she  has  for  some  time  past  \indergone.  She 
sings  and  plays  now,  although  I  have'  heard 
neither  a  song  nor  a  tune  fi-om  her  for  a 
long  time  past.  In  the  evening,  too,  she  is 
exceedingly  cheerful  when  we  sit  together 
in  the  drawing-room  ;  and  she  often  laughs 
more  heai'tily  than  I  ever  knew  her  to  do 
before  in  my  Hfe.  Now,  do  you  think,  Dol- 
diiun,  if  she  was  breaking  her  heart  about 
Reilly  that  she  would  be  in  such  spirits  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  she  would  be  melancholy  and 
silent,  and  would  neither  sing,  nor  laugh,  nor 
play  ;  at  least  I  felt  so  when  I  was  in  love 
with  IVIiss  Swithers,  who  kept  me  in  a  state 
of  equUibi'ium  for  better  than  two  years ; 
but  that  wasn't  the  worst  of  it,  for  she 
knocked  the  loyalty  clean  out  of  me  besides 
— indeed,  so  decidedl}^  so  that  I  never  once 
sang  '  Lilhbullero '  duiing  the  whole  period 
of  my  attachment,  and  be  hanged  to  her." 

"  And  what  became  of  her  ?  " 

"  ^liy,  she  mai'ried  my  clerk,  who  used 
to  serv'e  my  love-letters  upon  her ;  and  when 
I  expected  to  come  in  by  execution — that  is, 
by  marriage — that  cui-sed  httle  sherifl",  Cupid, 
made  a  return  of  nulla  bona.  She  and  Sam 
Snivel — a  kind  of  half  Puiitan — entered  a 
</ii!appearance,  and  I  never  saw  them  since ; 
but  I  am  told  they  are  in  America.  From 
what  you  i;ell  me,  sir,  I  have  no  doubt  but 
jNIiss  FoUiard  will  make  a  capital  witness. 
In  fact,  Reilly  ought  to  feel  proud  of  the 
honor  of  being  hanged  by  her  eridence  ;  she 
will  be  a  host  in  herself." 

We  have  already  stated  that  the  leading 
counsel  against  Reilly  had  succeeded  in 
getting  his  trial  postponed  imtil  Miss  Fol- 
liard  should  an-ive  at  a  sufficient  state  of 
health  to  appear  against  him.  In  the  mean- 
time, the  baronet's  trial,  which  was  in  a 
pohtical,  indeed,  we  might  say,  a  national 
point  of  view,  of  far  more  importance  than 


162 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Reilly's,  was  to  come  on  next  day.  In  the 
general  extent  of  notoriety  or  fame,  Reilly 
had  got  in  advance — though  not  much 
— of  his  implacable  riv.il.  The  two  trials 
were,  in  fact,  so  closely  united  by  the  rela- 
tive position  of  the  parties  that  public 
opinion  was  strangely  and  strongly  divided 
between  them.  Reilly  and  his  Cooleen  Bawn 
had,  by  the  unhappy  pecuharity  of  their 
fate,  excited  the  interest  of  all  the  youthful 
and  loving  part  of  society — an  interest  which 
was  necessarily  reflected  upon  ^^^litecraf  t,  as 
Reilly's  rival,  independently  of  the  hold 
which  his  forthcoming  fate  had  upon  grave 
and  serious  politicians.  ReiUj^'s  leading 
counsel,  Fox,  a  man  of  gi'eat  judgment  and 
abihty,  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  in  conse- 
quence of  the  exacerbated  state  of  feeling- 
produced  against  the  Catholics  by  the  pro- 
secution of  Whitecraft — to  appease  Avhom, 
the  opinion  went  that  it  was  instituted — it 
seemed  unlikely  that  Reilly  had  a  single 
chance.  Had  his  trial,  he  said,  taken  place 
previous  to  that  of  AVhitecraft's,  he  might 
have  escaped  many  of  the  consequences  of 
Whitecraft's  conviction  ;  but  now,  should 
the  latter  be  couAdcted,  the  opposing  party 
would  die  in  the  jury-bqx  rather  than  let 
Reilly  escape. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Preparations — Jurt/  of  the  Olden  Time — The  Scales 
of  Justice. 

At  last  the  trial  came  on,  and  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft,  the  great  champion  of  Protes- 
tantism— a  creed  which  he  did  not  beheve 
— was  conducted  into  the  court-house  and 
placed  in  the  dock.  He  was  dressed  in  his 
best  apparel,  in  order  to  distingaiish  himself 
from  common  culprits,  and  to  give  this  poor 
external  evidence  of  his  rank,  with  a  hope 
that  it  might  tell,  to  a  certain  extent  at  least, 
upon  the  feeling  of  the  jury.  When  placed  in 
the  dock,  a  general  buzz  and  bustle  agitated 
the  whole  court.  His  friends  became  alert, 
and  whispered  to  each  other  with  much 
earnestness,  and  a  vast  number  of  them  bow- 
ed to  him,  and  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
advised  him  to  be  cool,  and  keep  up  his  spi- 
rits. His  appearance,  however,  was  any  thing 
but  firm  ;  his  face  was  deadl}'  pale,  his  eyes 
dull  and  cowardly,  his  knees  trembled  so 
much  that  he  was  obliged  to  support  himself 
on  the  front  of  the  dock. 

At  length  the  trial  commenced,  and  the 
case  having  been  opened  by  a  3'oung  lawyer, 
a  tall,  intellectual-looking  man,  about  the 
middle  age,  of  pale  but  handsome  featm-es. 


and  an  eye  of  singular  penetration  and  bril' 
liancy,  rose  ;  and  after  pulling  up  his  gown, 
at  the  shoulders,  and  otherwise  adjusting  it,, 
proceeded  to  lay  a  statement  of  this  extra- 
ordinary case  before  the  jury. 

He  dwelt  upon  "  the  pain  which  he  felt  in 
contemplating  a  gentleman  of  rank  and  vast 
wealth  occupying  the  degraded  position  of  a 
felon,  but  not,  he  was  sorry  to  say,  of  a  com- 
mon felon.  The  circumstances,  my  lord,  and 
gentlemen  of  the  jury,  which  have  brought 
tne  prisoner  before  you  this  day,  involve  a 
long  catalogue  of  crimes  that  as  far  transcend, 
in  the  hideousness  of  their  guilt,  the  oflfencea 
of  a  common  felon  as  his  rank  and  position  in 
hfe  do  that  of  the  humblest  villain  who  ever 
stood  before  a  court  of  justice. 

"The  position,  gentlemen,  of  this  country 
has  for  a  long  series  of  years  been  peculiar, 
anomalous,  and  unhappy.  Divided  as  it  is, 
and  has  been,  by  the  bitter  conflict  between 
two  opposing  creeds  and  parties,  it  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at  that  it  should  be  a  melancholy 
scene  of  misery,  destitution,  famine,  and 
crime  ;  and,  unhappily,  it  presents  to  us  the 
frightful  asjject  of  all  these.  The  nature,  how- 
ever, of  the  conflicts  between  those  creeds 
and  parties,  inasmuch  as  it  bears  upon  the 
case  of  the  prisoner,  gentlemen,  who  now 
stands  for  trial  and  a  verdict  at  your  hands, 
is  such  as  forces  me,  on  that  account,  to  dwell 
briefly  ui3on  it.  In  doing  so,  I  will  have  much, 
for  the  sake  of  our  common  humanity,  to  re- 
gret and  to  deplore.  It  is  a  fundamental 
principle,  gentlemen,  in  our  great  and  glori- 
ous Constitution,  that  the  paramount  end 
and  object  of  our  laws  is  to  protect  the  per- 
son, the  libert}^,  and  the  property  of  the  sub- 
ject. But  there  is  something,  gentlemen,  still 
dearer  to  us  than  either  liberty,  person,  or 
property  ;  something  which  claims  a  pro- 
tection from  those  laws  that  stamps  them  with 
a  nobler  and  a  loftier  character,  when  it  is  af- 
forded, and  weaves  them  into  the  hearts  and 
feelings  of  men  of  all  creeds,  when  this  di- 
vine mission  of  the  law  is  fulfilled.  I  aUude, 
gentlemen,  to  the  inalienable  right  of  every 
man  to  worshij)  God  freely,  and  according  to 
his  own  conscience — without  restraint — with- 
out terror — Avithout  ojDpression,  and,  gentle- 
men of  the  jury,  loilhout  persecution.  A  man, 
or  a  whole  people,  worship  God,  we  will  as- 
sume, sincerely,  according  to  theu'  notions  of 
what  is  right,  and,  I  say,  gentlemen,  that  the 
individual  who  persecutes  that  man,  or  those 
people,  for  piously  worshipping  their  Creator, 
commits  blasp)hemy  against  the  Almighty — 
and  stains,  as  it  were,  the  mercy-seat  with 
blood, 

"  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  let  me  ask  you 
what  has  been  the  state  and  condition  of  this 
unhappy  and  distracted  countiy?    I  have 


W/ZLY  RE  ILLY. 


163 


inenlioned  two  opposing  creeds,  and  corise- 
f|uently  two  opposing  parties,  and  I  have  also 
mentioned  jDersecution  ;  but  let  me  also  ask 
you  again  on  which  side  has  the  persecution 
existed  ?  Look  at  your  Koman  Catholic  fel- 
low-subjects,.  and  ask  yourselves  to  what 
terrible  outburst  of  political  and  religious 
vengeance  have  they  not  been  subjected? 
But  it  is  said  they  are  not  faithful  and  loyal 
subjects,  and  that  they  detest  the  laws. 
Well,  let  us  consider  this — let  us  take  a 
cursory  view  of  all  that  the  spirit  and  opera- 
tion of  the  laws  have  left  them  to  be  thank- 
ful for — have  brought  to  bear  ujoon  them  for 
the  purpose,  we  must  sujjpose,  of  seciu'ing 
their  attachment  and  their  loyalty.  Let  us, 
gentlemen,  calmly  and  solemnly,  and  in  a 
Christian  temper,  take  a  brief  glance  at  the 
adventures  which  the  free  and  glorious  spirit 
of  the  British  Constitution  has  hold  out  to 
them,  in  order  to  secure  their  allegiance.  In 
the  first  i^lace,  their  nobles  and  their  gentry 
have  been  deprived  of  their  property,  and 
the  right  of  tenure  has  been  denied  even  to 
the  people.  Ah,  my  lord,  and  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  what  ungrateful  and  disloy^il  mis- 
creant could  avoid  loving  a  Constitution,  and 
hugging  to  his  gi-ateful  heart  laws  which 
showered  down  such  blessings  upon  him, 
and  upon  all  those  who  belong  to  a  creed  so 
favored  ?  But  it  would  seem  to  have  been 
felt  that  these  laws  had  still  a  stronger  claim 
upon  their  afiections.  They  would  i^rotect 
their  religion  as  they  did  their  projDerty  ; 
and  in  order  to  attach  them  still  more 
strongly,  they  shut  up  their  places  of  worship  i 
— they  proscribed  and  banished  and  hung  i 
their  clergy — they  hung  or  shot  the  vmfor-  j 
tunate  peoi^le  who  fled  to  worship  God  in  the  j 
desert — in  mountain  fastnesses  and  in  caves,  | 
and  threw  their  dead  bodies  to  find  a  tomb  in  i 
the  entrails  of  the  birds  of  the  air,  or  the  dogs 
which  even  persecution  had  made  mad  with 
hunger.  But  again — for  this  pleasing  pan- 
orama is  not  yet  closed,  the  hapj^y  Cathohcs, 
who  must  have  danced  with  delight,  rmder  ; 
the  privileges  of  such  a  Constitution,  were 
deprived  of  the  right  to  occup}-  and  possess 
all  ci^'il  offices— then-  enterprise  was  cnished 
— their  industry  made  subservient  to  the 
rapacity  of  their  enemies,  and  not  to  their 
own  prosperity.  But  this  is  far  fi'om  being 
all.  The  sources  of  knowledge — of  knowl- 
edge which  only  can  enlighten  and  ciAilize 
the  mind,  prevent  crime,  and  promote  the 
progress  of  human  society — these  sources  of 
knowledge,  I  say,  were  sealed  against  them  ; 
they  were  consequently  left  to  ignorance,  and 
its  inseparable  associate — vice.  All  those 
noble  principles  which  result  from  education, 
and  which  lead  youth  into  those  moral  foot- 
steps in  which  they  should  tread,  were  made 


criminal  in  the  Catholic  to  pursue,  and  im- 
possiljle  to  attain  ;  and  having  thus  been  re- 
duced by  ignorance  to  the  perpetration  of 
those  crimes  which  it  uniformly  produces — 
the  people  were  punished  for  that  which  op- 
pressive laws  had  generated,  and  the  ignor- 
ance which  was  forced  upon  them  was  turned 
into  a  penalty  and  a  persecution.  They  were 
first  made  ignorant  by  one  Act  of  Parliament, 
and  then  punished  by  another  for  those 
crimes  which  ignorance  produces. 

"  And  now,  my  lord,  and  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  it  remains  for  me  to  take  another  ^'iew 
of  the  state  and  condition  of  this  wretched 
country.  Perhaps  there  is  not  in  the  world 
so  hideously  a  penal  code  of  laws  as  that 
which  appertains  to  the  civil  and  religious 
rights  of  our  unfoi'tunate  Koman  Catholic 
countrymen.  It  is  not  that  this  code  is 
fierce,  inhuman,  unchristian,  barbarous,  and 
Draconic,  and  conceived  in  a  spirit  of  blood 
— because  it  might  be  all  this,  and  yet, 
through  the  liberality  and  benevolence  of 
those  into  whose  hands  it  ought  to  be  en- 
trusted for  administration,  much  of  its  dread- 
ful spirit  might  be  mitigated.  And  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  a  large  and  important  class 
of  the  Protestant  community  look  upon  such 
a  code  nearly  with  as  much  horror  as  the 
Catholics  themselves.  Unfortunately,  how- 
ever, in  every  state  of  society  and  of  law 
analogous  to  ours,  a  certain  class  of  men, 
say  rather  of  monsters,  is  sure  to  spring  up, 
as  it  were,  from  hell,  their  throats  stiU 
parched  and  heated  with  that  insatiable  thii'st 
which  the  guilty  glutton  felt  before  them, 
and  Avhich  they  now  are  determined  to  slake 
with  blood.  For  some  of  these  men  the 
apology  of  selfishness,  an  anxiety  to  raise 
themselves  out  of  the  struggles  of  genteel 
poverty,  and  a  wolfish  wish  to  earn  the  wages 
of  opjDression,  might  be  pleaded  ;  although, 
heaven  knows,  it  is  at  best  but  a  desjDerate 
and  cowardly  aj^ologj'.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  are  men  not  merely  independent,  but 
wealthy,  who,  imbued  with  a  fierce  and  un- 
reasoning bigotry,  and  stained  by  a  black 
and  unscrupulous  ambition,  stai't  up  into 
the  front  ranks  of  persecution,  and  carry  fire 
and  death  and  murder  as  they  go  along,  and 
all  this  for  the  sake  of  adding  to  their  re- 
probate names  a  title — a  title  earned  by  the 
shedding  of  innocent  blood — a  title  earned 
by  the  ojipression  and  persecution  of  their 
unresisting  fellow-subjects — a  title,  perhaps 
that  of  baronet ;  if  I  am  mistaken  in  this,  the 
individuid  who  stands  before  you  in  that 
dock  could,  for  he  might,  set  me  right. 

"  In  fact,  who  are  those  who  have  lent  them- 
selves with  such  delight  to  the  execution  of 
bad  laws  ?  of  laws  that,  for  the  sake  of  re- 
Hgion  and  Christianity,  never  ought  to  have 


164 


^VILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


been  enacted  ?  Are  they  men  of  moral  and 
Christian  lives  ?  men  whose  walk  has  been 
edi^'ing  in  the  sight  of  theii-  fellows  ?  aj-e 
they  men  to  whom  society  could  look  up  as 
examples  of  private  A^irtue  and  the  decorous 
influence  of  reUgion  ?  are  they  men  who,  on 
the  Sabbath  of  God,  repau*  with  their  wives 
and  famihes  to  his  holy  worship  ?  Alas !  no. 
These  heroic  persecutors,  who  hunt  and 
punish  a  set  of  disarmed  men,  ai'e,  in  point 
of  fact,  not  only  a  disgi-ace  to  that  religion 
in  whose  name  the}'  are  persecutors,  and  on 
whose  merciful  precej)ts  they  trample,  but 
to  all  religion,  in  whatever  hght  tnie  rehgion 
is  contemplated.  Vicious,  ignorant,  jDrof- 
hgate,  licentious,  but  cunning,  cruel,  bigot- 
ed, and  selfish,  they  make  the  spiiit  of  op- 
pressive laws,  and  the  miserable  state  of  the 
countrj',  the  harvest  of  their  gain.  Look 
more  closely  at  the  jjicture,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  and  make,  as  I  am  sure  you  will, 
the  dismal  and  terrible  circumstances  which 
I  will  lay  before  you  your  OAvn.  Imagine 
for  a  moment  that  those  who  are  now,  or 
at  least  have  been,  the  objects  of  hot  and 
blood-scenting  persecution,  had,  by  some 
poHtical  revolution,  got  the  power  of  the 
State  and  of  the  laws  into  their  own  hands  ; 
suppose,  for  it  is  easily  supposed,  that  they 
had  stripj)ed  you  of  your  property,  deprived 
you  of  your  ci^il  rights,  disarmed  you  of  the 
means  of  self-defence,  persecuted  yourselves 
and  proscribed  your  religion,  or,  vice  versa, 
proscribed  yourselves  and  persecuted  your 
religion,  or,  to  come  at  once  to  the  truth, 
proscribed  and  persecuted  both ;  suj^pose 
yovu'  churches  shut  up,  your  pious  clergy 
banished,  and  that,  when  on  the  bed  of  sick- 
ness or  of  death,  some  of  j^our  family,  hear- 
ing youi'  cries  for  the  consolations  of  relig- 
ion, ventured  out,  under  the  clouds  of  the 
night,  pale  with  sorrow,  and  trembHng  with 
apprehension,  to  steal  for  you,  at  the  risk  of 
life,  that  comfort  which  none  but  a  minister 
of  God  can  effectually  bestow  upon  the  part- 
ing spirit ;  suppose  this,  and  suppose  that 
your  house  is  instantly  surrounded  by  some 
cruel  but  plausible  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft, 
or  some  drunken  and  ruffianly  Captain 
Smellpriest,  who,  surrounded  and  supported 
by  armed  miscreants,  not  only  breaks  open 
that  house,  but  violates  the  awful  sanctity  of 
the  deathbed  itself,  drags  out  the  minister 
of  Clirist  from  his  work  of  mercy,  and  leaves 
him  a  bloody  coi-jjse  at  your  threshold.  I 
say,  change  places,  gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
and  suppose  in  your  own  imaginations  that 
^1  those  monstrous  persecutions,  all  those 
murderous  and  flagitious  outrages,  had  been 
inflicted  upon  yourselves,  with  others  of  an 
equally  nefarious  character  ;  suppose  all  this, 
and  you  may  easily  do  so,  for  you  have  seen 


it  all  pei-petrated  in  the  name  of  God  and 
the  law,  or,  to  say  the  truth,  in  the  hideous 
union  of  mammon  and  murder  ;  suppose  all 
this,  and  you  will  feel  what  such  men  as  he 
who  stands  in  that  dock  desen-es  fi'om  hu- 
manity and  natural  justice  ;  for,  alas  !  I  can- 
not say,  fi'om  the  laws  of  his  comitry,  under 
the  protection  of  which,  and  in  the  name  of 
which,  he  and  those  who  resemble  him  have 
deluged  that  country  with  innocent  blood, 
laid  waste  the  cabin  of  the  widow  and  the 
orj^han,  and  canied  death  and  desolation 
wherever  they  went.  But,  gentlemen,  I 
shall  stop  here,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  inflict 
vmnecessary  pain  upon  you,  even  by  thia 
mitigated  view  of  atrocities  which  have  taken 
place  before  your  own  eyes ;  yet  I  cannot 
close  this  portion  of  my  address  without  re- 
ferring to  so  large  a  number  of  our  fellow- 
Protestants  with  pride,  as  I  am  sure  their 
Roman  Catholic  fiiends  do  with  gratitude. 
Who  were  those  who,  among  the  Protestant 
party,  threw  the  shield  of  their  name  and 
influence  over  theii*  Catholic  neighbors  and 
friends?  Who,  need  I  ask?  The  pious, 
the  humane,  the  charitable,  the  Hberal,  the 
benevolent,  and  the  enlightened.  Those 
were  thej  who,  overlooking  the  mere  theo- 
logical distinctions  of  particular  doctrines, 
united  in  the  great  and  universal  creed  of 
charity,  held  by  them  as  a  common  principle 
on  which  they  might  meet  and  understand 
and  love  each  other.  And  indeed,  gentle- 
men of  the  jury,  there  cannot  be  a  greater 
proof  of  the  opjDressive  spirit  which  animates 
this  penal  and  inhuman  code  than  the  fact 
that  so  many  of  those,  for  whose  benefit  it 
was  enacted,  resisted  its  influence,  on  behalf 
of  theu'  Catholic  fellows-subjects,  as  far  as 
they  could,  and  left  nothing  undone  to  sup- 
port the  laws  of  humanity  against  those  of 
injustice  and  oppression.  When  the  perse- 
cuted Catholic  could  not  invest  his  capital 
in  the  purchase  of  property,  the  generous 
Protestant  came  forward,  purchased  the 
property  in  his  own  name,  became  the  bona 
fide  proprietor,  and  then  transferred  its  use 
and  advantages  to  his  Catholic  friend.  And 
again,  xmder  what  roof  did  the  hunted  Cath- 
olic priest  first  take  refuge  from  those  blood- 
hounds of  persecution  ?  In  most  cases 
under  that  of  his  charitable  and  Christian 
brother,  the  Protestant  clergyman.  Gentle- 
men, could  there  be  a  bitterer  libel  upon 
the  penal  laws  than  the  notorious  facts  which 
I  have  the  honor  of  stating  to  you  ? 

"  The  facts  Avhich  have  placed  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar  before  you  are  these,  and  in  de- 
tailing them  I  feel  myself  placed  in  circum- 
stances of  great  difficulty,  and  also  of  pccu- 
Har  delicacy.  The  discharge,  however,  of  a 
pubhc  duty,  which  devolves  upon  me  as  lead- 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


165 


ing  law  ojficer  of  the  Crown,  forces  me  into 
a  course  which  I  cannot  avoid,  unless  I 
should  shrink  fi-om  promoting  and  accom- 
plishing the  ends  of  pubHc  justice.  In  my 
position,  and  in  the  discharge  of  my  solemn 
duties  here  to-day,  I  can  recognize  no  man's 
rank,  no  man's  wealth,  nor  the  prestige  of 
any  man's  name.  So  long  as  he  stands  at 
that  bai',  charged  with  gi'eat  and  heinous 
crimes,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  strip  him  of  all 
the  advantages  of  his  birth  and  rank,  and  con- 
sider him  simply  a  mere  subject  of  the  realm. 
"In  order  to  show  you,  gentlemen  of  the 
jury,  the  animus  under  which  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  acted,  in  the  case  before  us,  I  must 
go  back  a  little — a  period  of  some  months. 
At  that  time  a  highly  respectable  gentleman 
of  an  ancient  and  honored  family  in  this 
country  was  one  evening  on  his  way  home 
from  this  town,  attended,  as  usual,  by  his  ser- 
vant. At  a  lonely  place  on  a  remote  and  anti- 
quated road,  which  they  took  as  a  shoi"ter 
way,  it  so  happened  that,  in  consequence  of 
a  sudden  mist  peculiar  to  those  \\*ild  moors, 
they  lost  their  path,  and  found  themselves  in 
circumstances  of  danger  and  distress.  The 
servant,  however,  whistled,  and  his  whistle 
was  answered  ;  a  party  of  men,  of  freeboot- 
ers, of  robbers,  headed  by  a  person  called 
the  Red  Eapparee,  who  has  been  convicted 
at  these  assizes,  and  who  has  been  the 
scourge  of  the  country  for  years,  came  up  to 
them,  and  as  the  Eapparee  had  borne  this 
respectable  gentleman  a  deadly  and  implaca- 
ble enmity  for  some  time  past,  he  was  about 
to  murder  both  master  and  man,  and  actual- 
ly had  his  musket  levelled  at  him,  as  others 
of  his  gang  had  at  his  aged  sen'ant,  when  a 
person,  a  gentleman  named  Reill}' — [here 
there  was  a  loud  cheer  throughout  the  court, 
which,  however,  was  soon  rejoressed,  and  the 
Attox'ney-General  proceeded] — this  person 
stai'ted  out  from  an  old  min,  met  the  robber 
face  to  face,  and,  in  short,  not  only  saved  the 
lives  of  the  gentleman  and  his  servant,  but 
conducted  them  safely  home.  This  act  of 
courage  and  humanity,  by  a  Roman  Catholic 
to  a  Protestant,  had  such  an  effect  ujDon  the 
old  gentleman's  daughter,  a  lady  whose  name 
has  gone  far  and  wide  for  her  many  virtues 
and  wonderful  beauty,  that  an  attachment 
was  formed  between  the  young  gentleman 
and  her.  The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  gentle- 
men, was  a  suitor  for  her  hand  ;  but  as  the 
young  and  amiable  lady  was  acquainted  with 
his  character  as  a  priest-hunter  and  perse- 
cutor, she,  though  herself  a  Protestant, 
could  look  upon  him  only  with  abhorrence. 
At  all  events,  after  the  rescue  of  her  father's 
hfe,  and  her  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Reilly, 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar  was  rejected  Avith 
disdain,  as  he  would  have  been,  it  seems,  if 


Reilly  never  had  existed.  Now,  gentlemen 
of  the  jury,  observe  that  Reilly  was  a  Cath- 
ohc,  which  was  bad  enough  in  the  eyes  of  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar  ;  but  he  was  more  ;  he 
was  a  rival,  and  were  it  not  for  the  state  of 
the  law,  would,  it  appears,  for  there  is  no 
doubt  of  it  now,  have  been  a  successful  one. 
From  henceforth  the  prisoner  at  the  bar 
marked  IVIr.  Reilly  for  vengeance,  for  de- 
sti-uction,  for  death.  At  this  time  he  was  in 
the  full  exercise  of  in-esponsible  authority  ; 
he  coidd  burn,  hang,  shoot,  without  being 
called  to  account ;  and  as  it  will  apjjear  be- 
fore you,  gentlemen,  this  consciousness  of 
impunity  stimulated  him  to  the  jDei-petration 
of  such  outrages  as,  in  ci\il  Hfe,  and  in  a 
country  free  from  civil  war,  are  unparalleled 
in  the  annals  of  crime  and  cruelty. 

"  But,  gentlemen,  what  did  this  man  do  ? 
this  man,  so  anxious  to  presers-e  the  peace  of 
the  countiy  ;  this  man,  the  terror  of  the  sur- 
rounding districts  ;  what  did  he  do,  I  ask  ? 
"\Miy,  he  took  the  most  notorious  robber  of 
his  day,  the  fierce  and  guilty  Rapparee — he 
took  him  into  his  councils,  in  order  that  he 
might  enable  him  to  trace  the  object  of  his 
vengeance,  Reilly,  in  the  first  place,  and  to 
lead  him  to  the  hiding-places  of  such  xmfor- 
tunate  Catholic  priests  as  had  taken  refuge 
in  the  caves  and  fastnesses  of  the  mountains. 
Instead  of  punishing  this  notorious  male- 
factor, he  took  him  into  his  own  house,  made 
him,  as  he  was  proud  to  call  them,  one  of  his 
2:)riefithoini(h,  and  induced  him  to  believe  that 
he  had  j)rocm'ed  him  a  pardon  from  Govern- 
ment. Reilly 's  name  he  had,  by  his  foul 
misrepresentations,  got  into  the  Ilue-and-Cry, 
and  subsequently  had  him  gazetted  as  an 
outlaw  ;  and  all  this  upon  his  own  irrespon- 
sible authority.  I  mention  nothing,  gentle- 
men, in  connection  with  this  trial  which  we 
are  not  in  a  capacity  to  prove. 

"  Having  forced  Reilly  into  a  variety  of  dis- 
guises, and  himted  him  like  a  mad  dog 
thi-ough  the  country  ;  ha-ving  searched  eveiy 
lurking-jDlace  in  which  he  thought  he  might 
find  him,  he  at  length  resolved  on  the  only 
com-se  of  vengeance  he  could  pursue.  He 
surrounded  his  habitation,  and,  after  search- 
ing for  Reilly  himself,  he  openly  robbed  him 
of  all  that  was  valuable  of  that  gentleman's 
fiuTiiture,  then  set  fiye  to  the  house,  and  in 
the  clouds  of  the  night  reduced  that  and 
every  out-office  he  had  to  ashes — a  capital 
felony.  It  so  happens,  however,  that  the 
house  and  offices  were,  in  point  of  fact,  not 
the  proi^erty  of  Reilly  at  all,  but  of  a  most 
respectable  Protestant  gentleman  and  magis- 
trate, jMi'.  Hastings,  with  whose  admii'able 
chai-acter  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  all  ac- 
quainted ;  and  all  that  remains  for  me  to  say 
is,  that  he  is  the  prosecutor  in  this  case. 


166 


WILLIAM   CAULETON'S   WORKS. 


"  And  now,  gentlemen,  we  expect  a  calm, 
deliberate,  and  unbiassed  verdict  fi-om  you. 
Look  upon  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  as  an  in- 
nocent man  until  you  can,  with  a  clear  con- 
science, find  him  pr^iilty  of  the  charges  which 
we  are  in  a  condition  to  prove  against  him  ; 
but  if  there  be  any  doubt  upon  your  minds, 
I  hope  you  v,il\  give  him  the  benefit  of  it." 

Sir  Kobert  "SMiitecraft,  in  fact,  had  no  de- 
fence, and  could  procure  no  witnesses  to 
coimteract  the  irresistible  body  of  e\'idence 
that  was  produced  against  him.  Notwith- 
standing ixH  this,  his  Mends  calculated  upon 
the  prejudices  of  a  Protestant  jury.  His 
leading  counsel  made  as  able  a  speech  in  his 
defence  as  coidd  be  made  under  the  cu'cum- 
stances.  It  consisted,  however,  of  vagtie 
generalities,  and  dwelt  upon  the  state  of  the 
country  and  the  necessity  that  existed  for 
men  of  gi-eat  spirit  and  Protestant  feeling  to 
come  out  boldly,  and,  by  coiu-age  and  energy, 
cany  ihe  laws  that  had  passed  for  the  sup- 
pression of  Popery  into  active  and  wholesome 
opei'ation.  "  Those  laws  were  passed  by  the 
wisest  and  ablest  assembly  of  legislators  in 
the  world,  and  to  what  i:)uriDose  could  legis- 
lative enactments  for  the  j^reservation  of 
Protestant  interests  be  passed  if  men  of 
tiiie  faith  and  loyalty  could  not  be  found  to 
cany  them  into  effect.  There  were  the  laws  ; 
the  prisoner  at  the  bar  did  not  make  those 
laws,  and  if  he  was  invested  with  authority 
to  cany  them  into  operation,  what  did  he  do 
but  discharge  a  wholesome  and  important 
duty  ?  The  country  was  admitted,  on  all 
sides,  to  be  in  a  disturbed  state  ;  Popery 
was  attempting  for  years  most  insidiously  to 
undermine  the  Protestant  Church,  and  to  sap 
the  foundation  of  all  Protestant  interests ; 
and  if,  by  a  pardonable  excess  of  zeal,  of  zeal 
in  the  right  direction,  and  unconscious  lapse 
in  the  discharge  of  what  he  would  call,  those 
noble  but  fearful  duties  had  occurred,  was  it 
for  those  who  had  a  sense  of  true  liberty,  and 
a  manly  detestation  of  Romish  intrigue  at 
heart,  to  visit  that  upon  the  head  of  a  true 
and  loyal  man  as  a  crime.  Forbid  it,  the 
spirit  of  the  British  Constitution — forbid  it, 
heaven — forbid  it.  Protestantism.  No,  gentle- 
men of  the  jury,"  etc.,  etc. 

"We  need  not  go  further,  because  we  have 
condensed  in  the  few  sentences  given  the  gist 
of  all  he  said. 

"WTien  the  case  was  closed,  the  jury  retired 
to  their  room,  and  as  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft's 
fate  depends  upon  theii-  verdict,  we  will  be 
kind  enough  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  open 
sesame  of  oui*  poor  imagination  to  introduce 
our  readers  invisibly  into  the  jurj'-room. 

"Now,"  said  the  foreman,  "what's  to  be 
done ?  Are  v.e  to  sacrifice  a  Protestant 
champion  to  Popeiy  ?" 


"To  Popery!  To  the  deuce,"  repHed 
another.  "  It's  not  Popeiy  that  is  prosecuting 
him.  Put  dovm  Popery  by  argument,  by 
fair  argument,  but  don't  miuxler  those  that 
profess  it,  in  cold  blood.  As  the  Attorney- 
General  said,  let  us  make  it  our  own  case, 
and  if  the  Papishes  treated  us  as  we  have 
treated  them,  what  would  we  say  ?  By  jingo, 
I'll  hang  that  fellow.  He's  a  Protestant  cham- 
jjion,  they  say  ;  but  I  say  he's  a  Protestant 
bloodhound,  and  a  cowardly  rascal  to  boot." 

"How  is  he  a  cowardly  rascal,  Bob? 
Hasn't  he  proved  himself  a  brave  man 
against  the  Papishes  ?  eh  ?  " 

"  A  brave  man  !  deuce  thank  him  for  be- 
ing a  brave  man  against  poor  de\ils  that  are 
allowed  nothing  stouter  than  a  horse-rod  to 
defend  themselves  with— when  he  has  a  party 
of  well-armed  bloodhounds  at  his  back. 
He's  the  worst  landlord  in  Ireland,  and, 
above  all  things,  he's  a  tyrant  to  his  Protes- 
tant tenants,  this  champion  of  Protestantism. 
Ay,  and  fierce  as  he  is  against  Popery,  there's 
not  a  Paj)ish  tenant  on  his  estate  that  he's 
not  like  a  father  to." 

"  And  how  the  deuce  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Because  I  was  head  bailiff  to  him  for  ten 
years." 

"  But  doesn't  all  the  world  know  that  he 
hates  the  Papists,  and  would  have  them  mas- 
sacred if  he  could  ?  " 

"  And  so  he  does — and  so  he  would  ;  but 
it's  all  his  cowardice,  because  he's  afi-aid  that 
if  he  was  harsh  to  his  Popish  tenants  some 
of  them  might  shoot  him  from  behind  a 
hedge  some  fine  night,  and  give  him  a  lead- 
en bullet  for  his  sujjper." 

"I  know  he's  a  coward,"  obsei'v'ed  another, 
"because  he  allowed  himself  to  be  horse- 
whij)ped  by  Major  Bingham,  and  didn't  call 
him  out  for  it." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  another,  "it  was 
made  up  by  their  friends  ;  but  what's  to  be 
done  ?  All  the  evidence  is  against  him,  and 
we  are  on  oiu*  oaths  to  find  a  verdict  accord- 
ing to  the  evidence." 

"  Evidence  be  hanged,"  said  another  ;  "  I'll 
sit  here  till  doom's-day  before  I  find  him 
guilty.  Are  we,  that  are  all  loyal  Protes- 
tants, to  bring  out  a  varjuice  to  please  the 
Papishes  ?  Oh,  no,  faith ;  but  here's  the 
thing,  gentlemen ;  mark  me ;  here  now,  I 
take  off  my  shoes,  and  I'll  ait  them  before  I 
find  him  gaiety  ; "  and  as  he  spoke  he  delib- 
erately slipped  of  his  shoes,  and  placed  them 
on  the  table,  ready  for  his  tough  and  loyal 
repast. 

"By  Gog,"  said  another,  "I'll  hang  him, 
in  spite  of  your  teeth  ;  and,  afther  aiten  your 
brogues,  you  may  go  barefooted  if  you  like. 
/  have  brogues  to  ait  as  weU  as  you,  and  oms 
of  mine  is  as  big  as  two  of  youi's." 


WILLY  REILLY. 


167 


This  was  followed  by  a  chorus  of  laughter, 
after  which  they  began  to  consider  the  case 
before  them,  hke  admirable  and  well-reason- 
ing jurors,  as  they  were.  Two  hours  passed 
in  Avrangling  and  talking  and  recriminating, 
when,  at  last,  one  of  them,  striking  the  table, 
exclaimed  with  an  oath  : 

"All  Europe  won't  save  the  villain.  Didn't 
he  seduce  my  sister's  daughter,  and  then 
throw  her  and  her  child  back,  with  shame 
and  disgrace,  on  the  family,  without  sup- 
port?" 

"  Look  at  that,"  said  the  owner  of  the 
shoe,  holding  it  up  triumphantly  ;  "  that's 
my  supper  to-night,  and  my  argument  in  his 
defence.  I  say  our  Protestant  champion 
mustn't  hang,  at  least  until  I  starve  first." 

The  other,  who  sat  opjDosite  to  him,  put 
his  hand  across  the  table,  and  snatching  the 
shoe,  struck  its  owner  between  the  two  eyes 
with  it  and  knocked  him  back  on  the  floor. 
A  scene  of  uproar  took  place,  which  lasted 
for  some  minutes,  but  at  length,  by  the  in- 
fluence of  the  foreman,  matters  were  brought 
to  a  somewhat  amicable  issue.  In  this  way 
they  si:)ent  the  time  for  a  few  hours  more, 
when  one  of  the  usual  messengers  came  to 
know  if  they  had  agreed  ;  but  he  was  in- 
stantly dismissed  to  a  veiy  warm  settlement, 
ith  the  assurance  that  they  had  not. 

"Come,"  said  one  of  them,  pulling  out  a 
pack  of  cards,  "let  us  amuse  oiu-seh^es  at 
any  rate.  "VNTio's  for  a  hand  at  the  Spoil 
Five  ?  " 

The  cards  were  looked  upon  as  a  godsend, 
and  in  a  few  moments  one  half  the  jury 
were  busily  engaged  at  that  interesting  game. 
The  other  portion  of  them  amused  them- 
selves, in  the  meantime,  as  well  as  they 
could. 

"Tom,"  said  one  of  them,  "were  you  ever 
on  a  special  jury  in  a  revenue  case  ?  " 

"  No,"  repUed  Tom,  "  never.  Is  there 
much  fun  ?  " 

"The  de\irs  o^vn  fun  ;  because  if  vrefind 
for  the  defendant,  he's  sure  to  give'  us  a 
splendid  feed.  But  do  you  know  how  Ave 
manage  when  we  find  that  we  can't  agree  ?  " 

"No.     How  is  it?" 

"  Why,  you  see,  when  the  case  is  too  clear 
against  him,  and  that  to  find  for  him  would 
be  too  barefaced,  we  get  every  man  to  mark 
down  on  a  slip  of  paper  the  least  amount  of 
damages  he  is  disposed  to  give  against  him  ; 
when  they're  all  down,  we  tot  them  up,  and 
divide  by  twelve — "* 

"  Silence,"  said  another,  "  till  we  hear  John 
Dickson's  song." 

The  said  John  Dickson  was  at  the  time 

*By  no  means  an  uncommon  proceeding  in  rev- 
enue cases,  even  at  the  present  day. 


indulging  them  with  a  comic  song,  which 
was  encored  with  roars  of  laughter. 

"Hallo!"  shouted  one  of  those  at  the 
cards,  "  here's  Jack  Brereton  has  prigged  the 
ace  of  hearts." 

"  Oh,  gentlemen,"  said  Jack,  who  was  a 
greater  knave  at  the  cards  than  any  in  the 
pack,  "  upon  my  honor,  gentlemen,  you 
wrong  me." 

"  There — he  has  dropped  it,"  said  another  ; 
"  look  under  the  table." 

The  search  was  made,  and  up  was  lugged 
the  redoubtable  ace  of  hearts  fi'om  under  one 
of  Jack's  feet,  who  had  hoped,  by  covering 
it,  to  escape  detection.  Detected,  however, 
he  was,  and,  as  they  all  knew  him  well,  the 
laughter  was  loud  accordingly,  and  none  of 
them  laughed  louder  than  Jack  himself. 

"  Jack,"  said  another  of  them,  "  let  us  have 
a  touch  of  the  legerdemain." 

"  Gentlemen,  attention,"  said  Jack.  "  Will 
any  of  you  lend  me  a  halfiDcnny  ?  " 

This  was  immediately  supphed  to  him,  and 
the  fii'st  thing  he  did  Avas  to  stick  it  on  his 
forehead — although  there  had  been  brass 
enough  there  before — to  which  it  appeared 
to  have  been  glued  ;  after  a  space  he  took  it 
off  and  placed  it  in  the  palm  of  his  right 
hand,  which  he  closed,  and  then,  extending 
both  his  hands,  shut,  asked  those  about  him 
in  which  hand  it  was.  Of  course  they  all 
said  in  the  right ;  but,  upon  Jack's  opening 
the  said  hand,  there  was  no  halfpenny 
there. 

In  this  way  they  discussed  a  case  of  life  or 
death,  until  another  knock  came,  which 
"knock"  received  the  same  answer  as  be- 
fore. 

"Faith,"  said  a  powerful-looking  farmer 
from  near  the  town  of  Boyle — the  verj-  pic- 
tvu'e  of  health,  "  if  they  don't  soon  let  us  out 
I'll  get  sick.  It's  I  that  always  does  the 
sickness  for  the  jury  when  we're  kept  in  too 
long." 

""Why,  then,  Billy  Bradley,"  asked  one  of 
them,  "how  could  you,  of  all  men  living, 
sham  sickness  on  a  doctor  ?  " 

"Because,"  said  Billy,  with  a  grin,  "Tm 
beginning  to  feel  a  divarsion  of  blood  to  the 
head,  for  want  of  a  beefsteak  and  a  pot  o' 
porther.  My  father  and  gi-andfather  both 
died  of  a  divarsion  of  blood  to  the  head." 

"I  rather  think,"  obsei-\'ed  another,  "that 
they  died  by  taking  their  divarsion  at  the 
beefsteak  and  the  pot  of  porter." 

"No  matther,"  said  Billy,  "they died  bA, 
all  events,  and  so  will  we  all,  plaise  God." 

"  Come,"  said  one  of  them,  "there  is  Jack 
Brereton  and  his  cane — let  us  come  to  busi- 
ness. "WTiat  do  you  say,  Jack,  as  to  the 
prisoner  ?  " 

Jack  at  the  time  liad  the  aforesaid  cane 


i68 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


feetween  his  legs,  over  which  he  vras  bent  like 
a  bow,  with  the  head  of  it  in  his  mouth. 

"  Are  you  all  agreed  ?  "  asked  Jack. 

"  All  for  a  verdict  of  gtiilty,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  this  fellow  and  his  shoes." 

Jack  Brereton  was  a  handsome  old  fellow, 
with  a  red  face  and  a  pair  of  watery  eyes  ;  he 
was  a  httle  lame,  and  hii-pled  as  he  walked, 
in  consequence  of  a  hip  complaint,  which  he 
got  by  a  fall  from  a  jaunting-cai- ;  but  he  was 
now  steady  enough,  except  the  grog. 

"Jack,  what  do  you  say?  "  asked  the  fore- 
man ;  "  it's  time  to  do  something." 

""V\Tiy,"  replied  Jack,  "the  scoundrel  en- 
•gaged  me  to  put  down  a  pump  for  him,  and  I 
•did  it  in  such  a  manner  as  was  a  credit  to 
his  establishment.  To  be  sure,  he  wanted 
■the  water  to  come  whenever  it  was  asked  ; 
but  I  told  him  that  that  wasn't  my  system  ; 
that  I  didn't  want  to  make  a  good  thing  too 
cheap  ;  but  that  the  water  wordd  come  in 
genteel  time — that  is  to  say,  whenever  they 
didn't  want  it ;  and  faith  the  Avater  bore  me 
out."  And  here  Jack  lavighed  heartily. 
"But  no  matter,"  proceeded  Jack,  "he's 
only  a  bujeen  ;  sure  it  was  his  mother  nursed 
me.  AVhere's  that  fellow  that's  going  to  eat 
his  shoes?  Here,  Ned  Wilson,  you  flaming 
Protestant,  I  have  neither  been  a  grand  jui'or 
nor  a  petty  juror  of  the  county  of  Sligo  for 
nothing.  ^\Tiere  are  you?  Take  my  cane, 
place  it  between  your  knees  as  you  saw  me 
do,  put  your  mouth  doTVTi  to  the  head  of  it, 
suck  up  with  all  yoiu'  strength,  and  you'll  find 
that  God  will  give  you  sense  afterwards." 

Wilson,  who  had  taken  such  a  fancy  for 
eating  his  shoes,  in  order  to  show  his  loyalty, 
was  what  is  called  a  hard-goer,  and  besides  a 
great  friend  of  Jack's.  At  all  events,  he  fol- 
lowed liis  advice — put  the  head  of  the  huge 
•cane  into  his  mouth,  and  drew  up  according- 
ly. The  cane,  in  fact,  was  hollow  all  through, 
nnd  contained  about  three  half -pints  of  strong 
\vhiskey.  There  was  some  wi-anghng  vdth 
*;he  man  for  a  Httle  time  after  this  ;  but  at 
length  he  approached  Jack,  and  handing  him 
the  empty  cane,  said  : 

"  What's  your  opinion,  Jack  ?  " 

"  Wliy,  we  must  hang  him,"  repHed  Jack. 
"  He  defi-auded  me  in  the  pumj) ;  and  I  ask 
you  did  you  ever  put  your  nose  to  a  better 
pump  than  that  ?  "  * 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  Jack,  we're  agreed 
■'—he  swings ! " 


*  We  have  been  taken  to  task  about  this  descrip- 
tion of  the  jury-room  ;  but  we  believe,  and  have 
good  reason  to  believe,  that  every  circumstance 
mentione  1  in  it  is  a  fact.  Do  our  readers  remember 
the  history  of  Orr's  trial,  where  three-fourths  of  the 
jurors  who  convicted  him  wpre  drunk — a  fact  to 
which  they  themselves  confirmfed  upon  oath  after- 


At  this  moment  an  officer  came  to  ftsk  the 
same  question,  when,  in  reply,  the  twelve 
jurymen  came  out,  and,  amidst  the  most  pro- 
found silence,  the  foreman  handed  down  the 
issue  paper  to  the  Clerk  of  the  Crown. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  that  officer,  after  hav- 
ing cast  his  eye  over  it,  "  have  you  agreed  in 
youi'  verdict  ?  " 

"  We  have." 

"  Is  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty,  or  not 

guilty?" 

".GaiLTY ! " 

Let  us  pause  here  a  moment,  and  reflect 
upon  the  precaiious  temrre  of  life,  as  it  is 
frequently  affected  by  such  scenes  as  the 
above,  in  the  administration  of  justice.  Here 
was  a  ciiminal  of  the  deepest  dye,  shivering 
in  the  dock  with  the  natural  apprehension  of 
his  fate,  but  supported,  notwithstanding,  by 
the  delay  of  the  jiuy  in  coming  to  a  verdict. 
He  argued  reasonalDly  enough,  that  in  con- 
sequence of  that  very  delay  he  must  neces- 
sarily have  fi'iends  among  them  who  would 
hold  out  to  the  last.  The  state  of  suspense, 
however,  in  which  he  was  held  must  have 
been,  and  was,  dreadful.  His  hps  and  thToat 
became  parched  by  excitement,  and  he  was 
obhged  to  drink  three  or  four  glasses  of 
water.  Being  unable  to  stand,  he  was  ac- 
commodated with  a  chaii',  on  which,  while  he 
sat,  the  perspiration  flowed  fi-om  his  paUid 
face.  Yet,  with  the  exception  of  his  ovm 
chque,  there  was  scarcely  an  individual  pre- 
sent who  did  not  hope  that  this  trial  would 
put  an  end  to  his  career  of  blood.  After  all, 
there  was  something  of  the  retributive  jus- 
tice of  Providence  even  in  the  conduct  and 
feelings  of  the  jury  ;  for,  in  point  of  fact,  it 
was  more  on  accotmt  of  his  private  crimes 
and  private  infamy  that  they,  however  wrong- 
ly, brought  in  their  verdict.  Here  was  he, 
encii'cled  by  their  knowledge  of  his  own  in- 
iquities, apart  fi'om  his  pubhc  acts  ;  and  there, 
standing  in  that  dock,  from  which  he  might 
have  gone  out  free,  so  far  as  regarded  his 
pohtical  exploits,  he  found,  although  he  did 
not  know  it,  the  black  weight  of  his  private 
vices  fall  upon  his  head  in  the  shape  of  the 
verdict  just  delivered-  It  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  describe  his  appearance  on  healing 
it ;  his  head  fell  down  upon  his  breast  Hst- 
less,  helpless,  and  with  a  character  of  despair 
that  was  painful  to  contemplate. 

"Wlien  the  verdict  was  handed  down,  the 
judge  immediately  put  on  the  black-cap  ;  but 
Whitecraft's  head  was  resting  on  his  breast, 
and  he  did  not  for  some  time  see  it.  At 
length,  stirred  into  something  like  life  by  the 
accents  of  the  judge,  he  raised  his  head  with 
an  effort.    The  latter  addressed  him  as  thus : 

"  Sir  Eobert  Whitecraft,  you  have  been 
convicted  this  day  by  as  enlightened  a  jury 


WILLY  R LILLY, 


169 


as  ever  sat  in  a  jury-box.  You  must  be  aware 
youi'self,  by  the  length  of  time,  and  conse- 
quently the  deep  and  serious  investigation 
wliich  they  bestowed — and,  it  is  evident, 
painfully  bestowed — upon  yoiu*  unhappy 
case,  that  yoiu*  couA-iction  is  the  deUberite 
result  of  their  conscientious  opinion.  It  is 
obvious,  as  I  said,  from  the  length  of  time 
occupied  in  the  jui-y-room,  that  the  evidence 
in  your  case  was  sifted  closely,  and  canvassed 
with  the  abihty  and  experience  of  able  and 
honest  men.  In  the  verdict  they  have  re- 
turned the  Court  perfectly  concurs  ;  and  it 
now  only  remains  for  me  to  pass  upon  you 
that  awful  sentence  of  the  law  which  is  due 
to  your  cruel  life  and  flagitious  crimes.  Were 
you  a  man  without  education,  nurtured  in 
ignorance,  and  the  slave  of  its  debasing  con- 
nequences,  some  shade  of  compassion  might 
be  felt  for  you  on  that  account.  But  you 
cannot  plead  this  ;  you  cannot  plead  pover- 
ty, or  that  necessity  which  ui-ges  many  a 
political  adventurer  to  come  out  as  a  tyrant 
and  oppressor  upon  his  fellow-subjects,  un- 
der the  shield  of  the  law,  and  in  the  con-uf)t 
expectation  of  reward  or  promotion.  You 
were  not  only  indejDendent  in  yoiu*  own  cir- 
cumstances, but  you  possessed  great  wealth; 
and  why  you  should  shape  yourself  such  an 
awful  course  of  crime  can  only  be  attributed 
to  a  heart  naturally  fond  of  j^ersecution  and 
blood.  I  cannot,  any  more  than  the  learned 
Attorney-General,  suffer  the  privileges  of 
rank,  wealth,  or  position  to  sway  me  from 
the  firm  dictates  of  justice.  You  imagined 
that  the  law  would  connive  at  you — and  it  did 
so  too  long,  but,  believe  me,  the  sooner  or 
later  it  will  abandon  the  individual  that  has 
been  provoking  it,  and,  like  a  tiger  when 
goaded  beyond  patience,  will  turn  and  tear 
its  victim  to  pieces.  It  remains  for  me  now 
to  pronounce  the  a\\"ful  sentence  of  the  law 
upon  you  ;  but  before  I  do  so,  let  me  entreat 
you  to  turn  your  heai't  to  that  Being  who 
will  never  refuse  mercy  to  a  repentant  sin- 
ner ;  and  I  press  this  uj^on  you  the  more  be- 
cause you  need  not  entertain  the  slightest 
expectation  of  finding  it  in  this  world.  In 
order,  therefore,  that  you  may  collect  and 
compose  your  mind  for  the  gi'eat  event  that 
is  before  you,  I  vdM  allow  you  four  days,  in 
order  that  you  may  make  a  Christian  use  of 
your  time,  and  prepare  your  spirit  for  a 
greater  tribunal  than  this.  The  sentence  of 
the  Court  is  that,  on  the  fifth  day  after  this, 
you  be,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.;  and  may  God  have 
mercy  on  yoiu*  soul !  " 

At  first  there  was  a  dead  silence  in  the 
Court,  and  a  portion  of  the  audience  was 
taken  completely  by  sui-prise  on  hearing  both 
the  verdict  and  the  sentence.  At  length  a 
deep,  condensed  murmur,  which  arose  by  de- 


gi-ees  into  a  yell  of  execration,  burst  forth 
fi-om  his  friends,  whilst,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
peal  of  cheers  and  acclamations  rang  so  loud- 
ly through  the  com-t  that  they  completely 
di-o\\Taed  the  indignant  vociferations  of  the 
others.  In  the  meantime  silence  was  restor- 
ed, and  it  was  found  that  the  convict  had  been 
removed  duriag  the  confusion  to  one  of  tho 
condemned  cells.  AVhat  now  were  his  fiiends 
to  do  ?  Was  it  possible  to  take  any  steps  by 
which  he  might  yet  be  saved  fi-om  such  a  dis- 
gi-aceful  death  ?  Pressed  as  they  were  for  time, 
they  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  only 
chance  existing  in  his  favor  was  for  a  deputa- 
tion of  as  many  of  the  leading  Protestants  of 
the  county,  as  could  be  prevailed  upon  to 
join  in  the  measure,  to  proceed  to  Dubhn 
without  delay.  Immediately,  therefore,  after- 
the  trial,  a  meeting  of  the  baronet's  friends, 
was  held  in  the  head  inn  of  Sligo,  where  the 
matter  was  earnestly  discussed.  "WTiitecraft, 
had  been  a  man  of  private  and  sohtary  enjoy- 
ments— in  social  and  domestic  hfe,  as  cold, 
selfish,  inhospitable,  and  repulsive  as  he  was 
ciiiel  and  unscruj^ulous  in  liis  pubhc  career. 
The  consequence  was  that  he  had  few  per- 
sonal fi'iends  of  either  rank  or  influence,  and 
if  the  matter  had  rested  upon  his  own  person- 
al character  and  merits  alone,  he  woidd  have 
been  left,  without  an  effort,  to  the  fate  which, 
had  that  day  been  pronounced  upon  him. 
The  consideration  of  the  matter,  however, 
was  not  confined  to  himself  as  an  iudiridual, 
but  to  the  Protestant  party  at  Large,  and  his 
conriction  was  looked  upon  as  a  Popish  tri- 
umph. On  this  account  many  j)ersons  of 
rank  and  influence,  who  would  not  other-vvise 
have  taken  any  interest  in  his  fate,  ca:ne  for- 
ward for  the  pui'iDOse,  if  possible,  of  defeating 
the  Popish  party — who,  by  the  way,  had  noth- 
ing whatsoever  to  do  in  promoting  his  con- 
riction — and  of  jireventing  the  stigma  and 
deep  disgi'ace  which  his  execution  would  at- 
tach to  their  own.  A  very  respectable  depu- 
tation was  consequently  formed,  and  in  the 
covu'se  of  the  next  day  proceeded  to  Dubhjr,^ 
to  -urge  their  claims  in  hiis  favor  with  the  Lord 
Lieutenant.  This  nobleman,  though  aj^a- 
rently  favorable  to  the  Catholic  people,  was. 
nevertheless  person;illy  and  secretly  a  bitter 
enemy  to  them.  The  state  poHcy  wliich  he 
was  instructed  and  called  uj^on  to  exercise  in . 
their  favor  difl'ered  ioto  aelo  fi'om  his  own 
impressions.  He  spoke  to  them,  however, 
sweetly  and  softly,  praised  them  for  their  for- 
bearance, and  made  large  promises  in  their - 
favor,  whilst,  at  the  same  time,  he  entertained 
no  intention  of  complying  with  their  request 
The  deputation,  on  aniving  at  the  castle, 
ascertained,  to  their  mortification,  that  the 
viceroy  would  not  be  at  home  until  the  fol- 
lowing day,  having  spent  the  last  week  with.-. 


m 


WILLIAM  CAliLETOII''S  WOUKS. 


a  nobleman  in  the  neighborhood  ;  they  were 
consequently  obliged  to  await  his  amval. 
After  his  return  they  were  admitted  to  an 
audience,  in  which  they  stated  their  object 
in  waiting  upon  him,  and  lu-ged  with  gi-eat 
earnestness  the  necessity  of  ai-restiug  the  fate 
of  such  a  distinguished  Protestant  as  Sir 
Kobert  WTiitecraft ;  after  which  they  entered 
into  a  long  statement  of  the  necessity  that 
existed  for  such  active  and  energetic  men  in 
the  then  pecuhai*  and  dangerous  state  of  the 
country. 

To  all  this,  however,  he  rephed  -udth  gi-eat 
suavity,  assuiing  them  that  no  man  felt  more 
anxious  to  promote  Protestant  interests  than 
he  did,  and  added  that  the  relaxation  of  the 
laws  against  the  Catholics  was  not  so  much 
the  result  of  his  own  personal  policy  or  feel- 
ing as  the  consequence  of  the  instructions 
he  had  received  from  the  English  Cabinet. 
He  would  be  very  glad  to  comply  with  the 
wishes  of  the  deputation  if  he  could,  but  at 
present  it  was  impossible.  This  man's  con- 
duct was  indefensible  ;  for,  not  content  in 
canying  out  the  laws  against  the  Cathohcs 
Avith  unnecessaiy  rigor,  he  committed  a 
monstrous  outrage  against  a  French  subject 
of  distinction,  in  consequence  of  which  the 
French  Court,  through  theii*  Ambassador  in 
London,  insisted  upon  his  punishment. 

"Very  well,  my  lord,"  replied  the  spo^ies- 
man  of  the  deputation,  "  I  beg  to  assui'e 
you,  that  if  a  hair  of  this  man's  head  is  in- 
jvu-ed  there  will  be  a  massacre  of  the  Poj^ish 
population  before  two  months  ;  and  I  beg 
also  to  let  you  know,  for  the  satisfaction  of 
the  Enghsh  Cabinet,  that  they  may  embroil 
themselves  with  France,  or  get  into  what- 
ever political  embarrassment  they  please, 
but  an  Iiish  Protestant  will  never  hoist  a 
musket,  or  draw  a  sword,  in  their  defence. 
Gentlemen,  let  us  bid  his  Excellency  a  good- 
moniing." 

This  was  startling  language,  as  the  effect 
proved,  for  it  startled  the  viceroy  into  a  com- 
pHance  with  their  wishes,  and  they  went 
hotne  post-haste,  in  order  that  the  pardon 
might  arrive  id  time. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Rumor  of  Cooleen  Bawn's  Trencher?/ — Haw  it  ap- 
pears— Reilty  stands  his  Trial —  Conclusion. 

'  Life,  they  say,  is  a  life  of  trials,  and  so 
may  it  be  said  of  this  tale — at  least  of  the 
conclusion  of  it ;  for  we  feel  that  it  devolves 
upon  us  once  more  to  solicit  the  jDi'esence 
of  our  readers  to  the  same  prison  in  which 


the  Red  Eapparee  and  Sir  Robert  Whitecrafl 
received  their  sentence  of  doom. 

As  it  is  impossible  to  close  the  mouth  oi 
to  silence  the  tongue  of  fame,  so  we  may  as- 
sure our  readers,  as  we  have  before,  that  the 
histoiw  of  the  loves  of  those  two  celebrated 
individuals,  to  wit,  Willy  Reilly  and  the  far- 
famed  CooJeen  Bawn,  had  given  an  interest 
to  the  coming  trial  such  as  was  never  known 
within  the  memory  of  man,  at  that  period, 
nor  jDerhaps  equalled  since.  The  Red  Rap- 
paree,  Sir  Robert  Whitecraft,  and  all  the 
other  celebrated  villains  of  that  time,  have 
nearly  perished  out  of  tradition  itself,  whilst 
those  of  our  hero  and  heroine  are  still  fresh 
in  the  feelings  of  the  Connaught  and  North- 
ern peasantry,  at  whose  hearths,  during  the 
"winter  evenings,  the  rude  but  fine  old  ballad 
that  commemorated  that  love  is  still  sung 
with  sympathy,  and  sometimes,  as  we  can 
testjf}',  with  tears.  This  is  fame.  One  cir- 
cumstance, however,  which  deepened  the  in- 
terest felt  by  the  people,  told  jDowerfully 
against  the  consistency  of  the  Cooleen  Baton, 
which  was,  that  she  had  resolved  to  come 
forward  that  day  to  bear  evidence  against 
her  lover.  Such  was  the  general  impression 
received  from  her  father,  and  the  attorney 
Doldi*um,  who  conducted  the  trial  against 
Reilly,  althovigh  oiu-  readers  are  well  aware 
that  on  this  jDoint  they  sjDoke  without  au- 
thority. The  govei'nor  of  the  prison,  on 
going  that  morning  to  conduct  him  to  the 
bai-,  said  : 

"I  am  son-y,  Mr.  Reilly,  to  be  the  bearer 
of  bad  news  ;  but  as  the  knowledge  of  it 
may  be  serviceable  to  you  or  your  lawyers, 
I  think  I  ought  to  mention  it  to  you." 

"  Pray,  what  is  it?  "  asked  Reilly. 

"Why,  sir,  it  is  said  to  be  a  fact  that  the 
Cooleen  Bawn  has  proved  false  and  treacher- 
ous, and  is  coming  this  day  to  bear  her  tes- 
timony against  you." 

Reilly  rejDhed  -vrith  a  smile  of  confidence, 
which  the  darkness  of  the  room  prevented 
the  other  from  seeing,  "Well,  IMi-.  O'Shaugh- 
nessy,  even  if  she  does,  it  cannot  be  helped  ; 
have  you  heard  what  the  nature  of  her  evi- 
dence is  Hkely  to  be  ?  " 

"  No  ;  it  seems  her  father  and  Doldnim 
the  attorney  asked  her,  and  she  would  not 
tell  them ;  but  she  said  she  had  made  her 
mind  up  to  attend  the  trial  and  see  justice 
done.  Don't  be  cast  down,  IVIi".  Reilly, 
though,  upon  my  soul,  I  think  she  ought  to 
have  stood  it  out  in  your  favor  to  the  last." 

"Come,"  said  Reilly,  "I  am  ready  ;  time 
will  tell,  ]Mi\  O'Shaughnessy,  and  a  short 
time  too  ;  a  few  hours  now,  and  all  will  know 
the  result." 

"I  hopi  in  God  it  may  be  in  your  favor, 
Mr.  Reilly." 


WILLY  REILLY. 


171 


"  Thank  you,  O'Shauirhnessy  ;   lead  on  ;  I 
am  ready  to  attend  you." 

The  jail  was  crowded  even  to  suffocation  ; 
but  this  was  not  all.  The  street  opposite  the 
jail  was  nearly  as  much  crowded  as  the  jail 
itself,  a  mo\'ing,  a  cnishing  mass  of  thou- 
sands ha^•ing  been  collected  to  abide  and  hear 
the  issue.  It  was  with  gi-eat  difficulty,  and 
not  witliout  the  aid  of  a  strong  mihtary 
force,  that  a  way  covdd  be  cleared  for  the 
judge  as  he  approached  the  prison.  The 
crowd  was  silent  and  passive,  but  in  conse- 
quence of  the  report  that  the  Cooleen  Bawn 
was  to  appear  against  Eeilly,  a  profound 
melancholy  and  an  exjDression  of  deep  soitow 
seemed  to  brood  over  it.  Immediately  after 
the  judge's  carriage  came  that  of  the  squire, 
who  was  accomj^anied  by  his  daughter,  ]klrs. 
Bro\\'n  and  !Mi-s.  Hastings,  for  Helen  had  in- 
sisted that  her  father  should  procure  theu'  at- 
tendance. A  private  room  in  the  prison 
had,  by  j^revious  an-angement,  been  pre- 
pared for  them,  and  to  this  they  were  con- 
ducted by  a  back  way,  so  as  to  avoid  the 
crushing  of  the  crowd.  It  was  by  this  way 
also  that  the  judge  and  lawi,^ers  entered  the 
body  of  the  court-house,  without  passing 
through  the  congregated  mass. 

At  length  the  judge,  having  robed  himself, 
took  his  seat  on  the  bench,  and,  on  casting 
his  eye  over  the  coui-t-house,  was  astonished 
at  the  dense  midtitude  that  stood  before 
him.  On  looking  at  the  galleries,  he  saw 
that  they  were  crowded  v\-ith  ladies  of  rank 
and  fashion.  Every  thing  baring  been  now 
ready,  the  la^\"yers,  each  with  his  brief  before 
him,  and  each  with  a  calm,  but  serious  and 
meditative  aspect,  the  Clerk  of  the  Crown 
cried  out,  in  a  voice  which  the  hum  of  the 
crowd  rendered  necessarily  loud  : 

"j\Ii\  Jailer,  put  Wilham  Re  illy  to  the 
bar." 

At  that  moment  a  stii-,  a  murmur,  espe- 
cially among  the  ladies  in  the  gallery,  and  a 
turning  of  faces  in  the  dii'ection  of  the  bar, 
took  place  as  Reilly  came  forward,  and  stood 
erect  in  front  of  the  judge.  The  veiy  mo- 
ment he  made  his  apjoearance  all  eyes  were 
fastened  on  him,  and  whatever  the  prejudices 
may  have  been  against  the  Cooleen  Bawn  for 
falling  in  love  "srith  a  Papist,  that  moment  of 
his  appearance  absolved  her  fi-om  all — from 
ever\'  thing.  A  more  noble  or  majestic  fig- 
ure never  stood  at  that  or  any  other  bar.  In 
the  very  prime  of  manhood,  scarcely  out  of 
youth,  with  a  figure  hke  that  of  Antinous, 
tail,  muscular,  yet  elegant,  brown  hair  of  the 
lichest  shade,  a  lofty  forehead,  features  of 
the  most  manly  cast,  but  exquisitely  formed, 
and  eyes  which,  but  for  the  mellow  softness 
of  their  expression,  an  eagle  might  have  en- 
vied for  theii'  transparent   biilliancy.     Tlie 


fame  of  his  love  for  the  Cooleen  Bawn  had 
come  before  him.  The  judge  surveyed  him 
with  deep  interest ;  so  did  ever}'  eye  that 
could  catch  a  view  of  his  countenance  ;  but, 
above  all,  were  those  in  the  gallery  riveted 
upon  him  with  a  degi-ee  of  interest — and, 
now  that  they  had  seen  him,  of  sjnnpathy — ■ 
which  we  shall  not  attempt  to  describe. 
Some  of  them  were  so  deeply  affected  that 
they  could  not  suppress  their  tears,  which, 
by  the  aid  of  their  handkerchiefs,  they  en- 
deavored to  conceal  as  well  as  they  could. 
Government,  in  this  case,  as  it  was  not  one 
of  j^olitical  interest,  did  not  prosecute.  A 
powerful  bar  was  retained  against  EeiUy,  but 
an  equally  powerful  one  was  engaged  for 
him,  the  leading  lawj-er  being,  as  we  have 
stated,  the  celebrated  advocate  Fox,  the  Cur- 
ran  of  his  day. 

The  chai'ge  against  him  consisted  of  only 
two  counts — that  of  robbing  Squire  FoUiard 
of  family  jewels  of  immense  value,  and  that 
of  running  away  with  his  daughter,  a  ward 
of  Chancery,  contrary  to  her  consent  and  in- 
clination, and  to  the  laws  in  that  case  made 
and  prorided. 

The  first  witness  produced  was  the  sheriff 
— and,  indeed,  to  state  the  truth,  a  very  re- 
luctant one  was  that  humane  gentleman  on 
the  occasion.  Having  been  sworn,  the  lead- 
ing counsel  proceeded : 

"You  are  the  sheriff  of  this  county?" 

"I  am." 

"Are  you  aware  that  jeweUeiy  to  a  large 
amoimt  was  stolen  recently  fi-om  Mr.  Fol- 
hard?" 

"I  am  not." 

"You  are  not?  Now,  is  it  not  a  fact,  of 
which  you  were  an  eye-witness,  that  the  jew- 
elleiy  in  question  was  foimd  ujion  the  person 
of  the  prisoner  at  the  bai',  in  ]Mi-.  FoUiard's 
house  ?  " 

"  I  must  confess  that  I  saw  liim  about  to 
be  seai'ched,  and  that  a  xerj  valuable  case  of 
jewelleiy  was  found  upon  his  person." 

"Yes,  foimd  upon  his  person — a  xevy  valu- 
able case  of  jeweUeiy,  the  property  of  Mr. 
FoUiard,  fovmd  upon  his  person  ;  mark  that, 
gentlemen  of  the  juiy." 

"Pardon  me,"  Siiid  the  sheriff,  "I  saw 
jewellery  found  upon  him  ;  but  I  cannot  say 
on  my  oath  whether  it  belonged  to  Mr.  Foh 
hai'd  or  not  ;  all  I  can  say  is,  that  Mr.  Fol- 
hard  claimed  the  jewels  as  his." 

"As  his — just  so.  Nobody  had  a  better 
right  to  claim  them  than  the  person  to  whom 
they  belonged.  WTiat  took  place  on  the 
occasion  ?  " 

""VMiy,  'Mr.  FoUiard,  as  I  said,  claimed 
them,  and  'Mr.  ReiUy  refused  to  give  them  up 
to  him." 

"You  hear  that,  gentlemen — refused   to 


172 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


siirrender  him  the  property  of  which  he  had 
robbed  him,  even  in  his  own  house." 

"  And  when  you  searched  the  prisoner  ?  " 

"  We  didn't  search  him ;  he  refused  to 
submit  to  a  search." 

"  Kefused  to  submit  to  a  search  !  No  won- 
der, I  think  I  But,  at  the  time  he  refused  to 
submit  to  a  search,  had  he  the  jewellery 
upon  his  person  ?  " 

"He  had." 

"  He  had  ?  You  hear  that  gentlemen — at 
the  time  he  refused  to  be  searched  he  had 
the  jewellery  upon  his  person." 

The  sheriff  Avas  then  cross-examined  by 
Fox,  to  the  follo-sAing  effect : 

"  INIr.  Sheriff,  have  you  been  acquainted,  or 
are  you  acquainted,  with  the  ftrisoner  at  the 
bar?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  known  him  for  about  three 
years — almost  ever  since  he  settled  in  this 
county." 

"What  is  your  opinion  of  him?" 

"My  opinion  of  him  is  very  high." 

"  Yes — yoiu'  opinion  of  him  is  very  high," 
with  a  significant  glance  at  the  jiuy — "I 
beheve  it  is,  and  I  believe  it  ought  to  be. 
Now,  upon  your  oath,  do  you  believe  that  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar  is  capable  of  the  theft  or 
robbeiy  imputed  to  him  ?  " 

"I  do  not." 

' '  You  do  not  ?  T\Tiat  did  he  say  when  the 
jewels  were  found  upon  him  ?  " 

"He  refused  to  surrender  them  to  Mr. 
FoUiai'd  as  having  no  legal  claim  upon  them, 
and  refused,  at  first,  to  place  them  in  any 
hands  but  Miss  Folliard's  own ;  but,  on 
imderstauding  that  she  was  not  in  a  state  to 
receive  them  from  him,  he  placed  them  in 
mine." 

"Then  he  considered  that  they  were  Miss 
Folhai'd's  personal  property,  and  not  her 
father's  ?  " 

"  So  it  seemed  to  me  from  what  he  said  at 
the  time." 

"That  "v\all  do,  sir;  you  may  go  dov^m." 

"  Alexander  FoUiard  !"  and  the  father  then 
made  his  appearance  on  the  table  ;  he  looked 
about  him,  with  a  restless  eye,  and  appeared 
in  a  state  of  great  agitation,  but  it  was  the 
agitation  of  an  enraged  and  revengeful  man. 

He  turned  his  eyes  upon  Reilly,  and  ex- 
claimed with  bitterness  :  "  There  you  are, 
Willy  Keilly,  who  have  stained  the  reputation 
of  my  cliild,  and  disgraced  her  family." 

"  \lx.  Folliard,"  said  his  lawyer,  "  you  have 
had  in  your  possession  very  valuable  family 
jewels." 
'      "I  had." 

"  Whose  property  were  they  ?  " 

"Why,  mine,  I  should  think." 

"Could  you  identify  them?" 

♦'  Certainly  I  could." 


"  Are  these  the  jewels  in  question  ?  " 
The  old  man  put  on  his  spectacles,   and 
examined  them  closely. 

"They  are  ;  I  know  every  one  of  them." 

"  They  were  stolen  from  you  ?  " 

"  They  were." 

"On  whose  person,  after  ha^^ing  been 
stolen,  were  they  found  ?  " 

"  On  the  jDerson  of  the  prisoner  at  the  bar.'" 

"  You  swear  that  ?  " 

"  I  do  ;  because  I  saw  him  take  them  out 
of  his  pocket  in  my  own  house  after  he  had 
been  made  prisoner  and  detected." 

"  Then  they  are  your  property  ?  " 

"  Certainly — I  consider  them  my  property ; 
who  else's  property  could  they  be." 

"  Pray,  is  not  yoiu'  daughter  a  minor?" 

"  She  is." 

"  And  a  ward  in  the  Court  of  Chancery?" 

"  Yes." 

"  That  wiU  do,  sir." 

The  squire  was  then  about  to  leave  the 
table,  when  Mi\  Fox  addressed  him  : 

"  Not  yet,  Mr.  FoUiard,  if  you  please ; 
you  swear  the  jewels  arc  yours  ?  " 

"  I  do  ;  to  whom  else  should  they  be- 
long ?  " 

"  Are  5^ou  of  opinion  that  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  robbed  you  of  them  ?  " 

"  I  found  them  in  his  possession." 

"  And  you  now  identi^'  them  as  the  same 
jewels  which  you  found  in  his  j)OSsession  ?" 

"  Hang  it,  haven't  I  said  so  before  ?  " 

"  Pray,  Mi*.  Folliard,  keep  youi'  temper,  ii 
you  please,  and  answer  me  civilly  and  as  a 
gentleman.  Suffer  me  to  ask  3^011  are  there 
any  other  family  jewels  in  yoiir  posses- 
sion ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  FoUiard  jewels  ?  " 

"  The  FoUiard  jewels  !  And  how  do  thej 
differ  in  denomination  from  those  found 
upon  the  prisoner  ?  " 

"  Those  found  upon  the  prisoner  are  caUed 
the  Bingham  jewels,  from  the  fact  of  my 
wife,  who  was  a  Bingham,  having  brought 
them  into  our  family." 

"And  pray,  did  not  your  wife  always  con- 
sider those  jewels  as  her  own  private  prop- 
erty? " 

"^Vhy,  I  beUeve  she  did." 

"  And  did  she  not,  at  her  death-bed,  be- 
queath those  very  jewels  to  her  daughter, 
the  present  Miss  FoUiard,  on  the  condition 
that  she  too  should  consider  them  as  hef 
private  property?" 

"  Why,  I  believe  she  did  ;  indeed,  I  am 
sure  of  it,  because  I  was  present  at  the 
time." 

"In  what  part  of  the  house  were  those 
jewels  deposited?" 

"  In  a  large  oak  cabinet  that  stands  in  a 
recess  in  my  hbrary." 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


173 


"  Did  you  keep  what  you  call  the  FoUiard 
jewels  there  ?  " 

"Yes,  all  our  jewellery  was  kept  there." 

"  But  there  was  no  portion  of  the  FoUiard 
jewellery  touched?" 

"  Xo ;  but  the  Bingham  sets  were  all 
taken,  and  all  found  upon  the  prisoner." 

"  What  was  youi-  opinion  of  the  prisoner's 
cu'cumstances  ?  " 

"I  could  form  no  opinion  about  them." 

"Had  he  not  the  reputation  of  being  an 
independent  man  ?  " 

"  I  believe  such  was  the  impression." 

"  In  what  style  of  life  did  he  hve  ?  " 

"Certainly  in  the  style  of  a  gentleman." 

"Do  you  think,  then,  that  necessity  was 
hkely  to  tempt  a  man  of  independence  like 
him  to  steal  yovu'  daughter's  jewels  ?  " 

"I'd  ad^dse  you.  Sergeant  Fox,  not  to 
put  me  out  of  temper ;  I  haven't  much  to 
spare  just  now.  What  the  deuce  are  you 
at?" 

"  Will  3'ou  answer  my  question  ?  " 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  was." 

"  If  the  Bingham  jeweller}'  had  been  stolen 
by  a  thief,  do  you  think  that  thief  would  have 
left  the  Folliard  jewellery  behind  him  ?  " 

"I'll  take  my  oath  you  wouldn't,  if  you 
had  been  in  the  place  of  the  person  that 
took  them.  You'd  have  put  the  Bingham 
jewellery  in  one  pocket,  and  balanced  it  with 
the  Folliard  in  the  other.  But,"  he  added, 
after  a  shght  pause,  "  the  villain  stole  fi'om 
me  a  jewel  more  valuable  and  dearer  to 
her  father's  heart  than  all  the  jewellery  of 
the  universal  world  put  together.  He  stole 
my  child,  my  only  child,"  and  as  he  spoke 
the  tears  ran  slowly  dovni  his  cheeks. 
The  court  and  spectators  were  touched  by 
this,  and  Fox  felt  that  it  was  a  point  against 
them.  Even  he  himself  was  touched,  and 
saw  that,  with  respect  to  Eeilly's  safety,  the 
sooner  he  got  rid  of  the  old  man,  for  the 
pi-esent  at  least,  the  better.  > 

"  ]Mr.  FoUiard,"  said  he,  "  you  may  with- 
draw now.  Y'our  daughter  loved,  as  what 
woman  has  not?  There  stands  the  object  of 
her  affections,  and  I  appeal  to  j-our  own 
feelings  whether  any  living  woman  covdd  be 
blamed  for  lo\'ing  such  a  man.  You  may  go 
down,  sir,  for  the  present." 

The  prosecuting  counsel  then  said  :  "  My 
lord,  we  produce  ]\Iiss  FoUiard  herself  to 
bear  testimony  against  this  man.  Crier,  let 
Helen  FoUiard  be  caUed." 

Now  was  the  moment  of  intense  and  in- 
credible interest.  There  was  the  far-famed 
beauty  herself,  to  appear  against  her  manly 
lover.  The  stir  in  the  court,  the  expectation, 
the  anxiety  to  see  her,  the  stretching  of 
necks,  the  pressure  of  one  over  another,  the 
fervor  of  curiosity,  was  such  as  the  reader 


may  possibly  conceive,  but  such  certainly  as 
we  cannot  attempt  to  describe.  She  ad- 
vanced from  a  side  door,  deeply  veUed  ;  but 
the  taU  and  majestic  elegance  of  her  figure 
not  only  struck  aU  hearts  with  admiration, 
but  prepared  them  for  the  inexpressible 
beauty  with  which  the  whole  kingdom  rang. 
She  was  assisted  to  the  table,  and  helped 
into  the  ^vitness's  chair  by  her  father,  who 
seemed  to  triumph  in  her  appearance  there. 
On  taking  her  seat,  the  buzz  and  murmur  of 
the  spectators  became  hushed  into  a  sUence 
like  that  of  death,  and,  vmtil  she  spoke,  a 
feather  might  have  been  heard  falling  in  the 
court. 

"IVIiss  FoUiard,"  said  the  judge,  in  a  most 
respectful  voice,  "  you  are  deeply  veUed — but 
perhaps  you  are  not  aware  that,  La  order  to 
give  evidence  in  a  court  of  justice,  yovu*  veil 
should  be  up  ;  AviU  you  have  the  goodness  to 
raise  it  ?  " 

Dehberately  and  slowly  she  raised  it,  as 
the  coui't  had  desu-ed  her — but,  oh  !  what 
an  effulgence  of  beauty,  what  wonderful  brU- 
hancy,  what  symmetiw,  what  radiance,  what 
tenderness,  what  expression  ! 

But  we  feel  that  to  attempt  the  description 
of  that  face,  which  almost  had  divinity  stamp- 
ed upon  it,  is  beyond  aU  our  powers.  The 
whole  court,  every  spectator,  man  and  woman, 
aU  for  a  time  were  mute,  whilst  their  hearts 
drank  in  the  deUcious  draught  of  admu-ation 
which  such  beauty  created.  After  ha\ing 
raised  her  veU,  she  looked  around  the  court 
veith  a  kind  of  wonder,  after  which  her  eyes 
rested  on  ReiUy,  and  immediately  her  lids 
dropped,  for  she  feared  that  she  had  done 
wrong  in  looking  upon  him.  This  made 
many  of  those  hearts  who  were  interested  in 
his  fate  sink,  and  wonder  why  such  treachery 
should  be  associated  with  features  that 
breathed  only  of  angeUc  goodness  and  hu- 
manity. 

"  ]\Iiss  FoUiard,"  said  the  leading  counsel 
engaged  against  EcUly,  "  I  am  hapjjy  to  hear 
that  you  regret  some  past  occui'rences  that 
took  place  with  respect  to  you  and  the  pris- 
oner at  the  bai'." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  that  was 
melody  itself,   "  1  do  regret  them." 

Fox  kejDt  his  eye  fixed  upon  her,  aftei 
which  he  whispered  something  to  one  or  two 
of  his  brother  lawv'ers  ;  they  shook  their 
heads,  and  immediately  set  themselves  to  hear 
and  note  her  examination. 

"IVIiss  FoUiard,  you  are  aware  of  the 
charges  which  have  placed  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  of  justice  and  his  country  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  ;  I  have  heard  httle  of  it 
beyond  the  fact  of  his  incarceration." 

"He  stands  there  charged  with  two  very 
heinous  crimes — one  of  them,  the  theft  oj 


i74 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


robbery  of  a  valuable  packet  of  jewels,  your 
father's  property." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  "  they  are  my  own 
exclusive  property — not  my  father's.  They 
were  the  projjerty  of  my  dear  mother,  who, 
on  her  death-bed,  bequeathed  them  to  me, 
in  the  presence  of  my  father  himself  ;  and  I 
always  considei-ed  them  as  mine." 

"  But  they  were  found  upon  the  person  of 
the  prisoner  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  that  is  very  easily  explain- 
ed. It  is  no  secret  now,  that,  in  order  to 
avoid  a  m'amage  which  my  father  was  forcing 
on  me  with  Su-  Robert  Whiteci*aft,  I  chose 
the  less  e^il,  and  committed  myself  to  the 
honor  of  Mr.  ReiUy.  If  I  had  not  done  so  I 
should  have  committed  suicide,  I  think,  rather 
than  maiiy  "Whitecraft — a  man  so  utterly 
devoid  of  jDrinciple  and  dehcacy  that  he  sent 
an  abandoned  female  into  my  father's  house 
in  the  capacity  of  my  maid  and  also  as  a  spy 
"jpon  my  conduct." 

This  astounding  fact  created  an  immense 
sensation  throughout  the  court,  and  the 
lawyer  who  was  examining  her  began  to  feel 
that  her  object  in  coming  there  was  to  give 
evidence  in  favor  of  Reilly,  and  not  against 
him.  He  determined,  however,  to  try  her  a 
httle  farther,  and  proceeded  : 

"  But,  ]\Iiss  FoUiard,  how  do  you  account 
for  the  fact  of  the  Bingham  jewels  being 
found  upon  the  person  of  the  prisoner  ?  " 

"It  is  the  simj^lest  thing  in  the  world," 
she  rephed.  "  I  brought  my  owti  jewels  with 
me,  and  finding,  as  we  proceeded,  that  I  was 
likely  to  lose  them,  having  no  pocket  suffi- 
ciently safe  in  which  to  carrj'  them,  I  asked 
Reilly  to  take  charge  of  them,  which  he  did. 
Our  unexpected  capture,  and  the  consequent 
agitation,  prevented  him  fi'om  retvu-ning 
them  to  me,  and  they  were  accordingly  found 
upon  his  person  ;  but,  as  for  steahng  them, 
he  is  just  as  guilty  as  his  lordship  on  the 
bench." 

"Miss  Folliard,"  proceeded  the  lawj'er, 
"you  have  taken  us  by  surj)rise  to-day. 
How  does  it  happen  that  you  volunteered 
your*  eAddence  against  the  prisoner,  and,  now 
that  you  have  come  forward,  every  word  you 
utter  is  in  his  favor  ?  Your  mind  must  have 
recently  changed — a  fact  which  takes  very 
much  away  from  the  force  of  that  evidence." 

"I  pray  you,  sir,  to  understand  me,  and 
not  suffer  youi'self  to  be  misled.  I  never 
stated  that  I  was  about  to  come  here  to  give 
evidence  against  Mr.  Reilly  ;  but  I  said,  when 
strongly  pressed  to  come,  that  I  would  come, 
.  and  see  justice  done.  Had  they  asked  me 
my  meaning,  I  wotdd  have  instantly  told 
them  ;  because,  I  trust,  I  am  incapable  of 
falsehood  ;  and  I  will  say  now,  that  if  my  life 
oould  obtain  that  of  William  Reilly,  I  would 


lay  it  willingly  down  for  him,  as  I  am  certain 
he  would  lay  down  his  for  the  preservatiou 
of  mine." 

There  was  a  pause  here,  and  a  murmur  of 
approbation  ran  through  the  court.  The 
opposing  counsel,  too,  found  that  they  had 
been  led  astray,  and  that  to  examine  her  any 
further  would  be  only  a  weakening  of  their 
own  cause.  They  attached,  however,  no 
blame  of  insincerity  to  her,  but  visited  with 
much  bitterness  the  unexpected  capsize  which 
they  had  got,  on  the  stupid  head  of  Doldrum, 
their  attorney.  They  consequently'  deter- 
mined to  ask  her  no  more  questions,  and  she 
was  about  to  withdraw,  when  Fox  rose  up, 
and  said  : 

"Miss  Folhard,  I  am  counsel  for  the 
prisoner  at  the  bar,  and  I  trust  you  wiU 
answer  me  a  few  questions.  I  perceive, 
madam,  that  you  are  fatigued  of  this  scene  ; 
but  the  questions  I  shall  j)ut  to  you  wiU  be 
few  and  brief.  An  attachment  has  existed 
for  some  time  between  you  and  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar?  You  need  not  be  ashamed, 
madam,  to  reply  to  it." 

"I  am  7iot  ashamed,"  she  repHed  proudly, 
"and  it  is  true." 

"  Was  your  father  aware  of  that  attachment 
at  any  time  ?  " 

"  He  was,  from  a  very  early  period." 
"Pray,  how  did  he  discover  it?  " 
"I  myself  told  him  of  my  love  for  Reilly." 
"  Did  your  father  give  his  consent  to  that 
attachment  ?  " 

"  Conditionally  he  did." 
"And  pray.  Miss  Folliard,  what  were  the 
conditions  ?  " 

"That  Reilly  should  abjure  his  creed,  and 
then  no  fui'ther  obstacles  should  stand  in  the 
way  of  our  union,  he  said." 

"Was  ever  that  proposal  mentioned  to 
Reilly?" 

"  Yes,  I  mentioned  it  to  him  myself  ;  but, 
well  as  he  loved  me,  he  would  suffer  to  go 
into  an  early  grave,  he  said,  sooner  than 
abandon  his  religion  ;  and  I  loved  him  a  thou- 
sand times  better  for  his  noble  adherence  to 
it." 

"  Did  he  not  save  your  father's  life  ?  " 
"He  did,' and  the  life  of  a  faithful  and  at- 
tached old  servant  at  the  same  time." 

Now,  although  this  fact  was  generally 
known,  yet  the  statement  of  it  here  occasioned 
a  strong  expression  of  indignation  against 
the  man  who  could  come  forward  and  prose- 
cute the  individual,  to  whose  courage  and 
gallantry  he  stood  indebted  for  his  escape 
from  murder.  The  uncertainty  of  FoUiard's 
character,  however,  was  so  well  known,  and 
his  whimsical  changes  of  opinion  such  a 
matter  of  proverb  among  the  people,  that 
many  persons  said  to  each  other : 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


175 


"  The  cracked  old  squire  is  in  one  of  his 
tiW  turns  now  ;  he'll  be  a  proud  man  if  he 
can  convict  Reilly  to-day  ;  and  perhaps  to- 
morrow, or  in  a  month  hence,  he'll  be  cui'sing 
himself  for  what  he  did — for  that's  his  way." 

•'Well,  iVIiss  Folliard,"  said  Fox,  "we  will 
not  detain  you  any  longer  ;  this  to  you  must 
be  a  painful  scene  ;  you  may  retire,  madam." 

She  did  not  immediately  withdraw,  but 
taking  a  green  silk  purse  out  of  her  bosom, 
she  opened  it,  and,  after  inserting  her  long, 
white,  taper  fingers  into  it,  she  brought  out  a 
valuable  emerald  ring,  and  placing  it  in  the 
hands  of  the  crier,  she  said  : 

"  Give  that  ring  to  the  pi'isoner :  I  know 
not,  William,"  she  added, "  whether  I  shall  ever 
see  you  again  or  not.  It  may  so  happen  that 
this  is  the  last  time  my  eyes  can  ever  rest 
upon  you  with  love  and  sorrow."  Here  a  few 
bright  tears  ran  down  her  lovely  cheeks.  "If 
you  should  be  sent  to  a  far-off  land,  wear  this 
for  the  sake  of  her  who  appreciated  your  vii*- 
tues,  your  noble  spirit,  and  your  pure  and 
disinterested  love  ;  look  upon  it  when,  per- 
haps, the  Atlantic  ma}'  roU  between  us,  and 
when  you  do,  think  of  yoiu'  Cooleen  Bawn, 
and  the  love  she  bore  you  ;  but  if  a  still  un- 
happier  fate  should  be  yours,  let  it  be  placed 
with  you  in  yoru.-  grave,  and  next  that  heart, 
tJiat  noble  heart,  that  refused  to  sacrifice 
your  honor  and  your  religion  even  to  your 
love  for  me.     I  will  now  go." 

There  is  nothing  so  brave  and  fearless  as 
innocence.  Her  youth,  the  majesty  of  her 
beauty,  and  the  pathos  of  her  exjwessions, 
absolutely  flooded  the  court  with  tears.  The 
judge  wept,  and  hardened  old  barristers,  with 
hearts  like  the  nether  millstone,  were  forced 
to  jDut  their  handkerchiefs  to  theii*  eyes  ;  but 
as  they  felt  that  it  might  be  detrimental  to 
their  professional  characters  to  be  caught 
weeping,  they  shaded  off  the  pathos  under 
the  hyjDocritical  pretence  of  blowing  their 
noses.  The  sobs  from  the  ladies  in  the  gal- 
lei-y  were  loud  and  vehement,  and  Eeilly  him- 
self was  so  deeply  moved  that  he  felt  obliged 
to  put  his  face  upon  his  hands,  as  he  bent 
over  the  bar,  in  order  to  conceal  his  emotion. 
He  received  the  ring  with  moist  eyes,  kissed 
it,  and  placed  it  in  a  small  locket  which  he 
put  in  his  bosom. 

"  Now,"  said  the  Cooleen  Baton,  "  I  am  ready 
to  go." 

She  was  then  conducted  to  the  room  to 
which  we  have  alluded,  where  she  met  ^Irs. 
Brown  and  Mrs.  Hastings,  both  of  whom  she 
found  in  teai's — for  they  had  been  in  the  gal- 
lery, and  witnessed  all  that  had  hajDpened. 
They  both  embraced  her  tenderly,  and  at- 
tempted to  console  her  as  well  as  they  could; 
but  a  weight  like  death,  she  said,  pressed 
upon  her  heart,  and  she  begged  them  not  to 


distract  her  by  their  sympathy,  kind  and 
generous  as  she  felt  it  to  be,  but  to  jdlow  her 
to  sit,  and  nurture  her  own  thoughts  until 
she  could  hear  the  verdict  of  the  jury.  !Mi-s. 
Hastings  returned  to  the  gallery,  and  anived 
there  in  time  to  hear  the  toucliing  and  bril- 
liant speech  of  Fox,  which  we  are  not  pre- 
sumptuous enough  to  imagine,  much  less  to 
stultify  ourselves  by  attempting  to  give.  He 
dashed  the  charge  of  Reilly 's  theft  of  the  jew- 
els to  pieces — not  a  difficult  task,  after  the 
evidence  that  had  been  given  ;  and  then  dwelt 
upon  the  loves  of  this  celebrated  pair  with 
such  force  and  eloquence  and  pathos  that  the 
court  was  once  more  melted  into  tears.  The 
closing  speech  by  the  leading  counsel  against 
Reilly  was  bitter ;  but  the  gist  of  it  turned 
upon  the  fact  of  his  having  eloped  with  a  ward 
of  Chancery,  contrary  to  law  ;  and  he  in- 
formed the  jiu'y  that  no  afiection — no  con- 
sent upon  the  j^art  of  any  young  lady  under 
age  was  either  a  justification  of,  or  a  pro- 
tection against,  such  an  abduction  as  that  of 
which  Reilly  had  been  guilty.  The  state  of 
the  law  at  the  present  time,  he  assured  them, 
rendex'ed  it  a  felony  to  many  a  CathoHc 
and  a  Protesiant  together  ;  and  he  then  left 
the  case  in  the  hands,  he  said,  of  an  honest 
Protestant  jury. 

The  judge's  charge  was  brief.  He  told  the 
jury  that  they  could  not  convict  the  pi'isoner 
on  the  imputed  felony  of  the  jewels  ;  but 
that  the  proof  of  his  ha\ing  taken  away  Miss 
FoUiard  from  her  father's  house,  with — as  the 
law  stood — her  felonious  abduction,  for  the 
purpose  of  inveigling  her  into  an  unlawful 
marriage  with  himself,  was  the  subject  for 
their  consideration.  Even  had  he  been  a  Prot- 
estant, the  law  could  afford  him  no  jDrotec- 
tion  in  the  eye  of  the  Court  of  Chancery. 

The  jury  retii-ed  ;  but  theu'  absence  from 
their  box  was  very  brief.  Unfortunately, 
their  foreman  was  cursed  with  a  dreadful 
hesitation  in  his  speech,  and,  as  he  entered, 
the  Clerk  of  the  Crown  said  : 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  have  you  agreed  in  your 
verdict  ?  " 

There  was  a  solemn  silence,  during  which 
nothing  was  heard  but  a  convulsive  working 
about  tlie  chest  and  glottis  of  the  foreman, 
who  at  length  said  : 

"  We — we — we — we  have." 

"  Is  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty  or  not 
guilty?" 

Here  the  internal  but  obstiaicted  machine- 
ry of  the  chest  and  throat  set  to  work  again, 
and  at  last  the  foreman  was  able  to  get  out 
— "  GuHty— " 

Mrs.  Hastings  had  heard  enough,  and  too 
much  ;  and,  as  the  sentence  was  pronounced, 
she  instantly  withdrew  ;  but  how  to  convey 
the  melancholy  tidings  to  the  Cooleen  Bawn 


176 


vriLLiA:sr  carletox's  works. 


she  knew  not.  In  the  meantime  the  foreman, 
who  had  not  fully  dehvered  himself  of  the 
verdict,  added,  after  two  or  three  desperate 
hiccups — "o«  the  second  count" 

This,  if  the  foreman  had  not  labored  under 
such  an  extraordinary  hesitation,  might  have 
prevented  much  suflering,  and  many  years  of 
unconscious  calamity  to  one  of  the  ujihappy 
parties  of  whom  we  are  writing,  inasmuch  as 
the  felony  of  the  jewels  would  have  been 
death,  whilst  the  elopement  with  a  ward  of 
Chancery  was  only  transportation. 

When  Mrs.  Hastings  entered  the  room 
where  the  C<x>leen  Bawn  was  awaiting  the  ver- 
dict with  a  dreadful  intensity  of  feeling,  the 
latter  rose  up.  and,  throwing  her  arms  about 
her  neck,  looked  into  her  face,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  eagerness  and  wildness,  which 
Mrs.  Hastings  thought  misrht  be  best  allaved 
by  knowing  the  worst,  as  the  heai-t,  in  such 
circumstances,  generally  collects  itself,  and 
falls  back  upon  its  own  resources. 

"  Well  :Mrs.  Hastings,  well— the  verdict  ?  " 

"  Collect  yourself,  my  child — be  firm — 
be  a  woman.  Collect  yourself — for  you  will 
require  it.     The  verdict — GnLir  I  " 

The  Coolern  Baicn  did  not  faint — nor  be- 
come weak — but  she  put  hep  fair  white  hand 
to  her  forehead — then  looked  around  the 
room,  then  upon  ^Irs.  Brown,  and  lastly  upon 
Mrs-  Hastings.  They  also  looked  upon  her. 
God  help  both  her  and  them  I  Yes,  they 
looked  upon  her  countenance — that  lovely 
countenance — and  then  iuto  her  eyes — those 
eyes  I  But,  alas  I  where  was  their  beauty 
now  ■?     \\Tiere  their  expression  ? 

"  Miss  FoUiard  1  my  darling  Helen !  "  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Hastings,  in  tears — "great 
Grod,  what  is  this,  'Sixs.  Brown  ?  Come  here 
and  look  at  her." 

Mrs.  Brown,  on  looking  at  her,  whispered, 
in  choking  accents,  "  Oh !  my  God,  the  child's 
reason  is  overturned  ;  what  is  there  now  in 
those  once  glorious  eyes  but  vacancy  ?  Oh, 
that  I  had  never  Hved  to  see  this  awful  day  I 
Helen,  the  treasure,  the  dehght  of  all  who 
ever  knew  you,  what  is  wrong  ?  Oh,  speak 
to  us — recognize  us — your  own  two  best 
friends — Helen — Helen  !  speak  to  us." 

She  looked  upon  them  certainly  ;  but  it 
was  with  a  dead  and  vacant  stare  which 
wrung  their  hearts. 

"  Come,"  said  she,  "  tell  me  where  is  Wil- 
liam Reilly?  Oh,  bring  me  to  WilHam 
ReiUy  ;  they  have  taken  me  from  him,  and  I 
know  not  where  to  find  him." 

The  two  kind-hearted  ladies  looked  at  one 
another,  each  stupefied  by  the  mystery  of 
what  they  witnessed. 

'•  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Hastings,  "  her  father 
must  b«  instantly  sent  for.  Mrs.  Brown,  go 
to  the  lobby — there  is  an  officer  there— de- 


sire him  to  go  to  Mr.  FoUiard  and  say  that — 
but  we  had  better  not  alarm  him  too  much," 
she  added,  "  say  that  Miss  FoUiard  wishes 
to  see  him  immediately." 

The  judge,  we  may  observe  here,  had  not 
yet  pronounced  sentence  upon  ReiUy.  The 
old  man,  who,  under  aU  possible  circum- 
stances, was  so  afiectionately  devoted  and 
attentive  to  his  daughter,  immediately  pro- 
ceeded to  the  room,  in  a  state  of  great  tri- 
umph and  exultation  exclaiming,  '•  GrtLXT, 
GUILTY  :  we  have  noos-ed  him  at  last."  He 
even  snapped  his  fingers,  and  danced  about 
for  a  time,  until  rebuked  by  Mrs.  Hastings. 

"Unhappy  and  miserable  old  man,"  she 
exclaimed,  with  teai-s,  '"  what  have  you  done  ? 
Look  at  the  condition  of  your  only  child, 
whom  you  have  murdered.  She  is  now  a 
maniac." 

"What,"  he  exclaimed,  rushing  to  her, 
"what,  what  is  this  ?  "^Tiat  do  you  mean  ? 
Helen,  my  darling,  my  child — my  dehght — 
what  is  wrong  with  you  ?  EecoUect  your- 
self, my  dearest  treasure.  Do  you  not  know 
me,  your  own  father  ?  Oh,  Helen,  Helen  I 
for  the  love  of  God  speak  to  me.  Say  you 
know  me — call  me  father — rouse  yourself — 
recoUect  me — don't  you  know  who  I  am  ?  ' 

There,  however,  was  the  frightfuUy  vacant 
glance,  but  no  reply. 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  in  a  low,  calm  voice, 
"  where  is  WiUiam  Eeilly  ?  They  have  taken 
me  fi-om  him,  and  I  cannot  find  biTn  ;  bring 
me  to  William  Eeilly." 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Helen?  don't  you 
know  yoiir  loving  father  '?  Oh,  speak  to  me, 
child  of  my  heart  !  speak  but  one  word  as  a 
proof  that  you  know  me." 

She  looked  on  him,  but  that  look  fiUed 
his  heart  with  unutterable  anguish ;  he 
clasped  her  to  that  heai-t,  he  kissed  her  Ups, 
he  strove  to  soothe  and  console  her — ^but  in 
vain.  There  was  the  vacant  but  unsettled 
eye,  from  which  the  bright  expression  oi 
reason  was  gone  ;  but  no  recognition — ^no 
spaik  ^f  reflection  or  conscious  thought — 
nothing  but  the  melancholy  inqiiiry  from 
those  beautiful  lips  of — "  "SATiere's  WUham 
Eeilly?  They  have  taken  me  from  him — 
and  wiU  not  aUow  me  to  see  him.  Oh,  bring 
me  to  Wilham  EeiUy  !  " 

"  Oh,  wretched  fate  I "  exclaimed  her  dis- 
tracted father,  "I  am — I  am  a  mm-derer, 
and  faithful  Connor  was  right — 'SIxs.  Bro\*'n 
— IMrs.  Hastings — hear  me,  both — ^I  was 
warned  of  this,  but  I  would  not  Hsten  either 
to  reason  or  remonstrance,  and  now  I  am 
punished,  as  Connor  predicted.  Great  hea- 
ven, what  a  fate  both  for  her  and  me — for 
her  the  innocent,  and  for  me  the  guilty  !  " 

It  is  unneces.sary  to  dweU  upon  the  father's 
misery  and  distraction ;  but,  from  aU  our 


WILLY  RE  ILLY. 


177 


readers  have  learned  of  his  extraordinaiy 
tenderness  and  affection  for  that  good  and 
lovely  daughter,  they  may  judge  of  what  he 
suffered.  He  immediately  ordered  his  car- 
riage, and  had  barely  time  to  hear  that 
Reilly  had  been  sentenced  to  transportation 
x'or  seven  years.  His  daughter  was  quite 
meek  and  tractable ;  she  spoke  not,  nor 
could  any  ingenuity  on  theii-  part  extract 
the  slightest  reply  fi'om  her.  Neither  did 
she  shed  a  single  tear,  but  the  vacant  hght 
of  her  eyes  had  stamped  a  fatuitous  expres- 
sion on  her  features  that  was  melancholy  and 
heai-tbreaking  beyond  aU  power  of  language 
to  describe. 

No  other  person  had  seen  her  since  "he 
bereavement  of  her  reason,  except  the  officer 
who  kept  guard  on  the  lobby,  and  who,  n 
the  hurry  and  distraction  of  the  moment,  h.'>d 
been  dispatched  by  IMi's.  Brown  for  a  glaM^ 
of  cold  water.  Her  father's  ra\ings,  how- 
ever, in  the  man's  presence,  added  to  his 
ovro.  observation,  and  the  distress  of  her 
female  friends  were  quite  sufficient  to  satisfy 
him  of  the  nature  of  her  comj)laiut,  and  in 
less  than  half  an  hour  it  was  thi'ough  the 
whole  court-house,  and  the  town  besides, 
that  the  Cooleen  Bawn  had  gone  mad  on  hear- 
ing the  sentence  that  was  j^assed  upon  her 
lover.  Her  two  friends  accompanied  her 
home,  and  remained  with  her  for  the  night. 

Such  was  the  melancholy  conclusion  of  the 
trial  of  Willy  Eeilly  ;  but  even  taking  it  at 
its  worst,  it  involved  a  very  different  fate  fi-om 
that  of  his  ^indictive  rival,  Wliitecraft.  ^  It 
appeared  that  that  worthy  gentleman  and 
the  Red  Rapparee  had  been  sentenced  to  die 
on  the  same  day,  and  at  the  same  hoiu\  It 
is  true,  "WTiitecraft  was  aware  that  a  deputa- 
tion had  gone  post-haste  to  Dubhn  Castle  to 
soheit  his  pardon,  or  at  least  some  lenient 
commutation  of  punishment.  Still,  it  was 
feared  that,  owing  to  the  dreadful  state  of 
the  roads,  and  the  slow  mode  of  traveUing  at 
that  period,  there  was  a  probabihty  that  the 
pai'don  might  not  aiTive  in  time  to  be  avail- 
able ;  and  indeed  there  was  every  reason  to 
ajiprehend  as  much.  The  day  appointed  for 
the  execution  of  the  Red  Rapparee  and  him 
arrived — nay,  the  very  hour  had  come  ;  but 
still  there  was  hope  among  his  friends.  The 
sheriff*  a  iu'm,  but  fair  and  reasonable  man, 
waited  beyond  the  time  named  by  the  judge 
for  his  execution.  At  length  he  felt  the 
necessity  of  dischai-ging  his  duty  ;  for, 
although  more  than  an  hour  beyond  the  ap- 
pointed period  had  now  elapsed,  yet  this  de- 
lay proceeded  fi'om  no  personal  regard  he 
entertained  for  the  felon,  but  fi-om  respect 
for  many  of  those  who  had  interested  them- 
selves in  his  fate. 

After   an   unusual   delay  the   sheriff  felt 


himself  called  upon  to  order  loth  the  Rap* 
paree  and  the  baronet  for  execution.  In 
waiting  so  long  for  a  pardon,  he  felt  that  he 
had  transgressed  his  duty,  and  he  accordingly 
ordered  them  out  for  the  last  ceremony.  Th« 
hardened  Rapparee  died  sullen  and  silent; 
the  only  regi-et  he  expressed  being  that  he 
could  not  live  to  see  his  old  friend  turned  ofl 
before  him. 

"  Troth,"  rephed  the  hangman,  "only  that 
the  sheriff  has  ordhered  me  to  hang  you 
first  as  bein'  the  betther  man,  I  would  give 
you  that  same  satisfaction  ;  but  if  you're  not 
in  a  very  great  huriy  to  the  wann  comer 
you're  goin'  to,  and  if  you  will  just  take  your 
time  for  a  few  minutes,  I'U  engage  to  say  you 
will  soon  have  company.  God  speed  you, 
any  way,"  he  exclaimed  as  he  turned  him 
off ;  "  only  take  your  time,  ancl  wait  for  your 
neighbors.  Now,  Sir  Robert,"  said  he, 
"  turn  about,  they  say,  is  fair  play — it's  yoxir 
turn  now  ;  but  you  look  unbecomin'  upon 
it.  Hould  up  3'oiu'  head,  man,  and  don't  be 
east  down.  You'U  have  company  where 
y  ou're  goin' ;  for  the  Red  Rapparee  tould  me 
to  tell  you  that  he'd  wait  for  you.  Hallo ! 
— what's  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed  as  he  cast  his 
eye  to  the  distance  and  discovered  a  horse- 
man riding  for  hfe,  with  a  white  handker- 
chief, or  flag  of  some  kind,  floating  in  the 
breeze.  The  elevated  position  in  which  the 
executioner  was  jDlaced  enabled  him  to  see 
the  signal  before  it  could  be  perceived  by  the 
crowd.  "  Come,  Sir  Robert,"  said  he,  "  stand 
where  I'll  place  you — there's  no  use  in  asking 
you  to  hould  up  your  head,  for  you're  not 
able  ;  but  listen.  You  hanged  my  brothei 
that  you  knew  to  be  innocent ;  and  now  \ 
hang  you  that  I  know  to  be  gTiilty.  Yes,  1 
hang  you,  with  the  white  flag  of  the  Lord 
Lieutenant's  pardon  for  you  wa^-in'  in  the 
distance  ;  and  hsten  again,  remember  Willy 
ReilUi ;"  and  with  these  words  he  launched 
him  into  eternity. 

The  uproar  among  his  fiiends  was  im- 
mense, as  was  the  cheering  fi-om  the  general 
crowd,  at  the  just  fate  of  this  bad  man.  The 
former  iiished  to  the  gallows,  in  order  to 
cut  him  do^^^l,  with  a  hope  that  life  might 
still  be  in  him,  a  process  which  the  sheriff', 
after  penising  his  pardon,  permitted  them  to 
cany  into  effect.  The  body  was  accordingly 
taken  into  the  prison,  and  a  surgeon  procured 
to  examine  it ;  but  altogether  in  vain  ;  his 
hoiir  had  gone  by,  life  was  extinct,  and  all 
the  honor  they  could  now  pay  Sir  Robert 
Whitecraft  was  to  give  him  a  pompous  fun- 
eral, and  declare  him  a  martyr  to  Poperj' — 
both  of  which  they  did. 

On  the  day  prerious  to  Reilly's  departure 
his  humble  fc-iend  and  namesake,  Fergus,  at 
the   earnest   solicitation  of  Reilly  himaelt 


178 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


was  permitted  to  pay  him  a  last  melancholy 
visit.  After  his  sentence,  as  well  as  before 
it,  every  attention  had  been  paid  to  him  by 
O'Shaughness}-,  the  jailer,  who,  although  an 
avowed  Protestant,  and  a  brand  plucked 
from  the  burning,  was,  nevertheless,  a  lui-k- 
ing  Cathohc  at  heart,  and  felt  a  correspond- 
ing sympathy  with  his  prisoner.  \Vhen  Fer- 
gus entered  liis  cell  he  found  him  neither 
fettered  nor  manacled,  but  perfectly  in  the 
enjoyment  at  least  of  bodily  fi-eedom.  It  is 
impossible,  indeed,  to  say  how  fju-  the  influ- 
ence of  money  may  have  gone  in  seeming 
him  the  comforts  w-hich  surroimded  him, 
and  the  attentions  which  he  received.  On 
entering  his  cell,  Fergus  was  struck  by  the 
calm  and  composed  air  with  which  he  re- 
ceived him.  His  face,  it  is  time,  was  paler 
than  usual,  but  a  feeling  of  indignant  pride, 
if  not  of  fixed  but  stem  indignation,  might 
be  read  under  the  comjjosure  into  which  he 
forced  himself,  and  which  he  endeavored  to 
suppress.  He  apjDroached  Fergus,  and  ex- 
tending his  hand  with  a  pecuUar  smile,  very 
difficult  to  be  described,  said  : 

"  Fergus,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  I  hope 
you  are  safe — ^t  least  I  have  heai'd  so." 

"I  am  safe,  sir,  and  free,"  replied  Fergus ; 
"  thanks  to  the  Ked  KajDparee  and  the  sheriff 
for  it." 

"  Well,"  proceeded  Eeilly,  "  you  have  one 
comfort — the  Eed  Kapparee  will  neither 
tempt  you  nor  trouble  you  again ;  but  is 
there  no  danger  of  his  gang  taking  up  his 
quarrel  and  avenging  him  ?  " 

"  His  gang,  sir  ?  Why,  only  for  me  he 
woTold  a'  betrayed  every  man  of  them  to 
"WTiitecraft  and  the  Government,  and  had 
them  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered — ay, 
and  their  heads  grinning  at  us  in  every  town 
in  the  county." 

"  Well,  Fergus,  let  his  name  and  his  crimes 
perish  with  him ;  but,  as  for  you,  what  do 
you  intend  to  do  ?  " 

"Troth,  sir,"  rej^hed  Fergus,  "it's  more 
than  I  lightly  know.  I  had  my  hoj)es,  like 
others  ;  but,  somehow,  luck  has  left  all  sorts 
of  lovers  of  late — from  Sii'  Robert  White- 
craft  to  your  humble  servant." 

"  But  you  may  thank  God,"  said  Eeilly, 
with  a  smile,  "  that  you  had  not  Sir  Eobert 
Whitecraft's  luck." 

"Faith,  sir,"  rephed  Fergiis  archly, 
"  there's  a  pair  of  us  may  do  so.  You  went 
nearer  his  luck — such  as  it  was — than  I  did. " 

"  True  enough,"  replied  the  other,  with  a 
■serious  air ;  "  I  had  certainly  a  narrow  es- 
cape ;  but  I  wish  to  know,  as  I  said,  what 
you  intend  to  do  ?  It  is  your  duty  now,  Fer- 
gus, to  settle  industriously  and  honestly." 

"  Ah,  sir,  lioncdly.  I  didn't  expect  that 
from  you,  IVIr.  Eeilly." 


"  Excuse  me,  Fergus,"  said  Eeilly,  taking 
him  by  the  hand  ;  "when  I  said  honestly  I  did 
not  mean  to  intimate  any  thing  whatsoever 
against  your  integrity.  I  know,  unfortunately, 
the  harsh  circumstances  which  drove  you  to 
associate  with  that  remorseless  viUain  and  his 
gang  ;  but  I  wish  you  to  resume  an  industri- 
ous life,  and,  if  Ellen  Connor  is  disposed  to 
unite  her  fate  with  yours,  I  have  provided 
the  means — ample  means  for  you  both  to  be 
comfortable  and  happy.  She  who  was  so 
faithful  to  her  mistress  will  not  fail  to  make 
you  a  good  wife." 

"All,"  replied  Fergus,  "  it's  I  that  knows 
that  well ;  but,  unfortimately,  I  have  no  hope 
there." 

"  No  hope  ;  how  is  that  ?  I  thought  your 
affection  was  mutual." 

"So  it  is,  sir — or,  rather,  so  it  was  ;  but 
she  has  affection  for  nobody  now,  baiTing 
the  Cooleen  Bavm." 

Eeilly  paused,  and  appeared  deeply  moved 
by  this.  "What,"  said  he,  "will  she  not 
leave  her?  But  I  am  not  siu'piised  at  it." 

"No,  sir,  she  will  not  leave  her,  but  has 
taken  an  oath  to  stay  by  her  night  and  day, 
until — better  times  come." 

We  may  say  here  that  EeOly's  friends  took 
care  that  neither  jailer  nor  turnkey  should 
make  him  acquainted  with  the  uuhajDpy  state 
of  the  Cooleen  Bawn ;  he  was  consequently 
ignorant  of  it,  and,  fortunately,  remained  so 
until  after  his  return  home. 

"  Fergus,"  said  Eeilly,  "  can  you  teU  me 
how  the  Cooleen  Baton  bears  the  sentence 
which  sends  me  to  a  far  country  ?  " 

"  How  would  she  bear  it,  sir  ?  You  needn't . 
ask  :  Connor,  at  all  events,  will  not  part  fi'om 
her — not,  anyw^ay,  until  you  come  back." 

"  Well,  Fergus,"  proceeded  Eeilly,  "  I  have, 
as  I  said,  provided  for  you  both  ;  what  that 
pro\ision  is  I  will  not  mention  now,  Mr. 
Hastings  will  inform  you.  But  if  you  have 
a  wish  to  leave  this  unhappy  and  distracted 
country,  even  without  Connor,  why,  by 
api^lying  to  him,  you  \\ill  be  enabled  to  do 
so  ;  or,  if  you  wish  to  stay  at  home  and  take 
a  farm,  you  may  do  so." 

"Divil  a  foot  I'll  leave  the  countiy,"  re- 
plied the  other.  "  Ellen  may  stick  to  the 
Cooleen  Bawn,  but,  be  my  sowl,  I'U  stick  to 
Ellen,  if  I  was  to  wait  these  seven  years. 
I'll  be  as  stiff  as  she  is  stout ;  but,  at  any 
rate,  she's  worth  waitin'  for." 

"  You  may  well  say  so,"  replied  EeiUy, 
"  and  I  can  quarrel  neither  with  youi'  attach- 
ment nor  your  patience  ;  but  you  will  not 
forget  to  let  her  know  the  jDrovision  which  I 
have  left  for  her  in  the  hancis  of  Mr.  Hast- 
ings, and  teU  her  it  is  a  shght  reward  for 
her  noble  attachment  to  my  dear  Cooleen 
Bawn.     Fergus,"  he  proceeded,  "have  you 


WILLY  REILLY. 


179 


ever  had  a  dream  in  the  middle  of  which 
you  awoke,  then  fell  asleep  and  dreamt  out 
the  dream  ?  " 

*«  Troth  had  I,  often,  sir  ;  and,  by  the  way, 
talkin'  of  dreams,  I  dreamt  last  night  that  I 
was  wantm'  Ellen  to  marry  me,  and  she 
said,  'not  yet,  Fergus,  but  in  due  time.'" 

"Well,  Fergus,"  proceeded  Reilly,  "per- 
haps there  is  but  half  my  dream  of  life  gone  ; 
who  knows  when  I  return — if  I  ever  do — 
but  my  dream  may  be  comj^leted  ?  and  hap- 
pily, too  ;  I  know  the  truth  and  faith  of  my 
dear  Cooleen  Bawn.  And,  Fergus,  it  is  not 
merely  my  dear  Cooleen  Baton  that  I  feel  for, 
but  for  my  unfortunate  country.  I  am  not, 
however,  without  hope  that  the  day  will 
come — although  it  may  be  a  distant  one — 
when  she  will  enjoy  freedom,  j)eace,  and 
prosperity.  Now,  Fergus,  good-by,  and 
farewell !  Come,  come,  be  a  man,"  he  added, 
with  a  melancholy  smile,  whil?t  a  tear  stood 
•even  in  his  own  eye — "come,  Fergus,  I  will 
tiot  have  this  ;  I  won't  say  farewell  for  ever, 
because  I  exj^ect  to  return  and  be  happy  yet 
— if  not  in  my.  own  counby,  at  least  in  some 
other,  where  there  is  more  fi'eedom  and  less 
persecution  for  conscience'  sake." 

Poor  Fergus,  however,  when  the  parting 
moment  aridved,  was  completely  overcome. 
He  caught  Keilly  in  his  arms — wept  over  him 
bitterly — and,  after  a  last  and  sorrowfid  em- 
brace, was  prevailed  upon  to  take  his  leave. 

The  history  of  the  Cooleen  Baton's  melan- 
choly fate  soon  went  far  and  near,  and  many 
an  eye  that  had  never  rested  on  her  beauty 
gave  its  tribute  of  tears  to  her  undeserved 
sorrows.  There  existed,  however,  one  indi- 
vidual who  was  the  object  of  almost  as  deep 
a  compassion  ;  this  was  her  father,  who  was 
consumed  by  the  bitterest  and  most  pro- 
foiuid  remorse.  His  whole  character  became 
changed  by  his  terrible  and  unexpected 
shock,  by  which  his  beautiful  and  angelic 
daughter  had  been  blasted  before  his  e^'^es. 
He  was  no  longer  the  boisterous  and  convi- 
vial old  squire,  changeful  and  unsettled  in 
all  his  oj^inions,  but  silent,  quiet,  and  ab- 
stracted almost  from  life. 

He  wept  incessantly,  but  his  tears  did 
not  bring  him  comfort,  for  they  were  tears 
of  anguish  and  despair.  Ten  times  a  day 
he  would  proceed  to  her  chamber,  or  follow 
her  to  the  garden  where  she  loved  to  walk, 
always  in  the  delusive  hope  that  he  might 
catch  some  spark  of  retui-ning  reason  fi'om 
those  calm-looking  but  meaningless  eyes, 
after  which  he  would  weep  like  a  child. 
"With  respect  to  his  daughter,  eveiy  thing 
was  done  for  her  that  wealth  and  human 
means  could  accompHsh,  but  to  no  piuiDOse  ; 
the  maladj'  was  too  deeply  seated  to  be  affect- 
ed by  any  known  remedy,  whether  moral  or 


physical.  From  the  moment  she  was  struck 
into  msanity  she  was  never  known  to  smile, 
or  to  speak,  unless  when  she  chanced  to  see 
a  stranger,  upon  which  she  immediately 
approached,  and  asked,  with  clasped  hands  : 

"  Oh  !  can  you  tell  me  where  is  William 
Keilly  ?  They  have  taken  me  from  him,  and 
I  cannot  find  him.  Oh !  can  you  tell  me 
where  is  William  Reilly  ?  " 

There  was,  however,  another  individual 
upon  whose  heart  the  calamity  of  the  Cooleen 
Baton  fell  like  a  blight  that  seemed  to  have 
struck  it  into  such  misery  and  sorrow  as 
threatened  to  end  only  with  hfe.  This  was 
the  faithful  and  attached  Ellen  Connor.  On 
the  day  of  Reilly 's  trial  she  experienced  the 
alternations  of  ho^je,  uncertainty,  and  de- 
spair, with  such  a  depth  of  anxious  feeling, 
and  such  feverish  excitement,  that  the  period 
of  time  which  elapsed  appeared  to  her  as  if 
it  would  never  come  to  an  end.  She  could 
neither  sit,  nor  stand,  nor  work,  nor  read, 
nor  take  her  meals,  nor  scarcely  think  with 
any  consistency  or  clearness  of  thought. 
We  have  mentioned  hope — but  it  was  the 
faintest  and  the  feeblest  element  in  that 
chaos  of  distress  and  confusion  which  filled 
and  distracted  her  mind.  She  knew  the 
state  and  condition  of  the  coiuitr}^  too  well 
— she  knew  the  powerful  influence  of  ]\Ii". 
FoUiard  in  his  native  county — she  knew 
what  the  consequences  to  Reilly  must  be  of 
taking  awaj'  a  Protestant  heiress  ;  the  fact 
was  there — plain,  distinct,  and  incontrovert- 
ible, and  she  knew  that  no  chance  of  im- 
punity or  acquittal  remained  for  any  one  of 
his  creed  guilty  of  such  a  -sdolation  of  the 
laws — we  say,  she  knew  all  this — but  it  was 
not  of  the  fate  of  Reilly  she  thought.  The 
gii'l  was  an  acute  obsei'ver,  and  both  a  close 
and  clear  thinker.  She  had  remarked  in 
the  Cooleen  Bawn,  on  several  occasions, 
small  gushes,  as  it  were,  of  unsettled 
thought,  and  of  temjoorary  wildness,  almost 
approaching  to  insanity.  She  knew,  besides, 
that  insanity  was  in  the  family  on  her  fa- 
ther's side  ;  *  and,  as  she  had  so  boldly  and 
firmly  stated  to  tliat  father  himself,  she 
dreaded  the  result  which  Reilly 's  conviction 
might  produce  upon  a  mind  vdth  such  a 
tendency,  worn  down  and  depressed  as  it 
had  been  by  all  she  had  suffered,  and  more 
especially  what  she  must  feel  by  the  tumult 
and  agitation  of  that  dreadful  day. 

It  was  about  two  houi's  after  dark  when 
she  was  startled  by  the  noise  of  the  carriage- 
wheels  as  they  came  up  the  avenue.     Her 


*  The  reader  must  take  this  as  the  necessary  ma- 
terial for  our  fiction.  There  never  was  insanity  in 
Helen's  family ;  and  we  make  this  note  to  prevent 
them  from  taking  unnecessary  offence. 


180 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


heart  beat  as  if  it  would  burst,  the  blood  rusli- 
ed  to  her  head,  and  she  became  too  giddy  to 
stand  or  walk  ;  then  it  seemed  to  rush  back 
to  her  heart,  and  she  was  seized  with  thick 
breathing  and  feebleness ;  but  at  length, 
strengthened  by  the  very  intensity  of  the  in- 
terest she  felt,  she  made  her  way  to  the 
lower  steps  of  the  hall  door  in  time  to  be 
present  when  the  carriage  arrived  at  it.  She 
determined,  however,  wi'ought  up  as  she  was 
to  the  highest  state  of  excitement,  to  await, 
to  watch,  to  listen.  She  did  so.  The  car- 
riage stopped  at  the  usual  place,  the  coach- 
man came  down  and  oj)ened  the  door,  and 
Wx.  FoUiard  came  out.  After  him,  assisted 
by  j\li's.  Brown,  came  Helen,  who  was  im- 
mediately conducted  in  between  the  latter 
and  her  father.  In  the  meantime  poor  Ellen 
could  only  look  on.  She  was  incapable  of 
asking  a  single  question,  but  she  followed 
them  up  to  the  drawing-room  where  they 
conducted  her  mistress.  When  she  was 
about  to  enter,  IMi's.  Brown  said  : 

"  Ellen,  you  had  better  not  come  in  ;  yoiu' 
mistress  is  unwell." 

Mrs.  Hastings  then  approached,  and,  with 
a  good  deal  of  judgment  and  consideration, 
said : 

"I  think  it  is  better,  ]\Ii-s.  Brown,  that 
Ellen  should  see  her,  or,  rather,  that  she 
should  see  Ellen.  "V\Tio  can  tell  how  bene- 
ficial the  efiect  may  be  on  her  ?  We  all  know 
how  she  was  attached  to  Ellen." 

In  addition  to  those  fearful  intimations, 
Ellen  heard  inside  the  sobs  and  groans  of  her 
distracted  father,  mingled  with  caresses  and 
such  tender  and  affectionate  language  as,  she 
knew  by  the  words,  could  only  be  addi-essed 
to  a  person  incapable  of  understanding  them. 
Mrs.  BroANTi  held  the  door  partially  closed, 
but  the  faithfvd  girl  would  not  be  repulsed. 
She  pushed  in,  exclaiming : 

"  Stand  back,  Mi-s.  Brown,  I  must  see 
my  mistress  ! — if  she  is  my  mistress,  or  any- 
body's mistress  now," — and  accordingly  she 
approached  the  settee  on  which  the  Cooleen 
Bawn  sat.  The  old  squire  was  wringing  his 
hands,  sobbing,  and  giving  vent  to  the  most 
uncontrollable  sorrow. 

"  Oh,  Ellen,"  said  he,  "  pity  and  forgive 
me.  Your  mistress  is  gone,  gone ! — she 
knows  nobody ! " 

"  Stand  aside,"  she  replied;  "  stand  aside 
aU  of  you  ;  let  me  to  her." 

She  knelt  beside  the  settee,  looked  dis- 
tractedly, but  keenly,  at  her  for  about  half  a 
minute — but  there  she  sat,  calm,  pale,  and 
unconscious.  At  length  she  turned  her  eyes 
upon  EUen — for  ever  since  the  girl's  entrance 
she  had  been  gazing  on  vacancy — and  im- 
mediately said  : 

"  Oh !  can  you  tell  me  where  is  William 


Reilly  ?  They  have  taken  me  from  him,  and 
I  cannot  find  him.  Oh !  A\ill  you  tell  me 
where  is  Wilham  Reilly  ?  " 

Ellen  gave  two  or  thi-ee  rapid  sobs ;  but, 
by  a  i^owerful  effort,  she  somewhat  composed 
herself. 

"  i\Iiss  FoUiard,"  she  said,  in  a  choking 
voice,  however,  "  darhng  Miss  Folliard — my 
beloved  misti-ess — Cooleen  Bawn — oh,  do  you 
not  know  me — me,  yoirr  own  faithful  Ellen, 
that  loved  you — and  that  loves  you  so  well 
— ay,  beyond  father  and  mother,  and  aU 
others  h\dng  in  this  unhappy  world  ?  Oh, 
speak  to  me,  dear  mistress — speak  to  your 
own  faithful  EUen,  and  only  say  that  you 
know  me,  or  only  look  upon  me  as  if  you 
did." 

Not  a  glance,  however,  of  recognition  foh 
lowed  those  lo%ing  soUcitations  ;  but  there, 
before  them  all,  she  sat,  with  the  pale  face, 
the  sorrowful  brow,  and  the  vacant  look. 
EUen  addressed  her  with  equal  tenderness 
again  and  again,  but  with  the  same  melan- 
choly effect.  The  effect  was  beyond  question 
— reason  had  departed  ;  the  fair  temple  was 
there,  but  the  light  of  the  di^inity  that  had 
been  enshrined  in  it  was  no  longer  \'isible  ; 
it  seemed  to  have  been  abandoned  probably 
for  ever.  EUen  now  finding  that  every  effort 
to  restore  her  to  rational  consciousness  was 
ineffectual,  rose  up,  and,  looking  about  for  a 
moment,  her  eyes  rested  upon  her  father. 

"  Oh,  EUen  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  spare  me, 
spare  me — you  know  I'm  in  your  power.  I 
neglected  your  honest  and  friendly  warning, 
and  now  it  is  too  late." 

" Poor  man  !  "  she  rej)lied,  "it  is  not  she, 
but  you,  that  is  to  be  pitied.  No  ;  after  this 
miserable  sight,  never  shaU  my  lips  breathe 
one  syUable  of  censure  against  you.  Your 
punishment  is  too  dreadful  for  that.  But 
when  I  look  upon  her — look  upon  her  7iow — 
oh,  my  God  !  what  is  this  ?  " — 

"  Help  the  girl,"  said  jVIi-s.  BroAvn  quickly, 
and  with  alarm.  "  Oh,  she  has  faUen — raise 
her  up,  IVIi'.  FoUiard.  Oh,  my  God,  Mrs. 
Hastings,  what  a  scene  is  this  ! " 

They  immediately  opened  her  stays,  and 
conveyed  her  to  another  settee,  where  she 
lay  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  a  calm 
and  tranquil  insensibility.  With  the  aid  of 
the  usual  remedies,  however,  she  was,  but 
with  some  difficulty,  restored,  after  which 
she  burst  into  tears,  and  wept  for  some  time 
bitterly.  At  length  she  recovered  a  certain 
degree  of  composure,  and,  after  settUng  her 
dress  and  luxuriant  brown  hair,  aided  by 
IMrs.  Brown  and  Mrs.  Hastings,  she  arose, 
and  once  more  approaching  her  lovely,  but 
unconscious,  mistress,  knelt  down,  and, 
clasping  her  hands,  looked  up  to  heaven, 
whilst  she  said  : 


WILLY  REILLY. 


181 


"  Here,  I  take  the  Almighty  God  to  witness, 
that  from  this  moment  out  I  renounce  father 
and  mother,  brother  and  sister,  friend  and 
relative,  man  and  woman,  and  wiU  abide 
by  my  dear  unhappy  Cooleen  Bawn — that 
blighted  flower  before  us — both  by  day  and 
by  night — through  all  seasons — tln-ough  aU 
places  wherever  she  may  go,  or  be  brought, 
until  it  may  please  God  to  restore  her  to  rea- 
son, or  until  death  may  close  her  sufferings, 
should  I  hve  so  long,  and  have  health  and 
strength  to  carry  out  this  solemn  oath ;  so 
may  God  hear  me,  and  assist  me  in  my  in- 
tention." 

She  then  rose,  and,  putting  her  arms 
around  the  fair  girl,  kissed  her  lips,  and 
poured  forth  a  coj^ious  flood  of  tears  into  her 
bosom. 

"  I  am  yours  now,"  she  said,  caressing  her 
mournfully:  "I  am  yours  now,  my  ever 
darhng  mistress ;  and  from  this  hoiu*  forth 
nothing  but  death  will  ever  separate  youi* 
own  Connor  from  you." 

Well  and  faithfully  did  she  keep  that  gen- 
erous and  heroic  oath.  Ever,  for  many  a 
long  and  hopeless  year,  was  she  to  be  found, 
both  night  and  day,  by  the  side  of  that  beau- 
tiful but  melancholy  sufferer.  No  other  hand 
ever  dressed  or  undressed  her  ;  no  other  in- 
dividual ever  attended  to  her  wants,  or  com- 
■*)lied  with  those  httle  fitful  changes  and  ca- 
prices to  which  persons  of  her  unhappy  class 
are  subject.  The  consequence  of  this  tender 
and  devoted  attachment  was  singular,  but 
not  by  any  means  incomj)atible,  we  think, 
even  with  her  situation.  If  Connor,  for  in- 
stance, was  any  short  time  absent,  and 
another  person  supphed  her  place,  the  Cool- 
een  Bawn,  in  whose  noble  and  loving  heart 
the  strong  instincts  of  affection  coidd  never 
die,  uniformly  appeared  dissatisfied  and  un- 
easy, and  looked  aroimd  her,  as  if  for  some 
object  that  would  afford  her  pleasure.  On 
Ellen's  reappearance  a  faint  but  placid  smile 
would  shed  its  feeble  light  over  her  counte- 
nance, and  she  would  appear  calm  and  con- 
tented ;  but,  during  all  this  time,  Avord 
uttered  she  none,  with  the  exception  of  those 
to  which  we  have  already  alluded. 

These  were  the  only  words  she  was  known 
to  utter,  and  no  stranger  ever  came  in  her 
way  to  whom  she  did  not  repeat  them.  In 
this  way  her  father,  her  maid,  and  herself 
passed  tlu'ough  a  melancholy  existence  for 
better  than  six  years,  when  a  young  physician 
of  great  promise  happened  to  settle  in  the 
town  of  Sligo,  and  her  father  having  heard  of 
it  had  him  immediately  called  in.  After  look- 
ing at  her,  however,  he  found  himself  accosted 
iu  the  same  terms  we  have  already  given : 

"  Oh  !  con  you  tell  me  where  is  William 
Reilly?" 


"  William  ReiUy  will  soon  be  with  you," 
he  replied  ;  "he  will  soon  be  here." 

A  start — barely,  scarcely  perceptible,  was 
noticed  by  the  keen  eye  of  the  physi(iian  ; 
but  it  passed  away,  and  left  nothing  but 
that  fixed  and  beautiful  vacancy  behind  it. 

"Sir,"  said  the  physician,  "I  do  not  abso- 
lutely desjDair  of  Aliss  Folliard's  recoveiy  : 
the  influence  of  some  deep  excitement,  if  it 
could  be  made  accessible,  might  produce  a 
good  effect ;  it  was  by  a  shock  it  came  upon 
her,  and  I  am  of  opinion  that  if  she  ever 
does  recover  it  wiU  be  by  something  similar 
to  that  which  induced  her  pitiable  malady." 

"  I  will  give  a  thousand  pounds — five  thou- 
sand— ten  thousand,  to  any  man  who  wdll 
be  fortunate  enough  to  restore  her  to  reason," 
said  her  father. 

"  Onecoui'se,"  proceeded  the  physician,  "I 
wovdd  recommend  you  to  pursue  ;  bring  her 
about  as  much  as  you  can  ;  give  her  variety 
of  scenery  and  variety  of  new  faces  ;  visit 
your  fi'iends,  and  bring  her  with  you.  This 
course  may  have  some  effect ;  as  for  medi- 
cine, it  is  of  no  use  here,  for  her  health  is 
in  every  other  respect  good." 

He  then  took  his  leave,  ha\ing  first  re- 
ceived a  fee  which  somewhat  astonished  him. 

His  adrice,  however,  was  followed  ;  her 
father  and  she,  and  Connor,  during  the  sum- 
mer and  autumn  months,  Adsited  among  their 
acquaintances  and  friends,  by  whom  they 
were  treated  with  the  gi'eatest  and  most  con- 
siderate kindness  ;  but,  so  far  as  poor  Helen 
was  concerned,  no  symptom  of  any  salutary 
change  became  visible  ;  the  long,  dull  blank 
of  departed  reason  was  still  imbroken. 


Better  than  seven  years  and  a  half  had  now 
elapsed,  when  she  and  her  father  came  by 
invitation  to  pay  a  risit  to  a  IVIr.  Hamilton, 
grandfather  to  the  late  Dacre  Hamilton  of 
Monaghan,  who — the  gi-andfather  we  mean 
— was  one  of  the  most  notorious  priest-hunt- 
ers of  the  day.  We  need  not  say  that  her 
faithful  Connor  was  still  in  attendance.  Old 
Folliard  went  riding  out  with  his  fiiend,  for 
he  was  now  so  much  debihtated  as  to  be 
scarcely  able  to  walk  abroad  for  any  distance, 
when,  about  the  hour  of  two  o'clock,  a  man 
in  the  garb,  and  with  all  the  bearing  of  a 
perfect  gentleman,  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
inquired  of  the  servant  who  opened  it  wheth- 
er Miss  FoUiard  were  not  there.  The  ser- 
vant replied  in  the  affirmative,  upon  which 
the  sti'anger  asked  if  he  could  see  her. 

"  Why,  I  suppose  you  must  be  aware,  sir, 
of  Miss  Folliard's  unfortunate  state  of  mind, 
and  that  she  can  see  nobody  ;  sir,  she  knows 
nobody,  and  I  have  strict  orders  to  deny  her 


182 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


to  every  one  unless  some  particular  friend  of 
the  family." 

The  stranger  put  a  giiinea  into  his  hand, 
and  kdded,  "I  had  the  pleasiu-e  of  kno^^ing 
her  before  she  lost  her  reason,  and  as  I  have 
not  seen  her  since,  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
her  now,  or  even  to  look  on  her  for  a  few 
minutes." 

•  "  Come  up,  sir,"  rephed  the  man,  "  and 
enter  the  di'aA\-ing-room  immediately  after 
me,  or  I  shall  be  ordered  to  deny  her." 

The  gentleman  followed  him  ;  but  why 
did  his  cheek  become  pale,  and  why  did  his 
heart  palpitate  as  if  it  w^ould  burst  and 
bound  out  of  his  bosom?  AVe  shall  see. 
On  entering  the  drawdng-room  he  bowed, 
and  was  about  to  apologize  for  his  intrusion, 
when  the  Cooleen  Baton,  recognizing  him  as 
a  stranger,  approached  him  and  said  : 

"  Oh  !  can  you  tell  me  w'here  is  WilUam 
Reilly  ?  They  have  taken  me  fi'om  him,  and 
I  cannot  find  him.  Oh,  can  you  teU  me  any 
thing  about  WiUiam  EeiUy?" 

The  stranger  staggered  at  this  miserable 
sight,  but  probably  more  at  the  contempla- 
tion of  that  love  which  not  even  insanity 
could  subdue.  He  felt  himseK  obliged  to 
lean  for  support  upon  the  back  of  a  chair, 
during  which  brief  space  he  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  her  with  a  look  of  the  most  inexpressi- 
ble tenderness  and  sorrow. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  repeated,  "  can  you  tell  me 
where  is  "William  Reilly  ?  " 

"Alas!  Helen,"  said  he,  "I  am  WilHam 
ReiUy." 

"  You  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  no,  the 
wide,  wide  Atlantic  is  between  him  and  me." 

■'  It  icas  between  us,  Helen,  but  it  is  not 
now  ;  I  am  here  in  life  before  you — your 
own  WilUam  Reilly,  that  William  Reilly 
whom  you  loved  so  well,  but  so  fatally.  I 
am  he  :  do  you  not  know  me  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  William  Reilly,"  she  rephed  ; 
"if  you  were,  you  would  have  a  token." 

"  Do  you  forget  that  ?  "  he  replied,  placing 
in  her  hand  the  emerald  ring  she  had  given 
him  at  the  trial.  She  started  on  looking  at 
it,  and  a  feeble  flash  was  observed  to  proceed 
from  her  eyes. 

"This  might  come  to  you,"  she  said,  "by 
Reilly 's  death  ;  yes,  this  might  come  to  you 
in  that  way  ;  but  there  is  another  token  wliich 
is  known  to  none  but  himself  and  me." 

"  Whisper,"  said  he,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
appHed  his  mouth  to  her  ear,  and  breathed 
the  token  into  it.  She  stood  back,  her  eyes 
flashed,  her  beautiful  bosom  heaved  ;  she 
advanced,  looked  once  more,  and  exclaimed, 
with  a  scream,  "It  is  he  !  it  is  he  !  "  and  the 
'  next  moment  she  was  insensible  in  his  arms. 
Long  but  precious  was  that  insensibility, 
^d  precious  were  the  tears  which  his  eyes 


rained  down  upon  that  pale  but  lovelj 
covmtenance.  She  was  soon  placed  upon  fli 
settee,  but  Reilly  knelt  beside  her,  and  held 
one  of  her  hands  in  his.  After  a  long  trance 
she  opened  her  eyes  and  again  started. 
Reilly  pressed  her  hand  and  whispered  in 
her  ear,  "  Helen,  I  am  with  you  at  last." 

She  smiled  on  him  and  said,  "  Help  me 
to  sit  up,  until  I  look  about  me,  that  I  may 
be  certain  this  is  not  a  dream." 

She  then  looked  about  her,  and  as  the 
ladies  of  the  family  spoke  tenderly  to  her, 
and  cai'essed  her,  she  fixed  her  eyes  once 
more  upon  her  lover,  and  said,  "  It  is  not  a 
dream  then  ;  this  is  a  reality  ;  but,  alas  ! 
Reilly,  I  tremble  to  thiuk  lest  they  should 
take  you  fi'om  me  again." 

"You  need  entertain  no  such  apprehen- 
sion, my  dear  Helen,"  said  the  lady  of  the 
mansion.  "  I  have  often  heard  your  father 
say  that  he  would  give  twenty  thousand 
pounds  to  have  you  well,  and  Reilly's  wife. 
In  fact,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  in  that,  or 
any  other  quarter.  But  there's  his  knock  ; 
he  and  my  husband  have  returned,  and  I 
must  break  this  blessed  news  to  him  by  de- 
gi'ees,  lest  it  might  be  too  much  for  him  if 
communicated  wdthout  due  and  projDer  cau- 
tion." 

She  accordingly  went  down  to  the  hall, 
where  they  W'ere  hanging  up  their  great 
coats  and  hats,  and  brought  them  into  her 
husband's  study. 

"  ]Mi".  Folliard,"  said  she  with  a  cheerful 
face,  "I  thiuk,  fi'om  some  symptoms  of  im- 
provement noticed  to-day  in  Helen,  that  we 
needn't  be  without  hope." 

"  Alas,  alas  !  "  exclaimed  the  poor  father, 
"  I  have  no  hope  ;  after  such  a  length  of  time 
I  am  indeed  without  a  shadow  of  exjsecta* 
tion.  If  unfortunate  Reilly  were  here,  in- 
deed her  seeing  him,  as  that  Sligo  doctor 
told  me,  might  give  her  a  chance.  He  saw 
her  about  a  week  before  we  came  do\^Ti,  and 
those  were  his  words.  But  as  for  Reilly, 
even  if  he  were  in  the  comitry,  how  coidd  I 
look  him  in  the  face  ?  "WTiat  wouldn't  I 
give  now  that  he  were  here,  that  Helen  was 
well,  and  that  one  word  of  mine  could  make 
them  man  and  wife  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,"  she  replied,  "  don't  be  cast 
dowTi ;  perhaps  I  could  teU  you  good  news 
if  I  wished." 

"  You're  beating  about  the  bush,  Mary,  at 
all  events,"  said  her  husband,  laughing. 

"Perhaps,  now,  ]VIr.  FoUiai'd,"  she  con- 
tinued, "I  could  introduce  a  young  lady 
who  is  so  fond  of  you,  old  and  ugly  as  you 
are,  that  she  would  not  hesitate  to  kiss  you 
tenderly,  and  cry  with  dehght  on  your  bosom 
you  old  thief." 

They  both  started  at    her    words  with 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


183 


amazement,  and  her  husband  said :  "  Egad, 
Alick,  Helen's  malady  seems  catching.  What 
the  deuce  do  you  mean,  Molly  ?  or  must  I, 
too,  send  for  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  introduce  you  to  the  lady, 
though  ? "  she  proceeded,  addressing  the 
father  ;  "  but  remember  that,  if  I  do,  you 
must  be  a  man,  jNIi'.  Folliard  !  " 

"  In  God's  name !  do  what  you  like,"  said 
Mr.  Hamilton,  "but  do  it  at  once." 

She  went  upstaii's,  and  said,  "As  I  do 
not  wish  to  bring  your  father  up,  Helen, 
Tintil  he  is  prepared  for  a  meeting  -with  Mr. 
Eeilly,  I  will  bring  you  down  to  him.  The 
sight  of  you  now  will  give  him  new  hfe." 

"  Oh,  come,  then,"  said  Helen,  "bring  me 
to  my  father  ;  do  not  lose  a  moment,  not  a 
moment ! — oh,  let  me  see  him  instantly  !  " 

The  poor  old  man  suspected  something. 
"For  a  thousand  I"  said  he,  "this  is  some 
good  news  about  Helen  !  " 

"  Make  yoiu'  mind  up  for  that,"  repKed 
his  fiiend  ;  "  as  sure  as  you  live  it  is  ;  and  if 
it  be,  bear  it  stoutly." 

In  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  ]Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton entered  the  room  with  Helen,  now 
awakened  to  perfect  reason,  smiling,  and 
leaning  upon  her  arm.  "  Oh,  dear  papa  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  meeting  him,  with  a  flood  of 
tears,  and  resting  her  head  on  his  bosom. 

"^Miat,  my  darling! — my  darUug  !  And 
you  know  papa  once  more  ! — you  know  him 
again,  my  darling  Helen  !  Oh,  thanks  be 
to  God  for  this  happy  day  !  "  And  he  kissed 
her  Hps,  and  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and 
wept  over  her  with  ecstasy  and  delight.  It 
was  a  tender  and  tearful  embrace. 

"  Oh,  papa  !  "  said  she,  "  I  fear  I  have 
caused  you  much  pain  and  sori'ow  :  some- 
thing has  been  ^vrong,  but  I  am  well  now  that 
he  is  here.  I  felt  the  tones  of  his  voice  in 
my  heart." 

"  WTio,  darling,  who?" 

"Reilly,  papa." 

"  Hamilton,  bring  him  down  instantly  ; 
but  oh,  Helen,  darhng,  how  will  I  see  him  ? 
— how  can  I  see  him  ?  but  he  must  come, 
and  we  must  all  be  happy.  Bring  him 
down." 

"  You  know,  papa,  that  ReiUy  is  generosity 
itself." 

"  He  is,  he  is,  Helen,  and  how  could  I 
blame  you  for  loving  him  ?  " 

Reilly  soon  entered  ;  but  the  old  man, 
already  overpowered  by  what  had  just  oc- 
curred, was  not  able  to  speak  to  him  for 
some  time.  He  clasped  and  pi'essed  his 
h;md,  however,  and  at  length  said  : 

"My  son  !  my  son  !  Now," he  added,  after 
he  had  recovered  himself,  "  now  that  I  have 
both  together,  I  will  not  allow  one  minute 
to  pass  until  I  give  you  both  my  blessing  ; 


i  and  in  due  time,  when  Helen  gets  strong,  and 
;  when  I  get  a  little  stouter,  you  shall  be  mar- 
ried ;  the  parson  and  the  priest  will  make 
you  both  happy.  Reilly,  can  you  forgive 
me?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive  you,  sir,"  re- 
plied Reilly  ;  "  whatever  you  did  proceeded 
from  your  excessive  affection  for  your  daugh- 
ter ;  I  am  more  than  overjjaid  for  any  thmg 
I  may  have  suffered  myself  ;  had  it  been  ages 
of  miseiy,  this  one  moment  would  cancel  the 
memoiy  of  it  for  ever." 

"I  cannot  give  you  my  estate,  Reilly," 
said  the  old  man,  "  for  that  is  entailed,  and 
goes  to  the  next  male  issue  ;  but  I  can  give 
you  fifty  thousand  pounds  with  my  girl,  and 
that  "^oU  keep  you  both  comfortable  for 
life." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  repHed  Reilly,  "  and 
for  the  sake  of  your  daughter  I  will  not  re- 
ject it  ;  but  I  am  myself  in  independent  cir- 
cumstances, and  could,  even  without  your 
generosity,  support  Helen  in  a  rank  of  life 
not  unsuitable  to  her  condition." 

It  is  weU  known  that,  dirring  the  period  in 
which  the  incidents  of  our  stoiy  took  place, 
no  man  claiming  the  character  of  a  gentleman 
ever  travelled  without  his  o^ni  sers'ant  to  at- 
tend him.  After  Reilly's  return  to  his  na- 
tive place,  his  first  inquiiies,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, were  after  his  Cooleen  Baiun  ;  and  his 
next,  after  those  who  had  been  in  some  de- 
gi'ee  connected  with  those  painful  circum- 
stances in  which  he  had  been  involved  jDre- 
vious  to  his  trial  and  conriction.  He  found 
!Mr.  Brown  and  Mr.  Hastings  much  in  the 
same  state  in  which  he  left  them.  The  lat- 
ter, who  had  been  entrusted  with  all  his 
personal  and  other  property,  under  certain 
conditions,  that  depended  \x^on  his  return 
after  the  term  of  his  sentence  should  liave 
expired,  now  restored  to  him,  and  again  re- 
\  instated  liim  on  the  original  tenns  into  aU 
his  landed  and  other  jjroperty,  together  with 
!  such  sums  as  had  accrued  from  it  during  his 
absence,  so  that  he  now  foimd  himself  a 
wealthy  man.  Next  to  Cooleen  Baicn,  how- 
ever, one  of  his  first  inquuies  was  after  Fer- 
gus Reilly,  whom  he  found  domiciled  "s^ith  a 
neighboring  middleman  as  a  head  servant, 
or  kind  of  under  steward.  "We  need  not 
describe  the  delight  of  Fergus  on  once  more 
meeting  his  beloved  relative  at  perfect  liber- 
ty, and  free  from  all  danger  in  his  native 
land. 

"  Fergus,"  said  Reilly,  "  I  understand  you 
are  still  a  bachelor — how  does  that  come  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  replied  Fergus,  "  now  that  you 
know  every  thing  about  the  unhappy  state 
of  the  Cooleen  Baum,  sui-ely  you  can't  blame 
poor  Ellen  for  not  desartin'  her.  As  for  me 
I  cared  nothing  about  any  other  girl,  and 


184 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


I  never  could  let  either  my  own  dhrame,  or 
what  you  said  was  yoiirs,  out  o'  my  head. 
I  still  had  hope,  and  I  still  have,  that  she 
may  recover." 

Eeilly  made  no  reply  to  this,  for  he  feared 
to  entertain  the  vague  expectation  to  which 
Fergus  alluded. 

"  Well,  Fergus,"  said  he,  "  although  I  have 
undergone  the  sentence  of  a  con\'ict,  yet 
now,  after  my  return,  I  am  a  rich  man.  For 
the  sake  of  old  times — of  old  dangers  and  old 
difficulties — I  should  wish  you  to  hve  with 
me,  and  to  attend  me  as  my  own  personal 
servant  or  man.  I  shall  get  you  a  suit  of 
hveiy,  and  the  crest  of  O'Reilly  shall  be  upon 
it.  I  wish  you  to  attend  upon  me,  Fergus, 
because  you  understand  me,  and  because  I 
never  will  enjoy  a  hapj^y  heart,  or  one  day's 
freedom  fiom  sorrow  again.  All  hope  of 
that  is  past,  but  you  will  be  useful  to  me — 
and  that  you  know." 

Fergus  was  deeply  affected  at  these  words, 
although  he  was  gratified  in  the  highest  de- 
gree at  the  proposal.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
days  he  entered  uj)on  his  duties,  immediate- 
ly after  which  Eeill}-  set  out  on  his  joiu-ney 
to  Monaghan,  to  see  once  more  his  beloved, 
but  unhapjDy,  Cooleen  Baion.  On  aiTiring  at 
that  handsome  and  hospitable  to^uTi,  he  put 
uj)  at  an  excellent  inn,  called  the  "  Westenra 
Ai-ms,"  kept  by  a  man  who  was  the  model  of 
innkeepers,  known  by  the  sobriquet  of  "  hon- 
est Peter  M'PhihiDs."  We  need  not  now  re- 
capitulate that  with  which  the  reader  is  al- 
ready acquainted  ;  but  we  cannot  omit  de- 
scribing a  brief  intei-view  which  took  place 
in  the  covxrse  of  a  few  days  after  the  restora- 
tion of  the  Cooleen  Baton  to  the  perfect  use 
of  her  reason,  between  two  individuals,  w^ho, 
we  think,  have  some  claim  upon  the  good-will 
and  good  wishes  of  our  readers.  We  allude 
to  Fergus  Reilly  and  the  faithful  Ellen  Con- 
nor. Seated  in  a  comfortable  room  in  the 
aforesaid  inn — now  a  respectable  and  admir- 
ably kept  hotel — with  the  same  arms  over  the 
door,  were  the  two  individuals  alluded  to. 
Before  them  stood  a  black  bottle  of  a  ceriain 
fi-agrant  liquor,  as  clear  and  colorless  as 
water  fi-om  the  j)urest  spring,  and,  to  judge 
of  it  by  the  eye,  quite  as  harmless  ;  but  there 
was  the  mistake.  Never  was  hypocrisy  bet- 
ter exemplified  than  by  the  contents  of  that 
bottle.  The  hquor  in  question  came,  Fer- 
gus was  informed,  from  the  green  woods  of 
Truagh,  and  more  especially  from  a  townland 
named  Den-ygola,  famous,  besides,  for  stout 
men  and  pretty  girls. 

"Well,  now,  Ellen  darhn',"  said  Fergus, 
"  if  ever  any  two  bachelors  *  were  entitled  to 


*"  Bachelor,"  in  Ireland,  especiallj'  in  the  coun- 
try parts  of  it,  where  English  is  not  spoken  correct- 
ly, is  frequeatly  applied  to  both  the  sexes. 


drink  their  own  healths,  surely  you  and  1  axa 
Here's  to  us — a  happy  maniage,  soon  and 
sudden.  As  for  myself,  I've  had  the  patience 
of  a  Trojan." 

Ellen  pledged  him  beautifully  with  her 
eyes,  but  veiy  moderately  with  the  liquor. 

"  Bedad  !  "  he  proceeded,  "  seven  years-^ 
ay,  and  a  half — wasn't  a  bad  apprenticeship, 
at  any  rate  ;  but,  as  I  tould  IVIr.  lieilly  before 
he  left  the  country^upon  my  sowl,  says  I, 
IVIr.  Eeilly,  she's  worth  waitin'  for ;  and  he 
admitted  it." 

"But,  Fergus,  did  ever  any  thing  turn  out 
so  happy  for  all  parties  ?  To  me  it's  like  a 
dream  ;  I  can  scarcely  beheve  it." 

"  Faith,  and  if  it  be  a  dhrame,  I  hope  it's 
one  we'll  never  waken  from.  And  so  the  four 
of  us  are  to  be  married  on  the  same  day,  ani 
we're  all  to  hve  with  the  squire." 

"  We  are,  Fergus  ;  the  Cooleen  Bawn  will 
have  it  so  ;  but,  indeed,  her  father  is  as  anxi- 
ous for  it  almost  as  she  is.  Ah,  no,  Fergus, 
she  could  not  part  with  her  faithful  Ellen,  as 
she  calls  me  ;  nor,  after  all,  Fergus,  would 
her  faithful  Ellen  wish  to  part  with  her  ?  *' 

"  And  he's  to  make  me  steward  ;  beg.id, 
and  if  I  don't  make  a  good  one,  I'll  make  an 
honest  one.  Faith,  at  all  events,  Ellen,  we'll 
be  in  a  condition  to  provide  for  the  childue', 
plaise  God." 

Ellen  gave  him  a  blushing  look  of  I'eproach, 
and  desired  him  to  keep  a  proper  tongue  in 
his  head. 

"  But  what  will  we  do  with  the  five  hun- 
dred, Ellen,  that  the  squire  and  ]VIr.  Reilly 
made  up  between  them  ?  " 

"W^e'll  consult  Mr.  Reilly  about  it,"  she 
rejohed,  "  and  no  doubt  but  he'll  enable  us  to 
lay  it  out  to  the  best  advantage.  Now,  Fer- 
g-us  dear,  I  must  go,"  she  added  ;  "you  know 
she  can't  bear  me  even  now  to  be  any  length 
of  time  away  fi'om  her.  Here's  God  bless  them 
both,  and  contuuie  them  in  the  hapiDiaess  they 
now  enjoy." 

"Amen,"  rephed  Fergus,  "  and  here's  God 
bless  ourselves,  and  make  us  more  loAin  to 
one  another  every  day  we  rise  ;  and  here'r*  to 
take  a  foretaste  of  it  now,  you  thief." 

Some  slight  resistance,  followed  by  certain 
smacking  sounds,  closed  the  interview  ;  for 
Ellen,  having  started  to  her  feet,  threw  on 
her  cloak  and  bonnet,  and  hvu'ried  out  of  the 
room,  giving  back,  however,  a  laughing  look 
at  Fergus  as  she  escaped. 

In  a  few  months  afterwards  they  were 
married,  and  lived  with  the  old  man  until  he 
became  a  grandfather  to  two  children,  the 
eldest  a  boy,  and  the  second  a  girl.  Upon  the 
same  day  of  their  marriage  their  humble  but 
faithful  fiiends  were  also  united  ;  so  that 
there  was  a  double  wedding.  The  ceremony, 
in  the  case  of  Reilly  and  his  Cooleen  Bawn,  w-4 


WILLY  BE  ILLY. 


185 


performed  by  the  Eeverend  ]\Ir.  Brown  first, 
and  the  parish  priest  afterwards;  Mr.  Strong, 
who  had  been  for  several  years  conjoined  to 
Mrs.  Smellpriest,  having  been  rejected  by 
both  parties  as  the  officiating  clergyman  up- 
on the  occasion,  although  the  lovely  bride 
was  certainly  his  j^arishioner.  Age  and  time, 
however,  told  upon  the  old  man  ;  and  at  the 
expiration  of  thi-ee  years  they  laid  him,  with 
many  tears,  in  the  grave  of  his  fathers.  Soon 
after  this  Reilly  and  his  wife,  accompanied 


by  Fergus  and  EUen— for  the  Cooleen  Bawn 
would  not  be  separated  from  the  latter — re- 
moved to  the  Continent,  where  they  had  a 
numerous  family,  principally  of  sons  ;  and 
we  need  not  teU  our  learned  readers,  at  least, 
that  those  young  men  distinguished  not  only 
themselves,  but  their  name,  by  acts  of  the 
most  briUiant  courage  in  continental  warfare. 
And  so,  gentle  reader,  ends  the  troubled  his- 
tory of  Willy  Rktt.t.v  and  his  own  Cooleen 
Bawn. 


I 


-f   v^ 


Fardorougha,  the  Miser. 


PAET  L' 

Fardorougha,  the  Miser. 

It  was  on  one  of  those  nights  in  August, 
when  the  moon  and  stars  shine  through  an 
atmosphere  clear  and  cloudless,  -nith  a  mild- 
ness of  lustre  almost  continental,  that  a 
horseman,  advancing  at  a  rapid  pace,  turned 
off  a  remote  branch  of  road  up  a  naiTow 
lane,  and,  dismounting  before  a  neat  white- 
washed cottage,  gave  a  quick  and  impatient 
knock  at  the  door.  Almost  instantly,  out  of 
a  small  window  that  opened  on  hinges,  was 
protruded  a  broad  female  face,  surrounded, 
by  way  of  nightcap,  with  several  folds  of 
flannel,  that  had  originally  been  white. 

"  Is  Mary  Moan  at  home  ?  "  said  the  horse- 
man.   '         ■ 

"  For  a  miricle — ay  !  "  repHed  the  female  ; 
"  who's  down,  in  the  name  o'  goodness  ?  " 

"  AVhy,  thin,  I'm  thinkin'  you'U  be  smilin' 
whin  you  hear  it,"reiDhed  the  messenger. 
"  The  sorra  one  else  than  Honor  Donovan, 
that's  now  mai'rid  upon  Fardorougha  Dono- 
(  van  to  the  tune  of  thii'teen  years.  Bedad, 
'  time  for  her,  anyhow, — but,  sure  it'll  be  good 
.     whin  it  comes,  we're  thinkin'." 

"  WeU,  betther  late  than  never — the  Lord 
be  praised  for  all  His  gifts,  anyhow.  Put 
your  horse  down  to  the  mountin '-stone,  and 
111  be  ■ndd  you  in  half  a  jiftS',  acushla." 

She  immediately  di-ew  in  her  head,  and 
ere  the  messenger  had  well  i:»laced  his  horse 
at  the  aforesaid  stirrup,  or  mounting-stone, 
which  is  an  indisj)ensable  adjunct  to  the 
midwife's   cottage,  she  issued  out,  cloaked 

I  and  bonneted ;  for,  in  point  of  fact,  her 
E  practice  was  so  extensive,  and  the  demands 
r  upon  her  attendance  so  incessant,  that  she 
I  seldom,  if  ever,  slept  or  went  to  bed,  unless 
partially  dressed.  And  such  was  her  habit 
of  vigilimce,  that  she  ultimately  became  an 
illustration  of  the  old  Roman  proverb.  Nan 
donnio  omnibus  ;  that  is  to  say,  she  could 
sleep  as  sound  as  a  top  to  eveiy  possible 
noise  except  a  knock  at  the  door,  to  which 
she  might  be  said,  during  the  gi'eater  part  of 
her  professional  life,  to  have  been  instinc- 
tively awake. 

Having  ascended  the  mounting-stone,  and 


placed  herself  on  the  crupper,  the  guide  and 
she,  while  passing  doA\Ti  the  naiTOw  and  dif- 
ficult lane,  along  which  they  could  proceed 
but  slowly  and  with  caution,  entered  into  the 
foUovdng  dialogue,  she  having  fii'st  turned 
up  the  hood  of  her  cloak  over  her  bonnet, 
and  tied  a  spotted  cotton  kerchief  round  her 
neck. 

"This,"  said  the  guide,  who  was  Fardo- 
rougha Donovan's  sen'ant-man,  "  is  a  quare 
enough  business,  as  some  o'  the  nabors  do 
be  sajin' — manid  upon  one  another  beyant 
thirteen  year,  an'  ne'er  a  sign  of  a  haporth. 
"NMiy  then  begad  it  is  quare." 

"Whisht,  whisht,"  replied  MoUy,  with  an 
expression  of  mysterious  and  supeiior  knowl- 
edge ;  "  don't  be  spakin'  about  vrhat  you 
don't  understand — svu'e,  nuttin's  impossible 
to  God,  avick — don't  you  know  that  V  " 

"Oh,  bedad,  sure  enough — that  we  must 
allow,  -whether  or  not,  still—" 

"  Veiy  well ;  seein'  that,  what  more  have 
we  to  say,  banin'  to  hould  our  tongues. 
Children  sent  late  always  come  either  for 
gi-eat  good  or  great  sarra  to  their  parents — 
an'  God  gi-ant  that  this  may  be  for  good  to 
the  honest  people — for  indeed  honest  people 
they  are,  by  all  accounts.  But  what  myself 
wonders  at  is,  that  Honor  Donovan  never 
once  opened  her  Ups  to  me  about  it.  How- 
ever, God's  wiU  be  done !  The  Lord  send 
her  safe  over  aU  her  thi-oubles,  poor  woman  ! 
And,  now  that  we're  out  o'  this  thief  of  a  lane, 
lay  an  for  the  bare  life,  and  never  heed  me. 
I'm  as  good  a  horseman  as  yourself ;  and,  in- 
deed, I've  a  good  right,  for  I'm  an  ould  hand 
at  it." 

"I'm  thinkin',"  she  added,  after  a  short 
silence,  "  it's  odd  I  never  was  much  acquaint- 
ed with  the  Donovans.  I'm  tould  they're  a 
hai'd  pack,  that  loves  the  money." 

"Faix,"  rephed  her  companion,  "Let  Far- 
dorougha alone  for  knowin'  the  value  of  a 
shilhn' ! — they're  not  in  Europe  can  hould  a 
harder  gi'ip  o'  one." 

His  master,  in  fact,  was  a  hard,  frugal 
man,  and  his  mistress  a  woman  of  some- 
what similai'  chai*acter  ;  both  were  strictly 
honest,  but,  hke  many  persons  to  whom  God 
has  denied  offspring,  their  hearts  had  for  a 
considerable  time  before  been  placed  upon 


188 


WILLIAM  CARLE  TON'S   WORKS. 


money  as  their  idol ;  for,  in  truth,  the  affec- 
tions must  be  fixed  upon  something,  and  we 
generally  find  that  where  children  ai-e  de- 
nied, the  world  comes  in  and  hai'dens  b}'  its 
influence  the  best  and  tenderest  sympathies 
of  humanity. 

After  a  journey  of  two  miles  they  came 
out  on  a  haj'-track,  that  skii'ted  an  extensive 
and  level  sweep  of  meadow,  along  which 
they  proceeded  -with  as  much  speed  as  a 
piUionless  midwife  was  cajDable  of  bearing. 
At  length,  on  a  gentle  declivity  facing  the 
south,  they  espied  in  the  distance  the  low, 
long,  whitewashed  farm-house  of  Fardor- 
ougha  Donovan.  There  was  httle  of  artifi- 
cial ornament  about  the  f>lace,  but  much  of 
the  rough,  heart-stuTing  -n-ildness  of  natiu'e, 
as  it  appeared  in  a  strong,  \'igorous  district, 
well  cultivated,  but  v^ithout  being  tamed 
down  by  those  finer  and  more  gi-aceful  touch- 
es, which  nowadays  mark  the  skilful  hand 
of  the  scientific  agricvdtuiist. 

To  the  left  waved  a  beautiful  hazel  glen, 
which  gi-adually  softened  away  into  the 
meadows  above  mentioned.  Up  behind  the 
house  stood  an  ancient  plantation  of  white- 
thorn, which,  during  the  month  of  May,  dif- 
fused its  fragrance,  its  beauty,  and  its  melo- 
dy, over  the  whole  farm.  The  plain  garden 
was  hedged  round  by  the  graceful  poplar, 
whilst  here  and  there  were  studded  over  the 
fields  either  single  tvees  or  small  groups  of 
moimtain  ash,  a  tree  still  more  beautiful 
than  the  former.  The  small  dells  about  the 
farm  n-ere  closely  covered  with  blackthorn 
and  holly,  with  an  occasional  oak  shooting 
up  from  some  httle  chff,  and  towering  stirr- 
dUy  over  its  lowly  companions.  Here  gi-ew  a 
thick  interwoven  mass  of  dog-tree,  and  upon 
a  wild  hedgerow,  leaning  like  a  beautiful 
wife  upon  a  rugged  husband,  might  be  seen, 
supported  by  clumps  of  blackthorn,  that 
most  fi-agrant  and  exquisite  of  creepers,  the 
dehcious  honeysuckle.  Add  to  this  the  neat 
appearance  of  the  farm  itself,  with  its  mead- 
ows and  cornfields  waving  to  the  soft  sunny 
breeze  of  summer,  and  the  reader  may  ad- 
mit, that  without  possessing  any  striking 
featui'es  of  pictorial  effect,  it  woiild,  never- 
theless, be  cUfficult  to  find  an  uj^lying  farm 
upon  which  the  Gve  could  rest  with  gi'eater 
satisfaction. 

Ere  arriving  at  the  house  they  were  met 
by  Fardorougha  himself,  a  small  man,  with 
dark,  but  well-set  features,  which  being  at 
no  time  very  placid,  appeared  now  to  be  ab- 
solutely gloomy,  yet  marked  by  strong  and 
profound  anxiety. 

"  Thank  God !  "  he  exclaimed  on  meeting 
them  ;  "  is  this  Maiy  Moan  ?  " 

"It  is — it  is  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  how  are 
all  within  ?—  am  I  in  time  ?  " 


"  Only  poorly,"  he  returned  ;  "you  are,  1 
hope." 

The  midwife,  when  they  reached  the  door, 
got  herself  dismounted  in  all  haste,  and  was 
about  enteiing  the  house,  when  Fardo- 
rougha, laying  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
said  in  a  tone  of  voice  full  of  deep  feeling — 

"  I  need  say  nothing  to  you  ;  what  you 
can  do,  you  will  do — but  one  thing  I  expect 
— if  you  see  danger,  call  in  assistance." 

"  It's  all  in  the  hands  o'  God,  Fai'dorougha, 
acushla  ;  be  as  aiSy  in  your  mind  as  you  can  ; 
if  there's  need  for  more  help  j^ou'U  hear  it ; 
so  keep  the  man  an'  horse  both  ready." 

She  then  blessed  herself  and  entered  the 
house,  repeating  a  short  prayer,  or  charm, 
which  was  supposed  to  possess  uncommon 
efficacy  in  relieAing  cases  of  the  nature  she 
was  then  called  upon  to  attend. 

Fardorougha  Donovan  was  a  man  of  gi'eat 
good  sense,  and  of  strong,  but  not  obvious  or 
fiexible  feeUng  ;  this  is  to  say,  on  strong  oc- 
casions he  felt  accordingly,  but  exliibited  no 
remarkable  symptoms  of  emotion.  In  matters 
of  a  less  important  character,  he  was  either  de- 
ficient in  sensibihty  altogether,  or  it  affected 
him  so  shghtl}'  as  not  to  be  perceptible; 
A\Tiat  his  dispositions  and  feelings  might 
have  been,  had  his  pai'ental  affections  and 
domestic  sympathies  been  cultivated  by  the 
tender  intercourse  which  subsists  between  a 
parent  and  his  children,  it  is  not  easy  to  say. 
On  such  occasions  many  a  new  and  delightful 
sensation — many  a  sweet  trait  of  affection  pre- 
viously unknowTi — and,  oh !  many,  many  a 
fresh  impulse  of  rapturous  emotion  never  be- 
fore felt  gushes  out  of  the  heart ;  all  of  which, 
were  it  not  for  the  existence  of  ties  so  de- 
hghtful,  might  have  there  lain  sealed  up 
forever.  "^^Tiere  is  the  man  w^ho  does  not 
remember  the  strange  impression  of  tumult- 
uous dehght  which  he  experienced  on  find- 
ing himself  a  husband  ?  And  who  does  not 
recollect  that  nameless  charm,  amounting 
almost  to  a  new  sense,  which  pervaded  his 
whole  being  with  tenderness  and  transport 
on  kissing  the  rose-bud  lips  of  his  first-bera 
babe  ?  It  is,  indeed,  by  the  ties  of  domestic 
life  that  the  purity  and  affection  and  the 
general  character  of  the  human  heai't  are 
best  tried.  WTiat  is  there  more  beautiful 
than  to  see  that  fountain  of  tenderness  mul- 
tiplying its  affections  instead  of  diminishing 
them,  according  as  claim  after  claim  arises  to 
make  fi'esh  demands  upon  its  love  ?  Love, 
and  especially  parental  love,  like  jealousy,  in- 
creases by  what  it  feeds  on.  But,  oh  !  from 
what  an  unknowai  world  of  exquisite  enjoy- 
ment are  they  shut  out,  to  whom  Providence 
has  not  vouchsafed  those  beloved  beings  on 
whom  the  heart  lavishes  the  whole  fulness  of 
its  raptm-e  !     No  wonder  that  their  own  af- 


FARDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


189 


fections  should  ^^'ither  in  the  cold  gloom  of 
disappointed  hope,  or  then-  hearts  harden 
into  that  moody  sjairit  of  worldly-mindedness 
which  adopts  for  its  offspiing  the  miser's 
idol. 

"WTiether  Fardorougha  felt  the  want  of 
children  acutely  or  othein\'ise,  could  not  be 
inferred  from  any  visible  indication  of  regret 
on  his  part  by  those  who  knew  him.  His  own 
wife,  whose  facihties  of  observation  were  so 
great  and  so  frequent,  was  only  able  to  sus- 
pect in  the  afikmative.  For  himself  he  neither 
murmiu-ed  nor  rejoined  ;  but  she  could  per- 
ceive that,  after  a  few  years  had  passed,  a 
slight  degree  of  gloom  began  to  settle  on 
him,  and  an  anxiety  about  liis  crojis,  and  his 
few  cattle,  and  the  produce  of  his  farm.  He 
also  began  to  calculate  the  amount  of  what 
might  be  saved  fi-om  the  fi'uits  of  their  united 
uidustr\\  Sometimes,  but  indeed  ujDon  rai*e 
occasions,  his  temper  apj)eai-ed  inclining  to 
be  irascible  or  impatient ;  but  in  general  it 
was  grave,  cold,  and  inflexible,  "without  any 
outbreaks  of  passion,  or  the  shghtest  dispo- 
sition to  mirth.  His  wife's  mind,  however, 
was  by  no  means  so  iirm  as  his,  nor  so  fi'ee 
fi'om  the  traces  of  that  secret  regret  which 
pre^-ed  upon  it.  She  both  miu-mui'ed  and 
repined,  and  often  in  tenns  which  drew  fi-om 
FardoroUgha  a  cool  rebuke  for  her  want  of 
resignation  to  the  will  of  God.  As  years  ad- 
vanced, however,  her  disappointment  became 
harassing  even  to  herself,  and  now  that  hope 
began  to  die  away,  her  heai't  gradually  par- 
took of  tBe  cool  worldly  spirit  which  had 
seized  upon  the  disposition  of  her  husband. 
Though  cultivating  but  a  small  farm,  which 
they  held  at  a  high  rent,  yet,  by  the  dint  of 
frugality  and  incessant  diligence,  they  were 
able  to  add  a  Uttle  each  year  to  the  small 
stock  of  money  which  they  had  contrived  to 
put  together.  Still  would  the  unhappy  reflec- 
tion that  they  were  childless  steal  painfully 
and  heavily  over  them  ;  the  wife  would  some- 
times murmur,  and  the  husband  reprove  her, 
but  in  a  tone  so  cool  and  indifferent  that  she 
could  not  avoid  concluding  that  his  o\^'n  want 
of  resignation,  though  not  expressed,  was  at 
heai't  equal  to  her  own.  Each  also  became 
somewhat  rehgious,  and  both  remarkable  for 
a  pimctual  attendance  upon  the  rites  of  their 
chiu-ch,  and  that  in  jDroporiion  as  the  love  of 
temporal  things  overcame  them.  In  this 
manner  they  hved  upwards  of  thirteen  yeai-s, 
when  ^Ii's.  Donovan  declared  herself  to  be  in 
that  situation  which  in  due  time  rendered  the 
services  of  ^lary  Moan  necessary. 

From  the  moment  this  intimation  was 
given,  and  its  tinith  confirmed,  a  faint  light, 
not  greater  than  the  dim  and  trembling 
lustre  of  a  single  star,  broke  in  upon  the 
darkened   affections   and   worldly  Sj^irit   of , 


Fardorougha  Donovan.  Had  the  announce- 
ment taken  place  within  a  reasonable  period 
after  his  marriage,  before  he  had  become 
sick  of  disappointment,  or  had  surrender- 
ed his  heart  fi-om  absolute  despair  to  an 
incipient  spmt  of  avarice,  it  would  no  doubt 
have  been  hailed  with  all  the  eager  dehght 
of  unbhghted  hope  and  rivid  affection  ;  but 
now  a  new  and  subtle  habit  had  been  super- 
induced, after  the  last  cherished  expectation 
of  the  heai't  had  departed  ;  a  spii'it  of  fore- 
sight and  severe  calculation  descended  on 
him,  and  had  so  nearly  saturated  his  whole 
being,  that  he  could  not  for  some  time  actu- 
ally determine  whether  the  knowledge  of 
liis  wife's  situation  was  more  agreeable  to 
his  afl'ection,  or  repugnant  to  the  parsimo- 
nious disposition  which  had  qmckened  his 
heai't  into  an  energ}'  incompatible  with 
natural  benevolence,  tmd  the  perception  of 
those  tender  ties  which  spring  up  fi-om  the 
relations  of  domestic  life.  For  a  consider- 
able time  this  sti'uggle  between  the  two 
pi'inciples  went  on  ;  sometimes  a  new  hope 
would  spi-ing  up,  attended  in  the  back- 
ground by  a  thousand  affecting  circumstan- 
ces— on  the  other  hand,  some  gloomy  and 
undeffnable  dread  of  exigency,  distress,  and 
ruin,  would  wi'ing  his  heai't  and  sink  hia 
si^irits  dov.Ti  to  positive  misery.  Notwith- 
standing this  conflict  between  gro\\"ing  ava- 
rice and  aflection,  the  star  of  the  father's 
love  had  risen,  and  though,  as  we  have  al- 
ready said,  its  hght  was  dim  and  unsteady, 
yet  the  moment  a  single  opening  occurred 
in  the  clouded  m;nd,  there  it  was  to  be  seen 
serene  and  pui'e,  a  beautiful  emblem  of 
undoing  and  sohtary  affection  struggling 
with  the  cai'es  and  angry  passions  of  hie. 
By  degrees,  however,  the  husband's  heart 
became  touched  by  the  hopes  of  his  younger 
5'ears,  former  associations  revived,  and  re- 
membrances of  past  tendei'ness,  though 
blunted  in  a  heart  so  much  changed,  came 
over  him  hlce  the  breath  of  fragi'ance  that  has 
nearly  passed  away.  He  began,  therefore, 
to  contemplate  the  event  ^-ithout  foreboding, 
and  by  the  time  the  looked-for  period  ar- 
rived, if  the  world  and  its  debasing  influen- 
ces were  not  utterly  overcome,  yet  nature 
and  the  quickening  tendei'ness  of  a  father's 
feeling  had  made  a  considerable  progi'ess 
in  a  heart  fi-om  which  they  had  been  long 
banished.  Far  different  fi'om  all  this  was 
the  history  of  his  wife  since  her  perception 
of  an  event  so  delightful.  In  her  was  no 
bitter  and  obstinate  principle  subversive  of 
afl'ection  to  be  overcome.  For  although  she 
had  in  latter  years  sank  into  the  painful 
apathy  of  a  hopeless  spirit,  and  given  herself 
somewhat  to  the  world,  yet  no  sooner  did 
the  unexpected  hght  dawn  upon  her,  thao 


190 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


her  whol^  sovil  was  filled  with  exultation  and 
deHght,  The  world  and  its  influence  passed 
away  Hke  a  dream,  and  her  heart  melted 
into  a  habii  of  tenderness  at  once  so  novel 
and  exquisite,  that  she  often  assui*ed  her 
husband  she  had  never  felt  hapj)iness  be- 
fore. 

Such  are  the  respective  states  of  feeling 
in  which  our  readers  find  Fardorougha  Don- 
ovan and  his  wife,  upon  an  occasion  whose 
consequences  ran  too  far  into  futurity  for 
us  to  determine  at  present  whether  they  are 
to  end  in  happiness  or  miser}^  For  a  con- 
siderable time  that  evening,  before  the  ar- 
rival of  Mar}'  Moan,  the  males  of  the  family 
had  taken  up  their  residence  in  an  inside 
kiln,  where,  after  having  kindled  a  fire  in 
the  draught-hole,  or  what  the  Scotch  call 
the  "  logic,"  they  sat  and  chatted  in  that 
kind  of  festive  spirit  which  such  an  event 
uniformly  produces  among  the  servants  of  a 
family.  Fardorougha  himself  remained  for 
the  most  part  with  them,  that  is  to  say  ex- 
cept while  ascertaining  fi'om  time  to  time 
the  situation  of  nis  wife.  His  presence, 
however,  was  only  a  restraint  upon  their 
good-humor,  and  his  niggardly  habits  raised 
some  rather  uncomphmentary  epithets  dur- 
ing his  short  visits  of  inquiry.  It  is  (rustom- 
ary  upon  such  occasions,  as  soon  as  the 
mistress  of  the  family  is  taken  ill,  to  ask  the 
servants  to  drink  "an  aisy  bout  to  the 
misthresa,  sii-,  an'  a  speedy  recovery,  not 
forgettin'  a  safe  landin'  to  the  youngsther, 
and,  Hke  a  Christmas  compliment,  man}'  of 
them  to  you  both.  Whoo  I.  death  alive,  but 
that's  fine  stuff.  Oh,  begorra,  the  misthress 
can't  but  thrive  wid  that  in  the  house. 
Thank  you,  sii',  an'  wishin'  her  once  more 
safe  over  her  troubles ! — divil  a  betther  mis- 
thress  ever,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Here,  however,  there  was  nothing  of  the 
kind.  Fardorougha's  heart,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, was  against  the  expense,  and  besides, 
its  present  broodings  resembled  the  throes 
of  pain  which  break  out  from  the  stupor  that 
presses  so  hea\dly  upon  the  exhausted  func- 
tions of  hfe  in  the  crisis  of  a  severe  fever. 
He  could  not,  in  fact,  rest  nor  remain  for 
any  length  of  time  in  the  same  spot.  With 
a  slow  but  troubled  step  he  walked  backward 
and  forward,  sometimes  uttering  indistinct 
ejaculations  and  broken  sentences,  such  as 
no  one  could  understand.  At  length  he  ap- 
proached his  ovm  sei'vants,  and  addressed 
the  messenger  whose  name  was  Nogher 
jM'Cormick. 

"  Nogher,"  said  he,  "  I'm  thi'oubled." 

"  ThJroubled  !  dad,  Fardorougha,  you 
ought  to  be  a  happy  and  a  thankful  man  this 
flight,  that  is,  if  God  sinds  the  misthress  safe 
dver  it,  as  I  hope  He  wiU,  plase  goodness." 


"I'm  poor,  Nogher,  I'm  poor,  an*  here's  a 
family  comin'." 

"Faith,  take  care  it's  not  sin  you're  com. 
mittin'  by  spakin'  as  you're  doin'." 

"  But  you  know  I'm  poor,  Nogher." 

"  But  I  know  you're  not,  Fai'dorougha ; 
but  I'm  afi'aid,  if  God  hasn't  said  it,  your 
heart's  too  much  fix'd  ujDon  the  world.  Be 
my  faix,  it's  on  your  knees  jom  ought  to  be 
this  same  night,  thankin'  the  Almighty  for 
His  goodness,  and  not  grumblin'  an'  sthreelin' 
about  the  place,  flyin'  in  the  face  of  God  for 
sendin'  you  an'  your  wife  a  blessin' — for  sure 
I  hear  the  Scripthur  says  that  aU  childhres 
a  blessin'  if  they're  resaved  as  sich  ;  an'  wo 
be  to  the  man,  says  Scripthur,  dat's  bom  wid 
a  miUstone  about  his  neck,  especially  if  he's 
cast  into  the  say.  I  know  you  pray  enough, 
but,  be  my  sowl,  it  hasn't  imj)roved  your 
morals,  or  it's  the  misthress'  health  we'd  be 
drinkin'  in  a  good  bottle  o'  whiskey  at  the 
present  time.  Faix,  myself  wouldn't  be  much 
sm-]Drised  if  she  had  a  hard  twist  in  conse- 
quence, an'  if  she  does,  the  fault's  your  own 
an'  not  ours,  for  we're  wiUin'  as  the  flowers 
o'  May  to  di'ink  all  sorts  o'  good  luck  to  her." 

"Nogher,"  said  the  other,  "it's  tinith  a 
great  dale  of  what  you've  sed — maybe  all  of 
it." 

"Faith,  I  know,"  returned  Nogher,  "that 
about  the  whiskey  it's  parfit  gospel." 

"In  one  thing  I'll  be  advised  by  you,  an' 
that  is,  I'll  go  to  my  knees  and  pray  to  God 
to  set  my  heart  right  if  it's  wrong.  I  feel 
strange — strange,  Nogher — happy,  an'  not 
happy." 

"  You  needn't  go  to  your  knees  at  aU," 
rephed  Nogher,  "  if  you  give  us  the  whiskey ; 
or  if  you  do  pray,  be  ia  earnest,  that  your 
heart  may  be  inclined  to  do  it." 

"  You  desarve  none  for  them  words,"  said 
Fardorougha,  who  felt  that  Nogher's  buf- 
foonery jaiTed  upon  the  better  feelings  that 
were  rising  "within  him — "you  desai*ve  none, 
an'  you'll  get  none — for  the  j^resent  at  laste, 
an'  I'm  only  a  fool  for  spaking  to  you." 

He  then  retired  to  the  upper  part  of  the 
kiln,  where,  in  a  dark  corner,  he  knelt  with 
a  troubled  heart,  and  prayed  to  God. 

We  doubt  not  but  such  readers  as  possess 
feeling  will  perceive  that  Fardorougha  was 
not  only  an  object  at  this  particular  period 
of  much  interest,  but  also  entitled  to  sincere 
sympathy.  Few  men  in  his  circumstances 
could  or  probably  would  so  earnestly  strug- 
gle with  a  predominant  passion  as  he  did, 
though  without  education,  or  such  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  as  might  enable  him,  by 
any  observation  of  the  human  heai't  in  others, 
to  understand  the  workings  in  his  own.  He 
had  not  been  ten  minutes  at  prayer  when 
the  voice  of  his  female  servant  was  heard  in 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


191 


loud  and  exulting  tones,  calling  out,  ere  she 
approached  the  kiln  itself — 

"  Fardorougha,  ca  woul  thu? — Where's 
my  footin',  masther  ?  Where's  my  arles  ? — 
Come  in — come  in,  you're  a  waitin'  to  kiss 
your  son — the  misthress  is  d}in'  till  you  kiss 
our  son." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  as  she  en- 
tered the  kiln. 

"Dyin'!"  he  repeated — "the  misthress 
dyin' — oh  Susj^  let  a  thousand  childre  go 
before  her — dyin' !  did  you  say  dyin'  ?  " 

"  Ay  did  I,  an'  it's  truth  too  ;  but  it's  wid 
Joy  she's  djm'  to  see  you  kiss  one  of  the 
purtiest  young  boys  in  all  the  barony  of 
Lisnamona — myself's  over  head  and  ears  in 
love  wid  him  already." 

He  gave  a  rapid  glance  upwards,  so  much 
so  that  it  was  scarcely  perceptible,  and  im- 
mediately accompanied  her  into  the  house. 
The  child,  in  the  meantime,  had  been  dressed, 
and  lay  on  its  mother's  arm  in  the  bed  when 
its  father  entered.  He  approached  the  bed- 
side and  glanced  at  it — then  at  the  mother 
who  lay  smiling  beside  it — she  extended  her 
hand  to  him,  whilst  the  soft,  sweet  tears  of 
delight  ran  quietly  down  her  cheeks.  When 
he  seized  her  hand  he  stooped  to  kiss  her, 
but  she  put  up  her  other  hand  and  said — 

"  No,  no,  you  must  kiss  him  first." 

He  instantly  stooped  over  the  babe,  took 
it  in  his  arms,  looked  long  and  earnestly  upon 
it,  put  it  up  near  him,  again  gave  it  a  long, 
intense  gaze,  after  which  he  raised  its  Httle 
mouth  to  his  own,  and  then  imprinted  the 
father's  first  kiss  upon  the  fragrant  lips  of  his 
beloved  first-born.  Having  gently  deposited 
the  precious  babe  upon  its  mother's  ai'm,  he 
caught  her  hand  and  imjDrinted  ujDon  her 
hps  a  kiss  ; — but  to  those  who  understand  it, 
we  need  not  describe  it — to  those  who  can- 
not, we  could  give  no  adequate  notion  of  that 
which  we  are  able  in  no  other  way  to  describe 
than  by  saj^g  that  it  would  seem  as  if  the 
condensed  eiijojTnent  of  a  whole  hfe  were 
concentrated  into  that  embrace  of  the  child 
and  mother. 

When  this  tender  scene  was  over,  the  mid- 
wife commenced — 

"  Well,  if  ever  a  man  had  raison  to  be 
thank — " 

"  Silence,  woman ! "  he  exclaimed  in  a  voice 
which  hushed  her  almost  into  terror. 

"  Let  him  alone,"  said  the  wife,  addressing 
her,  "  let  him  alone,  I  know  what  he  feels." 

"No,"  he  replied,  "even  you,  Honora, 
don't  know  it — my  heart,  my  heart  went 
astray,  and  there,  undher  God  and  my  S^iv- 
iour,  is  the  being  that  wiU  be  the  salvation 
of  his  father." 

His  wife  understood  him  and  was  touched  ; 
the  tears  fell  fast  from  her  eyes,  and,  extend- 


ing her  hand  to  him,  she  said,  as  he  clasped 
it: 

"Sure,  Fai'dorougha,  the  world  won't  be 
as  much  in  your  heart  now,  nor  your  temper 
so  dark  as  it  was." 

He  made  no  reply  ;  but,  placing  his  other 
hand  over  his  eyes,  he  sat  in  that  posture  for 
some  minutes.  On  raising  his  head  the 
tears  were  running  as  if  involuntarily  down 
his  cheeks. 

"  Honora,"  said  he,  "  I'll  go  out  for  a  Httle 
— you  can  tell  Mary  Moan  where  anything's 
to  be  had — let  them  all  be  trated  so  as  that 
they  don't  take  too  much — and,  Mary  Moan, 
you  won't  be  forgotten," 

He  then  passed  out,  and  did  not  appear 
for  upwards  of  an  hour,  nor  could  any  one 
of  them  tell  where  he  had  been. 

"  Well,"  said  Honora,  after  he  had  left  the 
room,  "we're  now  married  near  fourteen 
years  ;  and  until  this  night  I  never  see  him 
shed' a  tear." 

"  But  sure,  acushla,  if  anything  can  touch 
a  father's  heart,  the  sight  of  his  fii'st  child 
will.  Now  keep  yourself  aisy,  avoumeen, 
and  tell  me  where  the  whiskey  an'  an\i;hing 
else  that  maj'  be  a  wantin'  is,  till  I  give  these 
crathurs  of  sarvints  a  dhrop  of  something  to 
comfort  thim." 

At  this  time,  however,  INIrs.  Donovan's 
mother  and  two  sisters,  who  had  some  hours 
previously  been  sent  for,  just  amved,  a  cir- 
cumstance which  once  more  touched  the 
newly  awakened  chord  of  the  mother's  heart, 
and  gave  her  that  confidence  which  the  pres- 
ence of  "  one's  own  blood,"  as  the  people  ex- 
pressed it,  always  communicates  upon  such 
occasions.  After  having  kissed  and  admired 
the  babe,  and  bedewed  its  face  with  the 
warm  tears  of  afiection,  they  piously  knelt 
down,  as  is  the  custom  among  most  Lish 
famihes,  and  offered  up  a  short  but  fervent 
prayer  of  gratitude  as  well  for  an  event  so 
happy,  as  for  her  safe  delivery,  and  the  future 
welfare  of  the  mother  and  child.  \\Tien  this 
was  performed,  they  set  themselves  to  the 
distribution  of  the  blithe  meat  or  groaning 
malt,  a  duty  which  the  midwife  transfei*red 
to  them  with  much  pleasure,  this  being  a 
matter  which,  except  in  matters  of  necessity, 
she  considered  beneath  the  dignity  of  her 
profession.  The  sei-vants  were  accordingly 
summoned  in  due  time,  and,  headed  by 
Nogher,  soon  made  their  appearance.  In 
events  of  this  nature,  sei'vants  in  Ireland,  and 
we  beUeve  ever^'where  else,  are  always  allow- 
ed a  considei'able  stretch  of  good-humored 
Hcense  in  those  obsei-vations  which  they  are 
in  the  habit  of  making.  Indeed,  this  is  not 
so  much  an  extemporaneous  indulgence  of 
wit  on  their  part,  as  a  mere  repetition  of  the 
set  phrases  and  traditionaiy  apothegms  which 


192 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORK^. 


have  been  long  established  among  the  peas- 1 
antrj',  and  as  they  are  generally  expressive  of 
present  satisfaction  and  good  wishes  for  the 
future,  so  would  it  be  looked  upon  as  churl- 
ishness, and  in  some  cases,  on  the  part  of  ; 
the  seiTants,   a  sign  of  ill-luck,  to  neglect  j 
them. 

"  Now,"  said  Honora's  mother  to  the  ser- 
vants of  both  sexes,  "now,  childi-e,  that 
you've  aite  a  trifle,  you  must  taste  something 
in  the  way  of  dhrink.  It  would  be  too  bad 
on  thi&  night  above  all  nights  we've  seen  yet, 
not  to  have  a  glass  to  the  stranger's  health  at 
all  events.  Here,  Nogher,  thry  this,  avick — 
you  never  got  a  glass  wid  a  warmer  heart." 

Nogher  took  the  liquor,  his  gTave  face 
charged  "v\ith  suppressed  humor,  and  fii'st 
looking  upon  his  fellow-servants  with  a  coun- 
tenance so  di'oU  yet  dr}',  that  none  but  them- 
selves rmderstood  it,  he  then  directed  a  very 
sober  glance  at  the  good  woman. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "be 
goxty,  sure  enough  if  our  hearts  wouldn't 
get  warm  now,  they'd  never  warm.  A  happy 
night  it  is  for  Fardorougha  and  the  misthress, 
at  any  rate.  I'll  engage  the  stranger  was 
worth  waitin'  for,  too.  Ill  hould  a  thrifle, 
he's  the  beauty  o'  the  world  this  minnit — an' 
111  engage  it's  breeches  we'll  have  to  be 
gettin'  for  him  some  o'  these  days,  the  darhn'. 
Well,  here's  his  health,  any  way ;  an'  may 
he " 

"  Husth,  arogorah ! "  exclaimed  the  mid- 
wife ;  "  stop,  I  say — the  tree  afore  the  fruit, 
all  the  world  over  ;  don't  you  know,  an'  bad 
win  to  you,  that  if  the  sthranger  was  to  go 
to-morrow,  as  good  might  come  afther  him, 
while  the  paarent  stocks  are  to  the  fore.  The 
mother  an'  father  first,  acushla,  an'  thin  the 
sthranger." 

"  Many  thanks  to  you,  Mrs.  Moan,"  rephed 
Nogher,  "for  settin'  me  right — sui'e  we'll 
know  something  ourselves  whin  it  comes  our 
turn,  plase  goodness.  If  the  misthress  isn't 
asleep,  by  goxty,  I'd  call  in  to  her,  that  I'm 
dhrinkin'  her  health." 

"  She's  not  asleep,"  said  her  mother ;  "  an' 
proud  she'U  be,  poor  thing,  to  hear  you, 
Nogher." 

"  Misthi'ess !  "  he  said  in  a  loud  voice,  "  are 
you  asleep,  ma'am  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,  Nogher,"  she  replied,  in  a 
good-humored  tone  of  voice. 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  said  Nogher,  still  in  a  loud 
voice,  and  scratching  his  head,  "here's  your 
health  ;  an'  now  that  the  ice  is  bruk — be 
goxty,  an'  so  it  is  sure,"  said  he  in  an  under- 
tone to  the  rest — "  Peggy,  behave  yourself," 
he  continued,  to  one  of  the  sei-vant-maids, 
"  mockin's  catchin ' :  faix,  you  dunna  what's 
afore  yourself  yet — beg  pardon— I'm  forget- 
tm'  myself — an'  now  that  the  ice  is  hi'uk, 


ma'am,"  he  resumed,  "  you  must  be  dacent 
for  the  futher.  Many  a  bottle,  plase  good- 
ness, we'U  have  this  way  yet.  Your  health, 
ma  am,  an'  a  speedy  recovery  to  you — an'  a 
sudden  uprise — not  forgettin'  the  masther — 
long  life  to  him  !  " 

"  What !  "  said  the  midwife,  "are  you  for- 
gettin' the  sthranger  ?  " 

Nogher  looked  her  fuU  in  the  face,  and 
opened  his  mouth,  without  saying  a  word, 
hteraUy  pitched  the  glass  of  spirits  to  the 
very  bottom  of  his  throat. 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  he  repHed, 
"  is  it  thi*ee  healths  you'd  have  me  dhrink  wid 
the  one  glassful  ? — not  myself,  indeed  ;  faix, 
I'd  be  long  sorry  to  make  so  little  of  him — 
if  he  was  a  bit  of  a  gitsha  I'd  not  scruple  to 
give  him  a  corner  o'  the  glass,  but,  bein'  a 
young  man  althers  the  case  intirely — he 
must  have  a  bumper  for  himself." 

"  A  girsha !  "  said  .jP,eggyj  his  feUow-ser- 
vant,  feeling  the  indignity  just  ofi'ered  to  her 
sex — "  WTiy  thin,  bad  manners  to  your  assur- 
ance for  that  same  :  a  gii'sha's  as  well  intitled 
to  a  full  glass  as  a  gorsoon,  any  day." 

"Husth  a  coUeen,"  said  Nogher,  good- 
hum  oredly,  "  sure,  it's  takin'  pattern  by  sich 
a  fine  example  you  ought  to  be.  This,  Mrs. 
Moan,  is  the  purty  crature  I  w^as  min- 
tionin'  as  we  came  along,  that  intends  to  get 
spansheUed  wid  myself  some  o'  these  days — ■ 
that  is,  if  she  can  bring  me  into  good-humor, 
the  thief." 

"  And  if  it  does  happen,"  said  Peggy, 
"  you'U  have  to  look  sharper  afther  him,  Mrs. 
Moan.  He's  pleasant  enough  now,  but  I'll 
be  bound  no  man  'ill  know  betther  how  to 
hang  his  fiddle  behind  the  door  when  he 
comes  home  to  us." 

"  Well,  acushla,  svu-e  he  may,  if  he  likes, 
but  if  he  does,  he  knows  what's  afore  him — 
not  sayin'  that  he  ever  will,  I  hope,  for  it's  a 
woful  case  whin  it  comes  to  that,  aliagur." 

"  Faix,  it's  a  happy  story  for  half  the  poor 
wives  of  the  parish  that  you're  in  it,"  said 

Peggy,  "  sure,  only  fore " 

. "  Be  dhe  hudh  Vread,  agus  glaJc  sho — 
hould  youi-  tongue,  Peggy,  and  taste  this," 
said  the  mother  of  her  mistress,  handing  her 
a  glass  :  "If  you  intend  to  go  together,  in  the 
name  o'  goodness  feai'  God  more  than  the 
midwife,  if  you  want  to  have  luck  an'  grace." 

"Oh,  is  it  all  this?"  exclaimed  the  sly 
girl ;  "  faix,  it  'ill  make  me  hearty  if  I  dhrink 
so  much — bedeed  it  will.  WeU,  misthress, 
your  health,  an'  a  speedy  uprise  to  you — an' 
the  same  to  the  masther,  not  forgettin'  the 
sthranger — long  hfe  an'  good  health  to  him." 

She  then  put  the  glass  to  her  lijjs,  and 
after  several  small  sips,  appearing  to  be  so 
many  unsuccessful  attempts  at  overcoming 
her  reluctance  to  drink  it,  she  at  length  took 


FAEBOEOUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


191 


courage,  and  bolting  it  down,  immediately 
applied  her  apron  to  her  mouth,  making  at 
the  same  time  two  or  three  wry  faces,  gasp- 
ing, as  if  to  recover  the  breath  which  it  did 
not  take  from  her. 

The  midwife,  in  the  mean  time,  felt  that 
the  advice  just  given  to  Nogher  and  Peggy 
contained  a  clause  somewhat  more  detri- 
mental to  her  importance  than  was  altogether 
agreeable  to  her  ;  and  to  sit  calmly  under 
any  imputation  that  involved  a  diminution 
of  her  authority,  was  not  within  the  code  of 
fier  practice. 

''If  they  go  together,"  she  observed,  "it's 
right  to  fear  God,  no  doubt ;  but  that's  no 
raison  why  they  shouldn't  j^ay  respect  to 
th'im  that  can  sarve  thim  or  olherwiHe." 

"Nobody  says  aginst  that,  Mrs.  Moan," 
replied  the  other ;  "  it's  all  fair,  an'  nothin' 
else." 

"  A  midwife's  nuttin'  in  your  eyes,  we  sup- 
pose," I'ejoined  Mrs.  Moan  ;  "  but  maybe's 
there's  thim  belongin'  to  you  could  tell  to 
the  contrary." 

"  Oblaged  to  you,  we  suppose,  for  your 
sarvices — an'  we're  not  deny  in'  that,  aither." 

"For  me  sarvices — maybe  thim  same  sar- 
vices wasn't  very  sweet  or  treaclesome  to 
some  o'  thim,"  she  rejoined,  with  a  mysteri- 
ous and  somewhat  indignant  toss  of  the 
head. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  other  in  a  fi'iendly 
tone,  "  that  makes  no  maxims  one  way  or  the 
other,  only  dluink  this — sure  we're  not 
goin'  to  quarrel  about  it,  any  how." 

"  God  forbid,  Honora  More !  but  sure  it 
ud  ill  become  me  to  hear  my  own  corree — 
no,  no,  avourneen,"  she  exclaimed,  putting 
back  the  glass  ;  "I  can't  take  it  this-a-way  ; 
it  doesn't  agree  wid  me  ;  you  must  put  a 
grain  o'  shugar  an'  a  dhrop  o'  bilin'  wather 
to  it.  It  may  do  very  well  hard  for  the  sar- 
viuts,  but  I'm  not  used  to  it." 

"Third  that  myself  afore,"  observed  No- 
gher, "  that  she  never  dhrinks  hard  whiskey. 
Well,  myself  never  tasted  punch  but  wanst, 
an'  be  goxty  its  gi-eat  dhrink.  Death  alive, 
Honora  More,"  he  continued,  in  his  most  in- 
sinuating manner,  "make  us  all  a  sup.  Sure, 


means  great  Honora,  in  opposition  to  hei* 
daughter,  Fardorougha's  wife  :  this  being  an 
epithet  adopted  for  the  purpose  of  contra- 
distinguishing the  members  of  u  family  when 
called  by  the  same  name — "  Well,"  said  she, 
"I  suppose  it's  as  good.  My  own  heart, 
deal-  knows,  is  not  in  a  thrifle,  only  I  have 
my  doubts  about  Fardorougha.  However, 
what's  done  can't  be  undone  ;  so,  once  we 
mix  it,  he'll  be  too  late  to  spake  if  he  comes 
in,  any  way." 

The  punch  was  accordingly  mixed,  and 
they  were  in  the  act  of  sitting  down  to  enjoy 
themselves  with  more  comfort  when  Fai'do- 
rougha  entered.  As  before,  he  was  silent 
and  disturbed,  neither  calm  nor  stern,  but 
laboring,  one  would  suppose,  imder  strong 
feelings  of  a  decidedly  opposite  character. 
On  seeing  the  punch  made,  his  bi'ow  gather- 
ed into  something  like  severity  ;  he  looked 
quickly  at  his  mother-in-law,  and  was  about 
to  speak,  but,  pausing  a  moment,  he  sat 
down,  and  after  a  Httle  time  said  in  a  kind 
voice — 

"It's  right,  it's  right — for  /a".s-  sake,  an'  on 
his  account,  have  it ;  Imt  nuiiuia.  hii  Ihiire 
be  no  Avaste." 

"  Svu'e  we  had  to  make  it  for  Mrs.  Moan 
whether  or  not,"  saiti  his   mother-in-law — 
I  "  she  cjn't  drink  it  hard,  j^oor  woman." 

jNIrs.    Moan,    who   had   gone   to   see  her 

j  patient,  having  heard  his  voice  again,  made 

'  her  aj)pearance  with  the  child  in  her  arms, 

'  and  Avith  all  the  importance  which  such  a 

burden  usually  bestows  upon  j)ersons  of  her 

calling. 

"  Here,"  said  she,  presenting  him  the  in- 

!  fant,  "  take  a  proper  look  at  this  fellow.   That 

I  I  may  never,  if  a  finer  swaddy  ever  crossed 

my   hands.     Throth   if  you   wor   dead   to- 

1  morrow  he'd  be  mistaken  for  you — your  born 

I  image — the  sorra   tiling   else — eh   alanna — 

the  Lord  loves  my  sou — faix,  you've  daddy's 

nose  upon  you  anyhow — an'  his   chin  to  a 

tui'ii.       Oh,  thin,  Fardorougha,  but  there's 

many  a  couple  rowlin'  in  wealth  that  'ud  be 

proud  to  have  the  likes  of  him  ;  an'  that  must 

die  an'  let  it  all  go  to  sti'angers,  or  to  them 

that  doesn't  care  about  them,  'ceptiii'  to  get 


blood   alive,  this  is   not   a  commrn  night,  '^grabbin'  at  what  they  have,  that  think  every 
afther  what  God  has  sint  us:  Fajdorouj}fha  loay^a  yen  r  that  they're  above  the  sod.  "Wliat ! 


himself  would  allow  you,  if  he  ^vas  here  ; 
deed,  be  dad,  he  as  good  as  promised  me  he 
would  ;  an'  ycu  know  we  have  tlu  young 
customer's  health  to  drink  yet." 

"  Throth,  an'  you  ought,''  said  the  mid- 
wife ;  "the  boy  says  nuttin  but  the  thruth  — 
it's  not  a  common  night ;  an'  if  God  has 
given  Fardorougha  substance,  he  shouldn't 
begridge  a  little,  if  it  was  only  to  show  a 
grateful  heart." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Honora  More — which 


manim-an — kiss  your  child,  man  alive.  That 
I  may  never,  but  he  looks  at  the  daiiin'  as  iJ 
it  was  a  sod'  of  turf.  Throth  you're  not 
■!;^p-~+ljy  of  havin'  such  a  bully." 

Fai'dorougha,  during  this  dialogue,  held 
the  child  in  his  arms  and  looked  upon  it 
earnestly  as  before,  but  without  betraying  any 
visible  indication  of  countenance  that  could 
enable  a  sj^ectator  to  estimate  the  natui-e  of 
what  jjassed  within  him.  At  length  there 
appeai'ed  in  his  eye  a  barely  perceptible  e-s 


194 


WILLIAM  CJlRLETON'S   WORKS. 


pression  of  benignity,  which,  however,  soon 
passed  away,  aud  was  replaced  by  a  shadow 
of  gloom  and  anxiety.  Nevertheless,  in  com- 
l^liance  with  the  commands  of  the  midwife, 
he  kissed  its  lips,  after  which  the  servants 
all  gathered  round  it,  each  lavishing  upon 
the  little  urchin  those  hyj^erbolical  expres- 
sions of  flattery,  which,  after  all,  i^iost  parents 
ai-e  -nilling  to  receive  as  something  approxi- 
mating to  gospel  truth. 

"Bedad,"  soidNogher,  "that fellow  'ill  be 
the  flower  o'  the  Donovans,  if  God  spares 
him — be  goxty.  111  engage  he'll  give  the  purty 
girls  many  a  sore  heart  yet — he'll  play  the 
dickens  wid  'em,  or  I'm  not  here — a  wough  ! 
do  you  hear  how  the  young  rogue  gives 
tongue  at  that  ?  the  sorra  one  o'  the  shaver 
but  knows  wlia't  I'm  uayin'." 

Nogher  always  had  an  eye  to  his  ovm  com- 
fort, no  matter  under  what  circumstances  he 
might  be  jDlaced.  Having  received  the  full 
glass,  he  grasj^ed  his  master's  hand,  and  in 
the  usual  set  phrases,  to  which,  however,  was 
added  much  ex  tempore  matter  of  his  own, 
he  drank  the  baby's  health,  congratulating 
the  parents,  in  his  ovm  blunt  way,  upon  this 
accession  to  their  happiness.  The  other  ser- 
vants continued  to  pour  out  their  praises  in 
terms  of  dehght  and  astonishment  at  his  ac- 
complishments and  beaut}',  each,  in  imitation 
of  Nogher,  concluding  with  a  toast  in  nearly 
the  siame  words. 

How  sweet  from  all  other  lips  is  the  praise 
of  those  we  love !  Fardorougha,  who,  a 
moment  before,  looked  upon  his  infant's 
face  with  an  unmoved  countenance,  felt  in- 
capable of  withstanding  the  flattery  of  his 
own  servants  when  uttered  in  favor  of  the 
child.  His  eye  became  comjDlacent,  and 
while  Nogher  held  his  hand,  a  slight  j)res- 
sure  in  return  was  proof  sufficient  that  his 
heart  beat  in  accordance  with  the  hojDes 
they  expressed  of  aU  that  the  undeveloped 
future  might  bestow  upon  him. 

Wlien  their  little  treat  was  over,  the  ser- 
vants withdrew  for  the  night,  and  Fardo- 
rougha himself,  still  laboring  under  an  ex- 
citement so  comiDlicated  and  novel,  retired 
rather  to  shape  his  mind  to  some  definite 
tone  of  feeling  than  to  seek  repose. 

How  strange  is  life,  and  how  mysteriously 
connected  is  the  woe  or  the  weal  of  a  single 
family  with  the  great  mass  of  human  society  ! 
We  beg  the  reader  to  stand  wjth  us  upon  a 
low,  sloping  hill,  a  little  to  the  left  of  Far- 
dorougha's  house,  and,  after  having  solem- 
nized his  heart  by  a  glance  at  the  starry  gos- 
pel of  the  skies,  to  cast  his  eye  upon  the 
long,  white-washed  dwelling,  as  it  shines 
faintly  in  the  visionary  distance  of  a  moon- 
light night.  How  full  of  tranquil  beauty  is 
the  hour,  aud  how  deep  the  silence,  except 


when  it  is  broken  by  the  loud  baj-ing  of  the 
watch-dog,  as  he  barks  in  suUen  fierceness 
at  his  own  echo  !  Or  perhaps  there  is  noth- 
ing heard  but  the  {iugh  of  the  mountain 
river,  as  with  booming  sound  it  rises  and 
falls  in  the  distance,  filling  the  ear  of  mid- 
night with  its  wild  and  continuous  melody. 
Look  around,  and  observe  the  sj)irit  of  re- 
pose which  sleeps  on  the  face  of  nature; 
think  upon  the  dream  of  human  life,  and  of 
all  the  inexplicable  wonders  which  are  read 
from  day  to  day  in  that  miraculous  page — 
the  heart  of  man.  Neither  your  eye  nor 
imagination  need  pass  beyond  that  humble 
roof  before  3'ou,  in  which  it  is  easy  to  per- 
ceive, by  the  lights  passing  at  this  unusual 
hour  across  the  windows,  that  there  is  some- 
thing added  either  to  their  joy  or  to  their 
sorrow.  There  is  the  mother,  in  whose 
heart  was  accumulated  the  unwasted  tender- 
ness of  years,  forgetting  all  the  past  in  the 
first  intoxicating  infliience  of  an  unknown 
ecstasy,  and  looking  to  the  future  with  the 
eager  aspirations  of  affection.  There  is  the 
husband,  too,  for  whose  heart  the  lank  devil 
of  the  avaricious— the  famine-struck  god  of 
the  miser — is  even  now  contending  with  the 
almost  extinguished  love  which  springs  up  in 
a  father's  bosom  on  the  sight  of  his  first-bom. 

Keader,  who  can  teU  whether  the  entran- 
cing visions  of  the  happy  mother,  or  the 
gloomy  anticipations  of  her  apprehensive 
husband,  are  most  prqphetic  of  the  destiny 
which  is  before  their  child.  Many  indeed 
and  various  are  the  hopes  and  fears  felt 
under  that  roof,  and  deeply  wiU  their  lights 
and  shadows  be  blended  in  the  life  of  the 
being  whose  claims  are  so  strong  vipon  their 
love.  There,  for  some  time  past  the  lights 
in  the  window  have  appeared  less  frequent- 
ly— one  by  one  we  presume  the  inmates 
have  gone  to  repose — no  other  is  now  visible 
— the  last  candle  is  extingxiished,  and  this 
humble  section  of  the  great  family  of  man  is 
now  at  rest  with  the  veil  of  a  dark  and  fear- 
ful future  unlifted  before  them. 

There  is  not  perhaps  in  the  series  of  human 
passions  any  one  so  difficult  to  be  eradicated 
out  of  the  bosom  as  avaiice,  no  matter  with 
what  seeming  moderation  it  puts  itself 
forth,  or  under  what  disguise  it  may  appear. 
And  among  aU  its  cold-blooded  character- 
istics there  is  none  so  utterly  unaccountable 
as  that  frightful  dread  of  famine  and  ulti- 
mate starvation,  which  is  also  strong  in  pro- 
portion to  the  impossibility  of  its  ever  being 
realized.  Indeed,  when  it  arrives  to  this  we 
should  not  term  it  a  passion,  but  a  malady, 
and  in  our  opinion  the  narrow-hearted  pa- 
tient should  be  prudently  separated  from  so- 
ciety, and  treated  as  one  laboring  ^nder  an 
incurable  species  of  njonomauiq,. 


JPARDOIWUGTIA,   THE  MISER. 


195 


During  the  few  days  that  intervened  be- 
tween our  hero's  birtli  and  his  clmstening, 
Fardorougha's  mind  was  engaged  in  forming 
some  fixed  principle  by  which  to  guide  his 
heart  in  the  conflict  that  still  went  on  between 
'avarice  and  affection.  In  this  task  he  imag- 
ined that  the  father  predominated  over  the 
miser  almost  without  a  stiniggle  ;  whereas, 
the  fact  was,  that  the  subtle  jjassion,  ever 
more  ingenious  than  the  simple  one,  changed 
its  external  character,  and  came  out  in  the 
shape  of  affectionate  forecast  and  provident 
regard  for  the  wants  and  prospects  of  his 
child.  This  gi'oss  deception  of  his  owti  heart  he 
felt  as  a  relief  ;  for,  though  smitten  with  the 
world,  it  did  not  escape  him  that  the  birth 
of  his  little  one,  all  its  circumstances  consid- 
ered, ought  to  have  caused  him  to  feel  an 
enjoyment  unalloyed  by  the  care  and  regi-et 
which  checked  his  sympathies  as  a  parent. 
Neither  was  conscience  itself  altogether  si- 
lent, nor  the  blunt  remonstrances  of  his  ser- 
vants wholl}'  without  effect.  Nay,  so  com- 
pletely was  his  judgment  oveiTeached  that  he 
himself  attributed  this  anomalous  state  of 
feeling  to  a  vu'tuous  eftbrt  of  Christian  duty, 
and  looked  upon  the  enci'oachments  which 
a  desire  of  saving  wealth  had  made  on  his 
heart  as  a  manifest  proof  of  much  parental 
attachment.  He  consequently  loved  his 
wealth  through  the  medium  of  his  son,  and 
laid  it  down  as  a  fixed  principle  that  eveiy 
act  of  parsimony  on  his  part  was  merely  one 
of  prudence,  and  had  the  love  of  a  father 
and  aa  affectionate  consideration  for  his 
child's  future  welfare  to  justify  it. 

The  first  striking  instance  of  this  close 
and  gi'iping  spirit  appeai-ed  upon  an  occa- 
sion which  seldom  fails  to  ojDen,  in  Ireland  at 
least,  all  the  warm  and  generous  impulses  of 
our  rd'..ure.  When  his  wife  deemed  it  neces- 
sary to  make  those  hospitable  preparations 
for  cheir  child's  chi'istenmg,  which  are  so 
usual  in  the  country,  he  treated  her  inten- 
tion of  complj'ing  Avith  this  old  custom  as  a 
direct  proof  of  unjustifiable  folly  and  ex- 
travagance— nay,  his  remonstrance  with  her 
exliibited  such  remarkable  good  sense  and 
prudence,  that  it  was  a  matter  of  extreme 
diffi.culty  to  controvert  it,  oi'  to  perceive  that 
it  originated  from  any  other  motive  than  a 
strong  interest  in  the  true  welfare  of  their 
child. 

"  Will  our  wasting  meat  and  money,  an'  , 
for  that  matthur  health  and  time,  on  his  chris-  i 
tenin',  aither  give  him  more  health  or  make  ; 
us  love  him  betther  ?  It's  not  the  first  time,  j 
Honora,  that  I've  heard  yourself  make  litt  e  I 
of  some  of  our  nabors  for  goin'  bey  ant  their  j 
ability  in  gettin'  up  big  christenins.  Don't  i 
be  foolish  now  thin  when  it  comes  to  your  I 
own  turn." 


Tlie  wife  took  the  babe  up,  and,  after  hav- 
ing gazed  affectionately  on  its  innocent  fea- 
tures, rejilied  to  him,  in  a  voice  of  tenderness 
and  reproof — 

"  God  knows,  Fardorougha,  an'  if  I  c?o  act 
wid  folly,  as  you  call  it,  in  gettin'  ready  hio 
christenin',  surely,  surely  you  oughtn't  to 
blame  the  mother  for  that.  Little  I  thought, 
acushla  oge,  that  your  own  father  'ud  be- 
grudge you  as  good  a  christenin'  as  is  put 
over  any  other  nabor's  child.  I'm  afraid, 
Fardorougha,  he's  not  as  much  in  your  heart 
as  he  ought  to  be." 

"  It's  a  bad  proof  of  love  for  him,  Honora, 
to  put  to  the  bad  what  ma}'  an'  would  be 
sarviceable  to  him  hereafter.  You  only  think 
for  the  present  ;  but  I  can't  forget  that  he's 
to  be  settled  in  the  world,  an'  you  know  your- 
self what  poor  means  we  have  o'  doin'  that, 
an'  that  if  we  be^in  to  be  extravagant  an' 
wasteful,  bekase  God  has  sent  him,  we  may 
beg  wid  him  afore  long." 

"  There's  no  danger  of  us  beggin'  wid  him. 
No,"  she  continued,  the  pride  of  the  mother 
haring  been  touched,  "my  boy  ■will  never 
beg — no,  avourneen — j'ou  never  moU — nor 
shame  or  disgi'ace  Arill  never  come  upon  him 
aither.  Have  you  no  trust  in  God,  Fardo- 
rougha ?  " 

"  God  never  helps  them  that  neglect  them- 
selves, Honora." 

"  But  if  it  was  plasing  to  His  will  to  re- 
move liim  from  us,  would  you  ever  forgive 
yourself  not  lettin'  him  have  a  chi'istenin'  like 
another  child?"  rejoined  the  perseveiing 
mother. 

"The  priest,"  rephed  the  good  man,  "will 
do  as  much  for  the  poor  child  as  the  rich  ; 
there's  but  one  sacrament  for  both  ;  anjlhing 
else  is  waste,  as  I  said,  an'  I  won't  give  in  to 
it.  You  don't  considher  that  your  way  of  it 
'ud  spend  as  much  in  one  day  as  'ud  clothe 
him  two  or  three  years." 

"  May  I  never  sin  this  day,  Fardorougha, 
but  one  'ud  think  j'ou 're  tired  of  him  ah-eady. 
By  not  givin'  in  to  what's  dacent  you  know 
you'll  only  fi-et  me — a  thing  that  no  man  "wid 
half  a  heart  'ud  do  to  any  woman  supportin' 
a  babby  as  I  am.  A  fretted  nurse  makes  a 
child  sick,  as  Molly  Moan  tould  you  before 
she  Avent  ;  so  that  it's  not  on  my  own  account 
I'm  spakin',  but  on  his  — poor,  weeny  pet — 
the  Lord  love  him  !  Look  at  his  innocent 
purty  little  face,  an'  how  can  you  have  the 
heart,  Fardorougha  ?  Come,  avourneen,  give 
way  to  me  this  wanst ;  throth,  if  you  do,  you'll 
see  how  111  niu-se  him,  an'  what  a  darlin'  lump 
o'  sugar  I'll  have  him  for  you  in  no  time  !  " 

He  paused  a  little  at  this  dehcate  and  af- 
fecting appeal  of  the  mother  ;  but,  except  by 
a  quick  glance  that  passed  from  her  to  theii 
child,  it  was  impossible  to  say  whether  or 


196 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


not  it  made  any  impression  on  liis  heart,  or 
in  the  slightest  degree  changed  his  resolu- 
tion. 

"Well,  well,"  said  he,  "let  me  alone  now. 
I'U  think  of  it.  I'll  turn  it  over  an'  see  what's 
best  to  be  done  ;  do  you  the  same,  Honora, 
an'  may  be  your  own  sinse  will  bring  you  to 
my  side  of  the  question  at  last." 

The  next  day,  his  wife  renewed  the  sub- 
ject with  unabated  anxiety ;  but,  instead  of 
expressing  any  change  in  her  favor,  Fardo- 
rougha  declined  even  to  enter  into  it  at  all. 
An  evasive  rejjly  was  all  she  could  extract 
from  him,  with  an  assurance  that  he  would 
in  a  day  or  two  communicate  the  resolution 
to  which  he  had  finally  come.  She  perceived,  at 
once,  that  the  case  was  hoj)eless,  and,  after  one 
last  ineffectual  attempt  to  bring  him  rouifd, 
she  felt  herself  forced  to  abandon  it.  The 
child,  therefore,  much  to  the  mother's  mor- 
tification, was  baptized  without  a  christen- 
ing, unless  the  mere  presence  of  the  god- 
father and  godmother,  in  addition  to  Fardo- 
rougha's  own  family,  could  be  said  to  con- 
stitute one. 

Oiu*  readers,  perhaps,  are  not  aware  that  a 
cause  of  deep  anxiety,  hitherto  imnoticed  by 
us,  operated  with  latent  power  ujoon  Fardo- 
rougha's  heai't.  But  so  strong  in  Ireland  is 
the  beautiful  superstition — if  it  can  with 
truth  be  termed  so — that  children  are  a 
blessing  only  when  received  as  such,  that, 
even  though  supported  by  the  hardest  and 
most  shameless  of  all  vices,  avarice,  Fardo- 
rougha  had  not  nerve  to  avow  this  most  un- 
natural source  for  his  distress.  The  fact, 
however,  was,  that,  to  a  mind  so  constituted, 
the  aiDi^rehension  of  a  large  family  was  in  it- 
seK  a  consideration,  which  he  thought  might, 
at  a  future  period  of  their  lives,  reduce  both 
him  and  his  to  stai'\^ation  and  death.  Our 
readers  may  remember  Nogher  M'Cormick's 
rebuke  to  him,  when  he  heard  Fardorougha 
allude  to  this  ;  and  so  accessible  was  he  then 
to  the  feehng,  that,  on  finding  his  heart  at 
variance  with  it,  he  absolutely  admitted  his 
error,  and  j^rayed  to  God  that  he  might  be 
enabled  to  overcome  it. 

It  was,  therefore,  on  the  day  after  the 
baptism  of  young  Connor,  for  so  had  the 
child  been  called  after  his  paternal  grand- 
father, that,  as  a  justification  for  his  owit 
conduct  in  the  matter  of  the  christening,  he 
disclosed  to  his  wife,  with  much  reluctance 
and  embarrassment,  this  undivulged  source 
of  his  fears  for  the  future,  alleging  it  as  a 
just  argument  for  his  dechning  to  be  guided 
by  her  opinion. 

The  indignant  sympathies  of  the  mother 
abashed,  on  this  occasion,  the  miserable  and 
calculating  impiety  of  the  husband  ;  her  re- 
proaches ■were  open  and  unshi'inking,  and 


her  moral  sense  of  his  conduct  just  and 
beautiful. 

"Fardorougha,"  said  she,  "I  thought,  up 
to  this  time,  to  this  day,  that  there  was 
nothing  in  your  heart  but  too  much  of  the 
world  ;  but  now  I'm  afeard,  if  God  hasn't  sed 
it,  that  the  devil  himself 's  there.  You're 
frettin'  for  'fraid  of  a  family  ;  but  has  God 
sent  us  any  but  this  one  yet?  No — an'  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised,  if  the  Almighty  should 
punish  youi'  guilty  heai-t,  by  making  the 
child  he  gave  you,  a  curse,  instead  of  a 
blessin'.  I  think,  as  it  is,  he  has  brought 
little  pleasure  to  j'ou  for  so  far,  and,  if  your 
heart  hardens  as  he  grows  up,  it's  more  un- 
happy you'U  get  every  day  you  live." 

"That's  very  fine  talk,  Honora;  but  to 
people  in  our  condition,  I  can't  see  any 
very  great  blessin'  in  a  houseful  of  childre. 
If  we're  able  to  provide  for  this  one,  well 
have  raison  to  be  thankful  widout  wishin'  for 
more." 

"  It's  my  opinion,  Fardorougha,  you  don't 
love  the  child." 

"  Change  that  opinion,  then,  Honora  ;  I  do 
love  the  child  ;  but  there's  no  needcessi  ty 
for  blowin  it  about  to  every  one  I  meet.  If 
I  didn't  love  him,  I  wouldn't  feel  as  I  do 
about  all  the  hardshijDS  that  may  be  before 
him.  Think  of  what  a  bad  sason,  or  a  fail- 
ure of  the  craps,  might  bring  us  all  to.  God 
grant  that  we  majTi't  come  to  the  bag  and 
staff  before  he's  settled  in  the  world  at  all, 
poor  thing." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  Fardorougha ;  you  may 
make  yourself  as  unhappy  as  you  like  ; 
for  me,  I'll  j)ut  my  trust  in  the  Saviour  of 
the  world  for  my  child.  If  j'ou  can  trust 
in  any  one  better  than  God,  do  so." 

"  Honora,  there's  no  use  in  this  talk — it'll 
do  nothing  aither  for  him  or  us — besides,  I 
have  no  more  time  to  discoorse  about  it." 

He  then  left  her  ;  but,  as  she  viewed  his 
dark,  inflexible  features  ere  he  went,  an  ojd- 
pressive  sense  of  something  not  far  removed 
from  affliction  weighed  her  down.  The 
child  had  been  asleep  in  her  ai-ms  during 
the  foregoing  dialogue,  and,  after  his  father 
had  departed,  she  placed  him  in  the  cradle, 
and,  throAving  the  corner  of  her  blue  apron 
over  her  shoulder,  she  rocked  him  into  a 
sounder  sleep,  swaying  herself  at  the  same 
time  to  and  fi'o,  with  that  inward  sorrow, 
of  which,  among  the  lower  classes  of  Iiish 
females,  this  motion  is  uniformly  expressive. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that,  as 
the  early  graces  of  (childhood  gradually  ex- 
panded (as  they  did)  into  more  than  ordinary 
beauty,  the  avarice  of  the  father  was  not 
occasionally  encountered  in  its  progress  by 
sudden  gushes  of  love  for  his  son.  It  was 
impossible  for  any  parent,  no  matter  how 


FARDOROUGnA,   TEE  MISER. 


197 


strongly  the  hideous  idol  of  mammon  might 
sway  his  heart,  to  look  upon  a  creature 
so  fair  and  beautiful,  without  being  fi-e- 
quently  touched  into  something  like  affec- 
tion. The  fact  was,  that,  as  the  child  ad- 
vanced towards  youth,  the  two  principles 
we  are  describing  nearly  kept  pace  one  ^rith 
the  other.  That  the  bad  and  formidable 
passion  made  rapid  strides,  must  be  admit- 
ted, but  that  it  engrossed  the  whole  spirit 
of  the  father,  is  not  true.  The  mind  and 
gentle  character  of  the  boy — his  affectionate 
disposition,  and  the  extraoi'dinary  advan- 
tages of  his  person — could  not  fail  some- 
times to  sui-prise  his  father  into  sudden 
bursts  of  affection.  But  these,  when  they 
occurred,  were  looked  upon  by  Fardoi'ougha 
as  so  many  proofs  that  he  still  entertained 
for  the  boy  love  sufficient  to  justify  a  more 
intense  desire  of  accumulating  wealth  for 
his  sake.  Indeed,  ere  the  lad  had  num- 
bered thirteen  summers,  Fardorougha's 
character  as  a  miser  had  not  only  gone  far  \ 
abroad  throughout  the  neighborhood,  but 
was  felt,  by  the  members  of  his  own  family, 
with  almost  merciless  severity.  From  hab- 
its of  honesty,  and  a  decent  sense  of  inde- 
pendence, he  was  now  degraded  to  rapacity 
and  meanness  ;  what  had  been  prudence,  by 
degrees  degenerated  into  cvinniug  ;  and  he 
who,  when  commencing  life,  was  looked 
upon  only  as  a  saving  man,  had  now  become 
notorious  for  extortion  and  usury. 

A  character  such  as  this,  among  a  people 
of  generous  and  lively  feeling  hke  the  Irish, 
is  in  every  state  of  life  the  object  of  intense 
and  undisguised  abhorrence.  It  was  with 
difficulty  he  could  succeed  in  engaging  ser- 
vants, either  for  domestic  or  agricvdtural 
purposes,  and,  perhaps,  no  consideration, 
except  the  general  kindness  which  was  felt 
for  his  wife  and  son,  would  have  induced  any 
person  whatsoever  to  enter  into  his  employ- 
ment. Honora  and  Connor  did  what  in  them 
lay  to  make  the  dependents  of  the  family  ex- 
perience as  little  of  Faixlorougha's  griping 
tyranny  as  possible.  Yet,  -SNith  all  their 
kind-hearted  ingenuity  and  secret  bovmty, 
they  were  scarcely  able  to  render  their  situ- 
ation barely  tolerable. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  language, 
no  matter  what  pen  might  wield  it,  capable 
of  portraying  the  love  which  Honora  Dono- 
van bore  to  her  gentle,  her  beautiful,  and 
her  only  son.  Ah  1  there  in  that  last  epithet, 
lay  the  charm  which  Tvi-apped  her  soul  in 
him,  and  in  all  that  related  to  his  welfare. 
The  moment  she  saw  it  was  not  the  will  of 
God  to  bless  them  ^vith  other  offspring,  her 
heart  gathered  about  him  with  a  jealous  ten- 
derness which  trembled  into  agony  at  the 
idea  of  his  loss. 


Her  love  for  him,  then,  multipHed  itself 
into  many  hues,  for  he  was  in  truth  the 
prism,  on  which,  when  it  fell,  all  the  vai'ied 
beauty  of  its  colors  became  visible.  Her 
heio-t  gave  not  forth  the  music  of  a  single 
instiniment,  but  breathed  the  concord  of 
sweet  sounds,  as  heard  fi'om  the  blended 
melody  of  many.  Feai-fully  different  fi'om 
this  were  the  feelings  of  Fardorougha,  on 
finding  that  he  was  to  be  the  first  and  the 
last  vouchsafed  to  their  union.  A  single 
regret,  however,  scarcely  felt,  touched  even 
him,  when  he  reflected  that  if  Connor  were 
to  be  removed  from  them,  theu'  hearih  must 
become  desolate.  But  then  came  the  fictitious 
conscience,  with  its  nefai'ious  calculations,  to 
prove  that,  in  their  present  circumstances, 
the  dispensation  which  withheld  others  was 
a  blessing  to  him  that  was  given.  Even  Con- 
nor himself,  ai-gued  the  miser,  will  be  the 
gainer  by  it,  for  what  would  my  five  loaves 
and  three  fishes  be  among  so  many  ?  The 
pleasure,  however,  that  is  dei'ived  from  the 
violation  of  natural  affection  is  never  either 
full  or  satisfactory.  The  gratification  felt  by 
Fai-dorougha,  upon  reflecting  that  no  further 
addition  was  to  be  made  to  their  family,  re- 
sembled that  which  a  hungry  man  feels  who 
dreams  he  is  partaking  of  a  luxurious  ban- 
quet. Avai'ice,  it  is  true,  hke  fancy,  was 
gratified,  but  the  enjoyment,  though  rich  to 
that  particular  passion,  left  behind  it  a  sense 
of  unconscious  remorse,  which  gnawed  his 
heart  mth  a  slow  and  hea^';)'■  pain,  that  opei*- 
ated  Hke  a  smothered  fire,  wasting  what  it 
preys  upon,  in  secrecy  and  darkness.  In 
plainer  terms,  he  was  not  happy,  but  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  ruling  passion — the  pursuit  of 
wealth — that  he  felt  afi-aid  to  analyze  his 
anxiety,  or  to  trace  to  its  time  soirrce  the 
cause  of  his  o^\^l  miseiy. 

In  the  mean  time,  his  boy  gi'cw  up  the 
pride  and  ornament  of  the  parish,  idolized 
by  his  mother,  and  beloved  by  all  who  kne^ 
him.     Limited  and  scanty  was  the  education 
which  his  father  could  be  prevailed  ujDon  to 
bestow  upon  him  ;    but  there  was  nothing 
that  could  deprive  him  of  his  natural  good 
sense,  nor  of  the  affections  which  his  mo- 
ther's love  had  drawTi  out   and   cultivated. 
One  thing  was  remarkable  in  him,  which  we 
mention  with  reluctance,  as  it  places  his  fa- 
ther's character  in  a  frightful  point  of  view  : 
I  it  is  this,  that  his  love  for  that  father  was 
i  such  as   is  rarely  witnessed,  even  in  the  pu- 
!  rest  and  most  affectionate  circles  of  domestic 
I  life.     But  let  not  our  readers  infer,  either 
fi-om  what   we  have  written,  or   from   any 
j  thing  we  may  write,  that  Fardorougha  hated 
this  lovely  and  delightful  boy  ;  on  the  con- 
,  trar}',  earth  contained  not  an  object,  except 
I  his  money,  which  he  loved  so  well.      His  af- 


198 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


fection  for  him,  however,  was  only  such  as 
could  proceed  from  the  dregs  of  a  defiled 
and  perverted  hetu-t.  This  is  not  saying 
much,  but  it  is  saying  all.  What  in  him  was 
pai'ental  attachment,  would  in  another  man, 
to  such  a  sou,  be  unfeeling  and  detestable 
indifference.  His  heart  sank  on  coutemi)lat- 
ing  the  jDittance  he  allowed  for  Connor's  ed- 
ucation ;  and  no  remonstrance  could  prevail 
on  him  to  clothe  the  bo^^  with  common  de- 
cency. Pocket-money  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, as  were  all  those  considei-ate  indulgen- 
ces to  youth,  that  blunt,  when  timely  afford- 
ed, the  edge  of  eai'ly  anxiety  to  know  those 
amusements  of  life,  which,  if  not  innocently 
gi-atified  before  passion  gets  strong,  are  apt 
to  produce,  at  a  later  period,  that  giddy  in- 
toxication, which  has  been  the  destruction  of 
thousands.  Wlien  Connor,  however,  grew 
up,  and  began  to  think  for  himself,  he  could 
not  helj)  feeling  that,  fi-om  a  man  so  abso- 
lutely devoted  to  wealth  as  his  father 
was,  to  receive  even  the  slenderest  proof 
of  affection,  was  in  this  case  no  common 
manifestation  of  the  attachment  he  bore  him. 
There  was  still  a  higher  and  nobler  motive. 
He  could  not  close  his  ears  to  the  character 
which  had  gone  abroad  of  his  father,  and 
fi'om  that  princij)le  of  generosity,  which  in- 
duces a  man,  even  when  ignorant  of  the 
quarrel,  to  take  the  weaker  side,  he  fought 
his  battles,  until,  in  the  end,  he  began  to 
believe  them  just.  But  the  most  obvious 
cause  of  the  son's  attachment  we  have  not 
mentioned,  and  it  is  useless  to  travel  in- 
to vain  disquisitions,  for  that  truth  which 
may  be  found  in  the  instinctive  impulses 
of  natui-e.  He  was  Connor's  father,  and 
though  penurious  in  everything  that  re- 
garded even  his  son's  common  comfort,  he 
had  never  uttered  a  harsh  word  to  him  dur- 
ing his  life,  or  denied  him  any  gratification 
which  could  be  had  without  money.  Nay, 
a  kind  word,  or  a  kind  glance,  from  Fardo- 
rougha,  fired  the  son's  resentment  against 
the  world  which  traduced  him  ;  for  how 
could  it  be  otherwise,  when  the  habitual 
defence  made  by  him,  when  arraigned  for 
his  penury,  was  an  anxiety  to  jarovide  for 
the  futiu'e  welfare  and  independence  of  his 
son? 

Many  characters  in  life  appear  difficult  to 
be  understood,  but  if  those  who  wish  to 
analyze  them  only  consulted  human  nature, 
instead  of  rushing  into  far-fetched  theories, 
and  traced  with  patience  the  effect  which  in- 
terest, or  liabit,  or  inclination  is  apt  to  pro- 
duce on  men  of  a  peculiar  temperament, 
when  placed  in  certain  situations,  there 
would  be  much  less  difficulty  in  avoiding 
those  preposterous  exhibitions  which  run 
into  caiicature,  or  outrage  the  wildest  com- 


binations that  can  be  formed  from  the  com- 
mon elements  of  humanity. 

Having  said  this  much,  we  will  beg  our 
readers  to  suppose  that  yOung  Connor  is 
now  twenty-two  yeai'S  of  age,  and  request 
them,  besides,  to  prepare  for  the  gloom 
which  is  about  to  overshadow  our  story. 

We  have  already  stated  that  Fardorougha 
was  not  only  an  extortioner,  but  a  iisurer. 
Now,  as  some  of  our  readers  may  be  sur- 
prised that  a  man  in  his  station  of  life  could 
practise  usuiy  or  even  extortion  to  any  con- 
siderable extent,  we  feel  it  necessary  to  in- 
form them  that  there  exists  among  L-ish 
farmers  a  class  of  men  who  stand,  with  re- 
spect to  the  surrounding  poor  and  improv- 
ident, in  a  position  precisely  analogous  to 
that  which  is  occupied  by  a  Jew  or  money- 
lender among  those  in  the  higher  classes 
who  borrow,  and  are  extravagant  upon  a 
larger  scale.  If,  for  instance,  a  struggling 
small  farmer  have  to  do  with  a  needy  land- 
lord or  an  unfeeling  agent,  who  threatens  to 
seize  or  eject,  if  the  rent  be  not  paid  to  the 
day,  perhaps  this  small  farmer  is  forced  to 
borrow  from  one  of  those  rustic  Jews  the 
full  amount  of  the  gale  ;  for  this  he  gives 
him,  at  a  valuation  dictated  by  the  lender's 
avarice  and  his  own  distress,  the  oats,  or 
potatoes,  or  hay,  which  he  is  not  able  to  dis- 
pose of  in  sufficient  time  to  meet  the  demand 
that  is  upon  him.  This  property,  the  miser 
draws  home,  and  stacks  or  houses  it  until 
the  markets  are  high,  when  he  disposes  of 
it  at  a  price  which  often  secures  for  him  a 
l^rofit  amounting  to  one-third,  and  occa- 
sionall}'  one-half,  above  the  sum  lent,  upon 
which,  in  the  meantime,  interest  is  accumu- 
lating. For  instance,  if  the  accommodation 
be  twenty  pounds,  property  to  that  amount 
at  a  rainous  valuation  is  brought  home  by 
the  accommodator.  This  perhaps  sells  for 
thirty,  thirty-five,  or  forty  jjoimds,  so  that, 
deducting  the  labor  of  preparing  it  for  mar- 
ket, there  is  a  gain  of  fifty,  seventy-five,  or  a 
hundred  per  cent.,  besides,  probably,  ten 
per  cent,  interest,  which  is  altogether  dis- 
tinct from  the  former.  This  class  of  per-, 
sons  will  also  take  a  joint  bond,  or  joint 
promissory  note,  or,  in  fact,  any  collateral 
security  they  know  to  be  valid,  and  if  the 
contract  be  not  fulfilled,  they  immediately 
pounce  upon  the  guarantee.  They  will,  in 
fact,  as  a  mark  of  their  anxiety  to  assist  a 
neighbor  in  distress,  receive  a  pig  from  a 
widow,  or  a  cow  fi'om  a  struggUng  small 
farmer,  at  thirtj'^  or  forty  jjer  cent,  beneath 
its  value,  and  claim  the  merit  of  being  a 
friend  into  the  bargain.  Such  men  are  bit- 
ter enemies  to  i:)aper  money,  especially  to 
notes  issued  by  private  bankers,  which  they 
never  take  in  payment.     It  is  amusing,  if  a 


FARDOROUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


lOG 


k 


person  could  forget  the  distress  which  oc- 
casions the  scene,  to  observe  one  of  these 
men  producing  an  old  stocking,  or  a  long 
black  leathern  purse — or  a  calf-skin  pocket- 
book  with  tlie  hair  on,  and  counting  down,  as 
if  he  gave  out  his  heart's  blood  drop  by  drop, 
the  specific  sum,  uttering,  at  the  same  time, 
a  most  lugubrious  history  of  his  own  pov- 
erty, and  assuring  the  poor  wretch  he  is 
fleecing,  that  if  he  (the  miser)  gives  way  to 
his  good  nature,  he  must  ultinjately  become 
the  victim  of  his  own  benevolence.  In  no 
case,  however,  do  they  ever  put  more  in  the 
purse  or  stocking  than  is  just  then  wanted, 
and  sometimes  they  will  be  short  a  guinea 
or  ten  shillings,  which  they  borrow  from  a 
neighbor,  or  remit  to  the  unfortunate  dupe 
in  the  course  of  the  day.  This  they  do  in 
order  to  enhance  the  obligation,  and  give  a 
distinct  proof  of  their  poverty.  Let  not, 
therefore,   the  gentlemen  of  the  Minories, 

nor   our   P s   and   our  M s   nearer 

home,  imagine  for  a  moment  that  they  en- 
gross the  spirit  of  rapacity  and  extortion  to 
themselves.  To  the  credit  of  the  class,  how- 
ever, to  which  they  l:>elong,  such  persons  are 
not  so  numerous  as  formerly,  and  to  the  still 
greater  honor  of  the  peasantry  be  it  said, 
the  devil  himself  is  not  hated  with  half  the 
detestation  which  is  borne  them.  In  order 
that  the  reader  may  understand  our  motive 
for  introducing  such  a  description  as  that 
we  have  now  given,  it  will  be  necessary'  for 
us  to  request  him  to  accompany  a  stout,  well- 
set  young  man,  named  J-5;utlc  I'lanagan,  along 
a  green  ditch,  which,  planted  with  osiers, 
leads  to  a  small  meadow  belonging  to  Far- 
dorouglia  Donovan.  In  this  meadow,  his 
son  Connor  is  now  making  hay,  and  on  see- 
ing Flanagan  approach,  he  re.sts  upon  the 
top  of  hLs  rake,  and  exclaims  in  a  sohl- 
oquy  :— 

"  God  help  you  and  yours,  Bartle  !  If  it 
was  in  my  power,  I  take  God  to  witness,  I'd 
make  up  wid  a  willin'  heart  for  all  the  hard- 
ship and  misfortune  my  father  brought  upon 
you  all." 

He  then  resumed  his  labor,  in  order  that 
the  meeting  between  him  and  Bartle  might 
take  jjlace  with  less  embarrassment,  for  he 
saw  at  once  that  the  former  was  about  to 
speak  to  him. 

"Isn't  the  weather  too  hot,  Connor,  to 
work  bareheaded  ?  I  think  you  ought  to 
keep  on  your  hat." 

"Bartle,  how  ai-e  you? — off  or  on,  it's  the 
iSame  thing ;  hat  or  no  hat,  it's  broilin' 
weather,  the  Lord  be  praised  !  What  news, 
Bartle?" 

"  Not  much,  Connor,  but  what  you  know 

a  family  that  Avas  strugglin',  but  honest, 
brought  to  dissolation.     We're  broken  up  ; 


my  father  and  mother's  both  liAdn'  in  a  cabis 
they  tuck  from  Billy  Nuthy ;  Mary  and 
Alick's  gone  to  sarvice,  and  myself "s  just  on 
my  way  to  hire  wid  the  last  man  I  ought  to 
go  to — your  father,  that  is,  supposin'  we  can 
agree." 

"  As  heaven's  above  me,  Bai-tle,  there's  not 
a  man  in  the  county  this  day  sorrier  for 
what  has  happened  than  myself !  But  the 
truth  is,  that  when  my  father  heard  of  Tom 
Grehan,  that  was  your  security,  havin'  gone 
to  America,  he  thought  every  day  a  month 
till  the  note  was  due.  My  mother  an'  I  did 
all  we  could,  but  you  know  his  temper; 
'twas  no  use.  God  knows,  as  I  said  before, 
I'm  heart  sorry  for  it." 

"  Every  one  knows,  Connor,  that  if  your 
mother  an'  you  had  your  way  an'  will,  your 
father  wouldn't  be  sich  a  screw  as  he  is." 

"In  the  meantime,  don't  forget  that  he 
is  my  father,  Bartle,  an'  aVjove  all  things,  re- 
mimber  that  I'll  allow  no  man  to  speak  dis- 
pai'agingly  of  him  in  my  jiresence." 

"  I  believe  you'll  allow,  Connor,  that  he 
was  a  scourge  an'  a  curse  to  us,  an'  that  none 
of  us  ought  to  like  a  bone  in  his  skin." 

"  It  couldn't  be  expected  you  would,  Bar- 
tle ;  but  you  must  grant,  after  all,  that  he 
Avas  only  recoverin'  his  own.  Still,  when  you 
know  what  my  feeling  is  upon  the  business, 
I  don't  think  it's  generous  in  you  to  bring  it 
uj)  between  us." 

"I  could  bear  his  liarrishin'  us  out  of 
house  an'  home,"  proceeded  the  other,  "  only 
for  one  thought  that  still  crasses  in  an 
me." 

"Wliat  is  that,  Bartle?— God  knows  \ 
can't  help  feelin'  for  you,"  he  added,  smote 
with  the  desolation  which  his  father  had 
brought  ujion  the  family. 

"He  lent  us  forty  pounds,"  j^roceeded  the 
young  man  ;  "  and  when  he  found  tliat  Tom 
Grehan,  our  security,  went  to  America,  he 
came  down  upon  us  the  minute  the  note  was 
due,  canted  all  we  had  at  half  price,  and 
turned  us  to  starve  upon  the  world  ;  now,  I 
could  bear  that,  but  there's  one  thing " 

"  That's  twice  you  spoke  about  that  one 
thing,"  said  Connor,  somewhat  shaii^ly,  for 
he  felt  hurt  at  the  obstinacy  of  the  other,  in 
continuing  a  subject  so  distressing  to  him  ; 
"  but,"  he  continued,  in  a  milder  tone,  "  tell 
me,  Bartle,  for  goodness'  sake,  what  it  is, 
an'  let  us  put  an'  end  to  the  discoorse.  I'm 
sure  it  must  be  unpleasant  to  both  of  us." 

"It  doesn't  signify,"  rci^lied  the  young 
man,  in  a  desponding  voice — "  .s/te'.s  gone  ; 
it's  all  over  wid  me  there  ;  I'm  a  beggar — 
I'm  a  beggar ! " 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  taking  his  hand, 
"you're  too  much  downhearted  ;  come  to 
us,  but  first  go  to  my  father  ;  I  know  you'L' 


200 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


find  it  hard  to  deal  with  him.  Never  mind 
that  ;  whatever  he  offers  you,  close  vddi  him, 
an'  take  my  word  for  it  that  my  mother  and 
I  between  us  will  make  you  uj)  dacent  wages  ; 
an'  sorry  I  am  that  it's  come  to  this  wid  you, 
poor  fellow ! " 

Bai'tle's  cheek  gi'ew  ptde  as  ashes ;  he 
wrung  Connor's  hand  with  aU  his  force,  and 
fixed  an  unshi-inking  eye  on  him  as  he  re- 
phed — 

"  Thank  you  Connor,  now — but  I  hope 
III  live  to  thank  you  better  yet,  and  if  I  do, 
you  needn't  thank  me  for  any  retiu-n  I 
may  make  you  or  youi's.  I  will  close  wid 
youi"  father,  an'  take  whatsomever  he'U  or- 
der me  ;  for,  Connor,"  and  he  Avi-ung  his 
hand  again — "  Connor  O'Donovan,  I  haven't 
a  house  or  home  this  day,  nor  a  place  under 
God's  canopy  where  to  lay  my  head,  except 
upon  the  damp  floor  of  my  father's  naked 
cabin.  Think  of  that,  Connor,  an'  think  if  I 
can  forget  it ;  still,"  he  added,  "you'll  see, 
Connor — Connor,  xjoull  see  how  I'll  forgive 
it." 

"It's  a  credit  to  yourseK  to  spake  as  you 
do,"  repHed  Connor  ;  "  call  this  way,  an'  let 
me  know  what's  done,  an'  I  hope,  Bartle, 
you  an'  I  will  have  some  pleasant  days  to- 
gether." 

"  Ay,  an'  pleasant  nights,  too,  I  hope,"  re- 
plied the  other :  "  to  be  sure  I'll  call ;  but  if 
you  take  my  ad\dce,  you'd  tie  a  handkerchy 
about  your  head  ;  it's  mad  hot,  an'  enough 
to  give  one  a  faver  bareheaded." 

Having  made  this  last  observation,  he 
leaped  across  a  small  drain  that  bounded  the 
meadow,  and  proceeded  up  the  fields  to  Far- 
dorougha's  hou.se. 

Bartle  Flanagan  was  a  young  man,  about 
five  feet  six  in  height,  but  of  a  remarkably 
compact  and  athletic  form.  His  complexion 
was  dark,  but  his  countenance  ojDen,  and  his 
features  well  set  and  regular.  Indeed  his 
whole  appearance  might  be  termed  bland 
and  prepossessing.  If  he  ever  appeared  to 
disadvantage  it  was  whilst  under  the  in- 
fluence of  resentment,  dui-ing  which  his  face 
became  pale  as  death,  nay,  almost  livid  ;  and, 
as  his  brows  were  strong  and  black,  the  con- 
trast between  them  and  his  complexion 
changed  the  whole  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance into  that  of  a  person  whose  enmity  a 
prudent  man  would  avoid.  He  was  not  quar- 
relsome, however,  nor  subject  to  any  impetu- 
ous bursts  of  passion  ;  his  resentments,  if  he 
retained  any,  were  either  dead  or  silent,  or, 
at  aU  events,  so  well  regulated  that  his  ac- 
quaintances looked  upon  him  as  a  young 
fellow  of  a  good-humored  and  fi-iendly  dis- 
position. It  is  true,  a  hint  had  gone  abroad 
that  on  one  or  two  occasions  he  was  found 
Jf^ficient  in  courage  ;  but,  as  the  circumstan- 


ces referred  to  were  rather  unimportant,  his 
conduct  by  many  was  attributed  rather  to 
good  sense  and  a  disinclination  to  quarrel  on 
frivolous  gi'ouuds,  than  to  positive  cowardice. 
Such  he  was,  and  such  he  is,  now  that  he 
has  entered  upon  the  humble  di-ama  of  our 
story. 

On  ari'i\ing  at  Fardorougha's  house,  he 
found  that  worthy  man  at  dinner,  upon  a 
cold  bone  of  bacon  and  potatoes.  He  had 
only  a  few  moments  before  returned  from 
the  residence  of  the  County  Treasurer,  with 
whom  he  went  to  lodge,  among  other  sums, 
that  which  was  so  iniquitously  MTung  from 
the  iniin  of  the  Flanagans.  It  would  be  wrong 
to  say  that  he  felt  in  an}'  degree  emban-assed 
on  looking  into  the  face  of  one  whom  he  had 
so  oppressively  injured.  The  recovery  of  his 
usuiious  debts,  no  matter  how  merciless  the 
process,  he  considered  only  as  an  act  of  jus- 
tice to  himself,  for  his  conscience  having  long 
ago  outgrown  the  pei'ception  of  his  own  in- 
humanity, now  only  felt  compunction  when 
death  or  the  occasional  insolvency  of  a  se- 
curity defeated  his  rajDacity. 

When  Bartle  entered,  Fardorougha  and  he 
surveyed  each  other  with  perfect  coolness 
for  nearly  half  a  minute,  during  which  time 
neither  uttered  a  word.  The  silence  was 
first  broken  by  Honora,  "\\ho  put  forward  a 
chair,  and  asked  Flanagan  to  sit  down. 

"Sit  down,  Bartle,"  said  she,  "  sit  down, 
boy  ;  an'  how  is  aU  the  family  ?  " 

"  'Deed,  can't  complain,"  rephed  Bartle, 
"  as  time  goes  ;  an'  how  are  you,  Fardorou- 
gha? although  I  needn't  ax — you're  takin' 
care  of  number  one,  any  how." 

"I'm  middlin',  Bartle,  middlin';  as  well  as 
a  man  can  be  that  has  his  heart  broke  every 
day  in  the  year  strivin'  to  come  by  his  own, 
an'  can't  do  it ;  but  I'm  a  fool,  an'  ever  was 
— saiwin'  others  an'  ruinin'  myself." 

"Bartle,"  said  Mrs.  Donovan,  "are  you 
unweU,  dear?  you  look  as  pale  as  death. 
Let  me  get  you  a  drink  of  fresh  milk." 

"  If  he's  weak,"  said  Fardorougha,  "an' he 
looks  weak,  a  drink  of  fi'esh  wather  'ud  be 
betther  for  him  ;  ever  an'  always  a  drink  of 
wather  for  a  weak  man,  or  a  weak  woman 
aither  ;  it  recovers  them  sooner." 

"Thank  you,  kindly,  Mrs.  Donovan,  an' 
I'm  obliged  to  you,  Fardoroiagha,  for  the 
wather  ;  but  I'm  not  a  bit  weak  ;  it's  only  the 
heat  o'  the  day  ails  me — for  siu-e  enough  it's 
broilin'  weather." 

"  'Deed  it  is,"  replied  Honora,  "  killin' 
weather  to  them  that  has  to  be  out  undher 
it." 

"  If  it's  good  for  nothin'  else,  it's  good  foi 
the  hay-makin',"  obsei'ved  Fardorougha. 

"  I'm  tould,  Misther  Donovan,"  said  Bartle, 
"  that  you  want  a  sarvint  man  :  now,  if  you 


FARDOIWDGHA,   TEE  MISER. 


201 


do,  I  want  a  place,  an'  you  see  I'm  comin'  to 
you  to  look  lor  one." 

"  Heaven  above,  Bartle  !  "  exclaimed  Hon- 
ora,  "what  do  you  mean  ?  Is  it  one  of  Dan 
Flanagan's  sons  goin'  to  sarvice  ?  " 

"  Not  one,  but  all  of  them,"  replied  the 
other,  coolly,  "  an'  his  daughters,  too,  IMrs. 
Donovan  ;  but  it's  aU  the  way  o'  the  world. 
If  Mr.  Donovan  'U  hire  me  I'U  thank  him." 

"  Don't  be  Mistherin'  me,  Bartle  ;  IVIisther 
them  that  has  means  an'  substance,"  returned 
Donovan. 

"  Oh,  God  forgive  you,  Fardorougha ! "  ex- 
claimed his  honest  and  humane  wife.  "  God 
forgive  you  !  Bartle,  from  my  heart,  from  the 
core  o'  my  heart,  I  pity  you,  my  poor  boy. 
An'  is  it  to  this,  Fardoi'ougha,  you've  brought 
them  ? — Oh,  Saviour  o'  the  world  !  " 

She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  victim  of  her 
husband's  extortion,  and  in  an  instant  they 
were  filled  with  tears. 

""What  did  I  do,"  said  the  latter,  "but 
strive  to  recover  my  own  ?  How  cotdd  I  af- 
ford to  lose  forty  pounds  ?  An'  I  was  tould 
for  sai'tin  that  youi'  father  knew  Grehan  was 
goin'  to  Ameriky  when  he  got  him  to  go  se- 
curity. Wliisht,  Honora,  you're  as  foolish  a 
wom:m  as  riz  this  day  ;  haven't  you  your  sins 
to  cry  for  ?  " 

"  God  knows  I  have,  Fardorougha,  an' more 
than  my  own  to  cry  for." 

"  I  dare  say  you  did  hear  as  much,"  said 
Bartle,  quietly  replying  io  the  observation  of 
Fardorougha  respecting  his  father  ;  "  but  you 
know  it's  a  folly  to  talk  about  spilt  milk.  If 
you  want  a  sarvint  I'll  liii-tj  ;  for,  as  I  said  a 
while  ago,  /  want  a  place,  an'  except  wid  jo\x 
I  don't  know  where  to  get  one." 

"If  you  come  to  me,"  obsen-ed  the  other, 
"  you  must  go  to  your  duty,  an'  observe  the 
fast  days,  but  not  the  holydays." 

"  Sarvint s  isn't  obliged  to  obsarve  them," 
replied  Bartle. 

"  But  I  always  put  it  in  the  bargain,"  re- 
turned the  other. 

"  As  to  that,"  said  Bartle,  "  t  don't  much 
mind  it.  Sui-e  it'U  be  for  the  good  o'  my 
sowl,  any  way.  But  what  wages  will  you  be 
givin'  ?  " 

"  Thirty  shiUinga  every  half  year ; — that's 
three  pounds  — sixty  shillings  a  year.  A  great 
deal  o'  money.  I'm  sui'e  I  dunna  where  it's 
to  come  fi'om." 

"It's  veiy  httle  for  a  yeai-'s  hard  labor," 
repHed  Bartle,  "but  httle  as  it  is,  Fardo- 
rougha, owin'  to  what  has  happened  bet-nixt 
us,  believe  me,  I'm  right  glad  to  take  it." 

"Well,  but  Bartle,  you  know  there's  fif- 
teen shilhns  of  the  ould  account  still  due, 
and  you  must  allow  it  out  o'  yovu:  wages  ;  if 
you  don't,  it's  no  bargain." 

Bartle's  face  became   hvid ;   but   he  was 


perfectly  cool ; — indeed,  so  much  so  ihat  he 
smiled  at  this  last  condition  of  Fardorou- 
gha. It  was  a  smile,  however,  at  once  so 
ghastly,  dark,  and  frightful,  that,  by  any 
person  capable  of  tracing  the  secret  work- 
ings of  some  deadly  passion  on  the  counte- 
nance, its  purport  could  not  have  been  mis- 
taken. 

"  God  knows,  Fardorougha,  you  might 
let  that  pass — considher  that  you've  been 
hard  enough  upon  us." 

"  God  knows  I  say  the  same,"  observed 
Honora.  "  Is  it  the  last  drop  o'  the  heart's 
blood  you  want  to  squeeze  out,  Fardo- 
rougha ?  " 

"  The  last  drop !  What  is  it  but  my 
i-ight?  Am  I  robbin'  him?  Isn't  it  due? 
Will  he,  or  can  he  deny  Ihat  ?  An'  if  it's  due 
isn't  it  but  honest  in  him  to  pay  it  ?  They're 
not  hvin'  can  saj'  I  ever  defi-auded  them  of 
a  penny.  I  never  broke  a  bargain  ;  an'  yet 
you  open  on  me,  Honora,  as  if  I  was  a 
rogue  !  If  I  hadn't  that  boy  below  to  provide 
for,  an'  settle  in  the  world,  what  'ud  I  care 
about  money  ?  It's  for  his  sake  I  look  afther 
my  right." 

"  I'll  aUow  the  money, "  said  Bartle. 
"  Faixlorougha's  right  ;  it's  due,  an'  I"U  pay 
him — ay  wiU  I,  Fardorougha,  settle  wid  you 
to  the  last  farden,  or  beyant  it  if  you  like." 

"  I  woiildn't  take  a  farden  beyant  it,  in 
the  shape  of  debt.  Them  that's  decent 
enough  to  make  a  present,  may — for  that's 
a  horse  of  another  color." 

"  When  wiU  I  come  home  ? "  inquired 
Bartle. 

"You  may  stay  at  home  now  that  you're 
here,"  said  the  other.  "  An'  in  the  mane 
time,  go  an'  heljD  Connor  put  that  hay  in 
lap-cocks.  Anj-thing  you  want  to  biing  here 
you  can  bring  afther  your  day's  work  to- 
night." 

"Did  you  ate  your  dinner,  Bartle.?"  said 
Honora  ;  '•  bekase  if  you  didn't  I'll  get  you 
something." 

"  It's  not  to  this  time  o'  day  he'd  be 
without  his  dimier,  I  supjjose,"  observed  his 
new  master. 

"  You're  very  right,  Faixlorougha,''  re- 
joined Bartle  ;  "I'm  thankful  to  you,  ma'am, 
I  did  ate  my  dinner." 

"Well,  you'll  get  a  rake  in  the  bam,  Bar- 
tle," said  his  master  ;  "  an'  now  tramp  do\^T3 
to  Connor,  an'  I'U  see  how  you'll  handle  your- 
selves, both  o'  you,  fi"om  this  till  night." 

Bartle  accordingly  proceeded  towai'ds  the 
meadow,  and  Fardorougha,  as  was  his  cus- 
tom, throwing  his  gi-eat  coat  loosely  about 
his  shoulders,  the  arms  dangling  on  each 
side  of  him,  proceeded  to  another  jDart  of 
his  farm. 

Flanagan's  step,  on  his  way  to  join  Con- 


202 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


nor,  was  slow  and  meditative.  The  kindness 
ot  the  son  and  mother  touched  him  :  for  the 
line  between  their  disposition  and  Fardo- 
rougha's  was  too  strong  and  clear  to  allow 
the  shghtest  suspicion  of  their  participation 
in  the  spirit  which  regulated  his  life.  The 
father,  however,  had  just  declared  that  his 
anxiety  to  accumulate  money  arose  fi'om  a 
wish  to  settle  his  son  independently  in  hfe  ; 
and  Flanagan  was  too  slightly  acquainted 
with  human  character  to  see  through  this 
flimsy  apolog;^  for  extortion.  He  took  it 
for  granted  that  Fardorougha  si:)oke  truth, 
and  his  resolution  received  a  bias  fi'om  the 
impression,  which,  however,  his  better  na- 
tm'e  determined  to  subdue.  In  this  uncer- 
tain state  of  mind  he  turned  about  almost 
instinctively,  to  look  in  the  direction  which 
Fai'dorougha  had  taken,  and  as  he  obsei'ved 
his  diminutive  figure  creeping  along  with 
his  gi'eat  coat  about  him,  he  felt  that  the 
very  sight  of  the  man  who  had  broken  up 
theu'  hearth  and  scattered  them  on  the 
world,  filled  his  heart  with  a  deep  and  dead- 
ly animosity  that  occasioned  him  to  pause  as 
a  person  would  do  who  finds  himself  unex- 
pectedly upon  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 

Connor,  on  seeing  him  enter  the  meadow 
with  the  rake,  knew  at  once  that  the  terms 
had  been  concluded  between  them  ;  and  the 
excellent  young  man's  heart  was  deeply 
moved  at  the  destitution  which  forced  Flan- 
agan to  seek  for  service  with  the  veiy  indi- 
vidual who  had  occasioned  it. 

"  I  see,  Bartle,"  said  he,  "  you  have  agreed." 

"  We  have,"  replied  Bartle.  "  But  if  there 
had  been  any  other  place  to  be  got  in  the 
parish — (an'  indeed  only  for  the  state  I'm  in) 
— I  wouldn't  have  hired  myself  to  him  for 
nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  as  I  have  done." 

"  ^Miy,  what  did  he  promise  ?  " 

' '  Three  pounds  a  year,  an'  out  o'  that  I'm 
to  pay  liim  fifteen  shillings  that  my  father 
owes  him  still." 

"  Close  enough,  Bartle,  but  don't  be  cast 
down  ;  I'll  undertake  that  my  mother  an'  I 
will  double  it — an'  as  for  the  fifteen  shillings 
I'U  pay  them  out  o'  my  own  pocket — when  I 
get  money.  I  needn't  tell  you  that  we're  all 
kept  upon  the  tight  crib,  and  that  Httle  cash 
goes  far  with  us  ;  for  all  that,  we'U  do  what  I 
promise,  go  as  it  may." 

"  It  s  more  than  I  ought  to  expect,  Connor  ; 
but  j-ourself  and  your  mother,  all  the  coun- 
tlxry  would  put  their  hands  undher  both  your 
feets." 

"I  would  give  a  great  dale,  Bartle,  that 
my  poor  father  had  a  little  of  the  feehn'  that's 
in  ray  mother's  heart ;  but  it's  his  way, 
Bartle,  an'  you  know  he's  my  father,  an'  has 
been  kinder  to  me  than  to  any  livin'  creature 
on  this  earth.     I  never  got  a  harsh  word  from 


him  yet.  An'  if  he  kept  me  stinted  in  manj 
things  that  I  was  entitled  to  as  well  as  othei 
persons  like  me,  still,  Bartle,  he  loves  me,  an' 
I  can't  but  feel  gi-eat  affection  for  him,  love 
the  money  as  he  may." 

This  was  spoken  with  much  seriousness  of 
manner  not  unmingled  with  somewhat  of 
regret,  if  not  sorrow.  Bartle  fixed  his  eye 
upon  the  fine  face  of  his  companion,  with  a 
look  in  which  there  was  a  character  of  com- 
passion. His  countenance,  however,  while 
he  gazed  on  him,  maintained  his  natural 
color — it  was  not  pale. 

"I  am  sorry,  Connor,"  said  he  slowly,  "I 
am  sori-y  that  I  hii-ed  with  your  father." 

"An' I'm  glad  of  it,"  repHed  the  other; 
"  why  should  you  be  sony  ?  " 

Bartle  made  no  answer  for  some  time,  but 
looked  into  the  ground,  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  him. 

"Why  should  you  be  sony,  Bartle? " 

Nearty  a  minute  elaj^sed  before  his  al> 
straction  was  broken.  "  A^Qiat's  that  ?  "  said 
he  at  length.    "  WTaat  were  you  asking  me  ?  " 

"You  said  you  were  sorry."  • 

"Oh,  ay!"  returned  the  other,  interrupt- 
ing him  ;  "  but  I  didn'  mind  what  I  was  say- 
in'  :  'twas  thinkin'  o'  somethin'  else  I  was — 
of  home,  Bartle,  an'  what  we're  brought  to  ; 
but  the  best  way's  to  dlu'op  all  discoorse  about 
that  forever." 

"You'll  be  my  fiiend  if  you  do/'  said 
Connor. 

"I  will,  then,"  replied  Bartle;  "we'll 
change  it.     Connor,  were  you  ever  in  love  ?  " 

O'Donovan  turned  quickly  about,  and, 
with  a  keen  glance  at  Bartle,  rephed, 

"  Wliy,  I  don't  know  ;  I  believe  I  might, 
once  or  so." 

"lam,"  said  Flanagan,  bitterly;  "I  an\ 
Connor." 

"An'  who's  the  happy  cratm-e,  will  youteU 
us?" 

"  No,"  returned  the  other  ;  "  but  if  there's 
a  wish  that  I'd  make  against  my  worst  ene- 
my, 'twould  be,  that  he  might  love  a  girl 
above  his  means  ;  or  if  he  was  her  aquil,  or 
even    near    her    aquil,    that   he   might    be 

brought" he   paused,    but   immediately 

proceeded,  "  Well,  no  matter,  I  am,  indeed, 
Connor." 

"  An'  is  the  girl  fond  o'  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  ;  my  mind  was  made  up  to 
tell  her  but  it's  past  that  now  ;  I  know  she's 
wealthy  and  proud  both,  and  so  is  all  her 
family." 

"  How  do  you  know  she's  proud  when  you 
never  put  the  subject  to  her  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sayin'  she's  proud,  in  one  sinse  ; 
wid  respect  to  herself,  I  beheve,  she's  humble 
enough ;  I  mane,  she  doesn't  give  herself 
many  airs,  but  her  people's  as  proud  as  the 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


20b 


very  sarra,  an'  never  match  below  them ;  still, 
if  I'd  opportunities  of  boin'  often  in  her 
company,  I'd  not  fear  to  trust  to  a  sweet 
tongue  for  comin'  round  her." 

"Never  despair,  Bai'tle,"  said  Connor; 
"you  know  the  ould  proverb, '  a  faint  heai't ;' 
however,  settin'  the  purty  crature  aside,  who- 
ever she  is,  I  think  if  we  divided  ourselves — 
you  to  that  side,  an'  me  to  this — we'd  get 
this  hay  lapped  in  half  the  time  ;  or  do  you 
take  which  side  you  plase." 

"  It's  a  bargain,"  said  Bartle  ;  "  I  don't  care 
a  tra-mieen  ;  I'll  stay  where  I  am,  thin,  an' 
do  you  go  beyant  ;  let  us  hurry,  too,  for,  if 
I'm  not  mistaken,  it's  too  sultry  to  be  long 
without  rain,  the  sky,  too,  is  gettin'  dark." 

"  I  observed  as  much  myself,"  said  Con- 
nor ;  "  an'  that  was  what  made  me  sjjake." 

Both  then  continued  their  labor  with  re- 
doubled energ}',  nor  ceased  for  a  moment 
until  the  task  was  executed,  and  the  business 
of  the  day  concluded. 

Flanagan's  obseiwatiou  was  indeed  correct, 
as  to  the  change  in  the  day  and  the  appear- 
ance of  the  sky.  From  the  hour  of  five 
o'clock  the  darkness  gradually  deepened,  un- 
til a  dead  black  shadow,  fearfully  stiU  and 
solemn,  wrajDj)ed  the  whole  horizon.  The 
sun  had  altogether  disappeared,  and  nothing 
was  visible  in  the  sky  but  one  imbroken 
mass  of  darkness,  unrelieved  even  by  a  sin- 
gle pile  of  clouds.  The  animals,  where  they 
could,  had  betaken  themselves  to  shelter  ; 
the  fowls  of  the  air  sought  the  covert  of  the 
hedges,  and  ceased  their  songs  ;  the  larks 
fled  from  the  mid  heaven  ;  and  occasionally 
might  be  seen  a  stragghug  bee  hurrpng 
homewards,  careless  of  the  flowerS  which 
tempted  him  in  his  path,  and  only  anxious 
to  reach  his  hive  before  the  deluge  should 
overtake  him.  The  stillness  indeed  was  aw- 
ful, as  was  the  gloomy  veil  which  darkened 
the  face  of  nature,  and  filled  the  mind  with 
that  ominous  terror  which  presses  upon  the 
heart  like  a  consciousness  of  guilt.  In  such 
a  time,  and  under  the  aspect  of  a  sky  so 
much  resembhng  the  pall  of  death,  there  is 
neither  mu-th  nor  laughter,  but  that  indi- 
vidutdity  of  apiDrehension,  which,  whilst  it 
thi'ows  the  conscience  in  upon  its  own  records, 
and  suspends  conversation,  3-et  draws  man  to 
his  fellows,  as  if  mere  contiguity  were  a  safe- 
guard against  danger. 

The  conversation  between  the  two  young 
men  as  they  returned  from  their  labor,  was 
■short  but  expressive. 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  "  are  you  afeai'd  of 
thundher?  The  rason  I  ax,"  he  added,  "  is, 
bekase  your  face  is  as  white  as  a  sheet." 

"  I  have  it  from  my  mother,"  repUed  Flan- 
agan, "  but  at  all  evints  such  an  evenin'  as  this 
is  enough  to  make  the  heart  of  any  man  quake." 


"I  feel  my  spirits  low,  by  rason  of  the 
darkness,  but  I'm  not  afraid.  It's  well  for 
them  that  have  a  clear  conscience  ;  they  say 
that  a  stormy  sky  is  the  face  of  an  angry 
God " 

"An'  the  thundher  His  voice,"  added 
Bartle  ;  "  but  why  are  the  bnite  bastes  an' 
the  birds  afi*aid,  that  commit  no  sin  ?  " 

"That's  time,"  said  his  companion;  "it 
must  be  natural  to  be  afraid,  or  wh}-  would 
they  indeed  ? — but  some  people  ai-e  naturally 
more  timersome  than  others." 

"  I  intinded  to  go  home  for  my  other  clo'ea 
an'  linen  this  evenin',"  observed  Bartle,  "but 
I  won't  go  out  to-night." 

"I  must  thin,"  said  Connor;  "an',  with 
the  blessin'  o'  God,  wUl  too  ;  come  what  may." 

"  ^Vhy,  what  is  there  to  bring  you  out,  if 
it's  a  fair  question  to  ax?"  inquired  the 
other. 

"A  promise,  for  one  thing  ;  an'  my  own 
inclination — my  o^ti  heart — that's  nearer 
the  thruth — for  another.  It's  the  first  meetin' 
that  I  an'  her  I'm  goin'  to  ever  had." 

"  Thighum,  Tliighum,  I  undherstand,"  said 
Flanagan  ;  "  well,  I"U  stay  at  home  ;  but, 
siu'e  it's  no  harm  to  ^Wsh  you  success — an' 
that,  Connor,  is  more  than  /'//  ever  have 
where  I  wish  for  it  most." 

This  closed  theu-  dialogue,  and  both  en- 
tered Fardorougha's  house  in  silence. 

.  Up  until  twihght,  the  darkness  of  the  dull 
and  heavj-  sky  was  unbroken ;  but  towards 
the  west  there  was  seen  a  streak  whose  color 
could  not  be  determined  as  that  of  blood  or 
fire.  By  its  angry  look,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
sky  in  that  quarter  were  about  to  burst  forth 
in  one  awful  sweep  of  conflagration.  Con- 
nor observed  it,  and  very  correctly  antici- 
pated the  natui'e  and  consequences  of  its  ap- 
jDearance  ;  but  what  will  not  youthful  love 
dare  and  overcome?  With  an  undismayed 
heai-t  he  set  forward  on  his  journe}-,  which 
we  leave  him  to  pui'sue,  and  beg  permission, 
meanwhile,  to  transport  the  reader  to  a  scene 
distant  about  two  miles  farther  towai'da  the 
inland  part  of  the  country. 


PAET  n. 

The  dwelling  of  Bodagh  Buie  O'Brien,  to 
which  Connor  is  noAV  directing  his  steps, 
was  a  favorable  specimen  of  that  better  class 
of  farm-houses  inhabited  by  our  most  exten- 
sive and  wealthy  agi'iculturists.  It  was  a 
large,  whitewashed,  ornamentally  thatched 
building,  that  told  by  its  external  aspect  of 
the  good  hAing,  extensive  comforts,  and  sub- 
stantial opulence  which  prevailed  within. 
Stretched  before  its  hall-door  was  a  smaT 


Si04 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


lawn,  bounded  on  the  left  by  a  wall  that 
separated  it  from  the  farmyard  into  which 
the  kitchen  door  opened.  Here  were  stacks 
of  hay,  oats,  and  wheat,  all  upon  an  immense 
scale,  both  as  to  size  and  number  ;  together 
with  threshing  and  winno\Ning  machines, 
improved  ploughs,  carts,  cai'S,  and  all  the 
other  modern  imj^lements  of  an  extensive 
farm.  Very  cheering,  indeed,  was  the  din 
of  industry  that  ai'ose  from  the  clank  of  ma- 
chineiy,  the  grunting  of  hogs,  the  cackling 
of  geese,  the  quacking  of  ducks,  and  all  the 
vai'ious  other  sounds  which  proceeded  from 
what  at  first  sight  might  have  aj^peared  to 
be  rather  a  scene  of  confusion,  but  which, 
on  closer  inspection,  would  be  found  a  rough 
yet  well-regulated  system,  in  which  eveiy 
person  had  an  allotted  duty  to  perform. 
Here  might  Bodagh  Buie  be  seen,  dressed 
in  a  gray  broad-cloth  coat,  broad  kerseymere 
breeches,  and  lambs'  wool  stockings,  moving 
from  p. ace  to  place  AAith  that  calm,  sedate, 
and  contented  air,  which  betokens  an  easy 
mind  and  a  consciousness  of  possessing  a 
more  than  ordinary  share  of  proj^erty  and 
influence.  With  hands  thrust  into  his  small- 
clothes pockets,  and  a  bunch  of  gold  seals 
suspended  from  his  fob,  he  issued  his  orders 
in  a  grave  and  quiet  tone,  diffeiiag  very  httle 
in  dress  fi-om  an  absolute  Squireen,  save  in 
the  fact  of  his  Caroline  hat  being  rather 
scuffed,  and  his  strong  shoes  begrimed  with 
the  soil  of  his  fields  or  farm-j'ard.  Mrs. 
O'Brien  was,  out  of  the  sphere  of  her  own 
family,  a  person  of  much  greater  pretension 
than  the  Bodagh  her  husband  ;  and,  though 
in  a  different  manner,  not  less  so  in  the  dis- 
charge of  her  duty  as  a  wife,  a  mother,  or  a 
mistress.  In  appearance,  she  was  a  large, 
fat,  good-looking  woman,  eternally  in  a  state 
of  motion  and  biistle,  and,  as  her  education 
had  been  extremely  scanty,  her  tone  and 
manner,  though  brimful  of  authority  and 
consequence,  were  strongly  mai'ked  "ttdth 
that  ludicrous  vulgarity  which  is  produced 
by  the  attempt  of  an  ignorant  person  to  ac- 
compHsh  a  high  style  of  gentihty.  She  was 
a  kind-hearted,  charitable  woman,  however  ; 
but  so  inveterately  conscious  of  her  station 
in  life,  that  it  became,  in  her  opinion,  a  mat- 
ter of  duty  to  exhibit  a  refinement  and  ele- 
vation of  language  suitable  to  a  matron  who 
could  drive  eveiy  Sunday  to  Mass  on  her 
own  jaunting  car.  When  dressed  on  these 
occasions  in  her  rich  rustling  silks,  she  had, 
what  is  called  in  L-eland,  a  comfortable 
flaghoola  look,  but  at  the  same  time  a  car- 
riage so  stiff"  and  i*ustic,  as  utterly  overcame 
all  her  attempts,  dictated  as  they  were  by 
the  simplest  vanity,  at  enacting  the  arduous 
and  awful  chai'acter  of  a  Squireen's  wife. 
Theix  family  consisted  of  a  sou  and  daughter ; 


the  former,  a  young  man  of  a  very  amiabla 
disposition,  was,  at  the  present  period  ol 
our  story,  a  student  in  Maynooth  College, 
and  the  latter,  now  in  her  nineteenth  year, 
a  promising  pupil  in  a  certam  seminaiy  for 
young  ladies,  conducted  by  that  notorious 
Master  of  Ai'ts,  Little  Cupid.  Oona,  or 
Una,  O'Brien,  was  in  truth  a  most  fascinat- 
ing and  heantiinl  brunette ;  tall  in  stature, 
light  and  agile  in  all  her  motions,  cheerful 
and  sweet  in  temper,  but  with  just  as  much 
of  that  winning  caprice,  as  was  necessary  to 
give  zest  and  piquancy  to  her  whole  charac- 
ter. Though  tall  and  slender,  her  person 
was  by  no  means  thin  ;  on  the  contrary',  her 
hmbs  and  figure  were  very  gracefully  round- 
ed, and  gave  promise  of  that  agreeable  ful- 
ness, beneath  or  beyond  which  no  perfect 
model  of  female  proportion  can  exist.  If 
our  readers  could  get  one  glance  at  the  hue 
of  her  rich  cheek,  or  faU  for  a  moment  under 
the  power  of  her  black  mellow  eye,  or  wit- 
ness the  beauty  of  her  white  teeth,  while 
her  face  beamed  with  a  jirofusion  of  dim- 
ples, or  saw  her  while  in  the  act  of  shaking 
out  her  invincible  locks,  ere  she  bound  them 
up  with  her  white  and  dehcate  hands — then, 
indeed,  might  they  understand  wh}'  no  war 
of  the  elements  could  jDrevent  Connor  O'- 
Donovan  fi'om  risking  life  and  hmb  sooner 
than  disappoint  her  in  the  promise  of  their 
first  meeting. 

Oh  that  first  meeting  of  pure  and  youthful 
love  !  With  what  a  glor}-  is  it  ever  encircled 
in  the  memory  of  the  human  heart !  No  mat- 
ter how  long  or  how  melancholy  the  lajDse  of 
time  siyce  its  past  existence  may  be,  still,  still, 
is  it  remembered  by  our  feelings  when  the  rec- 
ollection of  every  tie  but  itself  has  departed. 

The  charm,  however,  that  murmured  its 
many -toned  music  through  the  soul  of  Una 
O'Brien  was  not,  itpon  the  evening  in  ques- 
tion, wholly  fi'ee  from  a  shade  of  melancholy 
for  which  she  could  not  account  ;  and  this 
impression  did  not  result  fi"om  any  pi'evious 
examination  of  her  love  for  Connor  O'Don- 
ovan,  though  many  such  she  had.  She  knew 
that  in  this  the  utmost  opjDOsition  from  both 
her  parents  must  be  expected  ;  nor  was  it 
the  consequence  of  a  consciousness  on  her 
pai't,  that  in  j^romising  him  a  clandestine 
meeting,  she  had  taken  a  step  which  could 
not  be  justified.  Of  this,  too,  she  had  been 
aware  before  ;  but,  until  the  hour  of  appoint- 
ment drew  near,  the  heaviness  which  pressed 
her  down  was  such  as  caused  her  to  admit 
that  the  sensation,  however  painful  and 
gloomy,  was  new  to  her,  and  bore  a  character 
distinct  from  anything  that  could  proceed 
from  the  vai'ious  lights  in  which  she  had 
previously  considered  her  attachment.  This 
was,  moreover,  heightened  by  the  boding 


FARDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


205 


aspect  of  the  heavens  and  the  dread  rejDOse 
of  the  evening,  so  unhke  anything  she  had 
ever  witnessed  before.  Notwithstanding  all 
this,  she  was  sustained  by  the  eager  and  im- 
patient buoyancy  of  first  affection  ;  which, 
when  imagination  pictured  the  handsome 
form  of  her  young  and  manly  lover,  pre- 
dominated for  the  time  over  every  reflection 
and  feeling  that  was  opposed  to  itself.  Her 
mind,  indeed,  resembled  a  fair  autumn  land- 
scape, over  which  the  cloud-shadows  may  be 
seen  sweeping  for  a  moment,  whUst  again  the 
sun  comes  out  and  turns  all  into  serenity  and 
Hght. 

The  place  appointed  for  their  interview 
was  a  small  paddock  shaded  by  alders,  be- 
hind her  father's  garden,  and  thither,  with 
trembling  hmbs  and  palpitating  heart,  did 
the  young  and  graceful  daughter  of  Bodagh 
Buie  proceed. 

For  a  considerable  time,  that  is  to  say,  for 
three  long  years  befoi'e  this  delicious  appoint- 
ment, had  Connor  O'Donovan  and  Una  been 
wrapped  in  the  el3-sium  of  mutual  love.  At 
mass,  at  fair,  and  at  market,  had  they  often 
and  often  met,  and  as  frequently  did  their 
eyes  search  each  other  out,  and  reveal  in  long 
blushing  glances  the  state  of  theii*  respective 
hearts.  Many  a  time  did  he  seek  an  oppor- 
tunity to  disclose  what  he  felt,  and  as  often, 
with  confusion,  and  fear,  and  delight,  did  she 
afford  him  what  he  sought.  Thus  did  one  op- 
portunity after  another  pass  away,  and  as  of- 
ten did  he  form  the  towering  resolution  to  re- 
veal his  affection  if  he  were  ever  favored  with 
another.  Still  would  some  disheartening  re- 
flection, arising  from  the  uncommon  gentle- 
ness and  extreme  modest}-  of  his  character, 
throw  a  damp  upon  his  spmt.  He  ques- 
tioned his  own  penetration  ;  perhaps  she 
was  in  the  habit  of  glancing  as  much  at 
others  as  she  glanced  at  him.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
Bodagh  Buie,  the  wealthiest  man,  and  of  his 
wife,  the  proudest  woman,  within  a  large 
circle  of  the  country,  would  love  the  son  of 
Fardorougha  Donovan,  whose  name  had, 
alas,  become  so  odious  and  impopular? 
But  then  the  blushing  face,  and  dark  lucid 
eyes,  and  the  long  earnest  glance,  rose  before 
his  imagination,  and  told  him  that,  let  the 
difference  in  the  character  and  the  station  of 
their  parents  be  what  it  might,  the  fair  dark 
daughter  of  O'Brien  was  not  insensible  to 
him,  nor  to  the  anxieties  he  felt. 

The  circumstance  which  produced  the  first 
conversation  they  ever  had  arose  from  an  in- 
cident of  a  very  striking  and  singular  chai-ac- 
ter.  About  a  week  before  the  evening  in 
question,  one  of  Bodagh  Buie's  bee-skeps  hiv- 
ed, and  the  young  colony,  though  closely 
watched  and  pursued,  directed  theii'  course 


to  Fardorougha's  house,  and  settled  in  the 
mouth  of  the  chimney.  Connor,  having  got 
a  clean  sheet,  secured  them,  and  was  about 
to  submit  them  to  the  cai-e  of  the  Bodagh'a 
servants,  when  it  was  suggested  that  the  du- 
ty  of  bringing  them  home  devolved  on  him- 
self, inasmuch  as  he  was  told  they  would  not 
remain,  unless  placed  in  a  new  skep  by  the 
hands  of  the  person  on  whose  property  they 
had  settled.  While  on  his  way  to  the  Bo- 
dagh's  he  was  accosted  in  the  following  words 
by  one  of  O'Brien's  servants  : 

"  Connor,  there's  good  luck  before  you,  or 
the  bees  wouldn't  pick  you  out  amongst  all 
the  rest  o'  the  neighbors.  You  ought  to  hould 
up  your  head,  man.  "Who  knows  what  man- 
in's  in  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  do  you  b'lieve  that  bees  sittin'  wid 
one  is  a  sign  o'  good  luck  ?  " 

"  Surely  I  do.  Doesn't  every  one  know  it 
to  be  thrue  ?  Connor,  you're  a  good-lookin' 
feUow,  an'  I  need  scarcely  teU  you  that  we 
have  a  purty  girl  at  home  ;  can  yoi"*.  lay  that 
an'  that  together?  Arrah,  be  my  sowl, 
the  richest  honey  ever  the  same  bees  '11  make, 
is  nothin'  but  alloways,  compared  wid  that 
purtv  mouth  of  her  own  !  A  honey -comb  is 
a  fool  to  it." 

"  ^\liy,  did  you  ever  thry,  Mike?  " 

"Is  it  me ?  Och,  och,  if  I  was  only  high 
enough  in  this  world,  maybe  I  wouldn't  be 
spakin'  sweet  tc^  her  ;  no,  no,  be  my  word  ! 
thry,  indeed,  for  the  likes  o'  me  !  Faith,  but 
I  know  a  sartin  young  man  that  she  does  be 
often  spakin'  about." 

Connor's  heart  was  in  a  state  of  instant  com- 
motion. 

"  An'  who — who  is  he — who  is  that  sartin 
young  man,  Mike  ?  " 

"Faith,  the  son  o'  one  that  can  nin  ashil- 
hn'  farther  than  e'er  another  man  in  the  coun- 
try. Do  you  happen  to  be  acquainted  wid 
one  Connor  O'Donovan,  of  Lisnamona  ?  " 

"  Connor  O'Donovan — that's  good,  I\Iike — 
in  the  mane  time  doL  t  be  goin'  it  on  us.  No, 
no  ; — an'  even  if  she  did.  it  isn't  to  you  she 
spake  about  any  one,  Michael  ahagur  !  " 

"  No,  nor  it  wasn't  to  me — sure  I  didn't  say 
it  was — but  don't  you  know  my  sister's  at  sai-- 
vice  in  the  Bodagh's  family  ?  Di^il  the  word 
o'  falsity  I'm  teUin'  you  ;  so,  if  you  haven't 
the  heart  to  spake  for  yourself,  I  wouldn't 
give  knots  o'  straws  for  you  ;  and  now,  there's 
no  harm  done  I  hope — moreover,  an'  by  the 
same  token,  you  needn't  go  to  the  trouble  o' 
puttin'  up  an  advertisement  to  let  the  paiish 
know  what  I've  tould  you." 

"Hut,  tut,  Mike,  it's  all  folly.  Una  Dhun 
O'Brien  to  think  of  me  I — nonsense,  man  ; 
that  cock  would  never  fight." 

"  Very  weU  ;  di^il  a  morsel  of  us  is  forcin' 
you  to  b'heve  it     I  suppose  the  mother  o' 


206 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


you  "has  your  wooden  spoon  to  the  fore  still. 
I'd  kiss  the  Bravery  you  didn't  coine  into  the 
world  wid  a  i<ilcer  ladle  in  youi*  mouth,  any- 
how. In  the  mane  time,  we're  at  the  Bod- 
agh's — an'  have  an  eye  about  you  af  ther  what 
you've  heai'd — NubocUish !  " 

This,  indeed,  was  important  intelligence  to 
Connor,  and  it  is  probable  that,  had  he  not 
heai'd  it,  another  opportunity  of  disclosing 
his  passion  might  have  been  lost. 

Independently  of  this,  however,  he  was 
not  proof  against  the  popular  superstition  of 
the  bees,  particularly  as  it  appeared  to  be  an 
augurj'  to  which  his  enamored  heart  could 
cling  with  all  the  hope  of  young  and  passion- 
ate enthusiasm. 

Nor  was  it  long  till  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  percei\'ing  that  she  whose  image  had 
floated  in  light  before  his  fancy,  gave  decided 
manifestations  of  being  struck  by  the  same 
significant  occiu-rence.  On  entering  the 
garden,  the  first  jDerson  his  eye  rested  upon 
was  Una  herself,  who,  as  some  of  the  other 
hives  were  expected  to  swarm,  had  been  en- 
gaged watching  them  during  the  day.  His 
appearance  at  any  time  would  have  created  a 
tumvdt  in  her  bosom,  but,  in  addition  to  this, 
when  she  heard  that  the  bees  which  had 
rested  on  Connor's  house,  had  swarmed  from 
her  own  hive,  to  use  the  words  of  Bm'ns — 

She  looked — she  reddened  like  the  rose, 
Syne  pale  as  ony  lily ,       • 

and,  with  a  shy  but  expressive  glance  at 
Connor,  said,  in  a  low  hurried  voice,  "  These 
belong  lo  me." 

Untd  the  moment  we  are  describing,  Connor 
and  she,  notwithstanding  that  they  frequent- 
ly met  in  public  places,  had  never  yet  spo- 
ken ;  nor  could  the  words  now  uttered  by 
Una  be  considered  as  addressed  to  him,  al- 
though fi'om  the  glance  that  accompanied 
them  it  was  sufiiciently  evident  that  they 
were  intended  for  him  alone.  It  was  in  vain 
that  he  attempted  to  accost  her  ;  his  confu- 
sion, her  pleasure,  his  timidity,  seemed  to 
unite  in  rendering  him  incapable  of  speaking 
at  all.  His  hps  moved  several  times,  but 
the  words,  as  they  ai-ose,  died  away  unspo- 
ken. 

At  this  moment,  IMike,  with  waggish  good- 
humor,  and  in  a  most  laudable  fit  of  indus- 
try', reminded  the  other  servants,  who  had 
been  assisting  to  secure  the  bees,  that  as 
they  (the  bees)  were  now  safe,  no  fui'ther  ne- 
cessity existed  for  their  presence. 

"  Come,  boys — death-aUve,  the  day's  pas- 
sin' — only  think,  Miss  Una,  that  we  have  all 
the  hay  in  the  Long-shot  meadow  to  get  into 
cocks  yet,  an'  here  we're  idlin'  an'  ghosther- 
in'  away  oir  time  like  I  dunna  what.  They're 
cchamic',  Miss  Una — divil  a  thing  else,  an' 


what'll  the  masther  say  if  th6  same  meadow's 
not  finished  to-night  ?  " 

"Indeed,  Mike,"  rephed  Una;  "if  the 
meadow  is  to  be  finished  this  night,  there's 
httle  time  to  be  lost." 

"Come,  boys," exclaimed  Mike,  "you  hear 
what  Miss  Una  says — if  it's  to  be  finished 
:  to-night  there's  but  little  time  to  be  lost — 
j  ttu-n  out — march.     Miss  Una  can  watch  the 
i  bees  widout  oiu'  help.      Good  evenin',  ]\Iis- 
ther  Donovan  ;  be  my  word,  but  you're  en- 
titled to  a  taste  o'  honey  any  way,  for  bring 
ing  back  Miss  Una's  bees  to  her." 
j      Mike,  after  having  uttered  this  significant 
opinion  relative  to  his  sense  of  justice,  drove 
his   feUow-sen'ants   out  of  the  garden,  and 
j  left  the  lovers  together.     There  was  now  a 
I  dead   silence,    during    the   greater   part   of 
!  Avhich,  neither  dared  to  look  at  the  other  ;  at 
length  each  hazarded  a  glance  ;  their  eyes 
met,  and  their  embarrassment  deepened  in  a 
tenfold  degi'ee.     Una,  on  withdrawing  her 
gaze,  looked  with  an  aii'  of  pei'plexity  from 
one  object  to  another,  and  at  length,  with 
downcast  hds,  and  glowing  cheeks,  her  eyes 
became  fixed  on  her  own  white  and  dehcate 
finger. 

"  WTao  would  think,"  said  she,  in  a  voice 
tremulous  with  agitation,  "  that  the  sting  of 
a  bee  could  be  so  painful." 

Connor  advanced  towards  her  ■ftith  a  beat- 
ing heart.  "  WTiere  have  you  been  stvmg, 
Miss  O'Brien  ? "  said  he,  in  a  tone  shaken 
out  of  it's  fulness  by  what  he  felt. 

"In  the  finger,"  she  replied,  and  she  look- 
ed closely  into  the  spot  as  she  uttered  the 
words. 

"  Will  you  let  mc  see  it  ?  "  asked  Connor. 

She  held  her  hand  towards  him  without 
knowing  what  she  did,  nor  was  it  till  after  a 
strong  effort  that  Connor  mastered  himself 
so  far  as  to  ask  her  in  which  finger  she  felt 
the  pain.  In  fact,  both  saw  at  once  that  their 
minds  were  engaged  uj^on  far  different 
thoughts,  and  that  their  anxiety  to  pour  out 
the  full  confession  of  theii'  love  was  equally 
deep  and  mutual. 

As  Connor  put  the  foregoing  question  to 
her,  he  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"In  what  finger?"  she  replied,  "I  don't 
— indeed — I — I  believe  in  the — the — but 
what — what  is  this  ? — I  am  verj' — verj'  weak." 

"  Let  me  support  you  to  the  summer- 
house,  where  you  can  sit,"  returned  Connor, 
still  clasping  her  soft  dehcate  hand  in  his  ; 
then,  circling  her  slender  waist  with  the 
other,  he  helped  her  to  a  seat  under  the 
thick  shade  of  the  osiers. 

Una's  countenance  immediately  became 
pale  as  death,  and  her  whole  frame  trembled 
excessively, 

"You  are  too  weak  even  to  sit  without 


FARDOROUGUA,   THE  MISER. 


207 


\ 


support,"  said  Connor,  "your  head  is  droop- 
in'.  For  God's  sake,  lean  it  over  on  me. 
Oh !  I'd  give  ten  thousand  Hves  to  have  it  on 
my  breast  only  for  one  moment !  " 

Her  paleness  still  continued  ;  she  gazed 
on  him,  and,  as  he  gently  squeezed  her  hand, 
a  shght  pressure  was  given  in  return.  He 
then  drew  her  head  over  ujion  his  shoulder, 
where  it  rather  fell  than  leaned  ;  a  gush  of 
tears  came  from  her  eyes,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment, "wdth  sobbing  hearts,  they  were  encir- 
cled in  each  other's  anns. 
'  From  this  first  intoxicating  draught  of 
youthful  love,  they  were  startled  by  the  voice 
of  Mrs.  O'Brien  caUiug  ujDon  her  daughter, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  theii*  utter  dismay, 
they  observed  the  portly  dame  sailing,  in  her 
usual  state,  down  towards  the  arbor,  with  an 
immense  bunch  of  keys  danghng  from  her  side. 

"  Oonagh,  ]Miss — ^liss  Oonagh — wLere  are 
you,  !Miss,  Ma  Colleen  ? — Here's  a  litther," 
she  proceeded,  when  Una  appeared,  "  fi-om 
Mi's.  Fogarty,  your  school-misthress,  to  your 
fadher — statin'  that  she  wants  you  to  finish 
your  Jiggraphy  at  the  dancin ',  wid  a  new 
dan cin'- teacher  from  Dubling.  Why — Eah  ! 
what  ads  you.  Miss,  Ma  CoUeen  ?  WTiat  the 
dickens  wor  you  ciyin'  for  ?  " 

"  These  nasty  bees  that  stung  me,"  returned 
the  gii'l.  "  Oh,  for  goodness  sake,  mother 
dear,  don't  come  an}'  fai'ther,  except  you  wish 
to  have  a  whole  hive  ujDon  3'ou  ! " 

"  Why,  sm-e,  they  wouldn't  sting  any  one 
that  wont  meddle  wid  them,"  rephed  the 
mother  in  a  kind  of  alarm. 

"The  sorra  pin  they  care,  mother — don't 
come  near  them ;  I'll  be  in,  by  an'  by. 
"WTiere's  my  father  ?  " 

"  He's  in  the  house,  an'  wants  you  to 
answer  Mi-s.  Fogarty,  statin'  feder  you'll  take 
a  month's  laniin'  on  the  Ji are  or  not." 

"  WeD,  111  see  her  letter  in  a  minute  or 
two,  but  you  may  tell  my  father  he  needn't 
wait — I  won't  answer  it  to-night  at  all  events." 

"You  must  answer  it  on  the  nail,"  replied 
her  mother,  "  becase  the  messager's  waitin' 
in  the  kitchen  'ithin." 

"  That  alters  the  case  altogether,"  returned 
Una,  "  andl'U  follow  you  immediately." 

The  good  woman  then  ^^^.thdrew,  ha^'ing 
once  more  enjoined  the  daughter  to  avoid 
delay,  and  not  to  detain  the  messenger. 

"  You  must  go  instantly,"  she  said  to  Con- 
nor.    "  Oh,  what  would  happen  me  if  they 

knew  that  I  lov that  I — "  a  short  pause 

ensued,  and  she  blushed  deeply. 

"  Say,  what  you  were  goin'  to  say,"  re- 
turned Connor  ;  "  Oh,  say  that  one  word,  and 
aU  the  misfoi*tunes  that  ever  happened  to 
man,  can't  make  me  unhappy  !  Oh,  God  !  an' 
is  it  possible  ?  Say  that  word — Oh  !  say  it — 
Bay  it ! " 


"Well,  then,"  she  continued,  "if  they 
knew  that  /  loce  the  son  of  Fardorougha 
Donovan,  what  would  become  of  me  ?  Now 
go,  for  fear  my  father  may  come  out." 

"  But  when  will  I  see  you  again  ?  " 

"Go,"  said  she  anxiously;  "go,  you  can 
easily  see  me." 

"  But  when  ? — when  ?  say  on  Thursday." 

"Not  so  soon — not  so  soon,"  and  she  cast 
an  anxious  eye  towards  the  garden  gate. 

"  When  then — say  this  day  week." 

"  Verj-  well — but  go — maybe  my  father 
has  heard  fi-om  the  servants  that  you  are 
here." 

"  Dusk  is  the  best  time." 

"  Yes — yes — about  dusk  ;  under  the  alders, 
in  the  little  green  field  behind  the  garden." 

"  Show  me  the  wounded  finger,"  said  he 
with  a  smile,  "  before  I  go." 

"  There,"  said  she,  extending  her  hand  ; 
"but  for  Heaven's  sake  go." 

"I'll  tell  you  how  to  cure  it,"  said  he,  ten- 
derly ;  "  honey  is  the  medicine  ;  put  that 
sweet  finger  to  your  o\^-n  sweeter  1  p — and, 
afterwards,  /'//  cany  home  the  wound." 

"But  not  the  melicine,  nou-,"  said  she, 
and,  snatching  her  band  fi-cm  his,  with 
light,  fearful  steps,  she  fled  up  the  garden 
and  disappeared. 

Such,  gentle  reader,  were  the  circumstan- 
ces which  brought  our  young  and  artless 
lovers  together  in  the  black  twihght  of  the 
singulai'ly  awful  and  ominous  evening  which 
we  have  ah'eady  described. 

Connoi',  on  reaching  the  appointed  spot, 
sat  down  ;  but  his  impatience  soon  overcame 
him  ;  and,  while  hurrying  to  and  fro,  under 
the  alders,  he  asked  himself  in  what  was 
this  •wild  but  rapturous  attachment  to  termi- 
nate? That  the  proud  Bodagh,  and  his 
prouder  wife,  woidd  never  suffer  their  beau- 
tiful daughter,  the  heiress  of  aU  their  wealth, 
to  mai-ry  the  son  of  Fardorougha,  the  miser, 
was  an  axiom,  the  truth  of  which  pressed 
upon  his  heaii,  with  a  deadly  weight.  On 
the  other  hand,  would  his  father,  or  rather 
could  he,  change  his  nature  so  far  as  to 
establish  him  in  life,  provided  Una  and  he 
wei'e  imited  \\4thout  the  consent  of  her 
parents  ?  Alas  !  he  knew  his  father's  pai-si- 
mony  too  well ;  and,  on  either  hand,  he  was 
met  by  difficulties  that  appeared  to  him  to 
be  insurmountable.  But  again  came  tha 
delightful  and  ecstatic  consciousness,  that,> 
let  their  parents  act  as  they  might,  'Una's 
heart  and  his  were  bound  to  each  other  by 
ties  which,  only  to  think  of,  was  raptiu-e. 
In  the  midst  of  these  reflections,  he  heaid 
her  light  foot  approach,  but  with  a  step 
more  slow  and  melancholy  than  he  could 
have  expected  from  the  ardor  of  their  love. 

When  she  approached,  the   twihght  waa 


208 


WILZIAM   CARLETOIT'S   WORK^. 


just  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  perceive  that 
her  face  was  pale,  and  tinged  apparently 
with  melancholy,  if  not  with  sorrow.  After 
the  first  salutations  were  over,  he  was 
proceeding  to  inquire  into  the  cause  of  her 
depression,  when,  to  his  utter  surprise,  she 
placed  her  hands  upon  her  face,  and  burst 
into  a  fit  of  grief. 

Those  who  have  loved  need  not  be  told 
that  the  most  delightful  office  of  that  de- 
Hghtful  passion  is  to  dry  the  tears  of  the 
beloved  one  who  is  deai-  to  us  beyond  all 
else  that  hfe  contains.  Connor  literally  per- 
formed this  office,  and  inquii-ed,  in  a  tone 
so  soothing  and  full  of  sympathy,  why  she 
wept,  that  her  tears  for  a  while  only  flowed 
the  faster.  At  length  her  grief  abated,  and 
she  was  able  to  reply  to  him. 

"  You  ask  me  why  I  am  crying,"  said  the 
fair  3'(mng  creature  ;  "  but,  indeed,  I  cannot 
tell  you.  There  has  been  a  sinking  of  the 
heart  vqyon  me  during  the  greater  part  of 
this  day.  When  I  thought  of  our  meeting 
I  was  delighled  ;  but  again  some  heaviness 
would  come  over  me  +hat  I  can't  account 
for." 

"  I  know  what  it  is,"  :  *plied  Connor,  "  a 
veiy  simple  thing ;  mer.?!}'  the  terrible  calm 
an'  blackness  of  the  evenin'.  I  was  sunk 
myself  a  little." 

"  I  ought  to  ciy  for  a  better  reason,"  she 
retui-ned.  "  In  meeting  you  I  have  done — 
an'  am  doing — what  I  ought  to  be  sorry  for 
— that  is,  a  wi'ong  action  that  my  conscience 
condemns." 

"  There  is  nobody  perfect,  my  dear  Una," 
said  Connor ;  "an' none  without  their  fail- 
ins  ;  they  have  little  to  answer  for  that  have 
no  more  than  3'ou." 

"  Don't  flatter  me,"  she  replied  ;  "  if  you 
love  me  as  you  say,  never  flatter  me  while 
you  live  ;  /  will  always  speak  what  I  feel,  and 
I  hope  ijoull  do  the  same." 

"  If  I  could  spake  what  I  feel,"  said  he, 
"  you  would  still  say  I  flattered  you — it*s  not 
in  the  power  of  any  words  that  ever  were 
spoken,  to  tell  how  I  love  you — how  much 
my  heart  an'  soul's  fixed  ujDon  you.  Little 
you  know,  my  own  dear  Una,  how  unhappy 
I  am  this  minute,  to  see  you  in  low  spirits. 
What  do  you  think  is  the  occasion  of  it? 
Spake  now,  as  you  say  you  will  do,  that  is, 
as  you  feel." 

"Except  it  be  that  w?/ /lear/  brought  me 
to  meet  you  t  ciight  contraiy  to  wy  consci- 
ence, 1  do  not  know.  Connor,  Connor,  that 
heart  is  so  stn  ngly  in  your  favor,  that  if  you 
were  not  to  be  hajjpy  neither  could  its  poor 
owner." 

Connor  for  a  moment  looked  into  the 
future,  but,  like  the  face  of  the  sky  above 
him,  all  was  either  dai-k  or  stormy  ;  his  heart 


sank,  but  the  tenderness  expressed  in  Unas 
last  words  filled  his  whole  soul  with  a  vehe- 
ment and  burning  passion,  which  he  felt 
must  regulate  his  destiny  in  life,  whether  for 
good  or  evil.  He  jjulled  her  to  his  breast, 
on  which  he  placed  her  head  ;  she  looked  up 
fondly  to  him,  and,  perceiving  that  he 
wrought  under  some  deep  and  powerful 
struggle,  said  in  a  low,  confiding  voice, 
whilst  the  tears  once  more  ran  quietly  down 
her  cheeks,  "  Connor,  what  I  said  is  true." 

"  My  heart's  burnin' — my  heart's  burnin' !  " 
he  exclaimed.  "It's  not  love  I  feel  for  you, 
Una — it's  more  than  love  ;  oh,  what  is  it  ? 
Una,  Una,  this  I  know,  that  I  cannot  live  long 
without  you,  or  from  you  ;  if  I  did,  I'd  go 
wild  or  mad  through  the  world.  For  the 
last  three  years  you  have  never  been  out  of 
my  mind,  I  may  say  awake  or  asleep  ;  for  I 
beHeve  a  night  never  passed  during  that  time 
that  I  didn't  drame  of  you — of  the  beautiful 
young  crature.  Oh  !  God  in  heaven,  can  it 
be  thrue  that  she  loves  me  at  last  ?  Say  them 
blessed  words  again,  Una ;  oh,  say  them 
again !  But  I'm  too  happy — I  can  hardly 
bear  this  delight." 

"  It  is  true  that  I  love  you,  and  if  our  par- 
ents could  think  as  we  do,  Connor,  how  easy 
it  would  be  for  them  to  make  us  happy, 
but—" 

"  It's  too  soon,  Una  ;  it's  too  soon  to  spake 
of  that.  Happy  !  don't  we  love  one  another  ? 
Isn't  that  happiness?  Who  or  what  can 
deprive  us  of  that  ?  We  are  happy  without 
them  ;  we  can  be  hajDpy  in  sjDite  of  them  ; 
oh,  my  own  fau-  gii'l !  sweet,  sweet  life  of 
my  hfe,  and  heart  of  my  heart !  Heaven — ■ 
heaven  itself  would  be  no  heaven  to  me,  if 
you  Averen't  with  me  !  " 

"  Don't  say  that,  Connor  dear ;  it's  wi'ong. 
Let  us  not  forget  what  is  due  to  religion,  if 
we  expect  our  love  to  prosper.  You  may 
think  this  strange  fi-om  one  that  has  acted 
contraiy  to  religion  in  coming  to  meet  you 
against  the  will  and  knowledge  of  her  par- 
ents ;  but  beyond  that,  dear  Connor,  I  hope 
I  never  will  go.  But  is  it  true  that  you've 
loved  me  so  long  ?  " 

"It  is,"  said  he  ;  "the  second  Sunday  in 
May  next  v/as  three  years,  I  knelt  opposite 
you  at  mass.  You  were  on  the  left  hand 
side  of  the  altar,  I  was  on  the  right ;  my 
eyes  were  never  off  you  ;  indeed,  you  may 
remember  it." 

"I  have  a  good  right,"  said  she,  blushing 
and  hiding  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  "  I 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it,  an' 
me  so  young  at  the  time  ;  little  more  than 
sixteen.  From  that  day  to  this,  my  story 
has  been  just  your  own.  Connor,  can  you  telj 
me  liow  I  found  it  out,  but  I  knew  you  loved 
me?" 


FARDOROUGEA,    THE  MISER. 


209 


"  Many  a  tiling  was  to  tell  you  that,  Una 
dear.  Sure  my  eyes  were  never  off  you, 
whenever  you  wor  near  me  ;  an'  wherever 
you  were,  there  was  I  certain  to  be  too.  I 
never  missed  any  public  place  if  I  thought 
you  would  be  at  it,  an'  that  merely  for  the 
sake  of  seein'  you.  An',  now  will  you  tell 
me  why  it  was  that  I  could  'a  sworn  you  lov'd 
me  ?  " 

"  You  have  answered  for  us  both,"  she  re- 
plied. "As  for  me,  if  I  only  chance  to  hear 
your  name  mentioned  my  heart  would  beat ; 
if  the  talk  was  about  you  I  could  listen  to 
nothing  else,  and  I  often  felt  the  color  come 
and  go  on  my  cheek." 

"Una,  I  never  thought  I  could  be  bom  to 
such  happiness.  Now  that  I  know  that  you 
love  me,  I  can  hardly  think  that  it  was  love 
I  felt  for  you  all  along  ;  it's  wonderful — it's 
wonderful ! " 

"  What  is  so  wonderful  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Why,  the  change  that  I  feel  since  know- 
in'  that  you  love  me ;  since  I  had  it  fi'om 
your  own  lips,  it  has  overcome  me — I'm  a 
child— I'm  an}i,hing,  anything  you  choose  to 
make  me  ;  it  was  never  love — it's  only  since 
I  found  you  loved  me  that  my  heart's  burnin' 
as  it  is." 

"I'll  make  you  happy  if  I  can,"  she  re- 
phed,  "  and  keep  you  so,  I  hope." 

"  There's  one  thing  that  will  make  me  still 
happier  than  I  am,"  said  Connor. 

"  ^Vhat  is  it?  If  it's  proper  and  right  I'll 
do  it." 

"  Promise  me  that  if  I  live  you'U  never 
marry  any  one  else  than  me." 

"  You  wish  then  to  have  the  promise  all 
on  one  side,"  she  replied  -with  a  smile  and  a 
blush,  each  as  sweet  as  ever  captivated  a  hu- 
man heart. 

"  No,  no,  no,  my  darling  Una,  acushla  gra 
gal  machree,  no  !  I  will  promise  the  same  to 
you." 

She  paused,  and  a  silence  of  nearly  a  min- 
ute ensued. 

"  I  don't  know  that  it's  right,  Connor  ;  I 
have  taken  one  wrong  step  as  it  is,  but,  well 
as  I  love  you,  I  won't  take  another  ;  what- 
ever I  do  I  must  feel  that  it's  proper.  I'm 
not  sure  that  this  is." 

"  Don't  you  say  you  love  me,  Una?  " 

"I  do  ;  you  know  I  do." 

"  I  have  only  another  question  to  ask ; 
could  you,  or  would  you,  love  me  as  you  do, 
and  marry  another  ?  " 

"  I  could  not,  Connor,  and  would  not,  and 
will  not.  I  am  ready  to  promise  ;  I  may 
easily  do  it ;  for  God  knows  the  very  thought 
of  man-ying  another,  or  being  deprived  of 
you,  is  more  than  I  can  bear." 

"  Well,  then,"  returaed  her  lover,  seizing 
her  hand,  "  I  take  God  to  witness  that,  whilst 


you  are  alive  an'  faithful  to  me,  I  will  never 
marry  any  woman  but  yourself.  Now,"  he 
continued,  "  put  your  right  hand  into  mine, 
and  say  the  same  words." 

She  did  so,  and  was  in  the  act  of  repeating 

the  form,  "  I  take  God  to  witness "  when 

a  vi^dd  flash  of  Ughtniiig  shot  from  the  dark- 
ness above  them,  and  a  peal  of  thunder  al- 
most immediately  followed,  with  an  explo- 
sion so  loud  as  neai'ly  to  stun  both.  Una 
started  with  teiTor,  and  instinctively  with- 
drew her  hand  from  Connor's. 

"  God  jH-eserve  us  ! "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  that's 
awful.  Connor,  I  feel  as  if  the  act  I  am 
goin'  to  do  is  not  right.  Let  us  put  it  off  at 
all  events,  till  another  time." 

"Is  it  because  there  comes  an  ac(Sdental 
brattle  of  thunder?"  he  returned.  "  ^Vhy, 
the  thunder  would  come  if  we  were  never  to 
change  a  promise.  You  have  mine,  now, 
Una  dear,  an'  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  wash 
me  to  be  bound  an'  yourself  free.  Don't  be 
afi'aid,  darhng  ;  give  me  your  hand,  an'  don't 
tremble  so  ;  repeat  the  words  at  wanst,  an' 
let  it  be  over." 

He  again  took  her  hand,  when  she  repeat- 
ed the  form  in  a  distinct,  though  feeble  voice, 
observing,  when  it  was  concluded, 

"  Now,  Connor,  I  did  this  to  satisfy  you, 
but  I  still  feel  hke  one  who  has  done  a  wTong 
action.  I  am  yours  now,  but  I  cannot  help 
praying  to  God  that  it  may  end  happily  for 
us  both." 

"  It  must,  darhng  Una — it  must  end  hap- 
pily for  us  both.  How  can  it  be  otherwise  ? 
For  my  part,  except  to  see  you  my  wife,  I 
couldn't  be  happier  than  I  am  this  minute  ; 
exceptin'  that,  my  heart  has  all  it  wished 
for.  Is  it  possible — Oh  !  is  it  possible  that 
this  is  not  a  dream,  my  heart's  hfe  ?  But  if 
it  is — if  it  is — I  never  more  will  wish  to 
waken." 

Her  young  lover  was  deeply  affected  as 
he  uttered  these  words,  nor  was  Una  proof 
against  the  emotion  they  produced. 

"  I  could  pray  to  God,  this  moment,  with 
a  purer  heart  than  I  ever  had  before,"  he 
proceeded,  "  for  makin'  my  lot  in  life  so 
happy.  I  feel  that  I  am  better  and  freer 
from  sin  than  I  ever  was  yet.  If  we're  faith- 
ful and  ti-ue  to  one  another,  what  can  the 
world  do  to  us  ?  " 

"  I  covddn't  be  othei-wise  than  faithful  to 
you,"  she  replied,  "without  being  unhappy 
mj'self ;  an'  I  tnist  it's  no  sin  to  love  each 

other  as  we  do.     Now  let  us God  bless 

me,  what  a  flash  !  and  here's  the  rain  begin- 
ning. That  thunder's  dreadful ;  Heaven 
preserve  us !  It's  an  awful  night !  Connor, 
you  must  see  me  as  far  as  the  comer  of  the 
garden  ;  as  for  you,  I  wish  you  were  safe  at 
home." 


210 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"Hasten,  dear,"  said  he,  "hasten  ;  it's  no 
night  for  jou  to  be  out  in,  now  that  the  rain's 
coming.  As  for  me,  if  it  was  ten  times  as 
dreadful  I  won't  feel  it.  There's  but  one 
thought — one  thought  in  my  mind,  and  that 
I  wouldn't  i^art  with  for  the  wealth  of  tlie 
universe." 

Both  then  proceeded  at  a  quick  pace  until 
they  reached  the  corner  of  Bodagh's  garden, 
where,  with  brief  but  earnest  reassurances 
of  unalterable  attachment,  they  took  a  tender 
and  aflfectiouate  farewell. 

It  is  not  often  that  the  higher  ranks  can 
apijreciate  the  moral  beauty  of  love  as  it  is 
experienced  by  those  humbler  classes  to 
whom  they  deny  the  power  of  feeling  in  its 
most  refined  and  exalted  character.  For 
our  parts  we  differ  so  much  from  them  in 
this,  that,  if  we  wanted  to  give  an  illustration 
of  that  passion  in  its  jDurest  and  most  deh- 
cate  state,  we  would  not  seek  for  it  in  the 
saloon  or  the  drawing-room,  but  among  the 
green  fields  and  the  smiling  landscapes  of 
rural  life.  The  simplicity  of  humble  hearts 
is  more  accordant  with  the  unity  of  affection 
than  any  mind  can  be  that  is  distracted  by 
the  competition  of  rival  claims  upon  its 
gratification.  We  do  not  say  that  the  votaries 
of  rank  and  fashion  are  insensible  to  love  ; 
because,  how  much  soever  they  may  be  con- 
versant with  the  artificial  and  unreal,  still 
they  are  human,  and  must,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, be  influenced  by  a  principle  that  acts 
wherever  it  can  find  a  heart  on  which  to 
operate.  We  say,  however,  that  their  love, 
when  contrasted  with  that  which  is  felt  by 
the  humble  peasantry,  is  languid  and  sickly  ; 
neither  so  pure,  nor  so  simple,  nor  so  intense. 
Its  associations  in  high  life  are  unfavorable 
to  the  growth  of  a  healthy  passion  ;  for  what 
is  the  glare  of  a  lamp,  a  twirl  through  the 
insipid  maze  of  the  ball-room,  or  the  un- 
natural distortions  of  the  theatre,  when  com- 
pared to  the  rising  of  the  summer  sun,  the 
singing  of  birds,  the  music  of  the  streams, 
the  joyous  aspect  of  the  varied  landscape, 
the  mountain,  the  valley,  the  lake,  and  a 
thousand  other  objects,  each  of  which  trans- 
mits to  the  peasant's  heart  silently  and  im- 
perceptibly that  subtle  power  which  at  once 
strengthens  and  |)urifies  the  passion  ?  There 
is  scarcely  such\a  thing  as  soUtude  in  the 
upper  ranks,  nor  an  opportunity  of  keeping 
the  feelings  unwasted,  and  the  energies  of 
the  heart  unspent  by  the  many  vanities  and 
petty  pleasures  with  which  fashion  forces  a 
compliance,  until  the  mind  falls  from  its 
natural  dignity,  into  a  habit  of  coldness  and 
aversion  to  eveiything  but  the  circle  of 
empty  trifles  in  which  it  moves  so  giddily. 
But  the  enamored  youth  who  can  retire  to 
the  beautiful   soUtude  of  the   still   glen  to 


brood  over  the  image  of  her  he  Icves,  and 
who,  probably,  sits  under  the  very  tree  where 
his  love  was  avowed  and  returned  ;  he,  we 
say,  exalted  with  the  fulness  of  his  happiness, 
feels  his  heart  go  abroad  in  gladness  upon 
the  dehghted  objects  that  surround  him,  for 
everything  that  he  looks  upon  is  as  a  friend  ; 
his  haj^py  heart  expands  over  the  whole  land- 
scape ;  his  eye  glances  to  the  sky  ;  he  thmks 
of  the  Almighty  Being  above  him,  and 
though  without  any  capacity  to  analyze  his 
own  feehngs — love — the  love  of  some  hum- 
ble, plain  but  modest  giii — kindles  by  de- 
grees into  the  sanctity  and  rapture  of  rehg- 
ion. 

Let  not  our  readers  of  rank,  then,  if  any 
such  may  honor  our  pages  with  a  perusal,  be 
at  all  surprised  at  the  expression  of  Connor 
O'Donovan  when,  under  the  ecstatic  power  of 
a  love  so  pure  and  artless  as  that  which 
bound  his  heart  and  Una's  together,  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  did,  "  Oh !  I  could  jjray  to 
God  this  moment  with  a  imrer  heart  tJian  lever 
had  before  !  "  Such  a  state  of  feeling  among 
the  peoj)le  is  neither  rare  nor  anomalous  ; 
for,  however,  the  great  ones  and  the  wise  ones 
of  the  world  may  be  startled  at  our  assertion, 
we  beg  to  assure  them  that  love  and  religion 
are  more  nearly  related  to  each  other  than 
those,  who  have  never  felt  either  in  its  truth 
and  purity,  can  imagine. 

As  Connor  performed  his  journey  home, 
the  thunder  tempest  passed  fearfully  through 
the  sky  ;  and,  though  the  darkness  was  deep 
and  unbroken  by  anything  but  the  red  flash- 
es of  lightning,  yet,  so  strongly  absorbed  was 
his  heart  by  the  scene  we  have  just  related, 
that  he  arrived  at  his  father's  house  scarcely 
conscious  of  the  roar  of  elements  which  sui'- 
rounded  him. 

The  family  had  retired  to  bed  when  he  en- 
tered, with  the  exception  of  his  jjarents,  who, 
having  felt  uneasy  at  his  disappearance,  were 
anxiously  awaiting  his  return,  and  entering 
into  fruitless  conjectures  concerning  the 
cause  of  an  absence  so  imusual. 

"WTiat,"  said  the  alarmed  mother,  "what 
in  the  wide  world  could  keep  him  so  long 
out,  and  on  sicli  a  tempest  as  is  in  it?  God 
protect  my  boy  fi"om  all  harm  an'  dangei",  this 
fearful  night !  Oh,  Fardorougha,  what  'ud 
become  of  us  if  anything  hapi)ened  him  ?  As 
for  me — my  heart's  wrapj^ed  up  in  him  ;  wid- 
out  our  darhn'  it  'ud  break,  break,  Fai'do- 
rougha." 

"  Hut ;  he's  gone  to  some  neighbor's  an' 
can't  come  out  till  the  storm  is  over ;  he'll 
soon  be  here  now  that  the  thunder  an'  hght- 
nin's  past." 

"  But  did  you  never  think,  Fardorougha, 
what  'ud  become  of  you,  or  what  you'd  do  or 
how  you'd  Hve,  if  anything  happened  him  ? 


FARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


211 


whioh  the  Almighty  forbid  this  night  and  for- 
ever !     Could  3'ou  live  widout  him  ?  " 

The  old  man  gcized  upon  her  Hke  one  who 
felt  displeasure  at  having  a  contingency  so 
painful  forced  upon  his  consideration.  With- 
out making  any  reply,  however,  he  looked 
thoughtfully  into  the  tire  for  some  time,  after 
which  he  rose  up,  and,  with  a  querulous  and 
impatient  voice,  said, 

"  What's  the  use  of  thinkin'  about  sich 
things  ?  Lose  him  !  why  would  I  lose  him  ? 
I  couldn't  lose  him — I'd  as  soon  lose  my  own 
life — I'd  rather  be  dead  at  wanst  than  lose 
him." 

"  God  knows  your  love  for  him  is  a  quare 
love,  Fardorougha,"  rejoined  the  wife  ;  "  you 
wouldn't  give  him  a  guinea  if  it  'ud  save  his 
life,  or  allow  him  even  a  few  shillings  now 
an'  then,  for  pocket-money,  that  he  might  be 
aquil  to  other  young  boys  like  him." 

'•  No  use,  no  use  in  that,  except  to  bring 
him  into  drink  an'  other  bad  habits  ;  a  bad 
way,  Honora,  of  showin'  one's  love  for  him. 
If  you  had  your  will  you'd  spoil  him  ;  I'm 
keepin'  whatsomever  httle  shillin's  we've 
scraped  together  to  settle  him  dacently  in 
life  ;  but,  indeed,  that's  time  enough  yet ; 
he's  too  young  to  marry  for  some  years  to 
come,  barrin'  he  got  a  fortune." 

"  Well,  one  thing,  Fardorougha,  if  ever  two 
people  were  blessed  in  a  good  son,  praise  be 
God  we  are  that !  " 

"  We  are.  Honor,  we  are  ;  there's  not  his 
a(j[uil  in  the  parish — achora  machree  that  he 
is.  Wlien  I'm  gone  he'U  know  what  I've 
done  for  him." 

"  Whin  you're  gone  ;  why.  Saver  of  ai*th, 

sure  you  wouldn't  keep  him  out  of  his 

husth ! here   he   is,    God   be    thanked  ! 

poor  boy  he's  safe.  Oh,  thin,  vich  no  Hoiah, 
Connor  jewel,  were  you  out  undher  this  ter- 
rible night  ?  " 

"  Connor,  avich  machree,"  added  the  father, 
"  you're  lost !  My  hand  to  you,  if  he's 
worth  three  hapuns ;  sthrip  an'  throw  my 
Cothamore  about  you,  an'  draw  in  to  the  fire; 
you're  faMy  lost." 

"  I'm  worth  two  lost  people  yet,"  said 
Connor,  smiling ;  "  mother,  did  you  ever 
see  a  pleasanter  night  ?  " 

"  Pleasant,  Connor,  darlin' !  Oh  thin  it's 
you  may  say  so,  I'm  sure !  " 

"Father,  you're  a  worthy — only  your 
Cothamore's  too  scimpt  for  me.  Faith,  mo- 
ther, although  you  think  I'm  jokin',  the 
divil  a  one  o'  me  is  ;  a  pleasanter  night — a 
happier  night  I  never  spent.  Father,  you 
ought  to  be  proud  o'  me,  an'  stretch  out  a 
bit  with  the  cash ;  faith,  I'm  nothin'  else 
than  a  fine  handsome  young  fellow." 

"  Be  me  soul  an'  he  ought  to  be  proud 
out  of  you,  Connor,  whether  you're  iu  araest 


or  not,"  observed  the  mother,  "  an'  to  stretch 
out  wid  the  arrighad  too  if  you  want  it." 

"  Folly  on,  Connor,  folly  on  !  your  mo- 
ther '11  back  you,  I'U  go  bail,  say  what  you 
will ;  but  sure  you  know  aU  I  have  must  be 
yom-s  yet,  acushla." 

Connor  now  sat  down,  and  his  mother 
stin-ed  up  the  fire,  on  which  she  placed  ad- 
ditional fuel.  After  a  little  time  his  man- 
ner changed,  and  a  shade  of  deep  gloom  fel? 
upon  his  manly  and  handsome  features.  "  1 
don't  know,"  he  at  length  proceeded,  "that, 
as  we  three  are  here  togethei-,  I  could  do 
betther  than  ask  your  advice  upon  what  has 
happened  to  me  to-night." 

"  Why,  what  has  happened  you,  Connor  ?  " 
said  the  mother  alarmed;  "plase  God,  no 
harm,  I  hope." 

"Who  else,"  added  the  father,  "would 
you  be  guided  by,  if  not  by  your  mother 
an'  myself  ?  " 

"  No  harm,  mother,  dear,"  said  Connor  in 
reply  to  her  ;  "  harm  !  Oh  !  mother,  mother, 
if  you  knew  it ;  an'  as  for  what  you  say, 
father,  it's  right ;  what  advice  but  my  mo- 
ther's an'  yours  ought  I  to  ask  ?  " 

"An'  God's  too,"  added  the  mother. 

"An'  my  heart  was  nevir  more  7'is  to  God 
than  it  was',  an'  is  this  night,"  replied  their 
ingenuous  boy. 

"Well,  but  what  has  happened,  Connor?" 
said  his  father;  "if  it's  anything  where 
our  advice  can  serve  you,  of  coorse  we'U  ad- 
vise you  for  the  best." 

Connor  then,  with  a  glovdng  heart,  made 
them  acquainted  with  the  affection  which 
subsisted  between  himself  and  Una  O'Brien, 
and  ended  bj'  informing  them  of  the  vow  of 
maiTiage  wiiich  they  had  that  night  solemnly 
pledged  to  each  other. 

"  You  both  know  her  by  sight,"  he  added, 
"  an'  afther  what  I've  sed,  can  you  blame  me 
for  sayin'  that  I  found  this  a  pleasant  and  a 
happy  night  ?  " 

The  affectionate  mother's  eyes  filled  with 
tears  of  pride  and  delight,  on  hearing  that 
her  handsome  son  was  loved  by  the  beautiful 
daughter  of  Bodagh  Buie,  and  she  could  not 
help  exclaiming,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
moment, 

"  She's  a  purty  girl — the  purtiest  indeed  I 
ever  laid  my  two  iixin'  eyes  upon,  and  by  all 
accounts  as  good  as  she's  purty  ;  but  I  say 
that,  face  to  face,  you're  as  good,  ay,  an'  as 
handsome,  Fardorougha,  as  she  is.  God 
bless  her,  any  way,  an'  mark  her  to  gi'ace 
and  happiness,  ma  colleen  dhas  dhun." 

"He's  no  match  for  her,"  said  the  father, 
who  had  listened  with  an  earnest  face,  and 
compressed  lips,  to  his  son's  narrative  ;  "  he's 
BO  match  for  her — by  four  hundred  guineas." 

Honora,  when  he  uttered  the  previous  part 


212 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


of  his  observation,  looked  upon  him  with  a 
flash  of  indipfnaut  astonishment ;  but  when  he 
had  concluded,  her  countenance  fell  back  into 
its  oriprinal  expression.  It  was  evident  that, 
while  she,  with  the  feelings  of  a  woman  and 
a  mother,  instituted  a  parallel  between  their 
personal  merits  alone,  the  husband  \dewed 
their  attachment  through  that  calculating 
spuit  which  had  regulated  his  whole  hfe. 

"  You're  thinkin'  of  her  money  now,"  she 
added;  "but  remimber,  Fardorougha,  that 
it  wasn't  born  wid  her.  An'  I  hojDe,  Connor, 
it's  not  for  her  money  that  you  have  any  grah 
for  her  ?  " 

"  You  may  swear  that,  mother  ;  I  love  her 
Uttle  finger  betther  than  all  the  money  in 
the  king's  bank." 

"  Connor,  avich,  your  mother  has  made  a 
fool  of  you,  or  you  wouldn't  spake  the  non- 
sense you  spoke  this  minute." 

"  My  word  to  you,  father,  I'll  take  all  the 
money  I'll  get ;  but  what  am  I  to  do  ?  Bo- 
dagh  Buie  an'  his  wife  will  never  consent  to 
allow  her  to  many  me,  I  can  tell  you  ;  an'  if 
she  marries  me  without  their  consent,  you 
both  know  I  have  no  way  of  supportin'  her, 
except  you,  father,  assist  me." 

"  That  won't  be  needful,  Connor  ;  you  may 
manage  them ;  they  won't  see  her  want ; 
she's  an  only  daughter  ;  they  couldn't  see  her 
want." 

"  An'  isn't  he  an  only  son,  Fardorougha?  " 
exclaimed  the  wife.  "  An'  my  sowl  to  hap- 
piness but  I  beheve  you'd  see  him  want." 

"Any  way,"  replied  her  husband,  "I'm 
not  for  matches  against  the  consint  of  par- 
ents ;  they're  not  lucky  ;  or  can't  you  run 
away  wid  her,  an'  thin  refuse  marryin'  her 
except  they  come  down  wid  the  cash  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father  !  "  exclaimed  Connor,  "  father, 
father,  to  become  a  villain  !  " 

"  Connor,"  said  his  mother,  rising  uj)  in  a 
spirit  of  calm  and  moiu-nfui  solemnity, 
"  never  heed  ;  go  to  bed,  achora,  go  to  bed." 

"  Of  coorse  I'll  never  heed,  mother,"  he 
replied  ;  "  but  I  can't  help  savin'  that,  happy 
as  I  was  awhile  agone,  my  father  is  sendin' 
me  to  bed  with  a  heaA'y  heai't.  "When  I 
asked  your  advice,  father,  little  I  thought  it 

would  be  to  do but  no  matter  ;  I'll  never 

be  guilty  of  an  act  that  'ud  disgrace  my 
name." 

"No,  avillish,"  said  his  mother,  "you  never 
*will ;  God  knows  it's  as  much  an'  more  than 
you  an'  other  people  can  do,  to  keep  the  name 
we  have  in  decency." 

"It's  fine  talk,"  observed  Fai'dorougha, 
"  but  what  I  advise  has  been  done  by  hun- 
dreds that  wor  married  an'  happy  afterwards  ; 
how-an-iver  you  needn't  get  into  a  passion, 
either  of  you  ;  I'm  not  pressin'  you,  Connor, 
to  it" 


"Connor,  achree,"  said  his  mother,  "go 
to  bed,  an'  instead  of  the  advice  you  got,  ax 
God's  ;  go,  avillish  !  " 

Connor,  without  making  any  further  ob- 
servation, sought  his  sleeping-room,  where, 
having  recommended  himself  to  God,  in 
earnest  prayer,  he  lay  revohing  all  that  had 
occurred  that  night,  until  the  gentle  influ- 
ence of  sleep  at  length  di'ew  him  into  obU- 
vion. 

"  Now,"  said  his  mother  to  Fai'dorougha, 
when  Connor  had  gone,  "  you  must  sleep 
by  yom-self ;  for,  as  for  me,  my  side  I'll  not 
stretch  on  the  same  bed  Avid  you  to-night." 

"Very  well,  I  can't  helj)  that,"  said  her 
husband  ;  "all  I  can  say  is  tliis,  that  I'm  not 
able  to  put  sinse  or  pnidence  into  you  or 
Connor ;  so,  since  you  won't  be  guided  by 
me,  take  yoiu'  own  coorse.  Bodagh  Buie's 
very  well  able  to  provide  for  them  ;  an'  if 
he  won't  do  so  before  they  many,  why  let 
Connor  have  nothing  to  say  to  her." 

"Ill  tell  you  what,  Fardorougha,  God 
wouldn't  be  in  heaven,  or  you'll  get  a  cut 
heart  yet,  either  thi'ough  your  son  or  your 
money  ;  an'  that  it  may  not  be  through  my 
darhn'  boy,  O,  grant,  sweet  Saver  o'  the 
earth,  this  night !  I'm  goin'  to  sleep  wid 
Biddy  Casey,  an'  you'll  find  a  clane  night- 
cap on  the  rail  o'  the  bed ;  an',  Fardorougha, 
afore  you  put  it  an,  kneel  down  an'  pray 
to  God  to  change  yoiu'  heart — for  it  wants 
it — it  wants  it." 

In  Ii-eland  the  first  object  of  a  servant  man, 
after  entering  the  emjjloyment  of  his  master, 
is  to  put  himself  upon  an  amicable  footing 
with  his  feUow-servants  of  the  other  sex. 
Such  a  stejD,  besides  bemg  natural  in  itself, 
is  often  taken  in  consequence  of  the  e«>p?T^ 
du  corps  which  prevails  among  persons  of 
that  class.  Bartle  Flanagan,  although  he 
could  not  be  said  to  act  fi-om  any  habit  pre- 
;  viously  acquired  in  sei-vice,  went  to  work 
'  with  all  the  tact  and  adroitness  of  a  veteran. 
:  The  next  morning,  after  having  left  the 
\  barn  where  he  slejot,  he  contrived  to  throw 
himself  in  the  w'ay  of  Biddy  Duggan,  a  girl, 
who,  though  vain  and  simple,  -svas  at  the 
same  time  conscientious  and  honest.  On 
passing  from  the  barn  to  the  kitchen,  he  no- 
ticed her  returning  from  the  well  with  a 
pitcher  of  water  in  each  hand,  and  as  it  is 
considered  an  act  of  civil  attention  for  the 
male  sei'\'ant,  if  not  otherwise  employed,  to 
assist  the  female  in  small  matters  of  the 
kind,  so  did  Flanagan,  in  his  best  manner 
and  kindest  voice,  bid  her  good-moming 
and  offer  to  cany  home  the  pitcher. 

"It's  the  least  I  may  do,"  said  he,  "now 
that  I'm  your  fellow-servant ;  but  before  you 
go  farther,  lay  down  your  burden,  an'  lei 
us  chat  awhile." 


FARDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


213 


"Indeed,"  replied  Biddy,  "it's  little  we 
expected  ever  to  see  yoiu'  father's  son  goin'  to 
earn  his  bread  undlier  another  man's  roof." 

"Pooh  !  Biddy  !  there's  greater  wondhers 
in  the  world  than  that,  woman  ahve !  But 
tell  me — pooh — ay,  is  there  a  thousand 
qunrer  things — but  I  say,  Biddy,  how  do 
you  like  to  live  wid  this  family  ?  " 

"Why,  troth  indeed,  only  for  the  withered 
ould  lepreehaun  himself,  divil  a  dacenter  peo- 
ple ever  broke  bread." 

"  Yet,  isn't  it  a  wondher  that  the  ould  fel- 
low is  what  he  is,  an'  he  so  full  o'  money  ?  " 

"  Troth,  there's  one  thing  myself  wondhers 
at  more  than  that." 

"What,  Biddy?  let  us  hear  it." 

"  Why,  that  ijou  could  be  mane  an'  shabby 
enough  to  come  as  a  sarvint  to  ate  the 
bread  of  the  man  that  ruined  yees  !  " 

"Biddy,"  rephed  Flanagan,  "I'm  glad 
you've  said  it ;  but  do  you  think  that  I  have  so 
bad  a  heart  as  too  keep  reviuge  in  against 
an  inimy  ?  How  could  I  go  to  my  knees  at 
night,  if  I — no,  Biddy,  we  must  be  Chris- 
tians. Well !  let  us  drop  that ;  so  you  tell  me 
the  mother  an'  son  are  kind  to  you." 

"As  good-hearted  a  pair  as  ever  hved." 

"  Connor,  of  course,  can't  but  be  very 
kind  to  so  good-looking  a  girl  as  you  are, 
Biddy,"  said  Bartle,  with  a  knowing  smile. 

"  Very  kind  !  good-looking  !  ay,  indeed, 
I'm  sure  o'  that,  Bartle  ;  behave  !  an'  don't 
be  gettin'  an  wid  any  o'  your  palavers.  ^^Tiat 
'ud  make  Connor  be  kind  to  the  hkes  of  me, 
that  way  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  oughtn't  an'  mightn't 
— you're  as  good  as  him,  if  it  goes  to  that." 

"  Oh,  }is,  indeed  !  "  • 

"  Why,  you  know  you'r  handsome." 

"  Handsome,"  rejDhed  the  vain  girl,  tight- 
ening her  apron-strings,  and  assuming  a  sly, 
coquettish  look  ;  "  Bartle,  go  'an  mind  your 
business,  and  let  me  bring  home  my  pitch- 
ers ;  it's  time  the  breakwist  was  down.  Sich 
nonsense ! " 

"Very  well,  you're  not,  thin  ;  you've  a  bad 
ie^,  a  bad  figure,  an'  a  bad  face,  an'  it  would 
be  a  terrible  thing  all  out  for  Connor  O'Don- 
ovan  to  fall  in  consate  wid  }ou." 

"Well,  about  Connor  I  could  tell  you 
something  ; — me  !  tut !  go  to  the  sarra  ; — 
faix,  you  don't  know  them  that  Connor's  af- 
ther,  nor  the  collogin'  they  all  had  about  it 
no  longer  ago  than  last  night  itself.  I  sui:)pose 
they  thought  I  was  asleep,  but  it  was  like  the 
hares,  wid  my  eyes  open." 

"  An'  it's  a  pity,  Biddy,  ever  the  same  two 
eyes  should  be  shut.  Begad,  myself's  be- 
ginning to  feel  quare  somehow,  when  I  look 
at  them." 

A  glance  of  pretended  increduhty  was 
given  in  return,  after  which  she  proceeded — 


"  Bartle,  don't  be  bringin'  yourself  to  the 
fair  wid  sich  folly.  My  eyes  is  jist  as  God 
made  them  ;  but  I  can  teU  you  that  before  a 
month  o'  Sundays  passes,  I  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  you  seen  Connor  mai'ried  to — you 
wouldn't  guess !  " 

"  Not  I ;  divil  a  hap'orth  I  know  about 
who  he's  courtin'." 

"  No  less  than  our  gi-eat  beauty,  Bodagh 
Btiie's  daughter,  Una  O'Brien.  Now,  Bartle, 
for  goodness  sake,  don't  let  this  cross  your 
Hjis  to  a  liviu'  mortal.  Sui-e  I  heard  him 
tellin'  all  to  the  father  and  mother  last  night 
— they're  promised  to  one  another.  Eh  ! 
blessed  saints,  Bartle,  what  ails  you  ?  you're 
as  white  as  a  sheet.  "NMiat's  wrong?  and 
what  did  you  start  for  ?  " 

"No thin',"  replied  Flanagan,  coolly,  "but 
a  stitch  in  my  side.  I'm  subject  to  that — it 
pains  me  very  much  while  it  lasts,  and  laves 
me  face,  as  you  say,  the  color  of  dimity  ;  but 
about  Connor,  uj^on  my  thi'oth,  I'm  main 
25roud  to  hear  it ;  she's  a  purty  gui,  an'  be- 
sides he  11  have  a  foi'tune  that'll  make  a  man 
of  him.  I  am,  in  thi'oth,  heart  proud  to  hear 
it.  It's  a  pity  Connor's  father  isn't  as  dacent 
as  himself.  Arrah,  Biddy,  where  does  the 
ould  codger  keep  his  "money  ?  " 

"  Little  of  it  in  the  house  any  way — sure, 
whenever  he  scrapes  a  guinea  together  he's 

awaj-  wid  it  to  the  county count}- och, 

that  countryman  that  keeps  the  money  for 
the  people." 

"  The  treasurer  ;  well,  much  good  may  his 
thi-ash  do  him,  Biddy,  that's  the  worst  I  wish 
him.  Come  now  and  I'll  lave  your  pitchers 
at  home,  and  remember  you  owe  me  some- 
thing for  this." 

"  Good  "^vill,  I  hope." 

"  That  for  one  thing,"  he  replied,  as  they 
went  along;  "but  well  talk  more  about  it 
when  we  have  time  ;  and  I'll  thin  tell  you  the 
truth  about  what  brought  me  to  liu-e  wid  Far- 
dorougha  Donovan." 

Hariug  thus  excited  that  most  active  prin- 
ciple called  female  cui'iosity,  both  entered 
the  kitchen,  where  they  foimd  Connor  and 
his  mother  in  close  and  apparently  confi- 
dential conversation — Fardoi'ougha  himself 
having  as  usual  been  abroad  upon  his  fiu-m 
for  upwai'ds  of  an  hour-  before  any  of  them 
had  risen.  , 

The  feelings  Arith  which  they  met  that 
morning  at  breakfast  may  be  easily  under- 
stood by  oiu*  readers  without  much  assist- 
ance of  ours.  On  the  part  of  Fardorougha 
there  was  a  narrow,  selfish  sense  of  exulta- 
tion, if  not  triumph,  at  the  chance  that  lay 
before  his  son  of  being  able  to  settle  himself 
independently  in  life,  without  the  necessity 
of  making  any  demand  upon  the  hundreds 
which  lay  so   safely  in  the  keeping  of  the 


214 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


County  Treasurer.  His  sordid  soul  was  too 
deeply  imbued  with  the  love  of  luouey  to 
perceive  thiit  "what  he  had  hitherto  looked 
upon  as  a  proof  of  parental  affection  and  fore- 
sight, was  uothmg  more  than  a  fallacy  by 
which  he  was  led  day  after  day  farther  into 
his  prevailing  vice.  In  other  words,  now  that 
love  for  his  son,  and  the  hope  of  seeing  him 
occupy  a  respectable  station  in  society,  ought 
to  have  justified  the  reasoning  by  which  he 
had  suft'ered  himself  to  be  g-uided,  it  was  aji- 
parent  that  the  prudence  which  he  had  still 
considered  to  be  his  duty  as  a  kind  parent, 
was  notliing  else  than  a  mask  for  his  own 
avaiice.  The  idea,  therefore,  of  seeing  Con- 
nor settled  without  any  aid  fi'om  himself,  fill- 
ed his  whole  sovil  with  a  wild,  hard  satisfac- 
tion, which  gave  him  as  much  delight  as  per- 
haps he  was  capable  of  enjoying.  The  adAice 
offered  to  his  son  on  the  preceding  night  ap- 
peai'ed  to  him  a  matter  so  reasonable  in  it- 
self, and  the  opi^ortunity  offered  by  Una's  at- 
tachment so  well  adaj)ted  for  making  it  an 
instrument  to  work  upon  the  affections  of 
her  parents,  that  he  could  not  for  the  life  of 
him  perceive  why  they  should  entertain  any 
rational  objection  against  it. 

The  warm-hearted  mother  participated  so 
largely  in  all  that  affected  the  hapj^iness 
of  her  son,  that,  if  we  allow  for  the  difference 
of  sex  and  position,  we  might  describe  their 
feeling.o  as  bearing,  in  the  character  of  their 
simple  and  \i-sdd  enjoyment,  a  very  remark- 
able resemblance.  This  amiable  woman's 
affection  for  Connor  was  reflected  upon  Una 
O'Brien,  whom  she  now  most  tenderly  loved, 
not  because  the  fair  girl  was  beautiful,  but 
because  she  had  plighted  her  troth  to  that 
son  who  had  been  during  his  whole  life  her 
own  solace  and  delight. 

No  sooner  was  the  morning  meal  con- 
cluded, and  the  seiwants  engaged  at  their 
respective  employments,  than  Honor,  acting 
probably  under  Connor's  suggestion,  resolved 
at  once  to  ascertain  whether  k-^r  husband 
could  so  far  overcome  his  parsimony  as  to 
estabUsh  their  son  and  Una  in  life  ;  that  is, 
in  the  event  of  Una's  parents  opposing  their 
marriage,  and  declining  to  render  them  any 
assistance.  With  this  object  in  view,  she 
told  him,  as  he  was  thi'owing  his  great-coat 
over  his  shoulders,  in  order  to  proceed  to  the 
fields,  that  she  wished  to  speak  to  him  iipon 
a  matter  of  deep  importance. 

""WTiat  is  it?"  said  Fardorougha,  with  a 
hesitating  shrug,  "  what  is  it?  This  is  ever 
an'  always  the  way  when  you  want  vioney ; 
but  I  tell  you  I  have  no  money.  You  wor 
bom  to  waste  and  extravagance,  Honor,  an' 
there's  no  curin'  j'ou.  T\Tiat  is  it  yon  want  ? 
an'  let  me  go  about  my  business." 

"■  Throw  that  ould  threadbare  Cotbamore 


off  o'  you,"  replied  Honor,  "  and  beg  of  God 
to  give  you  grace  to  sit  do%vn,  an'  have  com- 
mon feehng  and  common  sense." 

"If  it's  money  to  get  does  either  for 
youi'seK  or  Connor,  there's  no  use  in  it.  I 
needn't  sit ;  you  don't  want  a  stitch,  either 
of  you." 

Honoi*,  wdthout  more  ado,  seized  the  coat, 
and,  fhnging  it  aside,  pushed  him  over  to  a 
seat  on  which  she  forced  him  to  sit  down. 

"As  heaven's  above  me,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  I  dunna  what'U  come  over  you  at  all,  at  aU. 
Yovu'  money,  your  thrash,  your  dirt  an'  filth, 
ever,  ever,  an'  for  evermore  in  your  thought, 
heart  and  sowl.  Oh,  Chierna !  to  think  of 
it,  an'  you  know  there  is  a  God  above  you,  an' 
that  you  must  meet  Him,  an'  that  ividout  your 
money  too  ! " 

"  Ay,  ay,  the  money's  what  you  want  to 
come  at ;  but  I'll  not  sit  here  to  be  hecthor'd. 
Yv'^hat  is  it,  I  say  again,  you  want  ?  " 

"Fardorougha  ahagur,"  continued  the 
wife,  checking  herself,  and  addressing  him  in 
a  kind  and  affectionate  voice,  "  maybe  I  vxis 
spakin'  too  harsh  to  you,  but  sure  it  was  an' 
is  for  yoiu-  own  good.  How  an'  ever,  I'll 
thiy  kindness,  and  if  you  have  a  heart  at  aU, 
you  can't  but  show  it  when  you  hear  what 
I'm  goin'  to  sa}'." 

"  WeU,  weU,  go  an,"  rephed  the  pertina- 
cious husband  ;  "  but — money — ay,  ay,  is 
there.  I  feel,  by  the  way  you're  comin'  about 
me,  that  there  is  money  at  the  bottom  of  it." 

The  wife  raised  her  hands  and  eyes  to 
heaven,  shook  her  head,  and  after  a  slight 
pause,  in  which  she  appeared  to  consider  her 
appeal  a  hopeless  one,  she  at  length  went  on 
in  an  earnest  but  subdued  and  desponding 
spirit — 

"  Fardorougha,  the  time's  now  come  that 
win  show  the  world  whether  you  love  Con- 
nor or  not." 

"  I  don't  care  a  i^in  about  the  world  ;  you  an' 
Connor  know  well  enough  that  I  love  him." 

"Love  for  one's  child  doesn't  come  out 
merely  in  words,  Fardorougha  ;  actin'  for 
their  benefit  shows  it  better  than  spakin'. 
Don't  you  grant  that  ?  " 

"  Very  weU,  may  be  I  do,  and  again  may 
be  I  don't ;  there's  times  when  the  one's  bet- 
ter than  the  other  ;  but  go  an  ;  may  be  I  do 
grant  it." 

"  Now  tell  me  where  in  this  parish,  ay,  or 
in  the  next  five  pai'ishes  to  it,  you'd  find  sich 
a  boy  for  a  father  or  mother  to  be  j)roud  out 
of,  as  Connor,  your  own  darHn'  as  you  often 
call  him  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  one.  Honor  ;  damnho  to  the  one ; 
I  won't  differ  wid  you  in  that." 

"  You  won't  differ  wid  me !  the  divil 
thank  you  for  that.  You  won't  indeed !  but 
could  you,  I  say,  if  you  wor  wiUin'  ?  " 


FARDOROUGEA,   THE  MISER. 


215 


"I  tell  you  I  could  not." 

"  Now  there's  sinse  an'  kindness  in  that. 
Very  well,  you  say  you're  gatherin'  up  all 
the  money  you  can /or  him." 

"  For  him — him,"  exclaimed  the  uncon- 
scious miser,  "  why,  what  do  you  mane — for 
— well — ay — yes,  yes,  I  did  say  for  him  ;  it's 
for  him  I'm  keeping  it — it  is,  I  tell  you." 

"Now,  Fardorougha,  you  know  he's  ould 
enough  to  be  settled  in  life  on  his  own  ac- 
count, an'  you  heard  last  night  the  girl  he 
can  get,  if  you  stand  to  him,  as  he  ought  to 
expect  from  a  father  that  loves  him." 

"  ^^1ly,  last  night,  thin,  didn't  I  give  my — " 

""Whist,  ahagur!  hould  your  tongue 
awhUe,  and  let  me  go  on.  Thnith's  best — 
he  dotes  on  that  girl  to  such  a  degree,  that 
if  he  doesn't  get  her,  he'll  never  see  another 
happy  day  while  he's  alive." 

"  All  feasthalagh.  Honor — that  won't  pass 
wid  me  ;  I  know  otherwise  myself.  Do  you 
think  that  if  I  hadn't  got  ijoa,  I'd  been  un- 
happy four-an'-twenty  hours,  let  alone  my 
whole  life  ?  I  tell  3'ou  that's  fea.sthalagh, 
an'  won't  pass.  He  wouldn't  eat  an  ounce 
the  less  if  he  was  never  to  get  her.  You 
seen  the  breakfast  he  made  tliis  momin' ;  I 
didn't  begTudge  it  to  him,  but  may  I  never 
stir  if  that  Flanagan  wouldn't  ate  a  horse 
behind  the  saddle ;  he  has  a  stomach  that'd 
require  a  king's  ransom  to  keep  it." 

"You  know  nothing  of  what  I'm  spakin' 
about,"  replied  his  wife.  "I  wasn't  L«a 
dha^  dhun  O'Brien  in  my  best  daj's  ;  an'  be 
the  vestment,  you  warn't  Connor,  that  has 
more  feelin',  an'  spirit,  an'  generosity  in  the 
nail  of  his  Httle  finger  than  ever  you  had  in 
your  whole  carcass.  I  tell  you  if  he  doesn't 
get  married  to  that  girl  he'll  break  his  heart. 
Now  how  can  he  marry  her  except  you  take 
a  good  farm  for  him,  and  stock  it  dacently, 
so  that  he  may  have  a  home  sich  as  she  de- 
sarves  to  bring  her  to  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  but  they'll  give  her  a 
fortune  when  they  find  her  bent  on  him  ?  " 

"Why,  it's  not  unpossible,"  said  the  \sife, 
immediately  changing  her  tactics,  "  it's  not 
unpossible,  but  I  can  tell  j-ou  it's  very  un- 
likely." 

"The  best  way,  then,  in  my  opinion,  'ud 
be  to  spake  to  Connor  about  breaking  it  to 
the  family." 

"  Why,  that's  fair  enough,"  said  the  wife. 
"  I  wondher  myself  I  didn't  think  of  it,  but 
the  time  was  so  short  since  last  night." 

"It  is  short,"  replied  the  miser,  "  far  an' 
away  too  short  to  expect  any  one  to  make  up 
their  mind  about  it.  Let  them  not  be  rash 
themselves  aither,  for  I  tell  you  that  when 
people  many  in  haste,  they're  apt  to  have 
time  enough  to  repint  at  lay  sure." 

"Well,    but   Fardorougha    acushla,    now 


hear  me,  throth  it's  thruth  and  sinse  what 
you  say  ;  but  still,  avourneen,  listen  ;  now 
set  in  case  that  the  Bodagh  and  his  wife 
don't  consint  to  theii-  marriage,  or  to  do  any- 
thing for  them,  won't  you  take  them  a  fai-ra 
and  stock  it  bravely  ?  Think  of  poor  Connor, 
the  darlin'  fine  fellow  that  he  is.  Oh,  thin,, 
Saver  above,  but  it's  he  id  go  to  the  well  o' 
the  world's  end  to  ase  you,  if  your  httle  fin- 
ger only  ached.  He  would,  or  for  myself„ 
and  yet  his  own  father  to  trate  him'  widl 
sich—" 

It  was  in  vain  she  attempted  to  proceed  ; 
the  subject  was  one  in  which  her  heart  felt 
too  deep  an  interest  to  be  discussed  without 
tears.  A  brief  silence  ensued,  during  which 
Fardorougha  moved  uneasily  on  his  seat, 
took  the  tongs,  and  mechanically  mended  the 
fire,  and,  peering  at  his  wife  with  a  counte- 
nance twitched  as  if  by  tic  douloureux,  stared 
round  the  house  with  a  kind  of  stupid  won- 
der, rose  up,  then  sat  instantly  down,  and  in 
fact  exhibited  many  of  those  uninteUigible 
and  uncouth  movements,  which,  in  pex-sons 
of  his  cast,  may  be  properly  termed  the 
hierogh'phics  of  human  action,  under  feel- 
ings that  cannot  be  deciphered  either  by 
those  on  whom  they  operate,  or  by  those  who 
witness  them. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "  Connor  is  all  you  saj*,  an' 
more — an'  more — an' — an' — a  rash  act  is  the 
worst  thing  he  coidd  do.  It's  betther,  Honor, 
to  spake  to  him  as  I  sed,  about  lettin'  the 
matther  be  known  to  Una's  family  out  of 
hand." 

"  And  thin,  if  they  refuse,  you  can  show 
them  a  ginerous  example,  by  puttin'  them, 
into  a  dacent  farm.  Will  yoa  promise  me 
that,  Fardorougha  ?  If  you  do,  all's  right,  for 
they're  not  livin'  that  ever  knew  yon  to  break 
your  word  or  your  jjromise." 

"  I'll  make  no  promise.  Honor  ;  IH  make 
no  promise  ;  but  let  the  other  plan  be  tried 
first.  Now  don't  be  pressin'  me  ;  he  is  a 
noble  bo}',  and  would,  as  you  say,  thravel 
round  the  earth  to  keep  my  httle  finger  from 
pain  ;  but  let  me  alone  about  it  now — let  me 
alone  about  it." 

This,  though  slight  encouragement,  was 
still,  in  Honor's  opinion,  quite  as  much  as, 
if  not  more,  than  she  expected.  Without 
pressing  him,  therefore,  too  strongly  at  that 
moment,  she  contented  herself  with  a  full- 
length  porti'ait  of  their  son,  draT\-n  ^^•ith  all 
the  skni  of  a  mother  who  knew,  if  her  hus- 
band's heari  could  be  touched  at  aU,  those 
points  at  which  she  stood  the  greatest  chance 
of  finding  it  accessible. 

For  a  few  days  after  this  the  subject  o\ 
Connor's  love  was  permitted  to  he  undebated, 
in  the  earnest  hope  that  Fardorougha's  heart 
might  have  caught  some  shght  spai'k  of  natu« 


216 


WIZLIA31  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ral  affection  from  the  conversation  which  had 
fcaken  place  between  him  and  Honor.  They 
waited,  consequently,  with  patience  for  some 
manifestation  on  his  part  of  a  better  feeling, 
and  flattered  themselves  that  his  silence  pro- 
ceeded from  tlie  struggle  which  they  knew  a 
man  of  his  disposition  must  necessarily  feel 
in  working  uj)  his  mind  to  any  act  requiring 
him  to  pan  with  that  which  he  loved  better 
than  hfe,  his  money.  The  ardent  tempera- 
ment of  Connor,  however,  could  ill  brook  the 
pulseless  indifference  of  the  old  man  ;  with 
much  difficulty,  therefore,  was  he  induced  to 
wait  a  whole  week  for  the  issue,  though  sus- 
tained by  the  mother's  assurance,  that,  in 
consequence  of  the  impression  left  on  her  by 
their  last  conversation,  she  was  certain  the 
father,  if  not  urged  beyond  his  wish,  would 
declare  himscii'  willing  to  provide  for  them. 
A  week,  however,  elapsed,  and  Fardorougha 
moved  on  in  the  same  hard  and  insensible 
spirit  which  was  usual  to  him,  wholl}^  en- 
grossed by  money,  and  never,  either  directly 
or  indirectly,  appearing  to  remember  that 
the  happiness  and  welfare  of  his  son  were  at 
stake,  or  depending  upon  the  determination 
to  which  he  might  come. 

Another  half  week  j)assed,  during  which 
Connor  had  made  two  unsuccessfril  attempts 
to  see  Una,  in  order  that  some  fixed  j^lan  of 
intercourse  might  be  estabhshed  between 
them,  at  least  until  his  father's  ultimate  reso- 
lution on  the  subject  proposed  to  him  should 
be  known.  He  now  felt  deej^ly  distressed,  and 
regretted  that  the  ardor  of  his  attachment 
had  so  far  borne  him  away  during  their  last 
meeting,  that  he  had  forgotten  to  concert  meas- 
ures with  Una  for  their  futui-e  interviews. 

He  had  often  watched  about  her  father's 
premises  from  a  little  before  twilight  until 
the  whole  family  had  gone  to  bed,  yet  with- 
out any  chance  either  of  conversing  Avith 
her,  or  of  letting  her  know  that  he  was  in 
the  neighborhood.  He  had  gone  to  chapel, 
too,  with  the  hope  of  seeing  her,  or  snatching 
a  hasty  opportimity  of  exchanging  a  word  or 
two,  if  possible  ;  but  to  his  astonishment  she 
had  not  attended  mass — an  omission  of  duty 
of  which  she  had  not  been  gTiilty  for  the  last 
three  years,  ^\^lat,  therefore,  was  to  be 
done  ?  For  him  to  be  detected  lurking  about 
the  Bodagh's  house  might  create  suspicion, 
especially  after  their  interview  in  the  gar- 
den, which  very  probably  had,  through  the 
officiousness  of  the  servants,  been  communi- 
cated to  her  parents,  Li  a  matter  of  such 
difficulty  he  bethought  him  of  a  confidant, 
and  the  person  to  whom  the  necessity  of  the 
case  directed  him  was  Bartle  Ilanagan. 
Bartle,  indeed,  ever  since  he  entered  into  his 
father's  service,  had  gained  rapidly  upon  Con- 
nor's good  will,  and  on  one  or  two  occasions 


well-nigh  succeeded  in  drawing  from  bim  a 
history  of  the  mutual  attachment  which  sub- 
sisted between  him  and  Una.  His  good 
humor,  easy  language,  and  appai'ent  friend- 
ship for  young  O'Donovau,  together  with  his 
natural  readiness  of  address,  or,  if  you  will, 
of  manner,  all  marked  him  out  as  admirably 
qualified  to .  act  as  a  confidant  in  a  matter 
which  requii'ed  the  very  tact  and  talent  he 
possessed. 

"Poor  fellow,"  thought  Connor  to  himself, 
"  it  will  make  him  feel  more  like  one  of  the 
family  than  a  sei-vant.  If  he  can  think  that 
he's  trated  as  my  friend  and  companion,  he 
may  forget  that  he's  ating  the  bread  of  the 
vei'y  man  that  drove  him  an'  his  to  destruc- 
tion. Ay,  an'  if  we're  married,  I'm  not  siure 
but  I'U  have  him  to  give  me  away  too." 

This  resolution  of  permitting  Flanagan  to 
share  his  confidence  had  been  come  to  by  Con- 
nor upon  the  day  subsequent  to  that  on  which 
he  had  last  tried  to  see  Una.  After  his  return 
home,  disappointment  on  one  hand,  and  his 
anxiety  concerning  his  father's  liberality  on 
the  other,  together  ^ith  the  delight  arising 
from  the  certainty  of  being  beloved,  all  kept 
his  mind  in  a  tumult,  and  permitted  him  to 
sleep  but  httle.  The  next  day  he  decided  on 
admitting  Bartle  to  his  confidence,  and  re- 
posing this  solemn  trust  to  his  integrity. 
He  was  lying  on  his  back  in  the  meadow — 
for  they  had  been  ricking  the  hay  fr'om  the 
lapcocks — when  that  delicious  languor  which 
arises  from  the  three  greatest  provocatives 
to  slumber,  want  of  rest,  fatigue,  and  heat, 
so  utterly  overcame  him,  that,  forgetting  his 
love,  and  all  the  anxiety  arising  from  it,  he 
fell  into  a  di'eamless  and  profound  sleep. 

From  this  state  he  was  aroused  after  about 
an  hour  by  the  pressiu-e  of  something  shai-p 
and  painful  against  his  side,  near  the  region 
of  the  heart,  and  on  looking  up,  he  discovered 
Bartle  Flanagan  standing  over  him  with  a 
pitchfork  in  his  hand,  one  end  of  which  was 
l^ressed  against  his  breast,  as  if  he  had  been 
in  the  act  of  driving  it  forward  into  his 
body.  His  face  was  jDale,  his  dark  brows 
frightfrilly  conti'acted,  and  his  teeth  appar- 
ently set  together,  as  if  worldng  under  some 
feai'ful  determination.  When  Connor  awoke, 
Flanagan  broke  out  into  a  laugh  that  no 
language  could  describe.  The  character  of 
mirth  which  he  wished  to  thi-ow  into  his  face, 
jarred  so  terrifically  with  its  demoniacal  ex- 
pression when  first  seen  by  Connor,  that, 
even  unsuspecting  as  he  was,  he  stai'ted  up 
Avith  alarm,  and  asked  Flanagan  what  was 
the  matter.  Flanagan,  however,  laughed  on 
— peal  after  peal  succeeded — he  tossed  the 
pitchfork  aside,  and,  clapping  both  his  band^ 
upon  his  face,  continued  the  paroxysms  until 
he  recovered  his  composure. 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


217 


"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  I'm  sick,  I'm  as  wake  as 
a  child  wid  laughin' ;  but,  Lord  bless  us, 
after  all,  Connor,  what  is  a  man's  life  worth 
whin  he  has  an  enemy  near  him  ?  There 
was  I,  ticklin'  you  wid  the  pitchfork,  strivin' 
to  waken  you,  and  one  inch  of  it  would  have 
baked  your  bread  for  life.  Didn't  you  feel 
me,  Connor?" 

"  Divil  a  bit,  till  the  minute  before  I  ris." 

"Then  the  (\\x\\  a  purtier  jij:^  you  ever 
danced  in  your  life  ;  wait  till  I  show  you 
how  your  left  toe  wdnt." 

He  accordingly  lay  down  and  illustrated 
the  pretended  action,  after  which  he  burst 
out  into  another  uncontrollable  fit  of  mirth. 

"'Twas  just  for  all  the  world,"  said  he, 
"  as  if  I  had  tied  a  string  to  your  toe,  for  you 
groaned  an'  grunted,  an'  went  on  like  I 
dimna  what ;  but,  Connor,  what  makes  you 
so  sleepy  to-day  as  well  as  on  Monday  last  ?  " 

"That's  the  vei-y  thing,"  rephed  the  un- 
suspicious and  candid  young  man,  "that  I 
wanted  to  spake  to  you  about." 

"  ^\Tiat !  about  sleepin'  in  the  meadows?" 

"  DWil  a  bit  o'  that,  Bartle,  not  a  morsel 
of  sleepin'  in  the  meadows  is  consamed  in 
what  I'm  goin'  to  mintion  to  you.  Bartle, 
didn't  you  tell  me,  the  day  you  hired  wid  my 
father,  that  you  wor  in  love  ?  " 

"  I  did,  Connor,  I  did." 

"  "Well,  so  am  I ;  but  do  you  know  who 
I'm  in  love  with  ?  " 

"  How  the  di\al,  man,  could  I  ?  " 

"  "Well,  no  swearin',  Bai'tle  ;  keep  the  com- 
mandments, my  boy.  I'll  teU  you  in  the 
mane  time,  an'  that's  more  than  you  did  me, 
you  close-mouth-is-a-sign-of-a- wise-head  sjoal- 
peen  !  " 

"Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  one  Colleen 
dhas  dhun,  as  she's  called,  known  by  the 
name  of  Una  or  Oona  O'Brien,  daughter  to 
one  Bodagh  Buie  O'Brien,  the  richest  man, 
barrin'  a  born  gintleman,  in  the  three  parish- 
es?" 

"All  very  fair,  Connor,  for  you  or  any  one 
else  to  be  in  love  wid  her — ay,  man  alive,  for 
myself,  if  it  goes  to  that — but,  but,  Connor, 
avouchal,  are  you  sure  that  iver  you'U  bring 
her  to  be  in  love  ^vid  you  ?  "  ' 
■"^Bartle,"  said  Connor,  seriously,  and  af- 
ter a  sudden  change  in  his  whole  manner, 
"  in  this  business  I'm  goin'  to  trate  you  as  a 
fiiend,  and  a  brother.  She  loves  me,  Bartle, 
and  a  solemn  promise  of  marriage  has  passed 
between  us." 

"  Connor,"  said  Bartle,  "it's  wondherful, 
it's  wondherful !  you  couldn't  believe  what  a 
fool  I  am — fool !  no,  but  a  faint-hearted,  cow- 
ardly villain." 

"  What  do  you  mane,  Bartle  ?  what  the 
dickens  are  you  dri^in'  at !  " 

"  Driven  at  I  whenever  I  happen  to  have 


an  opportimity  of  makin'  a  drive  that  id — hut ! 
I'm  talkin'  balderdash.  Do  you  see  here, 
Connor,"  said  he,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
neck,  "do  you  see  here?  " 

"To  be  sure  I  do.  "WeU,  what  about 
]  there?" 

"  Be  my  sowl,  I'm  very  careful  of — hut ! — 
sure  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  whole  truth 
— I  sed  I  was  in  love  ;  well,  man,  that  was 
thrue,  an',"  he  added  in  a  low,  pithy  whisper, 
"  I  was  neai- — no,  Connor,  I  won't  but  go 
an  ;  it's  enough  for  you  to  know  that  I  was 
an'  am  in  love,  an'  that  it'll  go  hard  -srid  me 
if  ever  any  one  ehe  is  married  to  the  gM  I'm 
in  love  wid.  Now  that  my  business  is  past, 
let  me  hear  yours,  poor  fellow,  an'  I'm  devil- 
ish glad  to  know,  Connor,  that — that — why, 
tunder  an'  ouns,  that  you're  not  as  I  am.  Be 
the  crass  that  saved  us,  Connor,  I'm  glad  of 
that ! " 

"  Why,  love  will  set  you  mad,  Bartle,  if 
you  don't  take  cai'e  of  yourself ;  an',  faith,  I 
dunna  but  it  may  do  the  same  with  myself, 
if  I'm  disappointed.  However,  the  ti-uth  is, 
you  must  sarve  me  in  this  business.  I  struv 
to  see  her  twiste,  but  couldn't,  an'  I'm  afraid 
of  bein'  seen  spy  in'  about  their  place." 

"  The  tnith  is,  Connor,  you  want  to  make 
me  a  go-between — a  blackfoot ;  veiy  well, 
I'll  do  that  same  on  your  account,  an'  do  it 
well,  too,  I  hope." 

It  was  then  arranged  that  Flanagan,  whc 
was  personally  known  to  some  of  the  Bodagh's 
servants,  should  avail  himself  of  that  circum- 
stance, and  contrive  to  gain  an  interriew  with 
Una,  in  order  to  convey  her  a  letter  fi'om 
O'Donovan.  He  was  firrther  enjoined  by  no 
means  to  commit  it  to  the  hands  of  any 
person  save  those  of  Una  herself,  and,  in  the 
event  of  his  not  being  able  to  see  her,  then 
the  letter  was  to  be  returaed  to  Connor.  If 
he  succeeded,  howevei',  in  dehvering  it,  he 
was  to  await  an  answer,  provided  she  found 
an  opportunity  of  sending  one  ;  if  not,  she 
was  to  inform  Connor,  through  Flanagan,  at 
what  time  and  place  he  could  see  her.  This 
airangement  having  been  made,  Connor  im- 
mediately wrote  the  letter,  and,  after  having 
despatched  Flanagan  upon  his  eiTand,  sei 
himself  to  perform,  by  his  individual  labor, 
the  task  which  his  father  had  portioned  out 
for  both.  Ere  Bartle's  return,  Fiu'dorougha 
came  to  inspect  their  progress  in  the  meadow, 
and,  on  finding  that  the  servant  was  absent, 
he  inquired  sharply  into  the  cause  of  it. 

"He's  gone  on  a  message  for  me,"  replied 
Connor,  with  the  utmost  frankness. 

"But  that's  a  bad  way  for  him  to  mind  his 
business,"  said  the  father. 

"  I'll  have  the  task  that  you  set  both  of 
us  finished,"  replied  the  son,  "  so  that  you'll 
lose  nothin'  by  his  absence,  at  aU  events." 


218 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"It's  wrong,  Connor,  it's  wrong  ;  where 
did  you  sincl  him  to  ?  " 

""To  Bodagh  Buie's  ^vid  a  letter  to  Una." 

■"  It's  a  waste  of  time,  an'  a  loss  of  work  ; 
•about  that  business  I  have  something  to  say 
to  yoiu'  mother  an'  you  to-night,  afther  the? 
:supper,  when  the  rest  goes  to  bed." 

"I  hope,  father,  you'll  do  the  dacent  thing 
:still." 

"  No  ;  but  I  hope,  son,  you'll  do  the  ■ndse 
thing  still ;  how-an-ever  let  me  alone  now  ; 
if  you  expect  me  to  do  anything,  you  mustn't 
drive  me  as  your  mother  does.  To-night 
we'll  make  ujd  a  plan  that'll  outdo  Bodagh 
Buie.  Before  you  come  home,  Connor,  throw 
a  stone  or  two  in  that  gap,  to  prevent  the 
cows  fi'om  gettin'  into  the  hay ;  it  won't  cost 
you  much  throuble.  But,  Connor,  did  you 
ever  see  sich  a  gut  as  Bartle  has?  He'll 
brake  me  out  o'  house  an'  home  feedin'  him  ; 
he  has  a  stomach  for  ten-penny-nails  ;  be  my 
word  it  'ud  be  a  charity  to  give  him  a  dose 
of  oak  bark  to  make  liim  dacent ;  he's  a  divil 
at  aitin',  an'  little  good  may  it  do  him  ! " 

The  hour  of  supjaer  arrived  without  Bar- 
tie's  retui-ning,  and  Connor's  impatience  be- 
gan to  overcome  him,  when  Fardorougha, 
for  the  first  time,  introduced  the  subject 
which  lay  nearest  his  son's  heart. 

"  Connor,"  he  began,  "  I've  been  thinkin' 
of  this  affair  with  Una  O'Brien  ;  an'  in  my 
opinion  there's  but  one  way  out  of  it ;  but 
if  you're  a  fool  an'  stand  in  yoiu'  own  hght, 
it's  not  my  fault." 

"  What  is  the  way,  father  ?  "  inquired  Con- 
nor. 

"  The  very  same  I  tould  your  mother  an' 
you  before — run  away  wid  her — I  mane  make 
a  runaway  match  of  it — then  refuse  to  marrj' 
her  unless  they  come  down  wid  the  money. 
You  know  afther  runnin'  away  wid  you  no- 
body else  ever  would  marry  her ;  so  that 
rather  than  see  their  child  disgraced,  never 
fear  but  they'll  pay  dowTi  on  the  nail,  or  may- 
be bring  you  both  to  live  -ndd  'em." 

"My  sowl  to  glory,  Fardorougha,"  said 
the  wife,  "  but  you're  a  bigger  an'  cunninner 
ould  rogue  than  I  ever  took  you  for !  By  the 
scapular  uj^on  me,  if  I  had  known  how  you'd 
turn  out,  the  sorra  carry  the  ring  ever  you'd 
put  on  my  finger ! " 

"  Father,"  said  Connor,  "  I  must  be  dis- 
obedient to  you  in  this  at  all  events.  It's 
plain  you'll  do  nothing  for  us  ;  so  there's  no 
use  in  sayin'  anything  more  about  it.  I  have 
no  manes  of  supportin'  her,  an'  I  swear  I'll 
never  bring  her  to  poverty.  If  I  had  money 
to  carry  me,  I'd  go  to  America  an'  thry  my 
fortune  there  ;  but  I  have  not.  Father,  it's 
too  hard  that  you  should  stand  in  my  Avay 
when  you  could  so  easily  make  me  happ}'. 
Who  have  you  sich  a  right  to  assist  as  your 


son — your  only  son,  an'  your  only  child 
too?" 

This  was  spoken  in  a  tone  of  respect  and 
sorrow  at  once  impressive  and  affectionate. 
His  fine  features  were  touched  with  some- 
thing beyond  sadness  or  regret,  and,  as  the 
tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
he  felt  much  more  deeply  for  his  father's 
want  of  princijDle  than  for  anything  con- 
nected with  his  o^\^l  hopes  and  px'ospects.  In 
fact,  the  tears  that  rolled  silently  down  his 
cheeks  were  the  tears  of  shame  and  sorrow 
for  a  parent  who  could  thus  school  him  to  an 
act  of  such  unparalleled  baseness.  As  it  was, 
the  genius  of  the  miser  felt  rebuked  by  the 
natural  dehcacy  and  honor  of  his  son  ;  the 
old  man  therefore  shrunk  back  abashed,  con- 
fxised,  and  moved  at  the  words  which  he  had 
heard — simple  and  inoffensive  though  they 
were. 

"Fardorougha,"  said  the  wife,  wiping  her 
eyes,  that  were  kindUng  into  indignation, 
"  we're  now  married  goin'  an — " 

"  I  think,  mother,"  said  Connor,  "  the  less 
we  say  about  it  now  the  better — with  my  own 
good  will  I'll  never  speak  on  the  subject." 

"You're  right,  avourneen,"  replied  the 
mother  ;  "  you're  right ;  I'U  say  nothing — ■ 
God  sees  it's  no  use." 

"A\Tiat  wovild  you  have  me  do?"  said  the 
old  man,  rising  and  walking  about  in  un- 
usual distress  and  agitation  ;  "  you  don't 
know  me — I  can't  do  it — /  can't  do  it.  You 
sa}',  Honor,  I  don't  care  about  him — I'd  give 
him  my  blood — I'd  give  him  my  blood  to 
save  a  hair  of  his  head.  My  hfe  an'  happiness 
depinds  on  him  ;  but  who  knows  how  he  an' 
his  wife  might  mismanage  that  money  if  they 
got  it — both  young  an'  foolish  ?  It  wasn't 
for  nothing  it  came  into  my  mind  what  I'm 
afeard  will  happen  to  me  yet." 

"  And  what  was  that,  Fardorougha  ? " 
asked  the  wife. 

"  Sich  foreknowledge  doesn't  come  for 
nothing,  Honor.  I've  had  it  an'  felt  it  hangin' 
over  me  this  many  a  long  day,  that  I'd  come 
to  starvation  pt ;  an'  I  see,  that  if  you  force 
me  to  do  as  you  wish,  that  it  'ill  ha^Dpeu.  I'm 
as  sure  of  it  as  that  I  stand  before  you.  I'm 
an  unfortunate  man  wid  sich  a  fate  before 
me  ;  an'  yet  I'd  shed  my  blood  for  my  boy — 
I  would,  an'  he  ought  to  know  that  I  would  ; 
but  he  wouldn't  ax  me  to  starve  for  him — 
would  you,  Connor,  avick  machree,  would 
you  ax  your  father  to  stan'e  ?  I'm  unhappy 
— unhappy — an'  my  heait's  breakin' !  " 

The  old  man's  voice  failed  him  as  he  ut- 
tered the  last  words  ;  for  the  conflict  which 
he  felt  evidently  convulsed  his  whole  frame. 
He  wiped  his  eyes,  and,  again  sitting  down, 
he  wept  bitterly  and  in  silence,  for  many 
minutes. 


FAEDOBOUGEA,   THE  MISER. 


219 


A  look  of  surprise,  compassion,  and  deep 
distress  passed  between  Connor  and  his 
mother.  The  latter  also  was  very  much 
affected,  and  said, 

"  Fardorougha,  dear,  maybe  I  spake  some- 
times too  cross  to  you  ;  but  if  I  do,  God 
above  knows  it's  not  that  I  bear  you  ill  wiU, 
but  bekase  I'm  troubled  about  poor  Connor. 
But  I  hope  I  won't  spake  angry  to  3'ou 
again  ;  at  all  events,  if  I  do,  remimber  it's 
only  the  mother  pladin'  for  her  son — the 
only  son  an'  child  that  God  was  plazed  to 
sind  her." 

"  Father,"  added  Connor,  also  deeply 
moved,  "  don't  distress  yourself  about  me — 
don't,  father  dear.  Let  things  take  their 
chance  ;  but  come  or  go  what  will,  any  good 
fortune  that  might  happen  me  wouldn't  be 
sweet  if  it  came  by  givin'  you  a  sore  heart." 

At  this  moment  the  barking  of  the  dog 
gave  notice  of  approaching  footsteps  ;  and 
in  a  few  moments  the  careless  whistle  of 
Bartle  Flanagan  was  heard  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  door. 

"  This  is  Bartle,"  said  Connor  ;  "  maybe, 
father,  his  answer  may  throw  some  light 
iipon  the  business.  At  any  rate,  there's  no 
secret  in  it ;  we'll  all  hear  what  news  he 
brings  us." 

He  had  scarcely  concluded  when  the  latch 
was  lifted,  bat  Bartle  could  not  enter. 

"It's  locked  and  bolted,"  said  Fardo- 
rougha  ;  "  as  he  sleeps  in  the  bam  I  for- 
got that  he  was  to  come  in  here  any  more 
to-night — open  it,  Connor." 

"  For  the  sake  of  all  the  money  you  keep 
in  the  house,  father,"  said  Connor,  smihng, 
"its  hardly  worth  your  while  to  be  so  tim- 
orous ;  but  God  help  the  county  treasurer 
it  he  forgot  to  bar  his  door — Asy,  Bartle, 
I'm  openin'  it." 

Flanagan  immediately  entered,  and,  with 
all  the  importance  of  a  confidant,  took  his 
seat  at  the  fire. 

"  Well,  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  "  what 
news  ?  " 

"  Let  the  boy  get  his  supper  first,"  said 
Honor  ;  "  Bartle,  you  must  be  star^'ed  wid 
hunger." 

"Faith,  I'm  middlin'  well,  I  thank  you, 
that  same  way,"  replied  Bartle  ;  "  divil  a  one 
o'  me  but's  as  ripe  for  my  supper  as  a  July 
cherry  ;  an'  wid  the  blessin'  o'  Heaven  upon 
my  eudayvors  I'll  soon  show  you  what  good 
execution  is." 

A  deep   groan   fi'om    Fardorougha  gave 
back  a  feai-fiil  echo  to  the  tnith  of  this  for- 
|L    midable  annimciation. 

Kf      "Ai'en't  you  weU,  Fardorougha?"  asked 
^KBartle. 

^H     "  Throth  I'm  not,  Bartle  ;  never  was  more 
^Kwicomfortable  in  my  life." 


Flanagan  immediately  commenced  his  sup- 
per, which  consisted  of  flummery  and  new 
milk — a  luxury  among  the  lower  ranks 
which  might  create  enxj  in  an  epicure.  As 
he  advanced  in  the  work  of  destruction,  the 
gray  eye  of  Fardorougha,  which  followed 
every  spoonful  that  entered  his  mouth,  scin- 
tillated Hke  that  of  a  cat  when  inibbed  down 
the  back,  though  fi'om  a  directly  oj^posite 
feeling.  He  turned  and  twisted  on  the 
chaii',  and  looked  fi'om  his  wife  to  his  son, 
then  tm-ned  up  his  eyes,  and  appeared  to 
feel  as  if  a  dagger  entered  his  heart  with 
every  additional  dig  of  Bartle's  spoon  into 
the  flummery.  The  son  and  wife  smiled  at 
each  other  ;  for  they  could  enjoy  those  petty 
sufferings  of  Fardorougha  with  a  great  deal 
of  good-humor. 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  "  what's  the  news  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  word  worth  telling  ;  at  laste  that 
I  can  hear." 

"I  mane  from  Bodagh  Buie's." 

Bartle  stared  at  him  ;  "  Bodagh  Buie's ! — 
what  do  I  know  about  Bodagh  Buie?  are 
you  ravin'  ?  " 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  smihng,  "  my  fa- 
ther and  mother  knows  all  about  it — an' 
about  your  going  to  Una  with  the  letter.  I 
have  no  secrets  from  them." 

"  Hoot  toot !  That's  a  horse  of  another 
color  ;  but  you  wouldn't  have  me,  widout 
knowin'  as  much,  to  go  to  betray  trust.  In 
the  mane  time,  I  may  as  well  finish  my  sup- 
per before  I  begin  to  tell  you  what-som-ever 
I  happen  to  knoAV  about  it." 

Another  deep  gi'oan  fi'om  Fardorougha 
followed  the  last  observation. 

At  length  the  woi*k  of  demohtion  ceased, 
and  after  Honor  had  put  past  the  empty 
dish,  Barile,  having  ^aped  his  mouth,  and 
uttered  a  hiccup  or  two,  thus  commenced  to 
dole  out  his  intelUgence  : — 

"Whin  I  wint  to  the  Bodagh's,"  said  Bar- 
tle, "  it  was  wid  great  schamiu'  an'  throuble 
I  got  a  sight  of  ]\Iiss  Una  at  all,  in  regard  of 
— (hiccup) — in  regard  of  her  not  knowin' 
that  there  was  any  sich  message  for  her — 
(hiccuj)).  But  happenin'  to  know  Sally 
Laffan,  I  made  bould  to  go  into  the  kitchen 
to  ax,  you  know,  how  was  her  aunt's  family 
up  in  Skelgy,  when  who  should  I  find 
before  me  in  it  but  Sally  an'  ]\Iiss  Una — 
(hiccup).  (Saver  of  eai'th  this  night !  from 
Fardorougha.)  Of  coorse  I  shook  hands  wid 
her — wid  Sally,  I  mane  ;  an',  '  Sally,'  says  I, 
'I  was  sent  in  wid  a  message  fi'om  the 
masther  to  you  ;  he's  in  the  haggard  an' 
wants  you.'  So,  begad,  on — (hiccup)  out 
she  goes,  an'  the  coast  bein'  clear,  '  oNIiss 
Una,'  says  I,  '  here's  a  scrap  of  a  letther  from 
Misther  Connor  O'Donovnn  ;  read  it,  and  if 
you  can  write  him  an  answer,  do  ;  if  yoa 


220 


WILLTAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


haven't  time  say  whatever  you  have  to  say 
by  me.'  She  go — (hiccup)  she  got  all  colors 
when  I  handed  it  to  her  ;  an'  nin  away,  say- 
in'  to  me,  '  wait  for  a  while,  an'  don't  go  till 
I  see  you.'  In  a  minute  or  two  Sally  comes 
in  agin  as  mad  as  the  dickens  wid  me,  '  The 
ciu'se  o'  the  crows  an'  you  ! '  says  she,  '  why 
did  you  msike  me  run  a  fool's  errau'  for  no 
rason  ?  The  masther  wasn't  in  the  haggard, 
an'  didn't  want  me  good  or  bad.'  " 

"Bartle,"  said  the  impatient  lover,  "pass 
all  that  over  for  the  present,  an'  let  us  know 
the  answer,  if  she  sent  any." 

"  Sent  any  !  be  my  sowl,  she  did  so  !  Af- 
ther  readin'  your  letther,  an'  Undin'  that  she 
could  depind  on  me,  she  said  that  for  fear  of 
any  remarks  bein'  made  about  my  waitin',  es- 
pishally  as  I  live  at  present  in  this  family,  it 
would  be  better  she  thought  to  answer  it  by 
word  o'  mouth.  '  Tell  him,'  said  she,  '  that 
I  didn't  think  he  wa — (hiccuj^)  (Queen  o' 
heaven  !)  was  so  dull  an'  ignorant  o'  the  cus- 
toms of  the  country,  as  not  to  know  that  whin 
young  people  want  to  see  one  another  they 
stay  away  fi'om  mass  wid  an  expectation 
that  ' — begad,  I  disremimber  exactly  her  own 
words  ;  but  it  was  as  much  as  to  say  that  she 
staid  at  home  on  last  Sunday  expectin'  to  see 
you." 

"  Well,  but  Bartle,  what  else  ? — short  an' 
sweet,  man." 

"  Why,  she'll  meet  you  on  next  Thursday 
night,  God  willin',  in  the  same  place  ;  an' 
whin  I  axed  her  where,  she  said  you  knew  it 
yourself." 

"An'isthataU?" 

"  No,  it's  not  all ;  she  sed  it  'ud  be  better 
to  mention  the  thing  to  her  father.  Afther 
thinkin'  it  over  she  says,  '  as  yoiu'  father  has 
the  na — (hiccup)  (Saints  above  !)  the  name 
of  being  so  rich,  she  doesn't  know  if  a  friend 
'ud  interfere  but  his  consint  might  be  got ; ' 
an'  that's  all  I  have  to  say  about  it.  barriu' 
that  she's  a  veiy  purty  girl,  an' I'd  adnseyou 
not  to  be  too  sure  of  her  yet,  Bartle.  So  now 
I'm  for  the  barn— Good  night,  Far — (hiccup) 
(at  my  cost,  you  do  it !)  Fardorougha." 

He  rose  and  proceeded  to  his  sleeping- 
place  in  the  baru,  whither  Connor,  who  was 
struck  by  his  manner,  accompanied  him. 

"  Bartle,"  said  O'Donovan,  "  did  you  take 
anything  since  I  saw  you  last  ?  " 

"  Only  a  share  of  two  naggins  wid  my 
brother  Antony  at  Peggj'  Finigan's." 

"  I  noticed  it  upon  you,"  observed  Connor  ; 
*•  but  I  don't  think  they  did." 

"  An'  if  they  did,  too,  it's  not  high  thrason, 
I  hope." 

"  No  ;  but,  Bartle,  I'm  obliged  to  you. 
You've  acted  as  a  friend  to  me,  an'  I  won't  for- 
get it  to  you." 

"An'  I'm  so  much  obliged  to  you,  Connor, 


that  I'll  remimber  your  employin'  me  in  thia 
the  longest  day  I  have  to  live.  But,  Con- 
nor ?  " 

"  WeU,  Bartle." 

"  I'd  take  the  sacrament,  that,  after  all,  a 
ring  you'll  never  put  on  her." 

"  And  what  makes  you  think  so,  Bartle  ?  " 

"I  don't  — I  do — (hiccup)  don't  know  ;  but 
somehow  something  or  another  tells  it  to  me 
that  you  won't ;  others  is  fond  of  her,  I  sup- 
pose, as  well  as  yourself ;  and  of  coorse  they'll 
stand  betune  you." 

"  Ay,  but  I'm  sure  of  her." 

"  But  you're  not ;  wait  till  I  see  you  man 
and  vrife,  an'  thin  I'U  say  so.  Here's  mj'self, 
Bartle,  is  in  love,  an'  dhough  I  don't  expect 
ever  the  girl  will  or  would  marry  me,  be  the 
crass  of  heaven,  no  other  man  M-ill  have  her. 
Now,  how  do  you  know  but  you  may  have 
some  one  hke  me — like  me,  Connor,  to  stand 
against  you  ?  " 

"  Bartle,"  said  Connor,  laughing,  "  yoitr 
head's  a  little  moidher'd  ;  give  me  your  hand  ; 
whish  !  the  de^•il  take  you,  man  !  don't  wiing 
my  fingers  off.  Say  yoiu'  prayers,  Bartle, 
an'  go  to  sleep.  I  say  agin  I  won't  forget 
your  kindness  to  me  this  night." 

Flanagan  had  now  deposited  himself  upon 
his  straw  bed,  and,  after  having  tugged  the 
bedclothes  about  him,  said,  in  the  relaxed, 
indolent  voice  of  a  man  about  to  sleep, 

"  Good  night,  Connor  ;  thi'oth  my  head's 
a  little  soft  to-night — good  night." 

"  Good  night,  Bartle." 

"Connor?" 

"  WeU  ?  " 

"Didn't  I  stand  to  you  to-night?  Very 
weU — goo — (hiccup)  good  night." 

On  Connor's  return,  a  serious  conclave 
was  held  upon  the  best  mode  of  procedure 
in  a  manner  which  j^resented  difficulties  that 
appeared  to  be  insurmountable.  The  father, 
seizing  upon  the  advice  transmitted  by  Una 
herself,  as  that  which  he  had  already  suggest- 
ed, insisted  that  the  most  judicious  course 
was  to  propose  for  her  ojDenly,  and  without 
appearing  to  feel  that  tliere  was  any  inferior- 
ity on  the  part  of  Connor. 

"  If  they  talk  about  Avealth,  Connor,"  said 
he,  "  say  thafe  you  are  my  sou,  an'  that — that 
— no — no — I'm  too  poor  for  such  a  boast, 
but  say  that  you  wiU  be  able  to  take  good 
care  of  anything  you  get." 

At  this  moment  the  door,  which  Connor 
bad  not  bolted,  as  his  father  would  have 
done,  opened,  and  Bartle,  wi-apped  in  the 
treble  folds  of  a  "svinnow-cloth,  made  a  distant 
appearance. 

"  Beg  pardon,  Connor  ;  I  forgot  to  say 
that  Una's  brother,  the  young  priest  out  o' 
Ma\'nooth,  will  be  at  home  from  his  uncle's, 
where  it  appears  he  is  at  present ;  an'  Miss 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


221 


Una  would  wish  that  the  proposal  'ud  be 
made  while  Ae'.s  at  his  father's.  She  says 
hell  stand  her  friend,  come  or  go  what  will. 
I  forgot,  begad,  to  mintion  it  before — so 
beg  pai'don,  an'  wishes  you  all  good-night ! " 

This  information  tended  to  confirm  them 
in  the  course  recommended  by  Fardorougha. 
It  was  accordingly  resolved  upon  that  he 
(Fardorougha)  himself  should  wait  upon 
Bodagh  Buie,  and  in  the  name  of  his  son 
formally  propose  for  the  hand  of  his  daugh- 
ter. 

To  effect  this,  however,  was  a  matter  of  no 
ordinarj'  difficulty,  as  they  apprehended  that 
the  Bodagh  and  his  wife  would  recoil  \\ith 
indignation  at  the  bare  notion  of  even  con- 
descending to  discuss  a  topic  which,  in  all 
probability,  they  would  consider  as  an  insult. 
Not,  after  all,  that  there  existed,  according 
to  the  opinion  of  their  neighbors,  such  a  vast 
disparity  in  the  wealth  of  each ;  on  the 
contrary,  many  were  heard  to  assex't,  that  of 
the  two  Fardorougha  had  the  heavier  purse. 
His  character,  however,  was  held  in  such  ab- 
horrence by  all  who  knew  him,  and  he 
ranked,  in  point  of  joersonal  respectability 
and  style  of  living,  so  far  beneath  the 
Bodagh,  that  we  question  if  any  ordinary  oc- 
currence could  be  supposed  to  fall  upon  the 
people  with  greater  amazement  than  a  mar- 
riage, or  the  report  of  a  marriage,  between 
any  member  of  the  two  families.  The  O'Don- 
ovans  felt,  however,  that  it  was  better  to 
make  the  experiment  ah'eadj'  agreed  on, 
than  longer  to  remain  in  a  state  of  uncer- 
tainty about  it.  Should  it  fail,  the  position 
of  the  lovers,  though  perhaps  rendered  some- 
what less  secure,  would  be  such  as  to  sug- 
gest, so  far  as  they  themselves  wei-e  concern- 
ed, the  necessity  of  a  more  prompt  and 
effectual  course  of  action.  Fardorougha  ex- 
pressed his  intention  of  opening  the  matter 
on  the  following  day  ;  but  his  wife,  ■n'ith  a 
better  knowledge  of  female  character,  deemed 
it  more  judicious  to  defer  it  until  after  the 
interview  which  was  to  take  place  between 
Connor  and  Una  on  the  succeeding  Thurs- 
day. It  might  be  better,  for  instance,  to 
make  the  proj^osal  first  to  Mrs.  O'Brien  her- 
self, or,  on  the  other  hand,  to  the  Bodagh ; 
but  touching  that  and  other  matters  relating 
to  what  waE  proposed  to  be  done,  Una's 
opinion  and  advice  might  be  necessary. 

Little  passed,  therefore,  worthy  of  note, 
dm'ing  the  intermediate  time,  except  a  short 
convei'sation  between  Bartle  and  Connor  on 
the  following  day,  as  they  returned  to  the 
field  from  dinner. 

"  Bartle,"  said  the  other,  "j'ou  wor  a  Uttle 
soft  last  night ;  or  rather  a  good  deal  so." 

"Faith,  no  doubt  o'  that — but  when  a 
man  meets  an  old  acquaintance  or  two,  they 


don't  like  to  refuse  a  thrate.  I  fell  in  wid 
three  or  four  boijH — all  friends  o'  mine,  an'  we 
had  a  sup  on  account  o'  what's  expected." 

As  he  uttered  these  words,  he  looked  at 
Connor  with  an  eye  which  seemed  to  say — 
you  are  not  in  a  certain  secret  with  which  I 
am  acquainted. 

"  Why,"  repHed  Connor,  "  what  do  you 
mane,  Bartle?  I  thought  you  were  with 
your  brother — at  laste  you  tould  me  so." 

Flanagan  started  on  hearing  this. 

"Wid  my  brother,"  said  he — "  why,  I — I 
— what  else  could  I  tell  you  ?  He  was  along 
wid  the  boys  when  I  met  them." 

"Took  a  sup  on  account  o'  what's  ex- 
pected!— an'  what's  the  manin'o'  that,  Bartle  V" 

"Why,  what  would  it  mane — but — but — 
your  maniage  ?  " 

"  An'  thunder  an'  fury  ?  "  exclaimed  Con- 
nor, his  eyes  gleaming  ;  "  did  you  go  to  be- 
tray trust,  an'  mintion  Una's  name  an'  mine, 
afther  what  I  tould  you ''  " 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Connor,"  rephed  Flana- 
gan ;  "  is  it  mad  you'd  have  me  to  be  ?  I 
said  there  was  something  expected  soon, 
that  'ud  suiprise  them  ;  and  wh^  they  axed 
me  what  it  was — honor  bright !  1  gave  them 
a  knowin'  wink,  but  said  nothin'.  Eh  !  was 
that  breakin'  trust?  Arrah,  be  me  sowl, 
Connor,  you  don't  trate  me  well  by  the 
words  you  spoke  this  blessed  minute." 

"  An'  how  does  it  come,  Bartle,  my  boy, 
that  YOU  had  one  stoi-y  last  night,  an'  another 
to-day?" 

"  Faix,  very  aisily,  bekase  I  forget  what  I 
sed  last  night — for  sure  enough  I  was  more 
cut  than  you  thought — but  didn't  I  keep  it 
well  in  before  the  ould  couple  ?  " 

"  You  did  faiily  enough  ;  I  grant  that — 
but  the  moment  you  got  into  the  bam  a 
bhnd  man  could  see  it." 

"  Bekase  I  didn't  care  a  button  wanst  I 
escaped  from  the  eye  of  your  father  ;  any- 
how, bad  luck  to  it  for  whiskey  ;  I  have  a 
murdherin'  big  heddick  all  day  afther  it." 

"It's  a  bad  weed,  Bartle,  and  the  less  a 
man  has  to  do  vrith  it,  the  less  he'll  be 
throubled  afther  wid  a  sore  head  or  a  sore 
conscience." 

"  Connor,  divil  a  one,  but  you're  the  moral 
of  a  good  boy  ;  I  dunna  a  fault  you  have  but 
one." 

"  Come,  let  us  hear  it." 

"  I'll  tell  you  some  day,  but  not  now,  not 
now — but  /  xcUl  tell  you — an'  I'll  let  you 
know  the  raison  thin  that  I  don't  mintion  it 
now ;  in  the  mane  time  I'll  sit  down  an' 
take  a  smoke." 

"  A  smoke !  why,  I  never  knew  you 
smoked." 

"  Nor  I,  myself,  till  last  night.  This 
tindher-box  I  was  made  a  present  of  to  Ught 


222 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOBKS. 


my  pipe,  when  not  near  a  coal.  Begad,  now 
that  I  think  of  it,  I  suppose  it  was  smokin' 
that  knocked  me  up  so  much  last  night,  an' 
made  my  head  so  sick  to-daj-." 

"It  helped  it,  lU  engage  ;  if  you  will  take 
mv  advice,  it's  a  custom  you  won't  larn." 

""  I  have  a  good  deal  to  throuble  me,  Con- 
nor ;  you  know  I  have  ;  an'  what  we  are 
brought  down  to  now ;  I  have  more  nor 
you'd  believe  to  think  of  ;  as  much,  any  way, 
as'U  make  this  box  an'  steel  usefid,  I  hope, 
when  I'm  fi-ettin'." 

Flanagan  spoke  truth,  in  assuiing  Connor 
that  the  apologj'  given  for  his  intoxication 
■on  the  preceding  night  had  escaped  his 
memory.  It  was  fortunate  for  him,  indeed, 
that  O'bonovan,  like  all  candid  and  ingenu- 
■ous  persons,  was  utterly  devoid  of  suspicion, 
■othei-wise  he  might  have  perceived,  by  the 
discrepancy  in  the  two  accounts,  as  well  as 
Ijy  Flanagan's  confusion,  that  he  was  a  per- 
son in  whom  it  might  not  be  prudent  to  en- 
trust much  confidence. 


PAET  m. 

The  tryste  between  Connor  and  Una  was 
held  at  the  same  place  and  hour  as  before, 
and  so  raj)id  a  progi-ess  had  love  made  in 
each  of  their  hearts,  that  we  question  if  the 
warmth  of  then*  inteniew,  though  tender 
and  innocent,  would  be  apt  to  escape  the 
censure  of  our  stricter  readers.  Both  were 
depressed  by  the  prospect  that  lay  before 
them,  for  Connor  frankly  assured  her  that  he 
feared  no  earthly  circumstances  could  ever 
soften  his  father's  heart  so  far  as  to  be  pre- 
vailed upon  to  estabhsh  him  in  hfe. 

""NVliatthen  can  I  do,  my  darling  Una? 
If  your  father  and  mother  won't  consent — 
as  I  fear  they  won't — am  I  to  bring  you  into 
the  miserable  cabin  of  a  day  laborer  ?  for  to 
this  tlie  son  of  a  man  so  wealthy  as  my  father 
is,  must  sink.  No,  Una  dear,  I  have  sworn 
never  to  bring  you  to  jDoverty,  and  I  wiU 
not." 

"  Connor,"  she  replied  somewhat  gravely, 
"  I  thought  you  had  formed  a  difterent  oj^in- 
ion  of  me.  You  know  but  little  of  your  o^frw 
Una's  heart,  if  you  think  she  wouldn't  Hve 
with  you  in  a  cabin  a  thousand  and  a  thou- 
sand times  sooner  than  she  would  live  -with 
any  other  in  a  palace.  I  love  j'ou  for  your 
own  sake,  Connor  ;  but  it  appears  j^ou  don't 
think  so." 

Woman  can  never  bear  to  have  her  love 
undei'valued,  nor  the  moral  dignity  of  a  pas- 
sion which  can  sacrifice  all  worldly  and  self- 
ish considerations  to  its  own  purity  and  at- 
taxjhment,  unappreciated.     When  she  uttered 


the  last  words,  therefore,  tears  of  bitter  sor« 
row,  mingled  with  oHended  pride,  came  to 
her  aid.  She  sobbed  for  some  moments,  and 
again  went  on  to  reproach  liim  with  forming 
so  unfair  an  estimate  of  her  aftection. 

"  I  repeat  that  I  loved  you  for  yourself  on- 
ly, Connor,  and  think  of  what  1  would  feel, 
if  you  refused  to  spend  yoiu'  life  in  a  cottage 
with  me.  If  I  thought  you  wished  to  marry 
me,  not  because  I  am  Una  O'Brien,  but  the 
daughter  of  a  wealthy  man,  mj^  heart  would 
break,  and  if  I  thought  you  were  not  tnie- 
minded,  and  j)ure-hearted,  and  honorable,  I 
wotdd  rather  be  dead  than  united  to  you  at 
aU."  ^ 

"I  love  you  so  well,  and  so  much,  Una, 
that  I  doubt  I'm  not  worthy  of  you — and  it's 
fear  of  seeing  you  brought  do^\Ti  to  daily 
labor  that's  cinishing  and  breaking  my  heart." 

"  But,  dear  Connor — what  is  there  done 
by  any  cottager's  wife  that  I  don't  do  every 
day  of  my  hfe  ?  Do  you  think  mj-  mother  lets 
me  pass  my  time  in  idleness,  or  that  I  my- 
self could  bear  to  be  unemployed  even  if  she 
did  ;  I  can  milk,  make  butter,  spin,  sew, 
wash,  knit,  and  clean  a  kitchen  ;  why,  you 
have  no  notion,"  she  added,  v^-ith  a  smile, 
"  what  a  clever  cottager's  ^\'ife  I'd  make  !  " 

"  Oh,  Una,"  said  Connor,  now  melting  into 
tenderness  greater  than  he  had  ever  before 
felt  ;  "  Una  dear,  it's  useless — it's  useless — 
I  can't,  no,  I  couldn't — and  I  wiU  not  hve  •with- 
out you,  even  if  we  were  to  beg  together — • 
but  what  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Now,  while  my  brother  John  is  at  home, 
is  the  time  to  projDOse  it  to  my  father  and 
mother,  who  look  upon  him  with  eyes  of 
such  affection  and  delight  that  I  am  half- 
inclined  to  think  their  consent  may  be 
gained." 

"  Maybe,  darhng,  his  consent  will  be  as 
hard  to  gain  as  their  own." 

"  Now,"  she  replied,  fondly,  "  only  you're 
a  hard-hearted  thing  that's  afraid  to  hve 
in  a  cottage  with  me,  I  could  tell  you  gome 
good  news — or  rather  you  doubt  me — and 
fear  that  I  wouldn't  live  in  one  with  you." 

A  kiss  was  the  rejil}-,  after  which  he 
said — 

"  With  you,  my  dear  Una,  now  that 
you're  satisfied,  I  would  live  and  die  in  a 
prison — with  you,  -with  xjou — in  whatever 
state  of  life  we  may  be  placed,  vdth  you,  but 
without  you — never,  I  could  not — I  could 
not " 

"  WeU,  we  are  young,  you  know,  and 
neither  of  us  proud — and  I  am  not  a  lazy 
girl  -  indeed,  I  am  not ;  but  you  forget  the 
good  news." 

"  I  forget  that,  and  eveiy thing  else  but 
yourself,  darhng,  while  I'm  in  your  com- 
pany.    O  heavens!    if  you  were  once  my 


FARDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


223 


own,  and  that  we  were  never  to  be  separa- 
ted ! " 

"  Well,  but  the  good  news !  " 

"  What  is  it,  dear  ?  " 

"I  have  mentioned  our  aflfection  to  my 
brother,  and  he  has  promised  to  assist  us. 
He  has  heard  of  your  character,  and  of  your 
mother's,  and  says  that  it's  unjust  to  visit 
ipon  you " 

She  paused — "You  know,  my  dear  Con- 
nor, that  you  must  not  be  otfended  with 
anything  I  say." 

"  I  know,  my  sweet  treasure,  what  you're 
going  to  say,"  replied  Connor,  with  a  smile  ; 
"nobody  need  be  delicate  in  saying  that  my 
father  loves  the  money,  and  knows  how  to 
put  guinea  to  guinea  ;  that's  no  secret.  I 
wish  he  loved  it  less,  to  be  sure,  but  it  can- 
not be  helped  ;  in  the  mean  time,  ma  colleen 
dhas  dhun — O,  how  I  love  them  vrords !  God 
bless  your  brother  I  he  must  have  a  kind 
heai't,  Una  dear,  and  he  must  love  you  very 
much  when  he  promises  to  assist  us." 

"He  has,  and  will ;  but,  Connor,  why  did 
you  send  such  a  disagi-eeable,  forward,  and 
prying  person,  as  your  father's  sei'vant  to 
bring  me  your  message  ?  I  do  not  Uke  him 
— he  almost  stared  me  out  of  countenance." 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  Connor,  "I  feel  a 
good  dale  for  him,  and  I  think  he's  an 
honest,  good-hearted  boy,  and  besides,  he's 
in  love  himself." 

"  I  know  he  was  always  a  starer,  and  I 
say  again  I  don't  Hke  him." 

"But,  as  the  case  stands,  dear  Una,  I 
have  no  one  else  to  trust  to — at  all  events, 
he's  in  our  secret,  and  the  best  way,  if  he's 
not  honest,  is  to  keep  him  in  it ;  at  laste,  if 
we  put  liim  out  of  it  now,  he  might  be  talk- 
ing to  our  disadvantage." 

"  There's  tiTith  in  that,  and  we  must  only 
trust  him  vdth  as  httle  of  our  real  secrets  as 
possible  ;  I  cannot  account  for  the  strong 
prejudice  I  feel  against  him,  and  have  felt 
for  the  past  two  years.  He  always  dressed 
above  his  means,  and  once  or  twice  attempt- 
ed to  speak  to  me." 

"  Well,  but  I  know  he's  in  love  with  some 
one,  for  he  told  me  so ;  poor  fellow,  I'm 
bound,  my  dear  Una,  to  show  him  any  kind- 
ness in  my  powei'." 

After  some  further  conversation,  it  was 
once  more  decided  that  Fardorougha  should, 
on  the  next  day,  see  the  Bodagh  and  his 
wife,  in  order  to  ascertain  whether  theu'  con- 
sent could  be  obtained  to  the  union  of  our 
young  and  anxious  lovers.  This  step,  as  the 
reader  knows,  was  every  way  in  accordance 
with  Fardorougha's  incUnation.  Connor 
himself  would  have  preferred  his  mother's 
advocacy  to  that  of  a  person  possessing  such 
a  slender  hold  on  their  e:ood-will  as  his  other 


parent.  But  upon  consulting  with  her,  she 
told  him  that  the  fact  of  the  proposal  coming 
from  Fardorougha  might  imply  a  disposition 
on  his  part  to  provide  for  his  son.  At  all 
events,  she  hoped  that  contradiction,  the 
boast  of  superior  wealth,  or  some  fortunate 
coUision  of  mind  and  pi'inciple,  might  strike 
a  spark  of  generous  feehng  out  of  her  hus- 
band's heart,  which  nothing,  she  knew,  under 
strong  excitement,  such  as  might  aiise  fi-om 
the  bitter  pride  of  the  O'Brien's,  could  posr- 
sibly  do.  Besides,  as  she  had  no  favox*able 
expectations  fi'om  the  inten'iew,  she  thought 
it  an  vmnecessary  and  painful  task  to  subject 
herself  to  the  insults  which  she  apprehended 
fi'om  the  Bodagh's  wife,  whose  pride  and  im- 
portance towered  far  and  high  over  those  of 
her  consequential  husband. 

This  just  and  sensible  riew  of  the  matter, 
on  the  jDart  of  the  mother,  satisfied  Connor, 
and  reconciled  him  to  the  father's  disinclin- 
ation to  be  accompanied  by  her  to  the  scene 
of  conflict  ;  for,  in  truth,  Fardorougha  pro- 
tested against  her  assistance  with  a  bitter- 
ness which  could  not  easily  be  accounted  for. 

"  If  youi'  mother  goes,  let  her  go  by  her- 
self," said  he  ;  "  for  111  not  interfere  in't  if 
she  does.  I'll  take  the  dirty  Bodagh  and  his 
fat  wife  my  own  way,  which  I  can't  do  if 
Honor  comes  to  be  snibbin'  and  makin'  little 
o'  me  afore  them.  Maybe  I'll  pull  down 
their  pride  for  them  better  than  you  think, 
and  in  a  way  they're  not  prepared  for ;  them 
an'  theii"  janting  car !  " 

Neither  Connor  nor  his  mother  could  help 
being  highly  amused  at  the  singularity  of  the 
miserable  pomp  and  parsimonious  display 
resoried  to  by  I'ardorougha,  in  prej^aiing  for 
tliis  extraordinar}-  mission.  Out  of  an  old 
strongly  locked  chest  he  brought  forth  a 
gala  coat,  which  had  been  duly  ah-ed,  but 
not  thrice  worn  within  the  last  twenty  years. 
The  progi-ess  of  time  and  fashion  had  left  it 
so  odd,  ouf7-e,  and  ridiculous,  that  Connor, 
though  he  laughed,  could  not  help  feehng 
depressed  on  considering  the  appearance  his 
father  must  make  when  dressed,  or  rather 
disfigured,  in  it.  Next  came  a  pair  of  knee- 
breeches  by  the  same  hand,  and  which,  in 
comphance  with  the  taste  of  the  age  that, 
produced  them,  were  made  to  button  so  far 
down  as  the  calf  of  the  leg.  Then  appeared 
a  waistcoat,  whose  long  pointed  flaps  reached 
nearly  to  the  knees.  Last  of  all  was  pro- 
duced a  hat  not  more  than  three  inches  deep  in 
the  cro^Ti,  and  brimmed  so  narrowly,  that  a 
spectator  would  almost  imagine  the  leaf  had 
been  cut  oft'.  Haring  pranked  himself  out  in 
these  habihments,  contrary  to  the  strongest 
expostulations  of  both  wife  and  son,  he  took 
his  stalY  and  set  forth.  But  lest  the  reader 
should  expect  a  more  accurate  description  ol^ 


224 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


his  person  when  dressed,  we  shall  endeavor  at 
all  events  to  present  him  with  a  loose  outline. 
In  the  first  place,  his  head  was  surmounted 
with  a  hat  that  resembled  a  Hat  skillet,  want- 
ing the  handle  ;  his  coat,  from  which  avarice 
and  penury  had  caused  him  to  shrink  away, 
would  have  fitted  a  man  tmce  his  size,  and, 
as  he  had  become  much  stooped,  its  tail, 
which,  at  the  best,  had  been  jDreiDOsterously 
long,  now  nearly  swept  the  gi'ound.  To  look 
at  him  behind,  in  fact,  he  appeared  all  body. 
The  flaiDS  of  his  waistcoat  he  had  iDhmed  up 
with  his  own  hands,  hy  which  jDiece  of  ex- 
quisite taste,  he  displayed  a  pau-  of  thighs  so 
thin  and  disproportioned  to  his  small-clothes, 
that  he  resembled  a  boy  who  happens  to 
wear  the  breeches  of  a  fuU-grown  man,  so 
that  to  look  at  him  in  fi'ont  he  aj^peared  all 
legs.  A  pair  of  shoes,  jjohshed  with  burned 
straw  and  buttermilk,  and  surmounted  by 
two  buckles,  scoured  away  to  skeletons,  com- 
pleted his  costume.  In  this  garb  he  set  out 
with  a  crook-headed  staff,  into  which  long 
use,  and  the  habit  of  giiping  fast  whatever  he 
got  in  his  hand,  had  actually  worn  the  mai'ks 
of  his  forefinger  and  thumb. 

Bodagh  Buie,  his  wife,  and  their  two  chil- 
dren, were  very  luckily  assembled  in  the  par- 
lor, when  the  nondescript  figure  of  the 
deputy -wooer  made  his  apj^earance  on  that 
part  of  the  neat  road  which  terminated  at 
the  gate  of  the  little  la^\Ti  that  fronted  the 
haU-door.  Here  there  was  another  gate  to 
the  right  that  opened  into  the  farm  or  kit- 
chen yard,  and  as  Fardorougha  hesitated 
which  to  enter,  the  family  within  had  an  op- 
portunity of  getting  a  clearer  view  of  his 
features  and  person. 

"  Who  is  that  quare  figure  standing 
there  ?  "  inquired  the  Bodagh  ;  "  did  you 
ever  see  sich  a ah,  thm,  who  can  he  be  ?  " 

"  Somebody  comin',  to  see  some  of  the 
sarvints,  I  suj^pose,"  rej^liedhis  wife  ;  "why, 
thin,  it's  not  unlike  httle  Dick  Croailha,  the 
fairyman." 

In  sober  truth,  Fardorougha  was  so  com- 
pletely disguised  by  his  dress,  especially  by 
his  hat,  whose  shallowness  and  want  of  brim, 
gave  his  face  and  head  so  wild  and  eccentric 
an  appearance,  that  we  question  if  his  own 
family,  had  they  not  seen  him  dress,  could 
have  recognized  him  !  At  length  he  turned 
into  the  kitchen-yard,  and,  addressing  a  la- 
borer whom  he  met,  asked — 

"I  say,  nabor,  which  is  the  right  way  into 
Bodagh  Buie's  house  ?  " 

"  There's  two  right  ways  into  it,  an'  you 
may  take  aither  o'  them — but  if  you  want 
any  favor  from  him,  you  had  better  call  him 
Mr.  O'Brien.  The  Bodagh's  a  name  was 
first  given  to  his  father,  an'  he  bein'  a  da- 
center  man,  doesn't  iike  it,  although  it  sticks 


to  him  ;  so  there's  a  lift  for  you,    my  hip. 
striddled  little  codger." 

"  But  which  is  the  right  door  o'  the 
house  ? " 

"  There  it  is,  the  kitchen — peg  in — that's 
your  intrance,  barrin'  you're  a  giutleman  in 
disg-uise,  an'  if  be,  why  turn  out  again  to 
that  other  gate,  strip  ofi"  your  shoes,  and 
pass  up  ginteely  on  your  tipytoes,  and  give 
a  thunderin'  whack  to  the  green  ring  that's 
hangin'  from  the  door.  But  see,  friend," 
added  the  man,  "  maj'be  you'd  do  one  a 
saiwice  ?  " 

"How,"  said  Fardorougha,  looking  earn- 
estly at  him  ;  "  what  is  it?  " 

"  AVhy,  to  lave  us  a  lock  o'  your  hair  be- 
fore you  go,"  rephed  the  wag,  with  a  grin. 

The  miser  took  no  notice  whatsoever  of 
this,  but  was  turning  quietly  out  of  the  yard, 
to  enter  by  ths  lawn,  when  the  man  called 
out  in  a  commanding  voice — 

"Back  here,  you  codger! — tundher  an' 
thump  ! — bac]i  I  say !  You  won't  be  let  in 
that  way — thiamp  back,  you  leprechaun,  into 
the  kitchen — eh  !  you  won't — well,  well,  take 
what  you'll  get — an'  that'll  be  the  way  back 
agin." 

'Twas  at  this  moment  that  the  keen  eye 
of  Una  recognized  the  features  of  her  lover's 
father,  and  a  smile,  which  she  felt  it  impos- 
sible to  subdue,  settled  uj^on  her  face,  which 
became  immediately  mantled  with  blushes. 
On  hurrying  out  of  the  room  she  plucked  her 
brother's  sleeve,  who  followed  her  to  the  hall. 

"  I  can  scarcely  tell  you,  dear  John,"  she 
said,  speaking  rajjidly,  "it's  Fardorougha 
O'Donovan,  Connor's  father  ;  as  you  know 
his  business,  John,  stay  in  the  parlor  ;  "  she 
squeezed  his  hand,  and  added  with  a  smile 
on  her  face,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  "  I  fear 
it's  all  over  with  me — I  don't  know  whether 
to  laugh  or  cry — but  stay,  John  dear,  an' 
fight  my  battle — Una's  battlj." 

She  ran  ujDstairs,  and  immediately  one  oi 
the  most  beggarly,  sordid,  and  pusillanimous 
knocks  that  ever  spoke  of  starvation  and 
misery  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"  I  will  answer  it  myself,"  thought  the 
amiable  brother  ;  "  for  if  my  father  or  mo- 
ther does,  he  surely  mil  not  be  allowed  in." 

Jolm  could  scarcely  presen-e  a  grave  face, 
when  Fardoroughk  presented  himself. 

"  Is  Midher  O'Brien  widin  ?  "  inquired  the 
usurer,  shrewdly  availing  himseK  of  the  hint 
he  received  from  the  servant. 

"  My  father  is,"  replied  John  ;  "have  the 
goodness  to  step  in." 

Fardorougha  entered  immediately,  follow- 
ed by  young  O'Brien,  who  said, 

"Father,  this  is  Mr.  O'Donovan,  who.  ii 
appears,  has  some  important  business  with 
the  family." 


FAJiDOEOUGHA,    THE  MISEB. 


225 


"Don't  be  mistherin'  me,"  replied  Fardo- 
rougha,  helping  himself  to  a  seat ;  "  I'm  too 
poor  to  be  misthered." 

"  With  this  family  !  "  exclaimed  the  father 
in  amazement ;  "  what  business  can  Fardo- 
rougha  Donovan  have  with  this  family, 
John  ?  " 

"About  our  children,"  repHed  the  miser  ; 
"  about  my  son  and  your  daughter." 

"  An'  what  about  them  ?  "  inqxiired  IMrs. 
O'Brien  ;  "do  you  dar  to  mintion  them  in 
the  same  day  together  ?  " 

"  Why  not,"  said  the  miser  ;  "ay,  an'  on 
the  same  night,  too  ?  " 

"Upon  my  reputaytion,  INIr.  O'Donovan, 
you're  extramely  kind — now  be  a  little  more 
so,  and  let  us  undherstand  you,"  said  the 
Bodagh. 

"  Poor  Una ! "  thought  John,  "  all's  lost ; 
he  wiU  get  himself  kicked  out  to  a  certainty." 

"I  think  it's  time  we  got  them  married," 
replied  Fardorougha  ;  "  the  sooner  it's  done 
the  better,  and  the  safer  for  both  o'  them  ; 
especially  for  the  colleen." 

"  Dar  a  Lorha,  he's  cracked,"  said  ]\Irs. 
O'Brien  ;  "  sorra  one  o'  the  poor  soul  but's 
cracked  about  his  money." 

"  Poor  sowl,  woman  alive  !  wor  you  never 
poor  yourself  ?  " 

"  Yis  I  wor ;  an'  I'm  not  ashamed  to  own 
it ;  h\xi,Chierna,  Frank,"  she  added,  address- 
ing her  husband,  "  there's  no  use  in  sj^akin' 
to  him." 

"Fardorougha,"  said  O'Brien,  seriously, 
"  what  brought  you  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  tell  you  an'  your  wife  the  state 
that  my  son,  Connor,  and  your  daughter's  in 
about  one  another  ;  an'  to  advise  you  both, 
if  you  have  sinse,  to  get  them  married  afore 
worse  happen.  It's  your  business  more  nor 
■mine." 

"You're  right,"  said  the  Bodagh,  aside  to 
his  wife  ;  "  he's  sartinly  deranged.  Fardo- 
rougha," he  added,  "  have  you  lost  any  money 
lately  ?  " 

"  I'm  losin'  every  day,"  said  the  other  ; 
"I'm  broke  assistin' them  that  won't  thank 
me,  let  alone  pacing  me  as  they  ought." 

"  Tlien  you  have  lost  nothing  more  than 
usual  ?  " 

"  If  I  didn't,  I  teU  you  there's  a  good 
chance  of  losin'  it  before  me  ; — can  a  man 
call  any  money  of  his  safe  that's  in  another 
man's  pocket  ?  " 

"  An'  so  you've  come  to  propose  a  marriage 
lietween  your  son  and  my  daughter,  yet  you 
lost  no  money,  an'  you're  not  mad  !  " 

"  Divil  a  morsel  o'  me  is  mad — but  you'll 
be  so  if  you  refuse  to  let  this  match  go  an." 

"  Out  wid  him — a  shan  roghara,"  shouted 
Mrs.  O'Brien,  in  a  state  of  most  dignified  of- 
fence ;  "  Damho  orth,  you  ould  knave  !  is  it 
8 


the  son  of  a  misert  that  has  fleeced  an*  rob- 
bed the  whole  counthry  side  that  we  'ud  let 
our  daughther,  that  resaved  the  finish  to  her 
edication  in  a  Dubling  boardin'  school,  marry 
wid  ? —  Vic  na  hoiah  this  day  ! " 

"  You  had  no  sich  scruple  yourself,  ma'am," 
replied  the  bitter  usurer,  "  when  you  bounced 
at  the  son  of  the  ould  Bodagh  Buie,  an'  every 
one  knaws  what  he  was." 

"  He  !  "  said  the  good  woman  ;  "  an'  is  it 
runnin'  up  comparishments  betuxt  yourself 
an'  him  you  are  afther  ?  Why,  Saint  Peter 
wouldn't  thrive  on  your  money,  you  nager." 

"  Maybe  Saint  Pethur  thiniv  on  worse — 
but  havn't  you  thruv  as  well  on  the  Bodagh's, 
as  if  it  had  been /io«fts%  come  by?  I  defy 
you  an'  the  world  both — to  say  that  ever  I 
tuck  a  penny  from  any  one,  more  than  my 
right.  Lay  that  to  the  mimoiy  of  the  ould 
Bodagh,  an'  see  if  it'U  fit.  It's  no  light  guinea, 
any  how." 

Had  Fardorougha  been  a  man  of  ordinary 
standing  and  character  in  the  countiy,  from 
whom  an  insult  could  be  taken,  he  would  no 
doubt  have  been  by  a  veiy  summary  process 
expelled  the  parlor.  The  history  of  his  queru- 
lous and  irascible  temper,  however,  was  so 
well  known,  and  his  oflensive  eccentricity  of 
manner  a  matter  of  such  estabhshed  fact, 
that  the  father  and  son,  on  glancing  at  each 
other,  were  seized  with  the  same  spirit,  and 
both  gave  way  to  an  uncontrollable  fit  of 
laughter. 

"Is  it  a  laughin'  stock  you're  makin'  of 
it  ?  "  said  'Mrs.  O'Brien,  highly  indignant. 

"Faith,  achora,  it  may  be  no  laughin' 
stock  afther  all,"  replied  the  Bodagh. 

"I  think,  mother,"  observed  John,  "that 
you  and  my  father  had  better  treat  the  mat- 
ter with  more  seriousness.  Connor  O'Don- 
ovan is  a  young  man  not  to  be  despised  by 
any  person  at  aU  near  his  own  class  of  life 
who  regards  the  peace  and  welfare  of  a 
daughter.  His  character  stands  very  high ; 
indeed,  in  every  way  unimpeachable." 

The  bitter  scowl  which  had  sat  upon  the 
smaU  dark  features  of  Fardorougha,  when 
replying  to  the  last  attack  of  ^Mrs.  O'Brien, 
passed  away  as  Jolm  spoke.  The  old  man 
turned  hastily  around,  and,  sm-vejing  the 
eulogist  of  his  son,  said, 

"  God  bless  you,  asthore,  for  thim  words ! 
and  they're  thrue — thrue  as  the  gospel, 
arrah  what  ai'e  you  both  so  proud  of?  I 
defy  you  to  get  the  aquil  of  my  son  in  the 
barony  of  Lisnamona,  either  for  face,  figui-e 
or  temper  !  I  say  he's  fit  to  be  a  husband 
for  as  good  a  girl  as  ever  stood  in  your 
daughter's  shoes  ;  an'  from  what  I  hear  of 
her,  she's  as  good  a  girl  as  ever  the  Almighty 
put  breath  in.  God  bless  you,  young  man  1 
you're  a  credit  yourself  to  any  pai'enta" 


>26 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  An'  we  have  nothiu'  to  say  aginst  your 
son,  nor  aginst  yoiir  wife  aither,"  replied 
the  Bodagh  ;  "an'  if  your  own  name  was  as 
clear — if  you  wor  looked  upon  as  they  are — 
tut,  I'm  spakia'  nonsense  !  How  do  I  know 
whether  ever  your  son  and  my  daughter 
spoke  a  word  to  one  another  or  not  ?  " 

"  I'll  go  bail  Ooua  never  opened  her  Hps 
to  him,"  said  her  mother  ;  "I'll  go  bail  she 
had  more  spirit." 

"  An'  I'U  go  bail  she  can't  live  widout  him, 
an'  wiU  have  him  whether  youhke  it  or  not," 
said  Fardorougha. 

"  Mother,"  observed  John,  "  will  you  and 
my  father  come  into  the  next  room  for  a 
minute — I  wish  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  each 
of  you  ;  and  will  you,  Fardorougha,  have 
the  goodness  to  sit  here  till  we  return  ?  " 

"  I)i\'il  a  notion,"  repUed  O'Donovan,  "I 
have  of  stii-rin'  my  foot  till  the  thing's  settled 
one  way  or  other." 

"  Now,"  said  young  O'Brien,  when  they  got 
into  the  back  parlor,  "it's  right  that  you 
both  should  know  to  what  length  the  court- 
ship between  Una  and  Connor  O'Donovan 
has  gone." 

"Coortship!  Vich  no  hoiah!  sure  she 
wouldn't  go  to  coort  vdd  the  son  o'  that  ould 
schamer." 

"  I'm  beginning  to  fear  that  it's  too  thrue," 
observed  the  Bodagh  ;  "  and  if  she  has — but 
let  us  hear  John." 

"  It's  perfectly  true,  indeed,  mother,  that 
she /las,"  said  the  son.  "Yes,  and  they  are 
both  this  moment  pledged,  betrothed,  prom- 
ised, solemnly  promised  to  each  other ;  and 
in  my  opinion  the  old  man  within  is  acting  a 
more  honorable  part  than  either  of  3'ou  give 
him  credit  for." 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  exclaimed  the  mother  ; 
"  who  afther  that  would  ever  tkrust  a  daugh- 
ter ?  The  gii-l  that  we  rared  up  as  tindher 
as  a  chicking,  to  go  to  thi-ow  herself  away 
upon  the  son  of  ould  Fardorougha  Donovan, 
the  misert !  Confusion  to  the  ring  ever  he'll 
put  an  her  !     I'd  see  her  stretched  *  first." 

"  I  agree  with  you  in  that,  Bridget,"  said 
the  husband  ;  "if  it  was  only  to  punish  her 
thi'acheiy  and  desate,  I'll  take  good  care  a 
ling  Avill  never  go  on  them  ;  but  how  do  you 
know  all  this,  John  ?  " 

"  From  Una's  own  hps,  father." 

The  Bodagh  paced  to  and  fro  in  much  agi- 
tation ;  one  hand  in  his  small-clothes  pock- 
et, and  the  other  twirUng  his  watch-key  as 
rapidly  as  he  could.  The  mother,  in  the 
meantime,  had  thrown  herself  into  a  chair, 
and  gave  way  to  a  violent  fit  of  giief. 

"  And  you  have  this  from  Una's  own  lips  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  father,  I  have  ;  and  it  is  much  to 

*  Dead. 


her  credit  that  she  was  candid  enough  to 
place  such  confidence  in  her  brother." 

"  Pledged  and  promised  to  one  another. 
Bridget,  who  could  beheve  this  ?  " 

"  Believe  it !  I  don't  beheve  it — it's  only  a 
schame  of  the  hussy  to  get  him.  Oh,  thin, 
Queen  of  Heaven  this  day,  but  it's  black 
news  to  us  !  " 

"John,"  said  the  father,  "tell  Una  to 
come  down  to  us." 

"  Father,  I  doubt  that's  rather  a  trying 
task  for  her.     I  wish  you  wouldn't  insist." 

"  Go  off,  sir  ;  she  must  come  dowTi  imme- 
diately, I'U  have  it  fi-om  her  own  hps,  too." 

Without  another  word  of  remonstrance  the 
son  went  to  bring  her  down.  When  the 
brother  and  sister  entered  the  room,  O'Brien 
still  paced  the  floor.  He  stood,  and,  turn- 
ing his  eyes  upon  his  daughter  with  severe 
displeasure,  was  about  to  speak,  but  he  ap- 
peared to  have  lost  the  power  of  utterance  ; 
and,  after  one  or  two  ineffectual  attempts, 
the  big  tears  fairly  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

"  See,  see,"  said  the  mother,  "  see  what 
you  have  brought  us  to.  Is  it  tlirue  that 
you're  i^romised.  to  Fardorougha's  son  ?  " 

Una  tottered  over  to  a  chair,  and  the  blood 
left  her  cheeks  ;  her  hps  became  dry,  and 
she  gasped  for  breath. 

"  Why,  don't  you  think  it  worth  your  while 
to  answer  me  ?  "  continued  the  mother. 

The  daughter  gave  a  look  of  deep  distress 
and  supjjlication  at  her  bi'other ;  but  when 
she  perceived  her  father  in  tears,  her  head 
sank  down  upon  her  bosom. 

"  Wliat !  what !  Una,"  exclaimed  the  Bod- 
agh, Una "     Biit  ere  he  could  complete 

the  question,  the  timid  creatiu*e  fell  senseless 
uiDon  the  floor. 

For  a  long  time  she  lay  in  that  friendly 
trance,  for  such,  in  truth,  it  was  to  a  dehcate 
being,  subjected  to  an  ordeal  so  painful  as 
that  she  was  called  upon  to  pass  through. 
We  have,  indeed,  remarked  that  there  is  in 
the  young,  especially'  in  those  of  the  softer 
sex,  a  feeling  of  terror,  and  shame,  and  confu- 
sion, when  called  ujDon  by  their  pai-ents  to 
disclose  a  forbidden  j)assion,  that  renders  its 
avowal  perhaps  the  most  formidable  task 
which  the  young  heart  con  undergo.  It  is  a 
fearful  trial  for  the  youthful,  and  one  which 
parents  ought  to  conduct  with  surpassing 
dehcacy  and  tenderness,  unless  they  wish  to 
drive  the  ingenuous  spirit  into  the  first  steps 
of  falsehood  and  deceit. 

"Father,"  said  John,  "I  think  you  may 
rest  satisfied  with  Avhat  you  witness  ;  and  I 
am  sure  it  cannot  make  you  or  mother  hap- 
py to  see  poor  Una  miserable." 

Una,  who  had  been  during  the  greater  part 
of  her  swoon  supported  in  her  weeping  and 
alarmed  mother's  arms,  now  opened  her  eyes, 


FAlilJ  oil U  UU 11 A ,    y 7/ A    MUSKli. 


227 


4nd,  after  casting  an  afiErighted  look  about 
the  room,  she  hid  her  face  in  her  mother's 
bosom,  and  exclaimed,  as  distinctly  as  the 
violence  of  sobbing  grief  would  permit  her  : 

"  Oh,  mother  dear,  have  pitj'  on  me  !  bring 
me  up  stall's  and  I  will  teU  you." 

"I  do,  I  do  pity  you,"  said  the  mother, 
kissing  her  ;  "I  know  you'U  be  a  good  girl 
yet,  Oona." 

"  Una,"  said  her  father,  placing  his  hand 
gently  on  her  shoulder,  "was  I  ever  harsh  to 
you,  or  did  I " 

"Father  dear,"  she  returned,  interrupting 
him,  "  I  would  have  told  you  and  my  mother, 
but  that  I  was  afi-aid." 

There  was  something  so  utterly  innocent 
and  artless  in  this  reply,  that  each  of  the 
three  persons  present  felt  sensibly  affected 
by  its  extreme  and  childlike  simjilicity. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  Una,"  continued 
the  Bodagh,  "  but  answer  me  truly,  hke  a 
good  gii'l,  and  I  swear  ujjon  my  reputaytion, 
that  I  won't  be  angry.  Do  you  love  the  sou 
of  this  Fardorougha  ?  " 

"  Not,  father,  because  he's  Fardorougha's 
son,"  said  Una,  whose  face  was  stdl  hid  in 
her  mother's  bosom  ;  "I  would  rather  he 
wasn't. " 

"  But  you  do  love  him  ?  " 

"  For  three  years  he  has  scarcely  been  out 
of  my  mind." 

Something  that  might  be  termed  a  smile 
crossed  the  countenance  of  the  Bodagh  at 
tliis  intimation. 

"  God  help  you  for  a  foolish  child  !  "  said 
he  ;  "  you're  a  poor  counsellor  when  left  to 
defend  your  own  cause." 

"  She  won't  defend  it  by  a  falsehood,  at  all 
events,"  observed  her  trustworthy  and  affec- 
tionate brother. 

"  No,  she  wouldn't,"  said  the  mother ;  "  and 
I  did  her  wrong  a  while  ago,  to  say  that  she'd 
schame  anything  about  it." 

"  And  ai'e  you  and  Connor  O'Donovan 
promised  to  aich  other  ?  "  inquired  the  father 
again. 

"  But  it  wasn't  I  that  proposed  the  prom- 
ise," returned  Una. 

"  Oh,  the  desiderate  villain,"  exclaimed  her 
father,  "to  be  guilty  of  such  a  thing !  but 
you  took  the  promise  Una — you  did — you  did 
— I  needn't  ask." 

"No,"  rephed  Una. 

"  No  !  "  reechoed  the  father  ;  "  then  you 
Hjl     did  not  give  the  promise  ?  " 
Hl       "  I  mean,"  she  rejoined,  "  that  you  needn't 
^B  ask." 

^H  "  Oh,  faith,  that  alters  the  case  extremely. 
^H  Now,  Una,  this — all  this  promising  that  has 
^^K  passed  between  you  and  Connor  O'Donovan 
^B  is  aU  folly.  If  you  prove  to  be  the  good 
^H  obedient  girl  that  T  hope  you  are,  you'll  put 


him  out  of  yom-  head,  and  then  you  can  give 
back  to  one  another  whatever  promises  you 
made." 

This  was  succeeded  by  a  silence  of  more 
than  a  minute.  Una  at  length  arose,  and, 
with  a  composed  energy  of  manner,  that  was 
evident  by  her  sparkling  eye  and  bloodless 
cheek,  she  approached  her  father,  and  calmly 
kneeling  down,  said  slowly  but  firmly  : 

"  Father,  if  noUibuj  else  can  satisfy  you,  1 
will  give  back  my  promise  ;  but  then,  father, 
it  will  break  m}'  heart,  for  I  know — I  feel — 
hoAV  I  love  him,  and  how  I  am  loved  by 
him." 

"  I'll  get  you  a  better  husband,"  replied 
her  father — "far  more  wealthy  and  more 
resj^ectable  than  he  is." 

"I'll  give  back  the  promise,"  said  she; 
"  but  the  man  is  not  living,  except  Connor 
O'Donovan,  that  will  ever  call  me  wife. 
More  wealthy  !  more  resf)ectable  ! — Oh,  it 
was  only  himself  I  loved.  Father,  I'm  on 
my  knees  before  j'ou,  and  before  my  mother. 
I  have  only  one  request  to  make — Oh,  don't 
break  your  daughter's  heart !  " 

"  God  direct  us,"  exclaimed  her  mother  ; 
"  it's  hard  to  know  how  to  act.  If  it  would 
go  so  hard  upon  her,  sure — " 

"Amen,"  said  her  husband;  "may  God 
direct  us  to  the  best !  I'm  siu*e  God  knows," 
he  continued,  now  much  affected,  "  that  I 
would  rather  break  my  own  heart  than 
yours,  Una.  Get  up,  dear — rise.  John, 
how  would  you  ad\ise  us  ?  " 

"I  don't  see  any  serious  objection,  after 
all,"  rephed  the  son,  "either  you  or  my 
mother  can  have  to  Connor  O'Donovan.  He 
is  eveiy  way  worthy  of  her,  if  he  is  equal  to 
his  character ;  and  as  for  wealth,  I  have 
often  heard  it  said  that  his  father  was  a 
richer  man  than  yourself." 

"  Afther  all,'"  said  the  mother,  "  she  might 
be  very  well  wid  him." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  then,"  said  the 
Bodagh — "let  us  see  the  ould  man  liimself, 
and  if  he  settles  his  son  dacently  in  life,  as 
he  can  do  if  he  wishes,  why,  I  won't  see  the 
poor,  foolish,  innocent  girl  breaking  her 
heart." 

Una,  who  had  sat  with  her  face  still  aver- 
ted, now  ran  to  her  father,  and,  throwing 
her  arms  about  his  neck,  wej)t  aloud,  but 
said  nothing. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  said  the  latter,  "  it's  veiy  fine 
now  that  you  have  everjirhing  your  own 
way,  you  girsha  ;  but,  sure,  you're  aU  the 
daughter  we  have,  achora,  and  it  would  be 
too  bad  not  to  let  you  have  a  little  of  your 
own  opinion  in  the  choice  of  a  husband. 
Now  go  up  stairs,  or  whei-e  you  please,  till 
we  see  what  can  be  done  with  Fai'dorougha 
himself." 


228 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


With  smiling  face  and  glistening  eyes 
Una  jDassed  out  of  the  room,  scarcely  sen- 
sible whether  she  walked,  ran,  or  flew,  while 
the  others  went  to  renew  the  discussion 
with  Fardorougha. 

"  Well,"  said  the  miser,  "  you  found  out, 
I  suppose,  that  she  can't  do  \\idout  him  ?  " 

"  Provided  we  consent  to  the  marriage," 
asked  the  Bodagh,  "  how  will  you  settle  your 
son  in  life  ?  " 

"Who  w^ould  I  settle  in  life  if  I  wouldn't 
settle  my  only  son  ?  "  replied  the  other  ; "  who 
else  is  there  to  get  all  I  have  ?  " 

"  That's  veiy  time,"  observed  the  Bo- 
dagh ;  "  but  state  plainly  what  you'll  do  for 
him  on  his  marriage." 

"Do  you  consint  to  the  marriage  all  of 
yees  ?  " 

"That's  not  the  question,"  said  the  other, 

"DiA-il  a  word  I'U  answer  till  I  know  whi- 
ther yees  do  or  not,"  said  Fardorougha. 
"  Say  at  once  that  you  consint,  and  then  I'll 
spake — I"U  say  what  I'll  do." 

The  Bodagh  looked  inquiringly  at  his  wife 
and  son.  The  latter  nodded  affirmatively. 
"  We  do  consent,"  he  added. 

"  That  shows  your  ow^n  sinse,"  said  the 
old  man.  "  Now  what  fortune  wiU  you  por- 
tion your  colleen  wid  ?  " 

"That  depinds  upon  what  yoiill  do  for 
your  son,"  returned  the  Bodagh. 

"  And  that  depinds  upon  what  yoiCll  do 
for  your  daughter,"  repHed  the  sagacious 
old  miser. 

"  At  this  rate  we're  not  likely  to  agree." 

"  Nothin's  asier  ;  you  have  only  to  spake 
out ;  besides  it's  yovur  business,  bein'  the 
colleen's  father." 

"  Try  him,  and  name  something  fair," 
whispered  John. 

"If  I  give  her  a  farm  of  thirty  acres  of 
good  laud,  stocked  and  aU,  what  will  you  do 
for  Connor  ?  " 

"  More  than  that,  five  times  over  ;  IH  give 
him  all  I  have.  An'  now  when  will  we  mar- 
ry them  ?  Thi-oth  it  w^as  best  to  make 
things  clear,"  added  the  knave,  "  and  un- 
■dherstand  one  another  at  wanst.  When  will 
we  marry  them  ?  " 

"  Not  tiU  you  say  out  openly  and  fairly 
the  exact  amount  of  money  you'll  lay  down 
on  the  naQ — an'  that  before  even  a  ring 
goes  upon  them." 

"  Give  it  up,  acushla,"  said  the  wife,  "you 
see  there's  no  screwin'  a  promise  out  of  him, 
let  alone  a  penny." 

" ^Vhat 'ud  j^ees  have  me  do?"  said  the 
old  man,  raising  his  voice.  "  Won't  he  have 
aU  I'm  worth  ?  A\Tio  else  is  to  have  it  ?  Am 
I  to  make  a  beggar  of  myself  to  please  you  ? 
Can't  they  live  on  your  farm  till  I  die,  an'  thin 
it'll  all  come  to  them  ?  " 


"An'  no  thanks  to  you  for  that,  Fardo 
rougha,"  said  the  Bodagh.  "No,  no;  Ili 
never  buy  a  pig  in  a  poke.  If  you  won't  act 
generously  by  youi'  son,  go  home,  in  the 
name  of  goodness,  and  let  us  hear  no  more 
about  it." 

"  Why,  why?"  asked  the  miser,  "  are  yeea 
mad  to  miss  what  I  can  leave  him  ?    li  you 

knew  how  much  it  is,   you'd  snap ;  but 

God  help  me  !  what  am  I  sayin'  ?  I'm  poorer 
than  anybody  thinks.  I  am — I  am  ;  an' 
will  stai-ve  among  you  all,  if  God  hasn't  sed 
it.  Do  you  tliink  I  don't  love  my  son  as 
well,  an'  a  thousand  times  better,  than  you 
do  your  daughter  ?  God  alone  sees  how  my 
heart's  in  him — in  my  own  Connor,  that 
never  gave  me  a  sore  heart — my  brave,  my 
beautiful  boy  ! " 

He  paused,  and  the  scalding  tears  here 
ran  down  his  shinink  and  furrowed  cheeks, 
whilst  he  wi'ung  his  hands,  stiu'ted  to  his  feet, 
and  looked  about  him  like  a  man  encompassed 
by  dangers  that  threatened  instant  destruc- 
tion. • 

"If  you  love  your  son  so  weU,"  said  John, 
mildly,  "  why  do  you  gi'udge  to  share  your 
wealth  with  him  ?  It  is  but  natural  and  it  is 
your  duty." 

"  Natui-al !  what's  natural  ? — to  give  away 
— is  it  to  love  him  you  mane  ?  It  is,  it's  un- 
natural to  give  it  away.  He's  the  best  son — 
the  best — what  do  you  mane,  I  say  ? — let  me 
alone  let  me  alone — I  could  give  him  my 
blood,  my  blood — to  sich  a  boy  ;  but,  you 
want  to  kill  me — you  want  to  kill  me,  an' 
thin  you'll  get  all ;  but  he'll  cross  you,  never 
fear — my  boy  will  save  me — he's  not  tired  of 
me — he'd  give  up  fifty  gii'ls  sooner  than  see 
a  hail'  of  his  father's  head  injured — so  do 
your  best,  while  I  have  Connor,  I'm  not 
afi*aid  of  yees.  Thanks  be  to  God  that  sent 
him  !  "  he  exclaimed,  dropj)ing  suddenly  on 
his  knees — "  oh,  thanks  be  to  God  that  sent 
him  to  comfort  an'  protect  his  father  from 
the  schames  and  villainy  of  them  that  'ud 
biing  him  to  stai-vation  for  then*  own  ends  !  " 

"Father,"  said  John,  in  a  low  tone,  "this 
struggle  between  avarice  and  natural  aflection 
is  awful.  See  how  his  smaU  gray  eyes  glare, 
and  the  fi'oth  rises  white  to  his  thin  shrivelled 
hps.     What  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

"Fai'dorougha,"  said  the  Bodagh,  "it's 
over  ;  don't  distress  yoiu-self — keep  your 
money — there  will  be  no  match  between  our 
childhre." 

"  Why  ?  why  won't  there  ?  "  he  screamed 
— "why  won't  there,  I  say?  Havn't  you 
enough  for  them  until  I  die  ?  Would  you 
see  your  child  brealiin'  her  heart  ?  Bodagh, 
you  have  no  nather  in  you — no  bowels  for 
your  colleen  dhas.  But  I'll  spake  for  her — 
I'll  argue  md  you  till  this  time  to-morrow, 


FAHDOBOifGHA,   THE  MISER. 


229 


or  I'll  make  you  show  feelin'  to  her — an'  if 
you  don't — if  you  don't — " 

"  Wid  the  help  o'  God,  the  man's  as  mad 
as  a  INIarch  hare,"  obsei^ed  ]Vlrs.  O'Brien, 
"  and  there's  no  use  in  losin'  breath  wid  him. ' 

"•If  it's  not  insanity,"  said  John,  "I  know 
not  what  it  is." 

"Young  man,"  j^roceeded  Fardorougha, 
who  evidently  paid  no  attention  to  what  the 
mother  and  son  said,  being  merely  struck  by 
the  voice  of  the  latter,  "young  man,  you're 
kind,  you  have  sinse  and  feelin' — spake  to 
your  father — don't  let  him  destroy  his  child 
— don't  ax  him  to  stai-ve  me,  that  never  did 
him  harm.  He  loves  you — he  loves  you,  for 
he  can't  but  love  you — sure,  I  know  how  I 
love  my  own  darhn'  boy.  Oh,  sj^ake  to  him 
— here  I  go  down  on  my  knees  to  you,  to 
beg,  as  you  hope  to  see  God  in  heaven,  that't 
you'U  make  him  not  break  his  daughter's 
heart !  She's  your  own  sister — there's  but 
the  two  of  yees,  an'  oh,  don't  desart  her  in 
this  throuble — this  heavj',  heavy  throuble  !  " 

"I  won't  interfere  farther  in  it,"  repUed 
the  young  man,  who,  however,  felt  disturbed 
and  anxious  in  the  extreme. 

"jVIrs.  O'Brien,"  said  he,  turning  imj)lor- 
ingly,  and  with  a  ■ndld,  haggard  look  to  the 
Bodagh's  wife,  "  I'm  turnin'  to  you — you're 
her  mother — Oh  think,  think  " — 

"  I'll  think  no  more  about  it,"  she  repHed. 
"You're  mad,  an'  thank  God,  we  know  it. 
Of  coorse  it'll  inin  in  the  family,  for  which 
Teasing  my  daughter  'ill  never  be  joined  to  the 
eon  of  a  madman." 

He  then  turned  as  a  last  resource  to  O'- 
Brien himself.  "Bodagh,  Bodagh,  I  say," 
here  his  voice  rose  to  a  fi'ightful  pitch,  "  I 
enthrate,  I  order,  I  command  3'ou  to  listen 
to  me  !  Marry  them — don't  kiU  your  daugh- 
ter, an'  don't,  don't,  dare  to  kill  my  son.  If 
you  do  I'll  curse  you  till  the  mai'ks  of  your 
feet  will  scorch  the  ground  you  tread  on. 
Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  his  voice  now  sinking, 
and  his  reason  awaking  apparently  from  ex- 
haustion, "  what  is  come  over  me  ?  what  am 
I  sayin' ? — but  it's  all  for  my  son,  my  son." 
He  then  rose,  sat  down,  and  for  more  than 
tweny  minutes  wept  like  an  infant,  and  sob- 
bed and  sighed  as  if  his  heai-t  would  break. 

A  feeling  very  difficult  to  be  described 
hushed  his  amazed  auditory  into  silence  ; 
they  felt  something  like  pity  towax'ds  the 
unfortunate  old  man,  as  well  as  respect  for 
that  affection  which  stniggled  "v\dtli  such 
moi'al  heroism  against  the  fi-ightful  vice  that 
attempted  to  subdue  this  last  surviving  vir- 
tue in  the  breast  of  the  miser. 

On  his  getting  calm,  they  spoke  to  him 
kindly,  but  in  firm  and  friendly  terms  com- 
municated their  ultimate  determination,  that, 
in  consequence  of  his  declining  to  make  an 


adequate  provision  for  the  son,  the  maniage 
could  by  no  means  take  place.  He  then  got 
his  hat,  and  attempted  to  reach  the  road 
which  led  down  to  the  little  lawn,  but  so 
comj^lete  was  his  abstraction,  and  so  ex- 
hausted his  faculties,  that  it  was  not  without 
John's  assistance  he  could  reach  the  gate 
which  lay  befoi-e  his  eyes.  He  first  turned 
out  of  the  walk  to  the  right,  then  crossed 
over  to  the  left,  and  felt  sui'piised  that  a 
wall  opposed  him  in  each  direction. 

"  You  are  too  much  disturbed,"  said  John, 
"  to  perceive  the  way,  but  I  will  show  you." 

"  I  suppose  I  thought  it  was  at  home  I 
was,"  he  replied,  "  bekase  at  my  own  house 
one  must  turn  aither  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  as,  indeed,  I'm  in  the  custom  of  doin'." 

'NVliilst  Fardorougha  was  engaged  upon 
his  ill-managed  mission,  his  wife,  who  felt 
that  all  human  eff'orts  at  turning  the  heart 
of  her  husband  fi'om  his  wealth  must  fail, 
resolved  to  have  recovu-se  to  a  higher  power. 
With  this  purpose  in  view,  she  put  on  her 
Sunday  dress,  and  informed  Connor  that 
she  was  about  to  go  for  a  short  time  from 
home. 

"  I'U  be  back  if  I  can,"  she  added,  "  before 
your  father  ;  and,  indeed,  it's  as  good  not  to 
let  him  know  anything  about  it." 

"  About  what,  mother  ?  for  I  know  as  Httle 
about  it  as  he  does." 

"  Why,  my  dear  boy,  I'm  goin'  to  get  a 
couple  o'  masses  sed,  for  God  to  turn  his 
heart  fi'om  that  cursed  aimghid  it's  fixed 
upon.  Siu'e  it  houlds  sich  a  hard  grip  of 
his  poor  sowl,  that  it'll  be  the  destruction  of 
him  here  an'  hereafther.  It'll  kiU  him  afore 
his  time,  an'  then  I  thi-imble  to  think  of  his 
chance  above." 

"  The  object  is  a  good  one,  sui'e  enough, 
an'  it  bein'  for  a  spiritual  pui-pose  the  priest 
won't  object  to  it." 

"  Wliy  would  he,  dear,  an'  it  for  the  good  of 
his  sowl  ?  Sui'e,  when  Pat  Lanigan  was  jealous, 
his  wife  got  three  masses  sed  for  him  ;  and, 
wid  the  help  o'  God,  he  was  cured  sound  and 
clane." 

Connor  could  not  help  smihng  at  this  ex- 
traordinary cure  for  jealousy,  nor  at  the  sim- 
ple piety  of  a  heart,  the  strength  of  whose 
affection  he  knew  so  well.  After  her  retiUTi 
she  informed  the  son,  that,  in  addition  to 
the  masses  to  be  said  against  his  father's  av- 
arice, she  had  some  notion  of  getting  another 
said  towards  his  marriage  with  Una, 

"  God  help  you,  mother,"  said  Connor, 
laughing ;  "  for  I  think  you're  one  of  the  in- 
nocentest  women  that  ever  Uved  ;  but  whisht !" 
he  added,  "here's  my  father — God  grant  that 
he  may  bi'ing  good  news  !  " 

When  Fardorougha  entered  he  was  paler 
or  rather  saUower  than  usual ;   and,  on  his 


S30 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOliKS. 


thin,  puckered  face,  the  lines  that  mai'ked  it 
were  exhibited  with  a  distinctness  greater 
than  ordinary.  His  eyes  apjjeared  to  have 
sunk  back  more  deeply  into  his  head  ;  his 
cheeks  had  fallen  fcU'ther  into  his  jaws  ;  his 
eyes  were  gleaniy  and  distvu-bed  ;  and  his 
whole  appearance  bespoke  trouble  and  care 
and  the  traces  of  a  strong  and  recent  stmg- 
gle  mthin  him. 

"  Father,"  said  Connor,  with  a  beating 
heai't,  "  for  Heaven's  sake,  what  news — what 
tidings  ?   I  trust  ia  God  ifs  good." 

*'  They  have  no  bowels,  Connor — they  have 
no  bowels,  thim  O'Briens." 

"  Then  you  didn't  succeed." 

"  The  father's  as  great  a  bodagh  as  him  he 
was  called  after — they're  a  bad  pack — an'  you 
mustn't  think  of  any  one  belongin' to  them." 

"  But  tell  us,  man  dear,"  said  the  wife, 
"what  passed — let  us  know  it  all." 

"Why,  they  would  do  no  thin'  —  they 
wouldn't  hear  of  it.  I  went  on  my  knees  to 
them — ay,  to  every  one  of  them,  barrin'  the 
coUeen  herself ;  but  it  was  aU  no  use — it's  to 
be  no  match." 

"And  why,  father,  did  you  go  on  your 
knees  to  any  of  them,"  said  Connor  ;  "  I'm 
soiT}' you  did //<«/." 

"  I  did  it  on  your  account,  Connor,  an'  I'd 
do  it  again  on  your  account,  poor  boy." 

"  Well,  well,  it  can't  be  helped." 

'•But  tell  me,  Fardorougha,"  inquired 
Honor,  "  was  any  of  the  fault  your  own — what 
did  you  oifer  to  do  for  Connor  ?  " 

"Let  me  alone,"  said  he,  peevishly;  "I 
won't  be  cross-questioned  about  it.  My 
heart's  broke  among  you  all — what  did  / 
offer  to  do  for  Connor  ?  The  match  is 
knocked  up,  I  teU  you — and  it  must  be 
knocked  up.  Connor's  young,  an'  it'll  be 
time  enough  for  him  to  marry  this  seven 
years  to  come." 

As  he  said  this,  the  fire  of  avarice  blazed 
in  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  angrily  at  Honor, 
then  at  the  son  ;  but,  while  contemplating 
the  latter,  his  countenance  changed  fi'om  an- 
ger to  son'ow,  and  from  sorrow  to  a  mild  and 
serene  expression  of  aifection. 

"  Connor,  avick,"  said  he,  "  Connor,  sure 
you'U  not  blame  we  in  this  business  ?  sure 
you  won't  blame  youi'  poor,  heart-broken 
father,  let  thim  say  what  they  wiU,  sure  you 
won't,  avilish?" 

"Don't  fret  on  my  account,  father,"  said 
the  son  ;  "  why  should  I  blame  you  ?  God 
knows  you're  striuin'  to  do  what  you  would 
wish  for  me." 

"  No,  Honor,  I  know  he  wouldn't ;'  no,"  he 
shouted,  leaping  up,  "  he  wouldn't  make  a 
saicrefize  o'  me  !  Connor,  save  me,  save  me," 
he  shrieked,  throwing  his  arms  about  his 
neck  .:  "  save  me  ;  my  heart's  breakin' — some- 


thin's  tearin'  me  different  ways  inside  ;  1  can 
cry,  you  see  ;  I  can  cr}-,  but  I'm  still  as  hard 
as  a  stone  ;  it's  terrible  this  I'm  sufferin' — 
terrible  all  out  for  a  weak  oidd  man  like  me. 
Oh,  Connor,  avick,  what  'ill  I  do  ?  Honor, 
achora,  what  'iU.  become  o'  me — amn't  I  strug- 
ghn',  strugghn' against  it,  whatever  it  is;  don't 
yees  pity  me  ?  Don't  ye,  avick  machree,  don't 
ye,  Honor  ?     Oh,  don't  yees  pity  me  ?  " 

"  God  pity  you  !  "  said  the  wife,  bui'sting 
into  tears  ;  "what  will  become  of  you?  Pray 
to  God,  Fardorougha,  pray  to  Him.  No  one 
ahve  can  change  your  heart  but  God.  I  wint 
to  the  priest  to-day,  to  get  two  masses  said 
to  turn  your  heart  from  that  cursed  money. 
I  didn't  intind  to  tell  you,  but  I  do,  bekase 
it's  your  duty  to  pray  now  above  all  times,  an' 
to  back  the  priest  as  weU  as  you  can." 

"It's  the  best  advice,  father,  you  could 
get,"  said  the  son,  as  he  helped  the  trembhng 
old  man  to  his  seat. 

"  An'  who  bid  you  thin  to  go  to  lavish 
money  that  way  ?  "  said  he,  turning  snappish- 
ly to  Honor,  and  rela^Dsing  again  into  the 
peevish  spirit  of  avaiice  ;  "  Saver  o'  Heaven, 
but  you'll  kill  me,  woman,  afore  you  have 
done  ■srid  me  !     How  can  I  stand  it,  to  have 

my  hard-earned an'  for  what  ?  to  turn  my 

heart  fiom  money  ?  I  don't  want  to  be  ttu'n- 
ed  fi'om  it — I  don't  wish  it !  Money  ! — I  have 
no  money — nothin' — nothin'^ — an'  if  there's 
not  better  decreed  for  me,  I'll  be  starved  yet 
— an'  is  it  any  wondher  ?  to  be  robbin'  me 
the  way  you're  doin' !  " 

His  wife  clasjaed  her  hands  and  looked  up 
towards  heaven  in  silence,  and  Connor,  shak- 
ing his  head  desj^airingly,  jjassed  out  to  join 
Flanagan  at  his  labor,  with  whom  he  had  not 
spoken  that  day.  Briefly,  and  with  a  heavy 
heart,  he  communicated  to  him  the  unsuc- 
cessful issue  of  his  father's  interference,  and 
asked  his  oj^inion  as  to  how  he  should  con- 
duct liimself  under  circumstances  so  dis- 
astrous to  his  hapj)ine3s  and  prospects.  Bar- 
tie  ad\-ised  him  to  seek  another  intei"\'iew  with 
Una,  and,  for  that  j^iu-pose,  offered,  as  before, 
to  ascertain,  in  the  course  of  that  evening,  at 
what  time  and  jjlace  she  would  see  him.  Thia 
suggestion,  in  itself  so  natural,  was  adojated, 
and  as  Connor  felt,  with  a  peculiar  acuteness, 
the  pain  of  the  situation  in  Avhich  he  was 
placed,  he  manifested  little  tendency  to  con- 
versation, and  the  evening  consequently  pass- 
ed heavily  and  in  silence. 

Dusk,  however,  arrived,  and  Bartle  pre- 
pared himself  to  execute  the  somewhat  diffi- 
cult commission  he  had  so  obligingly  under- 
taken. He  appeared,  however,  to  have  caught 
a  portion  of  Connor's  despondency,  for,  when 
about  to  set  out,  he  said  "  that  he  felt  his 
sj)mts  sunk  and  melancholy  ;  just,"  he  added, 
"as  if  some  misfortune,  Connor,  was  afore 


^jm 


FARDOEOUGnA,   THE  MISER. 


231 


aither  or  both  of  us  ;  for  my  j^art  I'd  stake 
my  life  that  things  will  go  aalianyhran  one  way 
or  other,  an'  that  you'll  never  call  Una  O'Brien 
your  wife." 

"  Bartle,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  only  want 
you  to  do  my  message,  an'  not  be  prophesyin' 
iU — bad  news  comes  to  soon,  without  your 
teUin'  us  of  it  aforehand.  God  knows,  Bar- 
tie  dear,  I'm  disti'essed  enough  as  it  is,  {md 
want  my  spirits  to  be  kej^t  up  rather  than 
put  down." 

"  No,  Connor,  but  you  want  somethin'  to 
divart  your  mind  off  this  business  altogether, 
for  a  while  ;  an'  upon  my  saunies  it  'ud 
be  a  charity  for  some  fi-iend  to  give  you  a 
fresh  piece  of  fim  to  think  of — so  keep  up 
your  heart,  how  do  you  know  but  I  may  do 
that  much  for  j-ou  myself  ?  But  I  want  j'ou 
to  lend  me  the  loan  of  a  pair  of  shoes  ;  di^-il 
a  tatther  of  these  wdU  be  together  soon, 
barrin'  I  get  them  mended  in  time  ;  you 
can't  begi-udge  that,  any  how,  an'  me  weax'in' 
them  on  your  own  busmess." 

"  Nonsense,  man — to  be  sure  I  vnR  ;  stop 
an'  I'll  bring  them  out  to  you  in  half  a 
shake." 

He  accordingly  produced  a  jjair  of  shoes, 
nearly  new,  and  told  Bartle  that  if  he  had  no 
objection  to  accept  of  them  as  a  present,  he 
might  consider  them  as  his  o^vn. 

This  conversation  took  place  in  Fardorou- 
gha's  barn,  where  Flanagan  always  slept,  and 
kept  his  small  deal  trunk. 

He  jjaused  a  moment  when  tliis  good- 
natiu'ed  offer  was  made  to  him  ;  but  as  it  was 
dark  no  particular  exjiression  could  be  dis- 
covered on  his  countenance, 

"  No  !  "  said  he  vehemently  ;  "  may  I  go  to 
perdition  if  I  ought !  —Connor — Connor  O' 
Donovan — you'd  tui'u  the  div " 

"  Hut,  Bartle,  don't  be  angry — whin  I  of- 
fered them,  I  didn't  mane  to  give  you  the 
slightest  offence  ;  it's  enough  for  you  to  teU 
me  you  won't  have  them  without  gettin'  into 
a  passion." 

"Have  what?  what  are  you  spakin' 
about  ?  " 

"  Why — about  the  shoes ;  what  else  ?  " 

"  Yes,  faith,  svu-e  enough — well,  ay,  the 
shoes  ! — don't  think  of  it,Connor — I'm  hastj'; 
too  much  so,  indeed,  an'  that's  my  fault.  I'm 
like  all  good-natured  people  in  that  respect ; 
however,  I'U  borry  them  for  a  day  or  two, 
till  I  get  my  o\\ti  patched  up  some  way. 
But,  death  alive,  wh}-  did  you  get  at  this 
season  o'  the  year  three  rows  of  sparables  in 
the  soles  o'  them  ?  " 

"  Bekase  they  last  longei",  of  coorse  ;  and 
now,  Bartle,  be  off,  imd  don't  let  the  grass 
grow  under  your  feet  till  I  see  you  again." 

Connor's  p:itie}ice,  or  rather  l;is  ijupatience, 
that  night,  was  severely  taxed.     Hour  after 


I  hour  elapsed,  and  yet  Bartle  did  not  return. 

I  At  length  he  went  to  his  father's  sleeping- 

j  room,  and  informed  him  of  the  message  he 

I  had  sent  through  Flanagan  to  Una. 

I      "I  wiU  sleep  in  the  barn  to-night,  father," 

1  he  added  ;  "  an'  never  fear,  let  us  talk  as  we 

may,  but   we'll  be  up  eai'ly  enough  in  the 

morning,  plase  God.    I  couldn't  sleep,  or  go 

to  sleep,  till  I  hear  what  news  he  brings  back 

to  us  ;  so  do  you  rise  and  secure  the  door, 

an'  I'll  make  my  shakedown  wid  Bartle  this 

night." 

The  father  who  never  refused  him  any- 
thing i<»pecuniary  (if  we  may  be  allowed  the 
word),  did  as  the  son  requested  him,  and 
again  went  to  bed,  unconscious  of  the  thim- 
dercloud  which  was  so  soon  to  burst  upon 
them  both. 

Bartle,  however,  at  length  returned,  and 
Connor  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  that  his 
faithful  Una  would  meet  liim  the  next  night, 
if  possible,  at  the  hour  of  twelve  o'clock,  in 
her  father's  haggard.  Her  j)arents,  it  ap- 
peared, had  laid  on  injunction  in^oa  her  never 
to  see  him  again  ;  she  was  watched,  too,  and, 
unless  when  the  household  were  asleep,  she 
found  it  altogether  impracticable  to  effect  any 
appointment  whatsoever  with  her  lover.  She 
could  not  even  promise  with  certainty  to 
meet  him  on  that  night,  but  she  desti-ed  him 
to  come,  and  if  she  failed  to  be  punctual,  not 
to  leave  the  place  of  appointment  for  an 
hoTir.  After  that,  if  she  appeared  not,  then 
he  was  to  wait  no  longer.  Such  was  the 
purport  of  the  message  which  Flanagan  de- 
livered him. 

Flanagan  was  the  first  uj^  the  next  morn- 
ing, for  the  i)ui-pose  of  keeping  an  appoint- 
ment which  he  had  with  Bid(iy  Neil,  whom 
we  have  already  introduced  to  the  reader. 
On  being  taxed  ^rith  meanness  by  this  weak 
but  honest  creature,  for  having  sought  ser- 
vice with  the  man  who  had  ruined  his  family, 
he  promised  to  acquaint  her  "with  the  true 
motive  which  had  induced  him  to  enter  into 
Faixlorougha's  employment.  Their  conver- 
sation on  this  i^oint,  however,  was  merely  a 
love  scene,  in  which  Bartle  satisfied  the 
credulous  girl,  that  to  an  attachment  for  her- 
self of  some  months'  standing,  might  be 
ascribed  his  humiliation  in  becoming  a  ser- 
Y:i}it  to  the  opjDressor  and  destroj'er  of  his 
house.  He  then  passed  from  themselves  and 
their  prospects  to  Connor  and  Una  O'Brien, 
^\dtll  whose  attachment  for  each  otlier,  as  the 
reader  knows,  he  was  first  made  acquainted 
b}'  his  fellow-seiTaut. 

"It's  terrible,  Biddy,"  said  he,  "to  think 
of  the  black  and  revengeful  heart  that  Con- 
nor bears  to  Bodagh  Buie  and  his  family 
merely  bekase  they  rufuse  to  let  him  mai-iT 
Una.    I'm  afeard,  Biddy  darliu',  that  there'll 


232 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


be  dark  work  about  it  on  Connor's  side ;  an' 
if  you  hear  of  anything  bad  happenin'  to 
the  Bodagh,  you'U  know  where  it  comes 
from." 

"I  don't  b'Heve  it,  Bartle,  nor  I  won't 
b'lieve  it — not,  any  way,  till  I  heai*  that  it 
happens.  But  what  is  it  he  intends  to  do  to 
them  ?  " 

"That's  more  than  I  know  myself,"  re- 
plied Bartle  ;  "I  axed  as  much,  an'  he  said 
till  it  was  done  nobody  would  be  the  wiser." 

"  That's  quai-e,"  said  the  girl,  "  for  a  better 
heart  than  Connor  has,  tlie  Saver  o'  the  world 
never  made." 

"  You  think  so,  agi-a,  but  wait ;  do  you 
watch,  and  you'U  find  that  he  don't  come  in 
to-night.  I  know  nothin'  myself  of  what  he's 
about,  for  he's  as  close  as  his  father's  pui'se, 
an'  as  deep  as  a  draw-well ;  but  this  I  know, 
that  he  has  black  business  on  his  hands, 
whatever  it  is.     I  trimble  to  think  of  it !  " 

Flanagan  then  got  tender,  and,  after  press- 
ing his  suit  with  all  the  eloquence  he  was 
master  of,  they  separated,  he  to  liis  labor  in 
the  fields,  and  she  to  her  domestic  emjDloy- 
ment,  and  the  unusual  task  of  watching  the 
motions  of  her  master's  son. 

Flanagan,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  sug- 
gested to  Connor  the  convenience  of  sleeping 
that  night  dm  in  the  baru.  The  time  of 
meeting,  he  said  was  too  late,  and  his  father's 
family,  who  were  early  in  their  hours,  both 
night  and  morning,  would  be  asleej)  even 
before  they  set  out.  He  also  added,  that  lest 
any  of  the  O'Briens  or  theii*  retainers  should 
surprise  him  and  Una,  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  accompany  him,  and  act  as  a  vidette 
during  their  interview. 

Connor  felt  this  devotion  of  Bartle  to  his 
dearest  interests,  as  every  grateful  and  gener- 
ous heart  would. 

"  Bartle,"  said  he,  "  when  we  are  married, 
if  it's  ever  in  my  power  to  make  you  aisy  in 
life,  may  I  never  prosper  if  I  don't  do  it !  At 
all  events,  in  some  way  I'll  reward  you." 

"  If  you're  ever  able,  Connor,  I'll  have  no 
objection  to  be  behoulden  to  you  ;  that  is,  if 
you're  ever  able,  as  you  say." 

"And  if  there's  a  just  God  in  heaven, 
Bai'tle,  who  sees  my  heart,  however  things 
may  go  against  me  for  a  time,  I  say  I  xcill  be 
able  to  sarve  you,  or  any  other  friend  that 
desarves  it.  But  about  sleepin'  in  to-night 
— of  coorse  I  wouldn't  be  knockin'  uj)  my 
father,  and  disturbin'  my  poor  mother  for  no 
rason  ;  so,  of  coorse,  as  I  said,  I'll  sleep  in 
the  barn  ;  it  makes  no  difference  one  way  or 
other." 

"Connor,"  said  Flanagan,  with  much 
Bolemnity,  "  if  Bodagh  Buie's  wise,  he'U  maiTy 
you  and  his  daughter  as  fast  as  he  can." 

"An' why,  Bai-tle?" 


"  Why,  for  rasons  you  know  nothin'  about. 
Of  late  he's  got  very  much  out  o'  favor,  in 
regard  of  not  comin'  in  to  Avhat  j^eople  wish." 

"  Speak  plainer,  Bartle  ;  I'm  in  the  dark 
now." 

"There's  work  goin'  on  in  the  counthry, 
that  you  and  every  one  like  you  ought  to  be 
up  to  ;  but  you  know  nothin ,  as  I  said,  about 
it.  Now  Bodagh  Buie,  as  far  as  I  hear — for 
I'm  in  the  dark  myself  nearly  as  much  as 
you — Bodagh  Buie  houlds  out  against  them  ; 
an'  not  only  that,  I'm  tovdd,  but  gives  them 
hard  words,  an'  sets  them  at  defiance." 

"But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  me 
mari*jing  his  daughter  ?  " 

"Why,  he  wants  some  one  badly  to  stand 
his  friend  wid  them  ;  an'  if  you  were  married 
to  her,  you  should  on  his  account  become 
one  o'  thim ;  begad,  as  it  is,  you  ought,  for 
to  teU  the  truth  there's  talk — strong  talk  too 
— about  payin'  him  a  nightly  visit  that  mayn't 
sarve  him." 

"Then,  Bartle,  yoiCre  consarned  in  this 
business." 

"  No,  faith,  not  yet ;  but  I  suppose  I  must, 
if  I  wish  to  be  safe  in  the  counthry ;  an'  so 
must  you  too,  for  the  same  rason." 

"And,  if  not  up,  how  do  you  know  so 
much  about  it  ?  " 

"  From  one  o'  themselves,  that  wishes  the 
Bodagh  weU  ;  ay,  an'  let  me  tell  you,  he's  a 
marked  man,  an'  the  night  was  appointed  to 
visit  him  ;  stiU  it  was  put  back  to  thry  if  he 
could  be  managed,  but  he  cotddn't ;  an'  all 
I  know  about  it  is  that  the  time  to  remimber 
him  is  settled,  an'  he's  to  get  it,  an',  along  wid 
other  things,  he'U  be  ped  for  tiu-nin'  off — 
however,  I  can't  say  any  more  about  that." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you  knew  this  ?  " 

"  Not  long — only  since  last  night,  or  j'ou'd 
a  got  it  before  this.  The  best  way,  I  think, 
to  iDut  him  on  his  guard  'ud  be  to  send  him 
a  scrape  of  a  line  wid  no  name  to  it." 

"Bartle,"  rephed  Connor,  "I'm  as  much 
behotdden  to  3'ou  for  this,  as  if  it  had  been 
myself  or  my  father  that  was  marked.  God 
knows  you  have  a  good  heai-t,  an'  if  you 
don't  sleep  sound,  I'm  at  a  loss  to  know  who 
ought." 

"But  it's  hard  to  tell  who  has  a  good 
heart,  Connor  ;  I'd  never  say  any  one  has  till 
I'd  seen  them  weU  thried." 

At  length  the  hour  for  setting  out  arrived, 
and  both,  armed  with  good  oaken  cudgels, 
proceeded  to  Bodagh  Buie's  haggard,  whither 
they  arrived  a  httle  before  the  ajjpointed 
hoirr.  An  utter  stiUness  prevailed  around 
the  place — not  a  dog  barked — not  a  breeze 
blew,  nor  did  a  leaf  move  on  its  stem,  so 
calm  and  warm  was  the  night.  Neither 
moon  nor  stars  shone  in  the  firmament,  and 
the  darkness   seemed   kindly  to   throw  its 


FARDOROUGBA,   TBE  MISER. 


233 


dusky  mantle  over  this  sweet  and  stolen  in- 
terview of  oiu'  young  lovers.  As  yet,  how- 
ever, Una  had  not  come,  nor  could  Connor, 
on  sun-eying  the  large  massy  ftura-house  of 
the  Bodagh,  perceive  any  appearance  of 
hght,  or  hear  a  single  sound,  however  faint, 
to  break  the  stillness  in  which  it  slept. 
Bartle,  immediately  after  their  arrival  in  the 
haggard,  separated  from  his  companion,  in 
order,  he  said,  to  give  notice  of  inteiTuption, 
should  Una  be  either  watched  or  followed. 

**  Besides,  you  know,"  he  added,  "  sweet- 
hearts hke  nobody  to  be  present  but  them- 
selves, when  they  do  be  spakia'  soft  to  one 
another.  So  I'll  just  keep  dodgin'  about, 
from  place  to  place  wid  my  eye  an'  ear  both 
open,  an'  if  any  intherloper  comes  I'll  give 
yees  the  hard  word." 

Heavily  and  lazily  creep  those  moments 
during  which  an  impatient  lover  awaits  the 
approach  of  his  mistress  ;  and  woe  betide 
the  wooer  of  impetuous  temperament  who 
is  doomed,  hke  our  hero,  to  watch  a  whole 
hour  and  a  half  in  vain.  Many  a  theory  did 
his  fancy  body  forth,  and  many  a  conjecture 
did  he  form,  as  to  the  probable  cause  of  her 
absence.  Was  it  possible  that  they  watched 
her  even  in  the  dead  hour  of  night  ?  Per- 
haps the  grief  she  felt  at  her  father's  refusal 
to  sanction  the  match  had  brought  on  indis- 
position ;  and — oh,  han'owing  thought ! — 
perhaps  they  had  siicce.eded  in  prevailing 
upon  her  to  renounce  him  and  his  hopes 
forever.  But  no  ;  their  aflection  was  too 
pure  and  steadfast  to  admit  of  a  supposition 
so  utterly  unreasonable.  ^Miat,  then,  could 
have  prevented  her  from  keeping  an  appoint- 
ment so  essential  to  theii'  futui'e  prospects, 
and  to  the  operations  necessaiy  for  them  to 
pursue  ?  Some  plan  of  intercourse — some 
settled  mode  of  communication  must  be  con- 
certed between  them  ;  a  fact  as  well  knoAvn 
to  herself  as  to  him. 

"Well,  well," thought  he,  "whatever's  the 
reason  of  her  not  coming,  I'm  sui'e  the  fault 
is  not  hers  ;  as  it  is,  there's  no  use  in  waitin' 
this  night  any  longer." 

Flanagan,  it  aj^peared,  was  of  the  same 
opinion,  for  in  a  minute  or  two  he  made  his 
appearance,  and  urged  their  return  home. 
It  was  clear,  he  said,  that  no  interview  could 
take  place  that  night,  and  the  sooner  they 
reached  the  barn  and  got  to  bed  the  better. 

"FoUy  me,"  he  added;  "we  can  pass 
thi-ough  the  yard,  cross  the  road  before  the 
haJl-door,  and  get  over  the  stile,  by  the  near 
way  through  the  fields  that's  behind  the 
orchard." 

Connor,  who  was  by  no  means  so  well 
acquainted  -srith  the  path  as  his  companion, 
followed  him  in  the  way  pointed  out,  and  in 
»  few  minutes  they  found  themselves  walk- 


ing at  a  brisk  pace  in  a  direction  that  led 
homewards  by  a  shorter  cut.  Connor's 
mind  was  too  much  depressed  for  conversa- 
tion, and  both  were  jii'oceeding  in  silence, 
when  Flanagan  started  in  alaiTu,  and  pointed 
out  the  figure  of  some  one  walking  directly 
towards  them.  In  less  than  a  minute  the 
person,  whoever  he  might  be,  had  come 
within  speaking  distance,  and,  as  he  shouted 
"Who  comes  there?"  Flanagan  bolted 
across  the  ditch,  along  which  they  had  been 
going,  and  disappeared.  "A  friend,"  re- 
tm*ned  Connor,  in  reply  to  the  question. 

The  other  man  advanced,  and,  with  a  look 
of  deep  scrutiny,  jDcered  into  his  face.  "  A 
fiiend,"  he  exclaimed ;  "  faith,  it's  a  quare 
hour  for  a  fi-iend  to  be  out.  "WTio  are  you, 
eh  ?     Is  this  Connor  O'Donovan  ?  " 

"It  is ;  but  you  have  the  advantage  of 
me." 

"  If  your  father  was  here  he  would  know 
Phil  Curtis,  any  way.'' 

"  I  ought  to  'a  knov\*n  the  voice  myself," 
said  Connor  ;  "  Phil,  how  are  you  ?  an' what's 
bringin'  yourself  out  at  this  hour  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  want  to  buy  a  couple  o'  milk 
cows  in  the  fail'  o'  Ivilturbit,  an'  I'm  goia'  to 
catch  my  horse,  an'  make  ready.  It's  a  stiff 
ride  fi'om  this,  an'  by  the  time  I'm  there  it 
"ill  be  late  enough  for  business,  I'm  thinkin'. 
There  was  some  one  wid  you  ;  who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Connor,  good-humor- 
edly,  "  he  was  out  coortin',  and  doesn't  wish 
to  be  known  ;  and  Phil,  as  you  had  the  luck 
to  meet  me,  I  beg  you,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
not  to  breathe  that  you  seen  me  near-  Bodagh 
Buie's  to-night ;  I  have  vaiious  reasons  for 
it." 

"  It's  no  secret  to  me  as  it  is,"  rephed  Cur- 
tis ;  "  haK  the  parish  knows  it ;  so  make 
yoiu'  mind  asy  on  that  head.  Good  night, 
Connor  !  I  wish  you  success,  anyhow  ;  j-ou'U 
be  a  happy  man  if  you  get  her  ;  although, 
from  what  I  hear  has  happened,  you  have  a 
bad  chance,  except  herself  stands  to  you." 

The  ti-uth  was,  that  Fardorougha's  visit  to 
the  Bodagh,  thanks  to  the  high  tones  of  his 
o'^Ti  shrill  voice,  had  drawn  female  curiosity, 
already  suspicious  of  the  circumstances,  to 
the  keyhole  of  the  paiior-door,  where  the  is- 
sue and  object  of  the  conference  soon  be- 
came knovvn.  In  a  shori  time  it  had  gone 
among  the  seiTants,  and  fi-om  them  was 
transmitted,  in  the  covu'se  of  that  and  the 
foUowing  day,  to  the  tenants  and  day-la- 
borers !  who  contrived  to  multiply  it  %vitb 
such  effect,  that,  as  Curtis  said,  it  was  in- 
deed no  secret  to  the  greater  part  of  the 
parish. 

Flanagan  soon  rejoined  Connor,  who,  on 
taxing  him  with  his  flight,  was  informed, 
with  an  appearance  of  much  regret,  that  a 


234 


WILLIAM  CARLET01>r'S    WORKS. 


debt  of  old  atanding  due  to  Curtis  had  oc- 
casioned it. 

"  And  upon  my  saimies,  Connor,  I'd  rather 
any  time  go  up  to,  my  neck  in  wather  than 
meet  a  man  that  I  owe  money  to,  whin  I 
can't  pay  him.  I  knew  Phil  very  well,  even 
before  he  si)oke,  and  that  was  what  made  me 
cut  an'  inin." 

■     "  "What !  "  said   Connor,  looking  towaixls 
the  east,  "  can  it  be  day-hght  so  soon  ?  " 

"  Begad,  it  siu-ely  cannot,"  replied  his 
companion. 

"  Holy  mother  above  us,  what  is  this  ?  " 

Both  involuntarily  stood  to  contemplate 
the  strange  phenomenon  which  presented 
itself  to  theii*  observation  ;  and,  as  it  was 
certainly  both  novel  and  starthng  in  its  ap- 
pearance, we  shall  pause  a  little  to  describe 
it  more  minutely. 

The  night,  as  we  have  ah-eady  said,  was  re- 
markably dark,  and  warm  to  an  unusual 
degree.  To  the  astonishment,  however,  of 
our  two  travellers,  a  gleam  of  light,  extremely 
faint,  and  somewhat  resembling  that  which 
precedes  the  rising  of  a  summer  sun,  broke 
upon  theii*  path,  and  passed  on  in  undulating 
SAveeps  for  a  considerable  space  before  them. 
Connor  had  scarcely  time  to  utter  the  ex- 
clamation just  alluded  to,  and  Flanagan  to 
reply  to  him,  when  the  Ught  around  them 
shot  farther  into  the  distance  and  deepened 
from  its  first  pale  hue  into  a  rich  and  gor- 
geous purple.  Its  effect,  however,  was 
hmited  ^Aithin  a  cii'cle  of  about  a  mile,  for 
they  could  observe  that  it  got  faint  gi-adually, 
fi'om  the  centre  to  the  extreme  verge,  where 
it  melted  into  utter  darkness. 

"  They  must  mean  something  extraordi- 
nary," said  Connor;  "whatever  it  is,  it  ap- 
pears to  be  behind  the  hill  that  divides  us 
from  Bodagh's  Buie's  house.  Blessed  earth ! 
it  looks  as  if  the  sky  was  on  fire  ! " 

The  sky,  indeed,  presented  a  fearful  but 
subhme  spectacle.  One  spot  apj)eared  to 
glow  with  the  red-white  heat  of  a  fiu-nace, 
and  to  form  the  centre  of  a  fiery  cupola,  from 
which  the  flame  was  flung  in  redder  and 
grosser  masses,  that  darkened  away  into 
wild  and  dusky  indistinctness,  in  a  manner 
that  corresponded  with  the  same  hght,  as  it 
danced  in  red  and  frightful  mirth  upon  the 
earth.  As  they  looked,  the  cause  of  tliis 
a'R'ful  i)henomenon  soon  became  visible. 
From  behind  the  hill  was  seen  a  thick  shower 
of  burning  particles  rushing  up  into  the 
mid  air,  and  presently  the  broad  2:)oint  of  a 
huge  pyramid  of  fire,  wavering  in  terrible  and 
capricious  po\ver,  seemed  to  disport  itself 
far  up  in  the  very  depths  of  the  glowing  sky. 
On  looking  again  upon  the  earth  they  per- 
ceived that  this  terrible  cu'cle  was  extending 
itself  over  a  mder  circumfex'ence  of  country. 


marking  every  prominent  object  around  them 
"W'ith  a  dark  blood-red  tinge,  and  throwing 
those  that  were  more  remote  into  a  visionai'y 
but  appalling  relief. 

" Dhar  Chriestha," exclaimed  Flanagan,  "I 
have  it ;  thim  I  spoke  about  has  paid  Bodagh 
Buie  the  visit  they  promised  him." 

"  Come  round  the  liip  o'  the  hill,"  said 
Connor,  "  till  we  see  where  it  really  is  ;  but 
I'll  teU  you  what,  Bartle,  if  you  be  right,  woe 
betide  you  !  all  the  water  in  Europe  wouldn't 
wash  you  fi'ee  in  my  mind,  of  being  connected 
in  this  same  Kibbon  business  that's  spreading 
through  the  countiy.  As  sure  as  that  sky — 
that  fearful  sky's  above  us,  j'ou  must  prove  to 
me  and  others  how  you  came  to  know  that 
this  heUish  business  was  to  take  place.  God 
of  heaven !  let  us  run — surely  it  couldn't  be 
the  dwelling-house  ! " 

His  speed  was  so  great  that  Bai'tle  could 
find  neither  breath  nor  leisiu'e  to  make  any 
reply. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  oh,  thank 
God  it's  not  the  house,  and  there  lives  are 
safe  !  but  blessed  Father,  there's  the  man's 
whole  haggard  in  flames  !  " 

"Oh,  the  nelarnalxiHaiiis  !  "  was  the  simple 
exclamation  of  Flanagan. 

"Bartle,"  said  his  companion,  "youheai'd 
what  I  said  this  miiiute  ?  " 

Their  eyes  met  as  he  spoke,  and  for  the 
first  time  O'Donovan  was  stiiick  by  the  paUid 
malignity  of  his  featiu-es.  The  sem-ant  gazed 
steadily  ujDon  him,  his  Hps  sHghtl}'  but  firm- 
ly di'awn  back,  and  his  eye,  in  which  was 
neither  symi^athj'  nor  alarm,  charged  with  th& 
spirit  of  a  cool  and  devilish  triumj)h. 

Connor's  blazed  at  the  bare  idea  of  his  vil- 
lainy, and,  in  a  fit  of  manly  and  indignant 
rage,  he  seized  Flanagan  and  hurled  him 
headlong  to  the  earth  at  his  feet.  "  You 
have  hell  in  your  face,  you  Adllain  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed ;  "  and  if  I  thought  that — it  I  did 
— I'd  drag  you  down  like  a  dog,  an'  pitch 
3'ou  head-foremost  into  the  flames  !  " 

Bartle  rose,  and,  in  a  voice  wonderfully 
calm,  simj)ly  obseiTcd,  "  God  knows,  Con- 
nor, if  I  know  either  yoiu*  heart  or  mine, 
you'll  be  sorry  for  this  treatment  you've  giv- 
en me  for  no  rason.  You  know  yourself 
that,  as  soon  as  I  heard  anything  of  the  ill- 
will  against  the  Bodagh,  I  tould  it  to  you,  in 
ordher — mark  that — in  ordher  that  you 
might  let  him  know  it  the  best  way  you 
thought  proper  ;  an'  for  that  you've  knocked 
me  down  ! " 

"  Why,  I  believe  you  may  be  right,  Bai'tle 
— there's  truth  in  that — but  I  can't  forgive 
you  the  ^oo^- you  gave  me." 

"That  red  hght  was  in  my  face,  maybe  ; 
I'm  sure  if  that  wasn't  it,  I  can't  tell — I  was 
myself  wonderin'  at  yo\ir   own   looks,    th« 


\ 


FABDOEOUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


235 


same  way  ;  but  then  it  was  that  quare  light 
that  was  in  your  face." 

"  Well,  well,  maybe  I'm  AATong — I  hojie  I 
am.  Do  you  think  we  could  be  of  any  use 
there  ?  " 

"  Of  use  !  an'  how  would  we  accoimt  for 
bein'  there  at  all,  Connor  ?  how  would  you 
do  it,  at  any  rate,  widout  maybe  bringin'  the 
girl  into  blame  ?  " 

"  You're  right  agin,  Bartle  ;  I'm  not  half 
so  cool  as  you  ai-e  ;  our  best  plan  is  to  go 
home " 

"  And  go  to  bed  ;  it  is;  an'  the  sooner 
we're  there  the  better ;  sowl,  Connor,  you 
gev  me  a  murdherin'  crash." 

"Think  no  more  of  it — think  no  more  of 
it — I'm  not  often  hasty,  so  you  must  overlook 
it." 

It  was,  however,  with  an  anxious  and  dis- 
tressed heart  that  Connor  O'Donovan  reached 
his  father's  barn,  where,  in  the  same  bed 
with  Flanagan,  he  enjoyed,  towards  morn- 
ing, a  brief  and  broken  slumber  that  brought 
back  to  his  fancy  images  of  blood  and  fire, 
all  so  confusedly  mingled  with  Una,  himself, 
jmd  their  parents,  that  the  voice  of  his  father 
caUing  upon  them  to  rise,  came  to  liim  as  a 
welcome  and  manifest  relief. 

At  the  time  laid  in  this  story,  neither 
burnings  nor  murders  were  so  familiar  nor 
liatriotic,  as  the  fancied  necessity  of  working 
out  jiolitical  progi-ess  has  recently  made 
them.  Such  atrocities,  in  these  bad  and 
unreformed  days,  were  certainly  looked  upon 
as  criminal,  rather  than  meritorious,  how- 
ever «»patriotic  it  may  have  been  to  form  so 
eiToneous  an  estimate  of  human  %allainy. 
The  consequence  of  all  this  was,  that  the 
destruction  of  Bodagh  Buie's  property  crea- 
ted a  sensation  in  the  countiy,  of  which, 
familiaiized  as  loe  are  to  such  crimes,  we  can 
entertain  but  a  veiy  faint  notion.  In  three 
days  a  reward  of  five  hundred  pounds,  ex- 
clusive of  two  hundred  fi'om  government, 
was  offered  for  such  information  as  might 
bring  the  incendiaiy,  or  incendiaries,  to 
justice.  The  Bodagh  and  his  family  were 
stunned  as  much  vAih  amazement  at  the 
occurrence  of  a  calamity  so  incomjDrehensible 
to  them,  as  with  the  loss  they  had  sustained, 
for  that  indeed  was  hea\y.  The  man  was 
extremely  popular,  and  by  many  acts  of 
kindness  had  won  the  attachment  and  good- 
will of  aU  who  knew  him,  either  personally 
or  by  character.  How,  then,  accoimt  for  an  ; 
act  80  wanton  and  vindictive  ?  Tliey  could 
aot  'inderstand  it ;  it  was  not  only  a  crime, 
bi  t  a  Clime  connected  with  some  mysterious 
motive,  beyond  their  power  to  detect.  I 

But  of  aU  who  became  acquainted  with 
iiife  outrage,  not  one  sympathized  more  sin- 
rerely  and  deeply  with  O'Brien's  family  than 


did  Connor  O'Donovan  ;  although,  of  course, 
that  sympathy  was  unknown  to  those  for 
whom  it  was  felt.  The  fact  was,  that  his 
owTi  happiness  became,  in  .some  degree,  in- 
volved in  their  calamity  ;  and,  as  he  came 
in  to  breakfast  on  the  fourth  morning  of  its 
occiuTence,  he  could  not  help  observing  as 
much  to  his  mother.  His  suspicions  of 
Flanagan,  as  to  possessing  some  clue  to  the 
melancholy  business,  were  by  no  means  re- 
moved. On  the  contrary,  he  felt  that  he 
ought  to  have  him  brought  before  the  bench 
of  magistrates  who  were  conducting  the 
investigation  fi-om  day  to  day,  and,  with 
this  determination,  he  himself  resolved  to 
state  fully  and  candidly  to  the  bench,  all  the 
hints  which  had  transpired  from  Flanagan 
respecting  the  denunciations  said  to  be  held 
out  against  O'Brien  and  the  causes  assigned 
for  them.  Breakfast  was  now  ready,  and 
Fardorougha  himself  entered,  uttering  petu- 
hmt  charges  of  neglect  and  idleness  against 
his  servant. 

"  He  desaiTes  no  breakfast,"  said  he ; 
"  not  a  morsel ;  it's  robbin'  me  by  his  idle- 
ness and  schaming  he  is.  "VMiat  is  he  doin', 
Connor  ?  or  what  has  become  of  him  ?  He's 
not  in  the  field  nor  about  the  place." 

Connor  paused. 

"  TMiy,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  didn't  see 
him  to-day,"  he  replied  ;  "I  thought  that  he 
was  mendiu'  the  slap  at  the  Thi-ee-Acres. 
I'll  thry  if  he's  in  the  bani." 

And  he  went  accordingly  to  find  him. 
"  I'm  afraid,  father,"  said  he,  on  his  return, 
"  that  Bartle's  a  bad  boy,  an'  a  dangerous 
one  ;  he's  not  in  the  bam,  an'  it  appeal's, 
fi'om  the  bed,  that  he  didn't  sleep  there  last 
night.  The  ti-uth  is,  he's  gone  ;  at  laste  he 
has  brought  all  his  clothes,  his  box,  an' 
everything  with  him  ;  an'  what's  more,  I 
suspect  the  reason  of  it ;  he  thinks  he  has 
let  out  too  much  to  me  ;  an'  it  'ill  go  hard 
but  I'll  make  him  let  out  more." 

The  sen-aut-maid,  Biddy,  now  entered  and 
informed  them  that  four  men,  eridently 
strangers,  were  approaching  the  house  from 
the  rear,  and  ere  she  could  add  an^iliing 
further  on  the  subject,  two  of  them  walked 
in,  and,  seizing  Connor,  infonned  him  that 
he  was  their  prisoner. 

"  Your  prisoner  ! "  exclaimed  his  mother, 
getting  pale  ;  "  why,  what  could  our  poor 
boj'  do  to  make  him  your  prisoner?  He 
never  did  hui-t  or  harm  to  the  child  unborn." 

Fardorougha's  keen  gi*ay  eye  rested  shai-p- 
ly  upon  them  for  a  moment ;  it  then  turned 
to  Honor,  afterwards  to  Connor,  and  again 
gleamed  bitterly  at  the  intniders — "  WTiat  is 
this  ?  "  said  he,  stai'ting  up  ;  "  what  is  this  ? 
you  don't  mane  to  rob  us?  " 

"I  think,"  said  the   son,   "you  must  be 


236 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


tindher  a  mistake ;  you  surely  can  have  no 
business  with  me.  It's  very  likely  you  want 
some  one  else." 

"  Wliat  is  yoiu'  name  ?  "  inquired  he  who 
appeared  to  be  the  principal  of  them. 

"  My  name  is  Connor  O'Donovan  ;  an'  I 
know  no  reason  why  I  should  deny  it." 

"  Then  you  are  theveiy  man  we  come  for," 
said  the  querist,  "  so  you  had  better  jjrepare 
to  accompany  us ;  in  the  mean  time  yoii  must 
excuse  us  if  we  search  your  room.  This  is 
impleasant,  I  grant,  but  we  have  no  discre- 
tion, and  must  perform  our  duty." 

"  "\Miat  do  you  want  in  this  room  ?  "  said 
Fardorougha  ;  "it's  robbery  you're  on  for — 
it's  robbery  you're  on  for — in  open  daylight, 
too  ;  but  you're  late  ;  I  lodged  the  last  penny 
yesterday  ;  that's  one  comfort ;  you're  late — 
you're  late." 

"  WTiat  did  my  boy  do  ?  "  exclaimed  the  af- 
fiighted  mother  ;  "  what  did  he  do  that  you 
come  to  drag  him  away  from  us  ?  " 

This  question  she  put  to  the  other  con- 
stable, the  first  having  entered  her  son's  bed- 
room. 

"I  am  afi'aid,  ma'am,  you'll  know  it  too 
soon,"  repUed  the  man  ;  "  it's  a  heavy  charge 
if  it  jDroves  to  be  true." 

As  he  spoke  his  companion  re-entered  the 
apai'tment,  with  Connor's  Simday  coat  in  his 
hand,  fi-om  the  pocket  of  which  he  di-ew  a 
steel  and  tinder-box. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  this,"  he  obsen'ed  ;  "  it  cor- 
roborates what  has  been  sworn  against  you 
by  your  accomphce,  and  here,  I  fear,  comes 
additional  proof." 

At  the  same  moment  the  other  two  made 
theii-  appearance,  one  of  them  holding  in  his 
hand  the  shoes  which  Connor  had  lent  to 
Flanagan,  and  which  he  wore  on  the  night 
of  the  conflagration. 

On  seeing  this,  and  comparing  the  two  cir- 
cumstances together,  a  fearful  light  broke  on 
the  unf ortiinate  young  man,  who  had  ah-eady 
felt  conscious  of  the  snare  into  which  he  had 
fallen.  With  an  air  of  sorrow  and  manly  re- 
signation he  thus  addressed  his  parents  : — 

"  Don't  be  alarmed  ;  I  see  that  there  is  an 
attempt  made  to  swear  away  my  hfe  ;  but, 
whatever  happens,  you  both  know  that  I  am 
innocent  of  doin'  an  injur^'^  to  any  one.  If  I 
die,  I  would  rather  die  innocent  than  live  as 
guilty  as  he  wOl  that  must  have  my  blood  to 
answer  for." 

His  mother,  on  hearing  this,  ran  to  him, 
and  with  her  arms  about  his  neck,  exclaimed, 

"  Die  !  die  !  Connor  dai'lin' — my  brave  boy 
— my  onlv  son — why  do  you  talk  about 
death?  mat  is  7t  for?  what  is  it  about? 
Oh,  for  the  love  of  God,  tell  us  what  did  our 
boy  do  ?  " 

"He  is  charged  by  Bartle  Flanagan,"  re- 


plied one  of  the  constables,  "  with  burning 
Bodagli  Buie  O'Brien's  haggard,  because  he 
refused  him  his  daughter.  He  must  now 
come  with  us  to  jail." 

"I  see  the  whole  i^lot,"  said  Connor,  "and 
a  deep  one  it  is  ;  the  villain  Avill  do  his  worst ; 
stiU  I  can't  but  have  dependence  uj)on  justice 
and  my  own  innocence.  I  can't  but  have 
dependence  upon  God,  who  knows  my  heart." 


PAET  IV. 

Fakdoroitgha  stood  amazed  and  confound- 
ed, looking  fi'om  one  to  another  like  a  man 
who  felt  incapable  of  comprehendmg  all  that 
had  jmssed  before  him.  His  forehead,  over 
which  fell  a  few  gray  thin  locks,  assumed  a 
deadly  paleness,  and  his  e3'e  lost  the  piercing 
expression  which  usually  characteiized  it. 
He  threw  his  Cothamore  several  times  over 
his  shoulders,  as  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
doing  when  about  to  pi'oceed  after  breakfast 
to  his  usual  avocations,  and  as  often  laid  it 
aside,  without  being  at  all  conscioias  of 
what  he  did.  His  hmbs  appeared  to  get 
feeble,  and  his  hands  trembled  as  if  he  la- 
bored under  palsy.  In  this  mood  he  passed 
fi'om  one  to  another,  sometimes  seizing  a 
constable  by  the  arm  with  a  hard,  tremulous 
grijD,  and  again  suddenly  letting  go  his  hoid 
of  him  without  speaking.  At  length  a  sin- 
gular transition  fi'om  this  state  of  mind  be- 
came apparent ;  a  gleam  of  wild  exultation 
shot  fi'om  his  eye  ;  his  saUow  and  blasted 
features  brightened  ;  the  Co^/mmore  was  but- 
toned under  his  chin  with  a  rapid  energy  of 
manner  evidently  arising  from  the  removal 
of  some  secret  apj)rehension. 

"Then,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  no  robbei-y  ; 
it's  not  robbery  afther  all ;  but  how  could  it  ? 
there's  no  money  here  ;  not  a  penny  ;  an'  I'm 
behed,  at  any  rate  ;  for  there's  not  a  poorer 
man  in  the  bai'ony  —  thank  God,  it's  not 
robbery  !  " 

"  Oh,  Fardorougha,"  said  the  wife,  "  don't 
you  see  they're  goui'  to  take  him  away  from 
us?" 

"  Take  who  away  fi-om  us  ?  " 

"  Connor,  your  ovm  Connor — our  boy — 
the  hght  of  my  heart — the  light  of  his  poor 
mother's  heart  !  Oh,  Connor,  Connor,  whal 
is  it  they're  goin'  to  do  to  you  ?  " 

"  No  harm,  mother,  I  trust ;  no  harm — 
don't  be  frightened." 

The  old  man  put  his  open  hands  to  his 
temples,  which  he  pressed  bitterly,  and  with 
all  his  force,  for  nearly  half  a  minute.  He 
had,  in  truth,  been  alarmed  into  the  very 
worst  mood  of  his  habitual  vice,  apprehen- 
sion concerning  his  money  ;    and  felt  that 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


237 


i 


DothiBg,  except  a  powerful  effort,  could  suc- 
ceed in  drawing  his  attention  to  the  scene 
which  was  passing  before  him. 

"  What,"  said  he ;  "  what  is  it  that's  wrong 
wid  Connor  ?  " 

"He  must  come  to  jail,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  looking  at  him  with  surprise  ;  "we 
have  already  stated  the  crime  for  which  he 
stands  committed." 

"  To  jail !  Connor  O'Donovan  to  jail !  " 

"It's  too  true,  father;  Bartle  Flanagan 
has  sworn  that  I  burned  Mr.  O'Brien's  hag- 
gard." 

"  Connor,  Connor,"  said  the  old  man,  ap- 
proaching him  as  he  spoke,  and  putting  his 
arms  composedly  about  his  neck,  "Connor, 
my  brave  boy,  my  brave  boy,  it  wasn't  you 
did  it ;  'twas  I  did  it,"  he  added,  turning  to 
the  constables  ;  "  lave  him,  lave  him  wid  her, 
an'  take  me  in  his  place  !  Who  would  if  I 
would  not — who  ought,  I  say — an'  I'll  do  it 
— take  me  ;  I'U  go  in  his  place." 

Connor  looked  down  upon  the  old  man, 
and  as  he  saw  his  heart  rent,  and  his  reason 
absolutely  tottering,  a  sense  of  the  singular 
and  devoted  affection  which  he  had  ever 
borne  him,  overcame  him,  and  with  a  full 
heart  he  dashed  away  a  tear  from  his  eye, 
and  pressed  his  father  to  his  breast. 

"  Mother,"  said  he  ;  "  this  will  kill  the  old 
man  ;  it  will  kill  him  !  " 

"  Fardorougha,  a  hagur,"  said  his  wife, 
feeling  it  necessary  to  sustain  him  as  much 
as  possible,  "  don't  take  it  so  much  to  heart, 
it  won't  signify — Connor  s  innocent,  an'  no 
harm  will  happen  to  him  !  " 

"  But  are  you  lavin'  us,  Connor?  are  they 
— must  they  bring  you  to  jail  ?  " 

"  For  a  while,  father  ;  but  I  won't  be  long 
there  I  hope." 

"  It's  an  uniDleasant  duty  on  our  part," 
said  the  principal  of  them  ;  "  still  it's  one 
we  must  perfonn.  Your  father  should  lose 
no  time  in  taking  the  proper  steps  for  your 
defence." 

"  And  what  are  we  to  do  ?  "  asked  the 
mother  ;  "  God  knows  the  boy's  as  innocent 
as  I  am." 

"Yes,"  said  Fardorougha,  still  dwelling 
upon  the  resolution  he  had  made  ;  "  III 
stand  for  you,  Connor  ;  you  won't  go  ;  let 
them  bring  me  instead  of  you." 

"  That's  out  of  the  question,"  replied  the 
constable  ;  "  the  law  suffers  nothing  of  the 
kind  to  take  place  ;  but  if  you  will  be  ad- 
vised by  me,  lose  no  time  in  preparing  to  de- 
fend him.  It  would  be  unjust  to  disguise 
the  matter  from  you,  or  to  keep  you  ignorant 
of  its  being  a  case  of  hfe  and  death." 

"Life  and  death!  what  do  you  mane?" 
asked  Fardorougha,  staring  vacantly  at  the 
last  speaker. 


"  It's  painful  to  distress  you  ;  but  if  he's 
found  guilty,  it's  death." 

"  Death  !  hanged  ! "  shrieked  the  old  man, 
awaking  as  it  were  for  the  first  time  to 
a  full  perception  of  his  son's  situation  ; 
"  hanged !  my  boy  hanged  !  Connor,  Con- 
nor, don't  go  from  me  ! " 

"111  die  wid  him,"  said  the  mother  ;  "I'U 
die  wid  you,  Connor.  We  couldn't  hve 
widout  him,"  she  added,  addressing  the  str«i- 
gers  ;  "  as  God  is  in  heaven  we  couldn't !  Uh 
Connor,  Connor,  avoumeen,  what  is  it  that 
has  come  over  us,  and  brought  us  to  this  sor- 
row ?  " 

The  mother's  grief  then  flowed  on,  accom- 
panied by  a  burst  of  that  unstudied,  but 
pathetic  eloquence,  which  in  Ireland  is  fre- 
quently uttered  in  the  tone  of  wail  and 
lamentation  pecuhar  to  those  who  mourn  over 
the  dead. 

"No,"  she  added,  with  her  arms  tenderly 
about  him,  and  her  streaming  eyes  fixed  with 
a  wild  and  mournful  look  of  despair  upon 
his  face  ;  "  no,  he  is  in  his  loving  mother's 
arms,  the  boy  that  never  gave  to  his  father 
or  me  a  harsh  word  or  a  sore  heart !  Long 
were  we  lookin'  for  him,  an'  little  did  we 
think  it  was  for  this  heav;)'  fate  that  the 
goodness  of  God  sent  him  to  us  !  Oh,  many 
a  look  of  lovin'  affection,  many  a  happy  heart 
did  he  give  us  !  Many  a  time  Connor,  a\allish, 
did  I  hang  over  your  cradle,  and  draw  out  to 
myself  the  happiness  and  the  good  that  I 
hoped  was  before  you.  You  wor  tt)o  good — 
too  good,  I  doubtr— to  be  long  in  such  a  world 
as  this,  an'  no  wondher  that  the  heart  of  the 
fair  young  colleen,  the  heart  of  the  colleen 
dhas  dhun  should  rest  upon  you  and  love 
you  ;  for  who  ever  knew  you  that  didn't  ? 
Isn't  there  enough.  King  of  heaven  !  enough 
of  the  bad  an'  the  wicked  in  this  world  for  the 
law  to  punish,  an'  not  to  take  the  innocent — 
not  to  take  away  fi-om  us  the  only  one — the 
only  one — I  can't — I  can't — but  if  they  do — 
Connor — if  they  do,  your  lovin'  mother  wiU 
die  wid  you  ! " 

The  stern  officers  of  justice  wiped  their 
eyes,  and  were  proceeding  to  afford  such 
consolation  as  they  could,  when  Fardorougha, 
who  had  sat  down  after  having  made  way  for 
Honor  to  recline  on  the  bosom  of  their  son, 
now  rose,  and  seizing  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
was  about  to  speak,  but  ere  he  could  utter  a 
word  he  tottered,  and  would  have  instantly 
fallen,  had  not  Connor  caught  him  in  his 
arms.  This  served  for  a  moment  to  divert 
the  mother's  gi*ief,  and  to  draw  her  attention 
from  the  son  to  the  husband,  who  was  now 
insensible.  He  was  carried  to  the  door  by 
Connor  ;  but  when  they  attempted  to  lay 
him  in  a  recumbent  posture,  it  was  found 
almost  impossible  to  unclasp  the  deathlike 


238 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


grip  which  he  held  of  the  coat.  His  haggard 
face  was  shrunk  and  collapsed  ;  the  individual 
features  sharp  and  thin,  but  earnest  and 
stamped  vdih.  traces  of  alarm  ;  his  brows,  too, 
which  were  shghtly  knit,  gave  to  his  whole 
countenance  a  character  of  keen  and  painful 
determination.  But  that  which  sti*uck  those 
who  were  present,  most,  was  the  unyielding 
grasp  with  which  he  climg  even  in  his  insensi- 
bihb'  to  the  person  of  Connor. 

Irnot  an  affecting  sight,  it  was  one  at  least 
strongly  indicative  of  the  intractable  and  in- 
durated attachment  which  put  itself  forth 
with  such  vague  and  illusive  enei'gy  on 
behalf  of  his  son.  At  length  he  recovered, 
and  on  opening  his  eyes  he  fixed  them  with 
a  long  look  of  pain  and  distraction  upon  the 
boy's  countenance. 

"  Father,"  said  Connor,  "  don't  be  cast 
down — you  need  not — and  you  ought  not  to 
be  so  much  disheartened — do  you  feel 
better  ?  " 

"VMien  the  father  heard  his  voice  he  smiled  ; 
yes — his  shrunk,  j^ale,  withered  face  was  ht 
up  by  a  "wild,  indescribable  ecstasy,  whose 
startling  expression  was  boiTowed,  one  would 
think,  as  much  from  the  light  of  insanity  as 
from  that  of  returning  consciousness.  He 
sucked  in  his  thin  cheeks,  smacked  his 
parched,  skinny  Hps,  and  with  difficulty 
called  for  diink.  Having  swallowed  a  httle 
water,  he  looked  round  him  "s\'ith  more  com- 
posure, and  inquu-ed — 

"  What  has  happened  me  ?  am  I  robbed  ? 
are  j'ou  robbers ?  But  I  tell  }ou  there's  no 
money  in  the  house.  I  lodged  the  last  penny 
yesterday — afore  my  God  I  did — but — oh, 
what  am  I  savin'  ?  what  is  this,  Connor  ?  " 

"Father  dear,  compose  yourseK — we'll 
get  over  this  throuble." 

"  "We  will,  darhn',"  said  Honor,  wiping  the 
pale  brows  of  her  husband  ;  "an'  we  won't 
lose  him." 

" No,  achora,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "no,  we 
won't  lose  him  !     Connor  ?  " 

"  WeU,  father  dear !  " 

"  There's  a  thing  here — here  " — and  he 
placed  his  hand  upon  his  heai-t — "  something 
it  is  that  makes  me  afeard — a  sinkin' — a 
weight — and  there's  a  stnigglin',  too,  Con- 
nor. I  know  I  can't  stand  it  long — an'  it's 
about  you — it's  all  about  you." 

"  You  distress  youi-self  too  much,  father  ; 
indeed  you  do.  Why,  I  hoped  that  you 
would  comfort  my  poor  mother  till  I  come 
back  to  her  and  you,  as  I  will,  plase  God." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  ;   "  yes,  I  will,  I  will." 

"  You  had  better  prepare,"  said  one  of  the 
officers  ;  "  the  sooner  this  is  over  the  better 
— he's  a  feeble  man  and  not  very  well  able  to 
bear  it." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Connor  ;  "  I  won't 


delay  many  minutes  ;  I  have  only  to  change 
my  clothes,  an'  I  am  ready." 

In  a  short  time  he  made  his  appearance 
dressed  in  his  best  suit ;  and,  indeed,  it 
would  be  extremely  difficult  to  meet,  in  any 
rank  of  Ufe,  a  finer  specimen  of  vigor,  ac- 
tivity, and  manly  beauty.  His  countenance, 
at  all  times  sedate  and  open,  was  on  this  oc- 
casion shaded  by  an  aii*  of  profound  melan- 
choly that  gave  a  composed  grace  and 
dignity  to  his  whole  bearing. 

"  Now,  father,"  said  he,  "  before  I  go,  I 
think  it  right  to  lave  you  and  my  poor 
mother  all  the  consolation  I  win.  In  the 
presence  of  God,  in  yours,  in  my  dear 
mother's,  and  in  the  presence  of  all  who  hear 
me,  I  am  as  innocent  of  the  crime  that's  laid 
to  my  charge  as  the  babe  unborn.  That's  a 
comfort  for  you  to  know,  and  let  it  prevent 
you  fi'om  fi-ettin' ;  and  now,  good  by ;  God 
be  with  you,  and  strengthen,  and  support 
you  both ! " 

Fardorougha  had  ah-eady  seized  his  hand  ; 
but  the  old  man  could  neither  speak  nor 
weep  ;  his  whole  frame  appeared  to  have 
been  suddenly  pem^aded  by  a  dry  agony  that 
suspended  the  beatings  of  his  very  heart. 
The  mother's  grief,  on  the  contrary,  was  loud, 
and  piercing,  and  vehement.  She  thi-ew  her- 
self once  more  upon  his  neck  ;  she  kissed 
his  hps,  she  pressed  him  to  her  heart,  and 
poured  out  as  before  the  wail  of  a  wild  and 
hopeless  misery.  At  length,  by  the  aid  o\ 
some  shght  but  necessary  force,  her  arms 
were  untwined  fi'om  about  his  neck  ;  and 
Connor  then,  stooping,  embraced  his  father, 
and,  gently  placing  him  on  a  settle-bed,  bade 
him  ffu-ewell !  On  reaching  the  door  he 
paused,  and,  tiu-ning  about,  sui-veyed  his 
mother  struggling  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the 
officers  to  get  embracing  him  again,  and  his 
gray-haii'ed  father  sitting  in  speechless 
misery  on  the  settle.  He  stood  a  moment 
to  look  upon  them,  and  a  few  bitter  tears 
roUed,  in  the  silence  of  manly  sorrow,  down 
his  cheeks. 

"  Oh,  Fai'dorougha  !  "  exclaimed  his 
mother,  after  they  had  gone,  "  sure  it  isn't 
merely  for  partin'  wid  him  that  we  feel  so 
heart-broken.  He  may  never  stand  imder 
this  roof  again,  an'  he  all  we  have  and  had 
to  love ! " 

"  No,"  returned  Fai-dorougha,  quietly  ; "  no, 
it's  not,  as  you  say,  for  merely  pai-tin'  wid 
him— hanged  !  God  !  God  !  him — here — 
Honor — here,  the  thought  of  it — I'U  die — 
it'U  break  !  Oh,  God  support  me  !  my  heart 
— here — my  heart'U  break  !  My  brain,  too, 
and  my  head — oh  !  if  God  'ud  take  me  before 
I'd  see  it !  But  it  can't  be — it's  not  possible 
that  our  innocent  boy  should  meet  sicL  a 
death ! " 


FARDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


239 


'  No,  dear,  it  is  not ;  sure  lie's  innocent 
— that's  one  comfort ;  but,  Fardorougha,  as 
the  men  said,  jou  must  jro  to  a  lawj-er  and 
see  what  can  be  done  to  defind  him." 

The  old  man  rose  up  and  proceeded  to  his 
sou's  bedroom. 

"  Honor,"  said  he,  "  come  here ; "  and  while 
uttering  these  words  he  gazed  upon  her  face 
with  a  look  of  unutterable  and  hopeless  dis- 
tress ;  "  there's  his  bed.  Honor — his  bed — he 
may  never  sleep  on  it  more — he  may  be  cut 
down  like  a  flower  in  his  youth — an'  then 
what  will  become  of  us  ?  " 

"  Forever,  fi-om  this  day  out,"  said  the  dis- 
tracted mother,  "no  hands  will  ever  make 
it  but  my  own  ;  on  no  other  will  I  sleep — 
we  will  both  sleep — where  h  is  head  lay  there 
will  mine  be  too — avick  machree — machree  ! 
Och,  Fardorougha,  we  can't  stand  this  ;  let 
us  not  take  it  to  heart,  as  we  do  ;  let  us  trust 
in  God,  an'  hope  for  the  best." 

Honor,  in  fact,  found  it  necessary  to  as- 
sume the  office  of  a  comforter  ;  but  it  was 
clear  that  nothing  urged  or  suggested  by 
her  could  for  a  moment  win  back  the  old 
man's  heart  fi'om  the  contemplation  of  the 
loss  of  his  son.  He  moped  about  for  a  con- 
siderable time  ;  but,  ever  and  anon,  found 
himself  in  Connor's  bedroom,  looking  upon 
his  clothes  and  such  other  memorials  of  him 
as  it  contained. 

Dui-ing  the  occurrence  of  these  melancholy 
incidents  at  Fardorougha's,  others  of  a  scai'ce- 
ly  less  distressing  character  were  passing  un- 
der the  roof  of  Bodagh  Buie  O'Brien. 

Oiu*  readers  need  not  be  informed  that  the 
charge  brought  by  Bartle  Flanagan  against 
Connor,  excited  the  utmost  amazement  in  all 
who  heard  it.  So  much  at  variance  were  his 
untarnished  reputation  and  amiable  mannei's 
with  a  disposition  so  dark  and  malignant  as 
that  which  must  have  promj)ted  the  perpe- 
tration of  such  a  crime,  that  it  was  treated 
at  first  by  the  jDubUc  as  an  idle  rumor.  The 
evidence,  however,  of  Phil.  Ciu'tis,  and  his 
deposition  to  the  conversation  which  occuiTed 
between  him  and  Connor  at  the  time  and 
place  ah-eady  kno"mi  to  the  reader,  together 
with  the  corroborating  cii'cumstances  arising 
from  the  correspondence  of  the  footprints 
about  the  haggard  -ft-ith  the  shoes  produced 
by  the  constable — all,  Avheu  combined  to- 
gether, left  httle  doubt  of  his  guilt.  No  soon- 
er had  this  impression  become  general,  than 
the  spirit  of  the  father  was  immediately  im- 
puted to  the  son,  and  many  sagacious  obser- 
vations made,  all  tending  to  show,  that,  as 
they  expressed  it,  "  the  bad  drop  of  the  old 
BOgue  would  sooner  or  later  come  out  in  the 
young  one  ; "  "he  wouldn't  be  what  he  was, 
or  the  bitter  heart  of  the  miser  would  ap- 
peal* ; "  \N-ith  many  other  apothegms  of  simi- 


lar import.  The  family  of  the  Bodagh,  how- 
ever, were  painfully  and  peculiarly  circum- 
stanced. With  the  exception  of  Una  herself, 
none  of  them  entertained  a  doubt  that  Con- 
nor was  the  incendiary-.  Ilanagan  had  main- 
tained a  good  chai-acter,  and  his  direct  im- 
peachment of  Connor,  supported  by  such  ex- 
act circumstantial  evidence,  left  nothing  to 
be  urged  in  the  young  man's  defence.  Awai'e 
as  they  were  of  the  force  of  Una's  attachment, 
and  api^rehensive  that  the  shock,  arising 
from  the  discovery  of  his  atrocity,  might  be 
dangerous  if  injudiciously  disclosed  to  her, 
they  resolved,  in  accordance  Avith  the  sugges- 
tion of  their  son,  to  break  the  matter  to  her- 
self Avith  the  utmost  delicacy  and  caution. 
"  It  is  better,"  said  John,  "  that  she  should 
:  hear  of  the  misfortune  from  ourselves  ;  for, 
after  breaking  it  to  her  as  gently  as  possible, 
I  we  can  at  least  attempt  to  strengthen  and 
;  console  her  under  it." 

"Heaven  above  sees,"  exclaimed  his 
;  mother,  "  that  it  was  a  black  and  vmlucky 
;  business  to  her  and  to  all  of  us  ;  but  now 
'  that  she  knows  what  a  revingeful  A-illain  he 
,  is,  I'm  sure  she'll  not  find  it  hard  to  banish 
;  him  out  of  her  thoughts.  Deah  Grasthias  for 
j  the  escape  she  had  from  him  at  any  rate  !  " 
;  "John,  bring  her  in,"  said  the  father; 
I  "bring  the  unfortimate  young  crature  in. 
I  I  can't  but  pity  her,  Bridget ;  I  can't  but 
pity  ma  colleen  voghth." 

When  Una  entered  with  her  brother  she 
perceived  by  a  glance  at  the  solemn  bearing 
I  of  her  parents,  that  some  unhappy  announce- 
!  ment  was  about  to  be  made  to  her.    She  sat 
'  down,  therefore,  with  a  beating  heart  and  a 
j  cheek  already  pale  with  ajiprehension. 
j       "Una,"  said  her  father,  "  we  sent  for  you 
to  mention  a  circumstance  that  we   would 
rather  you  should  hear  fi'om  oiu'selves  than 
fi'om    strangers.     You  were  always  a  good 
gii-1,  Una — an'  obadient  gii'l,  and  sensible  be- 
i  yant  your  years  ;  and  I  trust  that  your  good 
sinse  and  the  gi-ace  of  the  ^Umighty  wiQ  en- 
able you  to  bear  up  undher  any  disappoint- 
:  ment  that  may  come  upon  you." 

"Surely,    father,    there    can   be   nothing 
worse  than  I  know  ah'eady,"  she  rephed. 
!      "  AMiy,  what  do  you  know,  dear  ?  " 
i      "  Only  what  you  told  me  the  day  Fardo- 
rougha was  here,  that  nothing  agreeable  to 
my  wishes  could  take  place." 

"I  would  give  a  gi'eat  deal  that  the  busi- 
ness was  now  as  it  was  even  then,"  responded 
her  father  ;  "  there's  far  worse  to  come,  Una, 
an'  you  must  be  firm,  an'  prepare  to  heai- 
what'U  thr}'  you  sorely." 
i  "I  can't  guess  it,  father;  but  for  God's 
j  sake  tell  me  at  once." 

"Who  do   you   think  biimed  our  prop- 
I  erty  ?  " 


240 


WILLIAM  CARLETOIPS   WORKS. 


"  And  I  suppose  if  she  hadn't  been  undher 
the  one  roof  wid  us  that  it's  ourselves  he'd 
bum,"  observed  her  mother. 

"  Father,  tell  me  the  worst  at  once — what- 
ever it  may  be  ; — how  could  I  g\iess  the  vil- 
lain or  villidns  who  destroyed  our  property  ?  " 

"YiUain,  indeed!  you  may  well  say  so," 
returned  the  Bodagh.  "That  villain  is  no 
other  than  Connor  O'Donovan  !  " 

Una  felt  as  if  a  weighty  burden  had  been 
removed  from  her  heart ;  she  breathed  fi-ee- 
ly  ;  her  depression  and  alarm  vanished,  and 
her  dark  eye  kindled  into  proud  coufidence 
in  the  integrity  of  her  lover. 

"And,  father,"  she  asked,  in  a  full  and 
firm  voice,  "  is  there  nothing  worse  than 
that  to  come  ?  " 

"  Worse !  is  the  girl's  brain  turned  ?" 

"  Dhar  a  Lhora  Heena,  she's  as  mad  I  be- 
Heve  as  ould  Fardorougha  himself,"  said  the 
mother  ;  ''worse!  why,  she  has  parted  wid 
all  tlie  revising  she  ever  had." 

"Indeed,  mother,  I  hope  I  have  not,  and 
that  my  reason's  as  clear  as  ever  ;  but,  as  to 
Connor  O'Donovan,  he's  innocent  of  that 
charge,  and  of  every  other  that  may  be 
brought  against  him  ;  I  don't  believe  it,  and 
I  never  will." 

"It's  proved  against  him;  it's  brought 
home  to  him." 

"  "SMio's  his  accuser  ?  " 

"His  father's  servant,  Bartle  Flanagan, 
has  turned  king's  evidence." 

"  The  deep-dyed  villain  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
vdth  indignation  ;  "father,  of  that  crime,  so 
sure  as  God's  in  heaven,  so  sure  is  Connor 
O'Donovan  innocent,  and  so  sure  is  Bartle 
Flanagan  guilty — I  know  it." 

"  You  know  it — explain  yourself." 

"  I  mean  I  feel  it — ay,  home  to  the  core  of 
my  heart — my  unhappy  heart — I  feel  the 
truth  of  what  I  say." 

"  Una,"  observed  her  brother,  "  I'm  afraid 
you  have  been  ^alely  deceived  by  him — 
there's  not  the  shghtest  doubt  of  his  guilt." 

"  Don't  you  be  deceived,  John  ;  I  say  he's 
innocent — as  I  hope  for  heaven  he's  inno- 
cent ;  and,  father,  I'm  not  a  bit  cast  down  or 
disheai-tened  by  anything  I  have  yet  heard 
against  him." 

"  You're  a  very  extraordinary  girl,  Una ; 
but  for  my  part  I'm  glad  you  look  upon  it  as 
you  do.  If  his  innocence  appears,  no  man 
ahvewiU  be  better  plazed  at  it  than  myself." 

"  His  innocence  xoill  appear,"  exclaimed 
the  faithful  girl  ;  "it  must  appear  ;  and, 
father,  mark  this — I  say  the  time  wiU  teU 
yet  who  is  innocent  and  who  is  guilty.  God 
knows,"  she  added,  her  energy  of  manner 
increasing,  while  a  shower  of  hot  tears  feU 
down  her  cheeks,  "  God  knows  I  would 
many  him  to-morrow  with  the  disgrace  of 


that  and  ten  times  as  much  upor  hJm.  so 
certain  am  I  that  his  heart  and  hand  ar« 
free  fi'om  thought  or  deed  that's  either 
treacherous  or  dishonorable." 

"  Many  him  !  "  said  her  brother,  losing 
temper  ;  "  nobody  doubts  but  you'd  marry 
him  on  the  gaUows,  ^Nid  the  roj)e  about  his 
neck." 

"I  would  do  it,  and  unite  myself  to  a 
true  heart.  Don't  mistake  me,  and  mother, 
dear,  don't  blame  me,"  she  added,  her  tears 
llo^ving  stiU  faster  ;  "he's  in  disgrace — sunk 
in  shame  and  sorrow— and  I  won't  conceal 
the  force  of  what  I  feel  for  him  ;  I  won't  de- 
sert him  now  as  the  world  will  do  ;  I  know 
his  heart,  and  on  the  scaffold  to-morrow  I 
would  become  his  wife,  if  it  would  take 
away  one  atom  of  his  misery." 

"  If  he's  innocent,"  said  her  father,  "you 
have  more  pinetration  than  any  girl  in  Eu- 
rope ;  but  if  he's  guilt}'  of  such  an  act 
against  any  one  connected  with  you,  Una, 
the  guilt  of  all  the  divUs  in  hell  is  no  match 
for  his.  Well,  you  have  heard  aU  we  wanted 
to  say  to  you,  and  you  needn't  stay." 

"As  she  herself  says,"  observed  John, 
"  perhaps  time  wiU  place  eveiything  in  its 
true  Hght.  At  present  aU  those  who  are 
not  in  love  with  him  have  little  doubt  of  his 
guilt.  However,  even  as  it  is,  in  pi-inciple 
Una  is  right  ;  putting  love  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, we  should  prejudge  no  one." 

"  Time  will,"  said  his  sister,  "  or  rather 
God  will  in  His  own  good  time.  On  God 
I'm  sure  he  depends ;  on  his  providence  I  also 
rely  for  seeing  his  name  and  character 
cleared  of  all  that  has  been  brought  against 
him.  John,  I  -wish  to  speak  to  you  in  my 
oym  room  ;  not  that  I  intend  to  make  any 
secret  of  it,  but  I  want  to  consult  with  you 
first." 

"  Gheema  dheelish"  exclaimed  her  mother  ; 
"  what  a  wife  that  child  would  make  to  any 
man  that  desai-ved  her  !  " 

"  It's  more  than  I'm  able  to  do,  to  be  an- 
gry with  her,"  returned  the  Bodagh.  "  Did 
you  ever  know  her  to  tell  a  he,  Bridget  ?  " 

"  A  he  !  no,  nor  the  shadow  of  a  He  never 
came  out  of  her  lips ;  the  desate's  not  in 
her  ;  an'  may  God  look  down  on  her  wid 
compunction  this  da}' ;  for  there's  a  dark 
road  I  doubt  before  her ! " 

"Amen,"  responded  her  father  ;" amen, 
I  pray  the  Saviour.  At  all  e\ints,  O'Don- 
ovan's  guilt  or  innocence  will  soon  be 
known,"  he  added  ;  "  the  'sizes  begin  this 
day  week,  so  that  the  business  will  soon  be 
settled  either  one  way  or  other." 

Una,  on  reaching  her  own  room,  thus  ad- 
dressed her  affectionate  brother  : 

"  Now,  John,  you  know  that  my  grand- 
father left  me  two  hvmdred   guineas  in  his 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


241 


will,  and  you  tnow,  too,  the  impossibility  of 
getting  any  money  from  the  clutches  of 
Fardorougha.  You  must  see  Connor,  and  find 
out  how  he  intendsio  defend  himself.  If  his 
father  "vf  on't  allow  him  sufficient  means  to  em- 
ploy the»best  lawyers — as  I  doubt  whether  he 
will  or  not — ^just  teU  him  the  truth,  that  whilst 
I  have  a  penny  of  these  two  hundred  guineas, 
he  mustn't  want  money  ;  an'  teU  him,  too, 
that  ail  the  world  won't  persuade  me  that 
he's  guilty  ;  say  I  know  him  to  be  innocent, 
and  that  his  disgrace  has  made  him  dearer 
to  me  than  he  ever  was  before." 

"  Siu'ely,  you  can't  suppose  for  a  moment, 
my  dear  Una,  that  I,  your  brother,  who,  by 
the  way,  have  never  opened  my  lips  to  him, 
could  dehberately  convey  such  a  message." 

"  It  must  be  conveyed  in  some  manner  ; 
I'm  resolved  on  that." 

"The  best  plan,"  said  the  other,  "is  to 
find  out  whatsoever  attorney  they  employ, 
and  then  to  discover,  if  possible,  whether  his 
father  has  furnished  sufficient  funds  for  his 
defence.  If  he  has,  your  offer  is  unnecessaiy  ; 
and  if  not,  a  private  aiTangement  may  be 
made  with  the  attoi-ney  of  which  nobody  else 
need  know  anything  " 

"  God  bless  you,  John !  God  bless  you  !  " 
she  replied  ;  "  that  is  far  better  ;  you  have 
been  a  good  brother  to  yoiu*  poor  Una — to 
your  poor  unhappy  Una  !  " 

She  leaned  her  head  on  a  table,  and  wept 
for  some  time  at  the  tiying  fate,  as  she 
termed  it,  which  hung  over  two  beings  so 
young  and  so  guiltless  of  any  crime.  The 
brother  soothed  her  by  eveiy  argument  in 
his  power,  and,  after  gently  compelling  her 
to  diy  her  tears,  expi-essed  his  intention  of 
going  eai'ly  the  next  day  to  ascertain  whether 
or  not  any  professional  man  had  been 
engaged  to  conduct  the  defence  of  her  un- 
fortunate lover. 

In  effecting  this  object  there  was  httle 
time  lost  on  the  part  of  young  O'Brien. 
Knowing  that  two  respectable  attorneys 
lived  in  the  next  market  town,  he  deemed  it 
best  to  ascertain  whether  Fardorougha  had 
apphed  to  either  of  them  for  the  piu-jDoses 
aforementioned,  or,  if  not,  to  assure  himself 
wliether  the  old  man  had  gone  to  any  of 
those  pettifoggers,  who,  rather  than  appear 
without  practice,  will  undertake  a  cause 
almost  on  any  term*,  and  afterwards  institute 
a  lawsuit  for  the  recovery  of  a  much  larger 
bill  of  costs  than  a  man  of  character  and  ex- 
perience would  demand. 

In  pursuance  of  the  plan  concerted  between 
them,  the  next  morning  fovmd  him  rapping, 
about  eleven  o'clock,  at  the  door  of  an  attor- 
ney named  Kennedy,  whom  he  asked  to  see 
on  professional  business.  A  clerk,  on  heaiing 
his  voice  in  the  hall,  came  out  and  requested 


him  to  step  into  a  back  room,  adding  that 
his  master,  who  was  engaged,  would  see  him 
the  moment  he  had  despatched  the  person 
then  with  him.  Thus  slioAvn,  he  was  sepa- 
rated from  O'Halloran's  office  only  by  a  pair  of 
folding  doors,  thi-ough  which  eveiT  word 
uttered  in  the  office  could  be  distinctly 
heard  ;  a  circumstance  that  enabled  O'Biien 
unintentionjilly  to  overhear  the  following 
dialogue  between  the  parties  : 

"  \VeU,  my  good  fr-iend,"  said  Kennedy  to 
the  stranger,  who,  it  appeared,  had  arrived 
before  O'Brien  only  a  few  minutes,  "  I  am 
now  disengaged  ;  pray,  let  me  know  your 
business." 

The  stranger  paused  a  moment,  as  if  seek- 
ing the  most  appropriate  teims  in  which  to 
express  himself. 

"  It's  a  black  business,"  he  rephed,  "  and 
the  worst  of  it  is  I'm  a  poor  man." 

"  You  should  not  go  to  law,  then,"  ob- 
ser\'ed  the  attorney.  "I  tell  you  beforehand 
you  will  find  it  is  de^aHsh  expensive." 

"I  know  it,"  said  the  man;  "it's  open 
robbery ;  I  know  what  it  cost  me  to  recover 
the  httle  pences  that  wor  sometimes  due  to 
me,  when  I  broke  myself  lending  weeny 
trifles  to  strugglin'  peoi^le  that  I  thought 
honest,  and  robbed  me  aftherwards." 

"  In  what  way  can  my  serrices  be  of  use  to 
you  at  present  ?  for  that  I  suppose  is  the  ob- 
ject of  youi'  calling  upon  me,"  said  Kennedy. 

"  Oh  thin,  sfr,  if  you  have  the  grace  of 
God,  or  kindness,  or  pity  in  your  heart,  you 
can  saiTe  me,  you  can  save  my  heart  fr'om 
breakin' ! " 

"How — how,  man? — come  to  the  point." 

"  My  son,  sir,  Connor,  my  only  son,  was 
taken  away  froju  his  mother  an'  me,  an'  put 
into  jail  yesterday  momin',  an'  he  innocent ; 
he  was  jDut  in,  su-,  for  buniin'  Bodagh  Buie 
O'Brien's  haggard,  an'  as  God  is  above  me, 
he  as  much  burnt  it  as  you  did." 

"Then  you  are  Fardorougha  Donovan," 
said  the  attorney  ;  "I  have  heard  of  that 
outrage  ;  and,  to  be  plain  with  you,  a  good 
deal  about  yourself.  How,  in  the  name  of 
heaven,  can  you  call  yourself  a  poor  man  ?  " 

"  They  behe  me,  su*,  they're  bitther  ine- 
mies  that  saj'  I'm  otherwise." 

"  Be  you  rich  or  be  you  poor,  let  me  tell 
you  that  I  would  not  stand  in  your  son's 
situation  for  the  wealth  of  the  king's  ex- 
chequer. Sell  your  last  cow  ;  your  last  coat : 
your  last  acre  ;  sell  the  bed  from  under  you, 
without  loss  of  time,  if  you  \rish  to  save  las 
hfe  ;  and  I  tell  you  that  for  this  purjDOse  you 
must  employ  the  best  counsel,  and  plenty  of 
them.  The  Assizes  commence  on  this  day 
week,  so  that  you  have  not  a  single  moment 
to  lose.  Think  now  whether  you  love  youx 
son  or  your  money  best." 


242 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Saver  of  earth,  amn't  I  an  unhappy  man  ! 
every  one  sann'  I  have  money,  an'  me  has 
not !  Where  would  I  get  it  ?  Where  would 
a  man  hke  me  get  it  ?  Instead  o'  that,  I'm 
so  poor  that  I  see  plainly  I'll  stance  yet ;  I 
see  it's  before  me  !  God  pity  me  this  day  ! 
But  agin,  there's  mj'  boy,  my  boy  ;  oh,  God, 
pity  him  !  Say  what's  the  laste,  the  lowest, 
the  veiy  lowest  j-ou  could  tate,  for  dcfendin' 
aim  ;  an'  for  pity's  sake,  for  chaiity's  sake, 
for  God's  sake,  don't  gi'ind  a  poor,  helpless, 
ould  man  by  extortion.  If  you  knew  the 
bo}' — if  3'ou  knew  him — oh,  afore  my  God, 
if  3'ou  knew  him,  you  wouldn't  be  apt  to 
charge  a  penny ;  you'd  be  proud  to  sarve 
sich  a  boy  " 

"  You  wish  everything  possible  to  be  done 
for  him,  of  course." 

"  Of  coorse,  of  coorse  ;  but  widout  extra- 
vagance ;  as  aay  an'  hght  on  a  poor  man  as 
you  can.  You  cordd  shorten  it,  siu-e,  an' 
lave  out  a  grate  dale  that  'ud  be  of  no  use  ; 
an'  half  the  paper  'ud  do  ;  for  you  might 
make  the  clerks  write  close— why,  very  little 
'ud  be  wanted  if  you  wor  savin'." 

"  I  can  defend  him  with  one  counsel  if  you 
wish  ;  but,  if  anxious  to  save  the  boj-'s  life, 
you  ought  to  enable  your  attorney  to  secure 
a  strong  bar  of  the  most  eminent  lawj'ers 
he  can  engage." 

"  An'  what  'ud  it  cost  to  hire  three  or  four 
of  them  ?  " 

"  The  whole  expenses  might  amount  to  be- 
tween thu'ty  and  forty  guineas." 

A  deep  gToan  of  dismay,  astonishment,  and 
anguish,  was  the  only  reply  made  to  this  for 
some  time. 

"  Oh,  heavens  above ! "  lie  screamed,  "what 
will — what  x>jiU  become  of  me  !  I'd  rather  be 
dead,  as  I'll  soon  be,  than  hear  this,  or  know 
it  at  all.  How  could  I  get  it  ?  I'm  as  poor 
as  poverty  itself  !  Oh,  couldn't  you  feel  for 
the  boy,  an'  defend  him  on  tinist ;  couldn't 
you  feel  for  him  ?  " 

"  It's  your  business  to  do  that,"  returned 
the  man  of  law,  cooUy. 

"  Feel  for  him  ;  me  !  oh,  httle  you  know 
how  my  heart's  in  him  ;  but  any  way,  I'm  an 
unhappy  man  ;  everything  in  the  world  wide 
goes  against  me  ;  but — oh,  my  darlin'  boy — 
Connor,  Connor,  my  son,  to  be  tould  that  I 
don't  feel  for  you — well  you  know,  avoumeen 
maclu'ee — w^ell  you  know  that  I  feel  for  you, 
and  'ud  kiss  the  track  of  your  feet  upon  the 
ground.  Oh,  it's  cruel  to  tell  it  to  me  ;  to 
say  sich  a  thing  to  a  man  that  liis  heart's 
breakin'  widin  him  for  j'our  sake  ;  but,  sir, 
you  sed  this  minute  that  you  could  defend 
him  wid  one  lawj'er  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  and  with  a  cheap  one,  too,  if 
you  wish  ;  but,  in  that  case,  I  would  rather 
decline  the  thing  altogether." 


"  Wliy  ?  wliy  ?  sure  if  you  can  defind  him 
chapely,  isn't  it  so  much  saved  ?  isn't  it  the 
same  as  if  you  definded  him  at  a  higher  rate  ? 
Sure,  if  one  lawyer  tells  the  truth  for  the 
poor  boy,  ten  or  fifteen  can  do  no  more  ;  an' 
thin  maybe  they'd  crass  in  an'  puzzle  one 
fvaother  if  you  hired  too  many  of  them." 

"  How  would  you  feel,  should  your  son  be 
found  guilty  ;  you  know  the  penalty  is  his 
life.     He  wiU  be  executed." 

O'Brien  could  hear  the  old  man  clap  his 
hands  in  agony,  and  in  truth  he  walked 
about  wringing  them  as  if  his  heart  would 
biu'st. 

"  What  will  I  do  ?  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "what 
will  I  do  ?  I  can't  lose  him,  an'  I  won't  lose 
him  !  Lose  him  !  oh  God,  oh  God,  it  is  to 
lose  the  best  son  and  only  child  that  ever 
man  had  !  Wouldn't  it  be  downright  murdh- 
er  in  me  to  let  him  be  lost  if  I  could  prevint 
it  ?  Oh,  if  I  was  in  his  place,  what  wouldn't 
he  do  for  me,  for  the  father  that  he  always 
loved !  " 

The  tears  ran  copiously  down  his  fuiTowed 
cheeks  ;  and  his  whole  appearance  evinced 
such  distraction  and  anguish  as  could  rarely 

"  I'll  teU  you  w^hat  Y\S.  do,"  he  added ;  "  111 
give  you  fifty  guineas  after  my  death  if  you'll 
defind  him  properly." 

"Much  obliged,"  replied  the  other  ;  "but 
in  matters  of  this  kind  we  make  no  such  bar- 
gains." 

"  rU  make  it  sixty,  in  case  you  don't  axe 
it  noio." 

"  Can  you  give  me  security  that  111  survive 
you  ?  A\1iy,  you  are  tough-looking  enough 
to  outHve  me." 

"  Me  tough  ! — no,  God  help  me,  my  race 
is  nearly  run  ;  I  won't  be  ahve  this  day  twelve 
months — look  at  the  differ  atween  us." 

"This  is  idle  talk,"  said  the  attorney; 
"determine  on  what  you'll  do;  really  my 
time  is  valuable,  and  I  am  now  wasting  it  to 
no  purpose." 

"Take  the  offer — depind  on't  it'll  soon 
come  to  you." 

"No,  no,"  said  the  other,  coolly;  "not  at 
aU  ;  we  might  shut  up  shop  if  we  made  such 
post  obit  bargains  as  that." 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Fardorougha  ;  "  I'll 
tell  you  what ; "  his  eyes  gleamed  with  a  red- 
dish, bitter  Hght ;  and  he  clasped  his  wither- 
ed hands  together,  until  the  joiots  cracked, 
and  the  perspiration  teemed  from  his  pale, 
sallow  features  ;  "I'll  tell  you,"  he  added — 
"  I'll  make  it  seventy ! " 

"No." 

"Aighty!" 

"  No." 

"  Ninety  !  "-—with  a  husky  shriefc 

"No,  no." 


FARBOBOUGIIA,    THE  MISER. 


243 


"A  htmdhre' — a  hundhre' — a  liundlu'e',' 
he  shouted  ;  "  a  hundhre',  when  I'm  gone — 
lohen  I'm  gone  !  " 

One  solemn  and  determined  No,  that  pre- 
cluded all  hopes  of  any  such  arrangement, 
was  the  only  reply. 

The  old  man  leaped  up  again,  and  looked 
impatiently  and  wildly  and  fiercely  about 
him. 

"  What  are  you '?  "  he  shouted  ;  "  what 
are  you?  You're  a  divil — a  bora  divil.  Will 
nothing  but  my  death  satisfy  you  ?  Do  you 
want  to  rob  me — to  stan'e  me — to  murdher 
me  ?  Don't  you  see  the  state  I'm  in  by  j'ou  ? 
Look  at  me — look  at  these  thremblin'  limbs 
— look  at  the  sweat  poweiin'  down  from  my 
poor  ould  face !  W^hat  is  it  yo\x  want  ?  There 
— there's  my  gray  hairs  to  3'ou.  You  have 
brought  me  to  that — to  more  than  that — I'm 
dyin'  this  minute — I'm  d3in' — oh,  my  boy 
-  -my  boy,  if  I  had  you  here — ay,  I'm — 
I'm " 

He  staggered  over  on  his  seat,  his  eyes 
gleaming  in  a  fixed  and  intense  glare  at  the 
attorney  ;  his  hands  were  clenched,  his  hps 
parched,  and  his  mummy -like  cheeks  sucked, 
as  before,  into  his  toothless  jaws.  In  addi- 
tion to  all  this,  there  was  a  bitter  white 
smile  of  despair  upon  his  features,  and  his 
thin  gray  locks,  that  were  discomposed  in 
the  paroxysm  by  his  own  hands,  stood  out 
in  disorder  upon  his  head.  We  question, 
indeed,  whether  mere  imagination  could, 
without  having  actually  witnessed  it  in  real 
life,  conceive  any  object  so  fi'ightfully  illus- 
trative of  the  terrible  dominion  which  the 
passion  of  avai'ice  is  capable  of  exercising 
over  the  human  heart. 

"I  protest  to  Heaven,"  exclaimed  the  at- 
torney, alarmed,  "  I  beheve  the  man  is  djing 
—if  not  dead,  he  is  motionless." 

"  O'Donovan,  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

The  old  man's  lips  gave  a  dry,  hard  smack, 
Ihen  became  desperately  compressed  to- 
(Sfether,  and  his  cheeks  were  drawn  still  fur- 
tJber  into  his  jaws.  At  length  he  sighed 
deeply,  and  changed  his  fixed  and  motion- 
less attitude. 

"  He  is  aHve,  at  all  events,"  said  one  of 
his  young  men. 

Fardorougha  tvu-ned  his  eyes  upon  the 
speaker,  then  upon  his  master,  and  succes- 
sively upon  two  other  assistants  who  were  in 
the  office. 

"  WTiat  is  this  ?  "  said  he,  "  what  is  this  ? 
— I'm  veiy  weak — will  you  get  me  a  dhrink 
o'  wather  ?  God  help  me — God  direct  me  I 
I'm  an  unhappy  man  ;  get  me  a  dhrink,  for 
Heaven's  sake !  I  can  hardly  spake,  my 
mouth  and  Hps  are  so  dry." 

The  water  having  been  procm-ed,  he  drank 
it  eagerly,  and  felt  evidently  reUeved. 


"This  business,"  he  continued,  "about 
the  money — I  mane  about  my  poor  boy, 
Connor,  how  will  it  be  managed,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  have  abeady  told  you  that  there  is  but 
one  way  of  managing  it,  and  that  is,  as  the 
young  man's  life  is  at  stake,  to  spare  no 
cost." 

"  And  I  must  do  that  ?  " 

"  You  ought,  at  least,  remember  that  he's 
an  only  son,  and  that  if  you  lose  him " 

"  Lose  him  ! — I  can't-— I  couldn't — I'd  die 
— die — dead " 

"  And  by  so  shameful  a  death,"  proceeded 
Cassidy,  "  you  will  not  only  be  childless,  but 
3'ou  will  have  the  bitter  fact  to  reflect  on  that 
he  died  in  disgrace.  You  will  blush  to  name 
him  I  "What  father  would  not  make  any 
sacrifice  to  prevent  his  child  fi'om  meeting 
such  a  fate  ?  It's  a  ti-ying  thing  and  a  piti- 
able calamity  to  see  a  father  ashamed  to 
name  the  child  that  he  loves." 

The  old  man  arose,  and,  approaching 
Cassidy,  said,  eagerly,  "  How  much  will  do  ? 
Ashamed  to  name  you,  alanua,  Chiema — 
Ghierna — ashamed  to  name  you,  Connor ! 
Oh  !  if  the  world  knew  you,  asthore,  as  well 
as  I  an'  your  poor  mother  knows  you,  they'd 
say  that  we  ought  to  be  proud  to  hear  your 
name  soundin'  in  our  ears.  How  much 
will  do  ?  for,  may  God  stiiagthen  me,  I'll  do 
it." 

"  I  think  about  forty  guineas  ;  it  may  be 
more,  and  it  may  be  less,  but  we  will  say 
forty." 

"  Then  I'U  give  you  an  ordher  for  it  on  a 
man  that's  a  good  mai'k.  Give  me  pin  an' 
paper,  fast." 

"  The  paper  was  placed  before  him,  and  he 
held  the  pen  in  his  hand  for  some  time,  and, 
ere  he  wrote,  tiu-ned  a  look  of  deep  distress 
on  Cassidy. 

"God  Almighty  j^ity  me  !  "  said  he  ;  "you 
see — you  see  that  I'm  a  poor  heart-broken 
creature — a  ruined  man  I'll  be — a  ruined 
man !  " 

"Think  of  your  son,  and  of  his  situation." 

"  It's  before  me — I  know  it  is — to  die  like 
a  dog  behind  a  ditch  wid  hunger !  " 

"Think  of  your  son,  I  say,  and,  if  possible, 
save  him  fi-om  a  shameful  death." 

"  What !  Ay — yis — jis — sui-ely — surely' — 
oh,  my  poor  boy — ^my  innocent  boy — I  will 
—I  will  do  it." 

He  then  sat  down,  and,  with  a  tremulous 
hand,  and  Hps  tightly  drawn  together,  wrote 

an  order  on  P ,  the  county  treasiu'er,  for 

the  money. 

Cassidy,  on  seeing  it,  looked  alternately 
at  the  paper  and  the  man  for  a  considerable 
time. 

"Is  P yom*  banker?"  he  asked. 

"  Ever)'  penny  that  I'm  worth  he  has." 


244 


WILLIAM  CAIiLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Then  you're  a  ruined  man,"  he  repUed, 

with  cool  emphasis.     "  P absconded  the 

day  before  yesterday,  and  robbed  half  the 
county.    Have  you  no  loose  cash  at  home  ?  " 

"  Robbed  !  who  robbed  ?  " 

"  AMiy,  P has  robbed  everj'  man  who 

was  fool  enough  to  trust  him  ;  he's  oflf  to  the 
Isle  of  ]Man,  with  the  county  funds  in  ad- 
dition to  the  other  prog." 

"  You  don't  mane  to  say,"  replied  Fardo- 
rougha,  with  a  hideous  calmness  of  voice  and 
manner ;  "  you  dont,  you  can't  mane  to  say 
he  has  run  off  wid  my  money? " 

"I  do  ;  you'll  never  see  a  shilling  of  it,  if 
you  live  to  the  age  of  a  Hebrew  patriarch. 
See  what  it  is  to  fix  the  heart  upon  monej-. 
You  ai'e  now,  what  you  wish  the  world  to 
believe  you  to  be,  a  poor  man." 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  howled  the  miser,  "  he  dam't, 
he  dam't — wouldn't  God  consume  him  if  he 
robbed  the  poor — wouldn't  God  stiffen  him, 
and  pin  him  to  the  aii'th,  if  he  attemjDted  to 
run  oft'  wid  the  hard  earnings  of  stiTigglin' 
honest  men  ?  Where  'ud  God  be,  an'  him  to 
dar  to  do  it !  But  it's  a  falsity,  an'  you're 
thrjin'  me  to  see  how  I'd  bear  it — it  is,  it  is, 
an'  may  Heaven  forgive  you  !  " 

"It's  as  true  as  the  Gospel,"  replied  the 
other  ;  "  why,  I'm  sui-prised  you  didn't  hear 
it  before  now — every  one  knows  it — it's  over 
the  whole  country." 

"It's  a  lie — it'y  a  lie  !"  he  howled  again  ; 
"  no  one  dar  to  do  such  an  act.  You  have 
some  schame  in  this — you're  not  a  safe  man  ; 
you're  a  %illain,  an'  nothin'  else  ;  but  I'll  soon 
know  ;  w'hich  of  these  is  my  hat  ?  " 

"  You  ai-e  mad,  I  think,"  said  Cassidy. 

"  Get  me  my  hat,  I  say ;  I'll  soon  know  it ; 
but  sure  the  world's  all  in  a  schame  against 
me — all,  all,  yoimg  an'  ould — where's  my 
hat,  I  say  ?  " 

"You  have  put  it  upon  your  head  this  mo- 
ment," said  the  other. 

"An'  my  stick?" 

"  It's  in  your  hand." 

"  The  curse  o'  Heaven  upon  you,"  he 
shrieked,  "  whether  it's  thrue  or  false  !  "  and, 
with  a  look  that  might  scorch  him  to  whom 
it  was  directed,  he  shuffled  in  a  wild  and 
fi'antic  mood  out  of  the  house. 

"  The  man  is  mad,"  observed  Cassidy ; 
"  or,  if  not,  he  will  soon  be  so  ;  I  never  wit- 
nessed such  a  desperate  case  of  avarice.  If 
ever  the  demon  of  money  lurked  in  any  man's 
soul,  it's  in  his.  God  bless  me  !  God  bless 
me  !  it's  dreadful !  Richard,  tell  the  gentle- 
man in  the  dining-room  I'm  at  leisure  to  see 
him." 

The  scene  we  have  attempted  to  describe 
spared  O'Brien  the  trouble  of  much  unpleas- 
ant inquiry,  and  enabled  him  to  enter  at 
once  into  the  proposed  aiTangements  on  be- 


half of  Connor.  Of  course  he  did  not  permit 
his  sister's  name  to  transpire,  nor  any  trace 
whatsoever  to  appear,  by  which  her  delicacy 
might  be  compromised,  or  her  character  in- 
volved. His  interference  in  the  matter  he 
judiciously  put  upon  the  footing  of  personal 
regard  for  the  young  man,  and  his  reluctance 
to  be  even  the  indirect  means  of  bringing  him 
to  a  violent  and  shameful  death.  Having 
thus  fulfilled  Una's  insti-uctions,  he  returned 
home,  and  relieved  her  of  a  hea'V'V'  burthen 
by  a  full  communication  of  all  that  had  been 
done. 

The  straggle  hitherto  endured  by  Fardo- 
rougha  was  in  its  own  nature  sufiiciently  se- 
vere to  render  his  sufferings  sharp  and  pun- 
gent ;  still  they  resembled  the  influence  of 
local  disease  more  than  that  of  a  malady 
which  prostrates  the  strength  and  gi'apples 
with  the  powers  of  the  whole  constitution. 
The  sensation  he  immediately  felt,  on  hear- 
ing that  his  banker  had  absconded  with  the 
gains  of  his  penurious  life,  was  rather  a 
stunning  shock  that  occasioned  for  the  mo- 
ment a  feehng  of  dull,  and  heavy,  and  over- 
whelming dismay.  It  filled,  nay,  it  actually 
distended  his  narrow  soul  with  an  oppressive 
sense  of  exclusive  misery  that  banished  all 
consideration  for  every  person  and  thing  ex- 
traneous to  his  individual  selfishness.  In 
truth,  the  tumult  of  his  mind  was  peculiarly 
Mdld  and  anomalous.  The  situation  of  his 
son,  and  the  di'eadful  fate  that  hung  over 
him,  were  as  completely  forgotten  as  if  they 
did  not  exist.  Yet  there  lay,  underneath  his 
own  gloom}'  agony,  a  remote  consciousness 
of  collateral  affliction,  such  as  is  fi'eqTiently 
experienced  by  those  who  may  be  drawn,  by 
some  temporary  and  present  pleasure,  from 
the  contemplation  of  theu"  miseiy.  We  feel, 
in  such  cases,  that  the  darkness  is  upon  us, 
even  while  the  image  of  the  calamity  is  not 
before  the  mind  ;  nay,  it  sometimes  requires 
an  efl'ort  to  bring  it  back,  when  anxious  to 
account  for  our  depression  ;  but  when  it 
comes,  the  heart  sinks  with  a  shudder,  and 
we  feel,  that,  although  it  ceased  to  engage 
oiu*  thoughts,  we  had  been  sitting  all  the 
time  beneath  its  shadow.  For  this  reason, 
although  Fardorougha's  own  loss  absorbed, 
in  one  sense,  all  his  powers  of  sufi'eiing,  still 
he  knew  that  something  else  pressed  with  ad- 
ditional weight  upon  his  heart.  Of  its  dis- 
tinct character,  however,  he  was  ignorant, 
and  only  felt  that  a  dead  and  heav;)'  load  of 
multijDhed  affliction  bent  him  in  burning  an- 
guish to  the  earth. 

There  is  something  more  or  less  eccentric 
in  the  gait  and  dress  of  eveiy  miser.  Far- 
dorougha's pace  was  naturally  slow,  and  the 
liabit  for  which,  in  the  latter  point,  he  had 
aU  his  hfe  been  remarkable,  was  that  o/ 


FABDOliOUirHA,   TEn:  MISER. 


245 


wearing  a  great-coat  thro^ii  loosely  about  his 
shoulders.  In  summer  it  saved  an  inside  one, 
and,  as  he  said,  kept  him  cool  and  comfort- 
able. That  he  seldom  or  never  put  his 
arms  into  it  arose  from  the  fcict  that  he  knew 
it  would  last  a  much  longer  period  of 
time  than  if  he  wore  it  in  the  usual  man- 
ner. 

On  leaving  the  attorney's  office,  he  might 
be  seen  creeping  along  towards  the  County 
Treasurex''s,  at  a  pace  quite  unusual  to  him  ; 
his  hollow,  gleaming  eyes  were  bent  on  the 
eai-th  ;  his  6W/ia»Jore  about  his  shoulders  ;  his 
staff  held  %Arith  a  tight  desperate  gi"ip,  and  his 
whole  appearance  that  of  a  man  frightfully 
distracted  by  the  intelligence  of  some  sudden 
calamity. 

He  had  not  proceeded  far  on  this  hopeless 
en'and,  when  many  bitter  confirmations  of 
the  melancholy  truth,  by  persons  whom  he 

met  on  their  return  fr'om  P 's  residence, 

were  affoi-ded  him.  Even  these,  however, 
were  insufficient  to  satisfy  him  ;  he  heard 
them  with  a  vehement  impatience,  that  could 
not  brook  the  bare  possibihty  of  the  rejDort 
being  true.  His  soul  clung  with  the  tena- 
city of  a  death-grip  to  the  hope,  that  however 
others  might  have  suflered,  some  chance 
might,  notwithstanding,  still  remain  in  /u'.s 
pai'ticular  favoi'.  In  the  meantime,  he  poured 
out  curses  of  unexampled  mahgnity  against 
the  guilty  defaulter,  on  whose  head  he  in- 
voked the  Almighty's  vengeance  "oith  a  ven- 
omous fen'or  which  appalled  all  who  heai'd 
him.  Having  reached  the  treasvu-er's  house, 
a  scene  presented  itself  that  was  by  no 
means  calculated  to  afford  him  consolation. 
Persons  of  every  condition,  from  the  squireen 
and  gentleman  farmer,  to  the  humble  wid- 
ow and  inexperienced  orphan,  stood  in  mel- 
ancholy groups  about  the  deserted  mansion, 
interchanging  details  of  their  losses,  thefr 
blasted  prospects,  and  their  immediate  iniin. 
The  cries  of  the  widow,  who  mourned  for 
the  desolation  brought  upon  her  and  her 
now  destitute  oi'phans,  rose  in  a  piteous 
wail  to  heaven,  and  the  industrious  fathei's 
of  many  struggling  famihes,  with  pale  faces 
and  breaking  hearts,  looked  in  silent  misery 
upon  the  closed  shutters  and  smokeless 
chimneys  of  their  oppressor's  house,  bitterly 
conscious  that  the  laws  of  the  boasted  con- 
stitution under  which  they  hved,  permitted 
the  destroyer  of  hundi'eds  to  enjo}',  in  lux- 
vuy  and  security,  the  many  thousands  of 
which,  at  one  fell  and  rapacious  swoop,  he 
had  deprived  them. 

With  white,  quivering  lips  and  panting 
breath,  Fardorougha  approached  and  joined 
them. 

"  Wliat,  what,"  said  he,  in  a  broken  sen- 
tence, "  is  this  true — can  it,  can  it  be  true  ? 


Is  the  thievin'  villain  of  hell  gone  ?  Has  he 
robbed  us,  ruined  us,  destroyed  us  ?  " 

"Ah,  too  thrue  it  is,"  rephed  a  farmer; 
"  the  dam'  rip  is  off  to  that  nest  of  robbers, 
the  Isle  of  Man  ;  ay,  he's  gone!  an'  may  aU 
our  bad  luck  past,  present,  and  to  come,  go 
with  him,  an'  aU  he  tuck  !  " 

Fardorougha  looked  at  his  informant  as  if 

he  had  been  P himself  ;   he  then  glared 

fr-om  one  to  another,  whilst  the  white  foam 
wi-ought  up  to  his  hps  by  the  prodigious 
force  of  his  excitement.  He  clasped  his 
hands,  then  attempted  to  speak,  but  language 
had  abandoned  him. 

"  If  one  is  to  judge  fr-om  your  appearance, 
you  have  suffered  heavily,"  observed  the 
farmer. 

The  other  stared  at  him  with  a  kind  of 
angiy  amazement  for  doubting  it,  or,  it 
might  be,  for  speaking  so  coolly  of  his  loss. 

"  Suffered  !  "  said  he,  "  ay,  ay,  but  did  yees 
tluy  the  house  ?  well  see — suffered  ! — suf- 
fered ! — we'll  see." 

He  immediately  shuffled  over  to  the  haU 
dooi*,  which  he  assaulted  ANdth  the  eagerness 
of  a  despairing  soul  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
throwing  into  each  knock  such  a  character  of 
impatience  and  apprehension,  as  one  might 
suppose  the  aforesaid  soi^l  to  feel  from  a  cer- 
tain knowledge  that  the  de-\-il's  clutches  were 
spread  immediately  behind,  to  seize  and  car- 
ry him  to  jDerditiou.  His  impetuosity,  how- 
ever, was  all  in  vain  ;  not  even  an  echo  re- 
verberated through  the  cold  and  empty  walls, 
but,  on  the  contrai\y,  every  j^eal  was  followed 
by  a  most  uni'omantic  and  ominous  silence. 

"That  man  appears  beside  himself,"  ob" 
served  another  of  the  sufferers  ;  "  surely,  il 
he  wasn't  half-mad,  he'd  not  expect  to  find 
any  one  in  an  empty  house  !  " 

"  Devil  a  much  it  signifies  whether  he'fc 
mad  or  othenrise,"  responded  a  neighbor. 
"I  know  him  well  ;  his  name's  Fardorougha 
Donovan,  the  miser  of  Lisnamona,  the  big- 
gest slikew  that  ever  skinned  a  flint.  If  P 

did  nothin'  worse  than  fleece  him,  it  would 
never  stand  between  him  an'  the  blessin'  o' 
Heaven." 

Fardorougha,  in  the  mean  time,  finding 
that  no  response  was  given  fr'om  the  fr-ont, 
passed  hurriedly  by  an  archway  into  the 
back  couri,  where  he  made  similar  efforts  to 
get  in  by  attempting  to  force  the  kitchen 
door.  Every  entrance,  however,  had  been 
strongly  secured  ;  he  rattled,  and  thumped, 
and  screamed,  as  if  P himself  had  ac- 
tually been  within  heaiing,  but  still  to  no 
piirpose  ;  he  might  as  well  have  expected 
to  extort  a  reply  fr*om  the  grave. 

"When  he  retiuned  to  the  group  thai 
stood  on  the  lawn,  the  deadly  conviction 
that  all  wQ*  lost  affected  every  joint  of  his 


L>46 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WOBKS. 


body  with  a  nervous  trepidation,  tliat  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  ddirium  tremens. 
His  eyes  were  full  of  terror,  mingled  with 
the  impotent  fury  of  hatred  and  revenge  ; 
whilst  over  all  now  predominated  for  the 
first  time  such  an  expression  of  horror  and 
desiDaii',  as  made  the*  spectators  shudder  to 
look  upon  him. 

"  Where  was  God,'"  said  he,  addressing 
them,  and  his  voice,  naturally  thin  and  wiiy, 
now  became  husky  and  hoUow,  "  where  was 
God,  to  sviffer  this  ?  to  suiler  the  poor  to  be 
i-uined,  and  the  rich  to  be  made  poor  ?  Was  it 
right  fcr  the  Almighty  to  look  on  an'  let  the 
\Tlloin  do  it  ?    No — no — no  ;  I  saj'  no  ! " 

The  group  around  him  shuddered  at  the 
daring  blasjDhemy  to  which  his  monstrous 
passion  had  driven  him.  Many  females, 
who  were  in  tears,  lamenting  audibly,  started, 
and  felt  their  grief  suspended  for  a  mo- 
ment by  this  revolting  charge  against  the 
justice  of  Providence. 

"  WTiat  do  you  all  stand  for  here,"  he 
proceeded,  "like  stocks  an'  stones?  Why 
don't  yees  kneel  with  me,  an'  let  us  join  in 
one  curse  ;  one,  no,  but  let  us  shower  them 
down  upon  him  in  thousands — in  millions  ; 
an'  when  we  can  no  longer  sjjake  them,  let  us 
think  them.  To  the  last  hour  of  my  life  my 
heart  'ill  never  be  widout  a  curse  for  him  ; 
an'  the  last  word  afore  I  go  into  the  pres- 
ence of  God,  '11  be  a  black,  heavy  blessin'  fi'om 
hell  against  him  an'  liis,  sowl  an'  body, 
while  a  droj)  o'  then-  bad  blood's  upon  the 
eai'th." 

"  Don't  be  blasphamin',  honest  man,"  said 
a  bystander  ;  "if  you've  lost  money,  that's 
no  rason  why  you  should  fly  in  the  face  o' 

God  for  P 's  roguery.      Devil  a  one  o' 

myself  cares  if  I  join  you  in  a  volley  against 
the  robbin'  scoundiil,  biit  I'd  not  take  all 
the  money  the  rip  of  hell  ran  away  vdd,  an' 
spake  of  God  as  you  do." 

"  Oh,  Saver  !  "  exclaimed  Fardorougha, 
who  probably  heard  not  a  word  he  said ; 
"  I  knew — I  knew— I  always  felt  it  was  be- 
fore me — a  dog's  death  behind  a  ditch — my 
tongue  out  wid  stai-vation  and  hunger,  and 
it  was  he  brought  me  to  it !  " 

He  had  already  knelt,  and  was  uncovered, 
his  whitish  hair  tossed  by  the  breeze  in 
confusion  about  a  face  on  which  was  painted 
the  fearful  workings  of  that  giant  spirit, 
under  whose  tremendous  gi'asp  he  writhed 
and  suffered  like  a  serpent  in  the  talons  of  a 
vultm-e.  In  this  position,  -wdth  uj)lifted  and 
trembling  arms,  his  face  raised  towards 
heaven,  and  his  whole  figure  shrunk  firmly 
together  by  the  intense  malignity  with 
which  he  was  about  to  hiss  out  his  venom- 
ous imprecations  against  the  defaulter,  he 
presented  at  least  one  instance  in  wliich  the 


low,    sordid   vice  of  avarice  rose   to  some 
thing  like  -vvdld  grandeur,  if  not  sublimity. 

Having  remained  in  this  posture  for  some 
time,  he  clasjjed  his  withered  hands  together 
and  wrung  them  until  the  bones  cracked ; 
then  rising  ujd  and  striking  liis  stick  bitterlj 
upon  the  earth — 

"I  can't,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  can't  get  out 
the  curses  against  him  ;  but  my  heart's  full 
of  them — they're  in  it — they're  in  it! — it's 
black  an'  hot  vvid  them  ;  I  feel  them  here — 
here — movin'  as  if  they  icor  alive,  an'  they'U  be 
out." 

Such  was  the  strength  and  impetuosity  of 
his  hatred,  and  such  his  eagerness  to  dis- 
charge the  whole  quiver  of  his  maledictions 
against  the  great  public  delinquent,  that,  as 
often  happens  in  cases  of  overwhelming  agi- 
tation, his  facilities  were  paralyzed  by  the 
storm  of  passion  which  raged  within  him. 

Having  risen  to  his  feet,  he  left  the  group, 
muttering  his  wordless  malignity  as  he  went 
along,  and  occasionally  jjausing  to  look  back 
with  the  fiery  glare  of  a  hyena  at  the  house 
in  which  the  robbeiy  of  his  soul's  treasure 
had  been  j)lanned  and  accomphshed. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  arrange- 
ments entered  into  with  Cassidy,  by  John 
O'Brien,  were  promptly  and  ably  carried 
into  effect.  A  raj)id  ride  soon  brought  the 
man  of  briefs  and  depositions  to  the  prison, 
whei'e  the  unhappy  Connor  lay.  The  3'oung 
man's  story,  though  simple,  was  improbable, 
and  his  version  of  the  bui-ning  such  as  in- 
duced Cassidy,  who  knew  httle  of  impres- 
sions and  feelings  in  the  absence  of  facts,  to 
believe  that  no  other  head  than  his  ever 
concocted  the  crime.  Still,  from  the  manly 
sincerity  with  which  his  young  client  spoke, 
he  felt  inclined  to  imj^ute  the  act  to  a  freak 
of  bojdsh  malice  and  disappointment,  rather 
than  to  a  spirit  of  vindictive  rancor.  He 
entertained  no  expectation  whatsoever  of 
Connor's  acquittal,  and  hinted  to  him  that 
it  was  his  habit  in  such  cases  to  recom- 
mend his  chents  to  be  jDrepared  for  the 
worst,  M'ithout,  at  the  same  time,  altogether 
abohshing  hope.  There  was,  indeed,  nothing 
to  break  the  chain  of  cii-cumstantial  evidence 
in  which  Flanagan  had  entangled  him  ;  he 
had  been  at  the  haggaixl  shortly  before  the 
conflagration  broke  out ;  he  had  met  Phil. 
Curtis,  and  begged  that  man  to  conceal  the 
fact  of  his  having  seen  him,  and  he  had  not 
slept  in  his  own  bed  either  on  that  or  the 
preceding  night.  It  was  to  no  purpose  he 
afiirmed  that  Flanagan  himself  had  borrowed 
from  him,  and  worn,  on  the  night  in  ques- 
tion, the  shoes  whose  prints  were  so  strongly 
against  him,  or  that  the  steel  and  tinder-box, 
which  were  found  in  his  pocket,  actually 
belonged  to  his  accuser,  who  must  have  put 


FARDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


247 


them  there  without  his  knowledge.  His 
case,  in  fact,  was  a  bad  one,  and  he  felt  that 
the  interview  -^dth  his  attorney  left  him 
more  seriously  impressed  with  the  danger 
of  his  situation,  than  he  had  been  up  till 
that  period. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  he,  when  the  instiiic- 
tions  were  completed,  "you  have  seen  my 
father  ?  " 

"Everj-thing  is  fully  and  hberally  ar- 
ranged," rephed  the  other,  with  reservation  ; 
"  your  father  has  been  with  me  to-day  ;  in 
fact,  I  parted  with  him  only  a  few  minutes 
before  I  left  home.  So  far  let  your  mind  be 
easy.  The  government  jjrosecutes,  which  is 
something  in  yom*  favor  ;  and  now,  good-by 
to  you  ;  for  my  part,  I  neither  advise  you  to 
hope  or  despau-.  If  the  worst  comes  to  the 
worst,  you  must  bear  it  like  a  man  ;  and  if 
we  get  an  acquittal,  it  will  prove  the  more 
agi'eeable  for  its  not  being  expected." 

The  unfortunate  youth  felt,  after  Cas- 
sidj^'s  departure,  the  full  force  of  that  dark 
and  fearful  presentiment  which  aiises  from 
the  ajiproach  of  the  mightiest  calamity 
that  can  befaU  an  innocent  man — a  pubhc 
and  ignominious  death,  while  in  the  veiy 
pride  of  youth,  strength,  and  those  natui'al 
liojies  of  bajipiness  which  existence  had 
otherwise  promised.  In  him  this  awful  ap- 
prehension proceeded  neither  fi'om  the  terror 
of  judgment  nor  of  hell,  but  fi'om  that  di-ead 
of  being  withdi-a-oTi  fi'om  life,  and  of  passing 
down  fi'om  the  light,  the  enjoyments  and 
busy  intercourse  of  a  breathing  and  con- 
scious world,  into  the  silence  and  cori-uption 
of  the  unkno^NTi  grave.  "\Mien  this  ghastly 
picture  was  brought  ne;ai'  him  by  the  force 
of  his  imagination,  he  felt  for  a  moment  as 
if  his  heart  had  died  away  in  him,  and  his 
blood  became  congealed  into  ice.  Should 
this  continue,  he  knew  that  human  nature 
could  not  sustain  it  long,  and  he  had  already 
resolved  to  bear  his  fate  with  fii'mness, 
whatever  that  fate  might  be.  He  then  re- 
flected that  he  was  innocent,  and,  remember- 
ing the  practice  of  his  simple  and  less  pohti- 
cal  forefathers,  he  knelt  doA^Ti  and  fervently 
besought  the  protection,  of  that  Being  in 
whose  hands  are  the  issues  of  life  and  death. 

On  rising  fi'om  tliis  act  of  heai'tfelt  devo- 
tion, he  experienced  that  support  which  he 
required  so  much.  The  fear  of  death  ceased 
to  alarm  him,  and  his  natural  fortitude  re- 
turned •«-ith  more  than  its  usual  power  to 
his  support.  In  this  state  of  mind  he  was 
pacing  his  naiTow  room,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  his  father,  with  a  totteiing  step, 
entered  and  approached  him.  The  son  was 
startled,  if  not  terrified,  at  the  change  wliich 
so  short  a  time  had  wrought  in  the  old  man's 
appearance. 


"  Good  God,  father  dear  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
as  the  latter  threw  his  arms  ^vith  a  tight  and 
clinging  gra.sp  about  him  ;  "  good  heavens ! 
what  has  happened  to  change  you  so  much 
for  the  worse  ?  ^\^ly,  if  you  fret  this  way 
about  me,  you'U  soon  break  yoiu-  heart. 
"WTiy  will  you  fi-et,  father,  when  you  know  I 
am  innocent  ?  Surely,  at  the  worst,  it  is  bet- 
ter to  die  innocent  than  to  hve  guilty." 

"  Connor,"  said  the  old  man,  still  clinging 
tenaciously  to  him,  and  looking  wildly  into 
his  face,  "  Connor,  it's  broke — my  heart's 
broke  at  last.  Oh,  Connor,  won't  you  jiity 
me  when  you  hear  it — won't  you,  Connor — 
oh,  when  you  hear  it,  Connor,  won't  you 
pity  me  ?  It's  gone,  it's  gone,  it's  gone — 
he's  ofl^  off — to  that  nest  of  robbers,  the  Isle 
of  Man,  and  has  robbed  me  and   half  the 

county.     P has  ;  I'm  a  ruined  man,   a 

beggar,  an'  will  die  a  dog's  death." 

Connor  looked  down  keenly  into  his 
father's  face,  and  began  to  enteriaiu  a  sur- 
mise so  terrible  that  the  beatings  of  his  heart 
wei-e  in  a  moment  audible  to  his  own  ear. 

"Father,"  he  inquired,  "in  the  name  of 
God  what  is  MTong  with  you  ?     "\Miat  is  it 

you   spake  of  ?     Has   P gone   off  with 

your  money  ?  Sit  do^NTi,  and  don't  look  so 
tenified." 

"  He  has,  Connor — robbed  me  an'  half  the 
county — he  disappeared  the  evenin'  of  the 
very  day  I  left  my  last  lodgment  Avid  him  ; 
he's  in  that  nest  of  robbers,  the  Isle  of  Man, 
an'  I'm  iniiued — mined  !  Oh  God  !  Connor, 
how  can  I  stand  it  ?  aU  my  earnin's  an'  my 
savin's  an'  the  fruits  of  my  industiy  in  /tw 
J30cket,  an'  upon  hia  back,  an'  upon  Aw  bones  ! 
My  brain  is  reehn' — I  dunna  what  I'm  doin', 
nor  what  I'll  do.  To  what  hand  now  can  I 
turn  myself '?  ^Mio'll  assist  me  !  I  dunna 
what  I'm  doin',  nor  scarcely  what  I'm  sa^-in'. 
My  head's  aU  in  confusion.  Gone !  gone  ! 
gone !  Oh  see  the  luck  that  has  come  do^NTi 
upon  me  !  Above  all  men,  why  was  I  singled 
out  to  be  made  a  world's  woudher  of — why 
was  I?  ^Miat  did  I  do  ?  I  robbed  no  one  ; 
yet  it's  gone — an'  see  the  death  that's  afore 
me  !  oh  God  !  oh  God  !  " 

"  Well,  father,  let  it  ^o — you  have  still 
3'our  health  ;  you  have  still  my  poor  mother 
to  console  you  ;  and  I  hope  you'U  soon  have 
myself,  too  ;  between  us  we'll  keep  you  com- 
fortable, and,  if  you'll  allow  us  to  tidie  our 
own  way,  more  so  than  ever  you  did " 

Fardorougha  started,  as  if  struck  by  some 
faint  but  sudden  recollection.  All  at  once 
he  looked  with  amazement  around  the  room, 
and  afterwards  with  a  pause  of  inquiry,  at 
his  son.  At  length,  a  light  of  some  forgotten 
memory  appeared  to  flash  at  once  across  his 
brain  ;  his  countenance  changed  from  the 
wild  and  unsettled  expi-ession  which  it  bore. 


24:S 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


to  one  more  stamped  with  the  earnest  hu- 
manity of  our  better  nature. 

"  Oh,  Connor  !  "  he  at  last  exclaimed,  put- 
ting his  two  hands  into  those  of  his  son  : 
"can  you  pity  me,  an'  forgive  me?  You 
see,  my  poor  boy,  how  I'm  sufferin',  an'  you 
see  that  I  can't — I  won't — be  able  to  bear  up 
against  this  long." 

The  tears  here  ran  down  his  worn  and 
hollow  cheeks. 

"  Oh,"  he  pi'oceeded,  "  how  could  I  forget 
you,  my  darlin'  boy  ?  But  I  hardly  think  my 
head's  right.  If  I  had  you  with  me,  an' 
before  my  eyes,  you'd  keep  my  heart  right, 
an'  give  me  strength,  which  I  stand  soi-ely 
in  need  of.  Saints  in  glory !  how  could  I 
forget  you,  acushla,  an'  what  now  can  I  do 
for  you  ?  Not  a  penny  have  I  to  jDay  la-o-j^er, 
or  attorney,  or  any  one,  to  defind  you  at 
your  trial,  and  it  so  near  !  " 

"  WTiy,  haven't  you  settled  all  that  with 
Mr.  Cassidy,  the  attoi-ney?" 

"  Not  a  bit,  achora  machi'ee,  not  a  bit ;  I 
was  \rid  him  this  day,  an'  had  agreed,  but 

whin  I  wint  to  give  him  an  ordher  on  P , 

he — oh  saints  above  !  he  whistled  at  me  an' 

it — an'  tould  me  that  P was  gone  to  that 

nest  o'  robbers,  the  Isle  of  Man." 

Connor  tui-ned  his  eyes,  during  a  long 
pause,  on  the  floor,  and  it  was  evident  by  Jiis 
features  that  he  labored  under  some  power- 
ful and  profound  emotion.  He  rose  ujd  and 
took  a  sudden  turn  or  two  across  the  room, 
then,  resuming  his  seat,  he  wij)ed  away  a  few 
bitter  tears  that  no  firmness  on  his  part  could 
repress. 

"  Noble  girl — mj'  darling,  darling  hfe  !  I 
see  it  all,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Father,  I  never 
felt  how  bitter  an'  dark  my  fate  is  till  now. 
Death,  death  would  be  httle  to  me,  only  for 
her  ;  but  to  leave  her — to  leave  her."  He 
suddenly  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  ;  but, 
by  an  instant  effort  once  more  rose  up  and 
added — "  Well,  I'll  die  worthy  of  her,  if  I 
can't  hve  so.  Like  a  man  I'll  die,  if  it  must 
be — she  knows  I'm  innocent,  father  ;  an' 
when  others — when  the  world — will  be  talk- 
ing of  me  as  a  rillain,  there  wiU  be,  out  of  my 
own  family  at  all  events,  one  heart  and  one 
tongue,  that  will  defend  my  unhappy  name. 
If  I  am  to  come  to  a  shameful  death,  I'll  care 
but  little  about  what  the  world  may  think, 
but  that  she  knows  me  to  be  innocent,  "v\all 
make  me  die  proudly — proudly." 

Whilst  he  thus  spoke  and  thought,  the 
father's  eyes,  with  a  fixed  gaze,  steadily  fol- 
lowed his  motions  ;  the  old  man's  counte- 
nance altered  ;  it  first  became  pale  as  the 
ghastly  visage  of  a  skeleton,  anon  darkened 
with  horror,  which  eventually  shifted  its  hue 
into  the  workings  of  some  passion  or  feeling 
that  was  new  to  him. 


"  Connor,"  said  he,  feebly,  "  I  am  unwell 
— imweU — come  and  sit  do\vn  by  me." 

"  You  are  too  much  distressed  every  way, 
father,"  said  his  son,  taking  his  j^lace  upon  his 
ii'on  bedstead  beside  him. 

"  I  am,"  said  Fardorougha,  calmly  ;  "I  am 
too  much  distressed — sit  nearer  me,  Connor. 
I  wish  your  mother  was  here,  but  she  wasn't 
able  to  come,  she's  unwell  too ;  a  good 
mother  she  was,  Connor,  and  a  good  wife." 

The  son  was  stnick,  and  somewhat  alarm- 
ed, by  this  sudden  and  extraordinaiy  calm- 
ness of  the  old  man. 

"Father  dear,"  said  he,  "don't  be  too 
much  disheai'tened — all  will  be  well  yet,  I 
hope — my  tnist  in  God  is  strong." 

"  I  hope  aU  will  be  well,"  rephed  the  old 
man,  "  sit  nearer  me,  an'  Connor,  let  me  lay 
my  head  over  upon  your  breast.  I'm  think- 
in'  a  gi-eat  dale.  Don't  the  world  say,  Con- 
nor, that  I  am  a  bad  man  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  what  the  world  says  ;  no 
one  in  it  ever  diu'st  say  as  much  to  we, 
father  deai*." 

The  old  man  looked  up  affectionately,  but 
shook  his  head  apparently  in  calm  but 
rooted  sorrow. 

"  Put  youi-  arms  about  me,  Connor,  and 
keep  my  head  a  httle  more  up  ;  I'm  weak  an' 
tu'ed,  an',  someway,  spakin's  a  thi'ouble  to 
me  ;  let  me  think  for  a  while." 

"Do  so,  father,"  said  the  son,  with  deep 
compassion  ;  "God knows  but  you're  suffer- 
in'  enough  to  wear  you  out." 

"  It  is,"  said  Fardorougha,  "  it  is." 
A  silence  of  some  minutes  ensued,  during 
which,  Connor  perceived  that  the  old  man, 
overcome  with  care  and  misery,  had  actually 
fallen  asleejD  with  his  head  u^Don  his  bosom. 
This  circumstance,  though  by  no  means  ex- 
traordinary, affected  him  veiy  much.  On 
suiTeying  the  pallid  face  of  his  father,  and 
the  worn,  thread-lilie  veins  that  ran  along 
his  temples,  and  caUing  to  mind  the  love  of 
the  old  man  for  himself,  which  even  avarice, 
in  its  deadhest  power,  failed  to  utterly  over- 
come, he  felt  all  the  springs  of  his  affection 
loosened,  and  his  soul  vibrated  with  a  ten- 
derness towards  him,  such  as  no  situation  in 
their  past  lives  had  ever  before  created. 

"If  my  fate  chances  to  be  an  untimely 
one,  father  dear,"  he  slowly  murmured, 
"  we'U  soon  meet  in  another  place  ;  for  I 
know  that  you  will  not  long  live  after  me." 

He  then  thought  with  bitterness  of  his 
mother  and  Una,  and  wondered  at  the  mys- 
tery of  the  trial  to  which  he  was  exposed. 

The  old  man's  slumber,  however,  was  not 
dreamless,  nor  so  refreshing  as  the  exhaus- 
tion of  a  fi-ame  shattered  by  the  havoc  of 
contending  principles  required.  On  the 
contrai-y,  it  was  distiu'bed  by  heavy  groans, 


FARDOROUGEA,   TEE  MISER. 


249 


quick  startinp^s,  and  those  twitcbings  of  the 
limbs  wbicb  betoken  a  restless  mood  of 
mind,  and  a  nei-Aous  system  bigbl}'  excited. 
In  the  course  of  half  an  hour,  the  symptoms 
of  his  inward  commotion  became  more  ap- 
parent. From  being,  as  at  first,  merely 
physical,  they  assumed  a  mental  character, 
and  passed  from  ejaculations  and  single 
words,  to  short  sentences,  and  ultimately  to 
those  of  considerable  length. 

"  Gone  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  gone !  O  God ! 
my  ciu'se — stai'ved — dog — wid  my  tongue 
out ! " 

This  di'ead  of  stan-atiou,  which  haunted 
him  through  life,  appeared  in  his  dream  still 
to  follow  him  like  a  demon. 

"I'm  dyin',"  he  said,  "I'm  dyin'  wid  hun- 
ger— AAill  no  one  give  me  a  morsel?  I  was 
robbed  an'  have  no  money — don't  you  sec 
me  stai'vin'?  I'm  cuttin'  wid  hunger — five 
days  \\ithout  mate — bi-ing  me  mate,  for 
God's  sake — mate,  mate,  mate ! — I'm  gaspin 
— my  tongue's  out ;  look  at  me,  hke  a  dog, 
behind  this  ditch,  an'  my  tongue  out  I  " 

The  son  at  this  period  would  have  awoke 
him,  but  he  became  more  composed,  for  a 
time,  and  enjoyed  apparently  a  refi-eshi^ig 
sleep.  Still,  it  soon  was  evident  that  he 
dreamt,  and  as  cleai*  that  a  change  had  come 
o'er  the  spirit  of  his  dream. 

"  "VMio'U  prevent  me ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Isn't  he  my  son — our  only  child  ?  Let  me 
alone — I  must,  I  mustj — what's  my  life? — 
take  it,  an'  let  him  live." 

The  teai's  started  in  Connor's  eyes,  and  he 
pressed  his  father  to  his  heai-t. 

"Don't  hould  me,"  he  proceeded.  "O 
God !  here,  I'U  give  all  I'm  worth,  an'  save 
him  !  O,  let  me,  thin — let  me  but  kiss  him 
once  before  he  dies  ;  it  was  I,  it  was  myself 
that  murdhered  him — all  might  'a  been  well ; 
ay,  it  was  I  that  murdhered  you,  Connor,  my 
brave  boy,  an'  have  I  you  in  my  arms  ?  O, 
a\dck  agus  asthore  machi*ee,  it  was  I  that 
miu'dliered  you.  by  my — but  thej-'re  takin' 
him — they're  beai-in'  him  away  to " 

He  started,  and  awoke  ;  but  so  terrific  had 
been  his  dream,  that  on  opening  his  eyes  he 
clasped  Connor  in  his  arms,  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  No  no.  111  hould  him  till  you  cut  my 
grip;  Connor,  avick  machree,  hould  to  me  ! " 

"  Father,  father,  for  God's  sake,  think  a 
minute,  you  wor  only  dreaming." 

"  Eh — what — where  am  I  ?  Oh,  Connor, 
darling,  if  you  knew  the  dhrames  I  had — I 
thought  you  wor  on  the  scaflle  ;  but  thanks 
be  to  the  Saver,  it  ?ra.s  only  a  dhrame  !  " 

"  Nothing  more,  father,  nothing  more  ;  but 
for  God  s  sake,  keep  yoiu'  mind  aisy.  Ti-ust 
in  God,  father,  even-thing's  in  Hi.<  hands ;  if 
it's  His  will  to  make  us  suffer,  we  ought  to 
submit ;  and  if  it's  not  His  \\t11,  He  sinrely 


can  bring  us  out  of  all  our  throubles.  That's 
the  gi-eatest  comfort  I  have." 

Fai'dorougha  once  more  became  calm,  but 
still  there  was  on  his  countenance,  which  was 
mournful  and  fvdl  of  something  else  than 
simple  soxTow,  some  deeply  fixed  determina- 
tion, such  as  it  was  difficult  to  develop. 

"Connor,  achora,"  said  he,  "I  must  lave 
you,  for  there's  httle  time  to  be  lost.  What 
attorney  wouldTyou'^N^shTne  to  emjiloy  ?  I'U 
go  home  and  sell  oats  and  a  cow  or  two.  I've 
done  you  harm  enough — more  than  you  know 
— but  now  I'll  spare  no  cost  to  get  you  out 
of  this  business.  Connor,  the  teai's  that  I  saw 
awhile  agone  run  do^Ti  your  cheeks  cut  me 
to  the  heart." 

The  son  then  informed  him  that  a  friend 
had  taken  proper  measiu-es  for  his  defence, 
aiid  that  any  fm-ther  interference  on  his  part 
would  only  create  confusion  and  delay.  He 
also  entreated  liis  father  to  make  no  allusion 
whatsoever  to  this  circumstance,  and  added, 
"  that  he  himself  actually  knew  not  the  name 
of  the  fi'iend  in  question,  but  that,  as  the 
matter  stood,  he  considered  even  a  svuTaise 
to  be  a  breach  of  confidence  that  might  be 
indehcate  and  offensive.  After  the  trial,  you 
can  and  ought  to  jDaj'  the  expenses,  and  not 
be  under  an  obhgation  to  any  one  of  so  sol- 
emn a  kind  as  that."  He  then  sent  his  af- 
fectionate love  and  duty  to  his  mother,  ai 
whose  name  his  eyes  were  again  filled  \\\i]i 
tears,  and  begged  the  old  man  to  comfort  and 
support  her  with  the  utmost  care  and  tender- 
ness.  As  she  was  unwell,  he  requested  hin> 
to  dissuade  her  against  visiting  him  tiU  after 
the  trial,  lest  an  intei-\iew  might  increase  her 
illness,  and  render  her  less  capable  of  bear- 
ing up  under  an  unfavorable  sentence,  should 
such  be  the  issue  of  the  prosecution.  Having 
then  bade  farewell  to,  and  embraced  the  old 
man,  the  latter  departed  with  more  calmness 
and  fortitude  than  he  had  up  to  that  period 
displayed. 

A\Tien  Time  approaches  the  miserable  "with 
calamity  in  his  train,  his  opinion  is  swifter 
than  that  of  the  eagle  ;  but,  alas !  when  carry- 
ing them  towards  happiness,  his  pace  is  slow- 
er than  is  that  of  the  tortoise.  The  only  three 
persons  on  eaiih,  whose  happiness  was  in- 
volved in  that  of  O'Donovan,  found  them- 
selves, on  the  eve  of  the  assizes,  overshadow- 
ed by  a  dreariness  of  heart,  that  was  strong 
in  proportion  to  the  love  they  boi-e  him.  The 
dead  calm  which  had  fallen  on  Fardorougha 
was  absolutely  more  painful  to  his  wife  than 
would  have  been  the  paroxysms  that  resulted 
fi"om  his  lust  of  wealth.  Since  his  last  inter- 
view with  Connor,  he  never  once  alluded  to 
the  loss  of  his  money,  imless  abiniptly  in  his 
dreams,  but  there  was  stamped  upon  his 
whole  manner  a  gloomy  and  mysterious  com* 


260 


WILL/AM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


posure,  which,  of  itself,  wofuUy  saiik  her  spir- 
its, indej^endeutl}'  of  the  fate  which  impend- 
ed over  their  sou.  The  change,  visible  on 
both,  and  the  breaking  down  of  theii-  strength 
were  indeed  jDitiable. 

As  for  Una,  it  would  be  difficult  to  describe 
her  sti-uggie  between  confidence  in  his  inno- 
cence, and  appi-ehension  of  the  law,  which 
she  knew  had  often  punished  the  guiltless 
instead  of  the  criminal.  'Tis  true  she  at- 
tempted to  assume,  in  the  eyes  of  othei's,  a 
fortitude  which  belied  her  fears,  and  even 
aflfected  to  smile  at  the  possibility  of  her 
lover's  honor  and  chai'acter  sutiering  any 
tai'nish  fi"om  the  ordeal  to  which  they  were 
about  to  be  submitted.  Her  smile,  however, 
on  such  occasions,  was  a  melancholy  one,  and 
the  secret  tears  she  shed  might  prove,  as  they 
did  to  her  brother,  who  was  alone  privy  to 
her  gi'ief,  the  extent  of  those  terrors  which, 
notwithstanding  her  disavowal  of  them, 
wi'Ung  her  soul  so  bitterly.  Day  after  day 
her  sjDirits  became  more  and  more  depressed, 
till,  as  the  crisis  of  Connor's  fate  arrived,  the 
roses  had  altogether  flo^vn  from  her  cheeks. 

Indeed,  now  that  the  trial  was  at  hand, 
public  sympathy  turned  rajDidly  and  strongly 
in  his  favor  ;  his  father  had  lost  that  wealth, 
the  acquisition  of  which  earned  him  so  hea\y 
a  i?ortion  of  infamy  ;  and,  as  he  had  been 
sufficiently  punished  in  /us  own  jxrson,  they 
did  not  think  it  just  to  transfer  any  portion 
of  the  resentment  borne  against  him  to  a  son 
who  had  never  j^articipated  in  his  system  of 
oppression.  They  felt  for  Connor  now  on 
his  o^^'a  account,  and  remembered  only  his 
amiable  and  excellent  character.  In  addition 
to  this,  the  history  of  the  mutual  attachment 
between  hilu  and  Una  having  become  the 
topic  of  general  conversation,  the  rash  act  for 
which  he  stood  committed  Avas  good-humor- 
edh'  resolved  into  a  foolish  fi-eak  of  love  ;  for 
which  it  woidd  be  a  thousand  murders  to 
take  away  his  life.  In  such  mood  were  the 
public  and  the  parties  most  interested  in  the 
event  of  our  story,  when  the  morning  dawned 
of  that  awful  day  \vhich  was  to  restore  Con- 
nor O'Donovan  to  the  hearts  that  loved  him 
so  well,  or  to  doom  him,  a  couA-icted  felon,  to 
a  shameful  and  ignominious  death. 

At  length  the  trial  came  on,  and  our  un- 
happy prisoner,  at  the  hour  of  eleven  o'clock, 
was  placed  at  the  bar  of  his  countiy  to  stand 
the  bnint  of  a  government  j^rpsecutiou.  Com- 
mon report  had  already  carried  abroad  the 
stor}'  of  Una's  love  and  his,  many  interesting 
accounts  of  which  had  got  into  the  papers  of 
the  day.  When  he  stood  forward,  there- 
fore, all  eyes  were  eagerly  riveted  upon  him  ; 
the  judge  glanced  at  him  with  calm,  dis- 
passionate scrutiny,  and  the  memljers  of  the 
bar,    especially  the  juniors,   turned   round, 


I  sun-eyed  him  through  their  glasses  with  a 
:  gaze  in  which  might  be  read  something  more 
'  than  that  hard  indifference  which  familiarity 
with  human  crime  and  affliction  ultimately 
produces  even  in  dispositions  mo.st  humane 
and  amiable.  No  sooner  had  the  curiosity 
of  the  multitude  been  gratified,  than  a  mur- 
mur of  pity,  blended  sHghtly  with  surprise 
and  approbation,  ran  lowly  through  the 
com-t-house.  One  of  the  judges  whispered 
a  few  words  to  his  brother,  and  the  latter 
again  surveyed  Connor  with  a  countenance 
in  wlaich  were  depicted  admu-ation  and 
regret.  The  covmsel  also  chatted  to  each 
other  in  a  low  tone,  occasionally  turning 
round  and  marking  his  deportment  and  ap- 
pearance with  increasing  interest. 

Seldom,  jirobably  never,  had  a  more  strik- 
ing, perhaps  a  more  noble  figure,  stood  at 
the  bar  of  that  coui't.  His  locks  were  rich 
and  brovm  ;  his  forehead  expansive,  and  his 
manly  features  remarkable  for  their  symme- 
try ;  his  teeth  were  regular  and  white,  and 
his  dark  eye  fidl  of  a  j-outhful  lustre  which 
the  di-ead  of  no  calamity  could  repress. 
Neither  was  his  figiu-e,  which  was  of  the  tall- 
est,^ inferior  in  a  single  point  to  so  fine  a 
coimtenance.  As  he  stood,  at  his  full  height 
of  six  feet,  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  deep- 
ly influenced  in  his  favor,  especially  after 
having  witnessed  the  moui-nful  but  dignified 
composui-e  of  his  manner,  equally  remote 
fi'om  indifference  or  dejection.  He  apjDeared, 
indeed,  to  view  iu  its  proper  light  the  danger 
of  the  position  in  which  he  stood,  but  he 
viewed  it  with  the  calm,  unsluinking  energy 
of  a  brave  man  who  is  always  prejDared  for 
the  worst.  Indeed,  there  might  be  obsei-ved 
ujDon  his  broad,  open  brow  a  loftiness  of 
bearing  such  as  is  not  unfi'equently  produced 
by  a  consciousness  of  innocence,  and  the 
natiu'al  elevation  of  mind  which  results  from 
a  sense  of  danger  ;  to  which  we  may  add 
that  inward  scorn  which  is  ever  felt  for  base- 
ness, b}'  those  who  are  degraded  to  the 
necessity  of  defending  themselves  against  the 
viUany  of  the  malignant  and  profligate. 

When  called  upon  to  plead  to  the  indict- 
ment, he  uttered  the  words  "  not  guilty  "  in 
a  fidl,  firm  and  mellow  voice,  that  drew  the 
eyes  of  the  sjDectators  once  more  upon  him, 
and  occasioned  another  slight  hum  of  sym- 
pathy and  admu-ation.     No  change  of  color 
was  observable  on  his  countenance,  or  any 
other   expression,  save  the  lofty  composure 
i  to  which  we  have  just  alluded. 
;      The  trial  at  length  proceeded;  and,  after  a 
i  long  and  able  statement  from  the  Attomey- 
j  General,  Bartle  Flanagan  was  called* up  on 
'  the   table.     The    prisoner,   whose    motions 
were   keenly   observed,  betrayed,  on  seeing 
him,  neither  embarrassment  nor  agitation ; 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


251 


all  that  could  be  perceived  was  a  more  earn- 
est and  intense  light  in  his  eyes,  as  they  set- 
tled upon  his  accuser.  Flanagan  detailed, 
with  singular  minuteness  and  accuracy,  the 
whole  progress  of  the  crime  fi-om  its  first 
conception  to  its  perpetration.  Indeed,  had 
he  himself  been  in  the  dock,  and  his  evidence 
against  Connor  a  confession  of  his  own  guilt, 
it  would,  with  some  exceptions,  have  been 
literally  true.  He  was  ably  cro.ss-examined, 
but  no  tact,  or  experience,  or  t;ilent,  on  the 
part  of  the  prisoner's  counsel,  could,  in  any 
important  degree,  shake  his  testimony.  The 
ingenuity  with  which  he  laid  and  conducted 
the  plot  was  astonishing,  as  was  his  fore- 
sight, and  the  precaution  he  adopted  against 
detection.  Cassidy,  Connor's  attorney,  had 
ferreted  out  the  veiy  man  from  whom  he 
purchased  the  tinder-box,  ^rith  a  hope  of 
proving  that  it  was  not  the  prisoner's  jorop- 
erty  but  his  own  ;  yet  this  person,  who  re- 
membered the  transaction  very  well,  assured 
him  that  Flanagan  said  he  procured  it  by  the 
desire  of  Fardorougha  Donovan's  son. 

Dui'ing  his  whole  e\'idence,  he  never  once 
raised  his  eye  to  look  upon  the  prisoner's 
face,  until  he  was  desu*ed  to  identify  him. 
He  then  turned  round,  and,  standing  with 
the  rod  in  his  hand,  looked  for  some  mo- 
ments upon  his  victim.  His  dark  brows  got 
black  as  night,  whilst  his  cheeks  were 
blanched  to  the  hue  of  ashes— the  white 
smile  as  before  sat  upon  his  lips,  and  his 
eyes,  in  which  there  blazed  the  unsteady  fii'e 
of  a  treacherous  and  cowai'dly  heart,  spark- 
led with  the  red  turbid  glare  of  triumph  and 
vengeance.  He  laid  the  rod  upon  Connor's 
head,  and  they  gazed  at  each  other  face  to 
face,  exhibiting  as  striking  a  contrast  as 
could  be  witnessed.  The  latter  stood  erect 
and  unshaken — his  eye  calmly  bent  ujDon 
that  of  his  foe,  but  with  a  spirit  in  it  that 
seemed  to  him  alone  by  whom  it  was  best 
understood,  to  strike  dismay  into  the  veiy 
sold  of  falsehood  within  him.  The  AoUain's 
eyes  could  not  withstand  the  glance  of  Con- 
nor's— they  fell,  and  his  whole  coimtenance 
assumed  such  a  blank  and  guilty  stamp, 
that  an  old  experienced  bairister,  who 
watched  them  both,  could  not  avoid  saying, 
that  if  he  had  his  will  they  should  exchange 
situations. 

"  I  would  not  hang  a  dog,"  he  whispered, 
"  on  that  fellow's  evidence — he  has  gmlt  in 
his  face." 

When  asked  why  he  ran  away  on  meeting 
Phil.  Curtis,  near  O'Brien's  house,  on  their 
return  that  night,  while  Connor  held  his 
ground,  he  replied  that  it  was  very  natural 
he  should  i-xm  away,  and  not  wish  to  be  seen 
after  having  assisted  at  such  a  crime.  In 
reply  to  another  question,  he  said  it  was  as 


natural  that  Connor  should  have  mn  away 
also,  and  that  he  could  not  account  for  it, 
except  by  the  fact  that  God  always  occasions 
the  guilty  to  commit  some  oversight,  by 
which  they  may  be  brought  to  punishment. 
These  rejjhes,  apparently  so  rational  and 
satisfactory,  conrinced  Connor's  counsel 
that  his  case  was  hopeless,  and  that  no  skill 
oi*  ingenuity  on  their  part  could  succeed  in 
breaking  down  Flanagan's  eridence. 

The  next  witness  called  was  Phil.  Curtis, 
whose  testimony  corroboi'ated  Bartle's  in 
every  particular,  and  gave  to  the  whole  trial 
a  chai'acter  of  gloom  and  despair.  The  con- 
stables who  applied  his  shoes  to  the  foot- 
marks were  then  produced,  and  swore  in  the 
clearest  manner  as  to  their  corresponding. 
They  then  deposed  to  finding  the  tinder-box 
in  Ins  pocket,  according  to  the  information 
received  fi'om  Flanagan,  every'  tittle  of  which 
they  found  to  be  remarkably  correct. 

There  was  only  one  other  witness  now 
necessary  to  complete  the  chain  against  him, 
and  he  was  only  produced  because  Biddy 
Nvdty,  the  servant-maid,  positively  stated, 
and  actually  swore,  when  preriously  exam- 
ined, that  she  was  ignorant  whether  Connor 
slept  in  his  father's  house  on  the  night  in 
question  or  not.  There  was  no  alternative, 
therefore,  but  to  produce  the  father ;  and 
Fardorougha  Donovan  was  consequently 
forced  to  become  an  evidence  against  his 
o^\■n  son. 

The  old  man's  appearance  upon  the  table 
excited  deej)  commiseration  for  both,  and 
the  more  so  when  the  spectators  contem- 
plated the  rooted  sorrow  which  lay  upon  the 
■uild  and  wasted  featiu'es  of  the  woe-worn 
father.  Still  the  old  man  was  composed  and 
calm  ;  but  liis  calmness  was  in  an  extra- 
ordinary degi'ee  mournful  and  touching. 
When  he  sat  down,  after  having  been  sworn, 
and  feebly  wiped  the  dew  fi-om  his  thin 
temples,  many  eyes  were  already  filled  with 
tears.  WTien  the  question  was  put  to  him  if 
he  remembered  the  night  laid  in  the  indict- 
ment, he  repHed  that  he  did. 

"  Did  the  jDrisoner  at  the  bar  sleep  at 
home  on  that  night  ?  " 

The  old  man  looked  into  the  face  of  the 
counsel  with  such  an  eye  of  deprecating 
entreaty,  as  shook  the  voice  in  which  the 
question  was  repeated.  He  then  turned 
about,  and,  taking  a  long  gaze  at  his  son, 
rose  up,  and,  extending  his  hands  to  the 
judges,  exclaimed  : 

"  INIy  lords,  my  lords !  he  is  my  only  sou 
— my  only  child  !  " 

These  words  were  followed  by  a  pause  in 
the  business  of  the  court,  and  a  dead  silence 
of  more  than  a  minute. 

"  If  justice,"  said  the  judge,  "  could  on  any 


252 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


occasion  -waive  her  claim  to  a  subordinate  link 
in  the  testimony  she  requii-es,  it  would  cer- 
tainly be  in  a  case  so  painful  and  affecting  as 
this.  Still,  we  cannot  permit  personal  feel- 
ing, however  amiable,  or  domestic  attach- 
ment, however  sti'ong,  to  impede  her  prog- 
ress when  redressing  pubhc  wi-ong.  Al- 
though the  duty  be  painful,  and  we  admit 
that  such  a  duty  is  one  of  unexampled  agony, 
jet  it  must  be  complied  vAWx  ;  and  you  con- 
sequently will  answer  the  question  which  the 
counsel  has  put  to  you.  The  interests  of  so- 
ciety requii'e  such  sacrifices,  and  they  must 
be  made." 

The  old  man  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 

i'udge  while  he  spoke,  but  when  he  had  ceased 
le  again  fixed  them  on  his  son. 

"My  lord,"  he  exclaimed  again,  with 
clasped  hands,  "  I  can't,  I  can't !  " 

"  There  is  nothing  criminal,  or  improper, 
or  sinful  in  it,"  replied  the  judge;  -'on  the 
contrary,  it  is  your  duty,  both  as  a  Christian 
and  a  man.  Kemember,  you  have  this 
moment  sworn  to  tell  the  truth,  and  the 
whole  truth  ;  you  consequently  must  keep 
your  oath." 

"  ^Miat  you  say,  sir,  may  be  right,  an'  of 
coorse  is  ;  but  oh,  my  lord,  I'm  not  able ;  I 
can't  get  out  the  words  to  hang  my  only  boy. 
If  I  said  anything  to  hvu-t  him,  my  heart  'ud 
break  before  your  eyes.  May  be  you  don't 
know  the  love  of  a  father  for  an  only  son  ?  " 

"  Perhaps,  my  lords,"  obsen-ed  the  at- 
torney-general, "it  would  be  desirable  to 
send  for  a  clergyman  of  his  o^ti  religion, 
who  might  succeed  in  prevailing  on  him 
to " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Fardorougha  ;  "  my 
mind's  made  up  ;  a  word  against  him  will 
never  come  from  my  lips,  not  for  priest  or 
friar.  "  I'd  die  widout  the  saykerment 
sooner." 

"  This  is  trifling  with  the  court,"  said  the 
judge,  assuming  an  air  of  severity,  wliich, 
however,  he  did  not  feel.  "We  shall  be 
forced  to  commit  you  to  prison  unless  you 
give  eridence." 

"  My  lord,"  said  Fardorougha,  meekly,  but 
fiiTiily,  "  I  am  willin'  to  go  to  prison — I  am 
willin'  to  die  with  him,  if  he  is  to  die,  but  I 
neither  can  nor  will  open  my  lijDs  against 
him.  If  I  thought  him  guilty  I  might ;  but 
I  know  he  is  innocent — my  heart  knows  it ; 
an'  am  I  to  back  the  villain  that's  stririn'  to 
swear  liis  life  away  ?  No,  Connor  avounieen, 
whatever  they  do  to  you,  your  father  will 
have  no  hand  in  it." 

The  court,  in  fact,  were  perplexed  in  the 
extreme.  The  old  man  was  not  only  firm, 
from  motives  of  strong  attachment,  but  in- 
tractable from  an  habitual  narrowness  of 
thought,  which  prevented  him  fi'om  taking 


that  comprehensive  view  of  justice  and  judi- 
cial authority  which  might  overcome  the  re- 
pugnance of  men  less  obstinate  from  igno- 
rance of  legal  usages. 

"  I  ask  you  for  the  last  time,"  said  the 
judge,  "will  you  give  your  evidence?  be- 
cause, if  you  refuse,  the  court  will  feel  bound 
to  send  you  to  prison." 

"God  bless  you,  my  lord!  that's  a  relief 
to  my  heart.  Anything,  anything,  but  to 
say  a  word  against  a  boy  that,  since  the  day 
he  was  born,  never  vexed  either  his  mother 
or  myself.  If  he  gets  over  this,  I  have  much 
to  make  up  to  him  ;  for,  indeed,  I  wasn't 
the  father  to  him  that  I  ought.  Avick 
machree,  now  I  feel  it,  may  be  whin  it's  too 
late." 

These  words  affected  aU  who  heard  them, 
man}'  even  to  tears. 

"  I  have  no  remedy,"  observed  the  judge. 
"  Tipstaff,  take  away  the  witness  to  prison. 
It  is  painful  to  me,"  he  added,  in  a  broken 
voice,  "  to  feel  compelled  thus  to  punish  you 
for  an  act  which,  however  I  may  respect  the 
motives  that  dictate  it,  I  cannot  overlook. 
The  ends  of  justice  cannot  be  frastrated." 

"My lord,"  exclaimed  the  j)risoner,  "don't 
punish  the  old  man  for  refusing  to  speak 
against  me.  His  love  for  me  is  so  strong 
that  I  know  he  couldn't  do  it.  I  will  state 
the  truth  myself,  but  spare  him.  I  did  noi 
sleejD  in  my  own  bed  on  the  night  Mr.  O'- 
Brien's haggai'd  was  burned,  nor  on  the  night 
before  it.  I  slept  in  my  father's  barn,  with 
Flanagan  ;  both  times  at  his  own  request ; 
but  I  did  not  then  susjaect  his  design  in  ask- 
ing me." 

"This  admission,  though  creditable  to 
your  affection  and  filial  duty,  was  indiscreet," 
observed  the  judge.  "^^Tiatever  you  think 
might  be  ser\dceable,  suggest  to  jour  attor- 
ney, who  can  communicate  it  to  youi"  coun- 
sel." 

"My  lord,"  said  Connor,  "I  could  not  see 
my  father  j)unished  for  loving  me  as  he  does  ; 
an'  besides  I  have  no  wish  to  conceal  any- 
thing. If  the  whole  tiiith  could  be  known, 
I  would  stand  but  a  short  time  where  I  am, 
nor  would  Flanagan  be  long  out  of  it." 

There  is  an  eai'nest  and  impressive  tone  in 
ti-uth,  especially  when  sj^oken  under  cu'cum- 
stances  of  gxeat  difficulty,  where  it  is  rather 
disadvantageous  to  him  who  utters  it,  that 
in  many  instances  produces  conriction  by  an 
inherent  candor  which  aU  feel,  without  any 
process  of  reasoning  or  argument.  There 
was  in  those  few  words  a  warmth  of  affection 
towards  his  father,  and  a  manly  simi^licity  of 
heai-t,  each  of  which  was  duly  ajjpreciated  by 
the  assembly  about  him,  who  felt,  without 
knowing  why,  the  indignant  scorn  of  false' 
hood  that  so  emphatically  pervaded  his  ex* 


FAEDOROUGEA,   THE  MISER. 


253 


pressions.  It  was  indeed  impossible  to  hear 
them,  and  look  upon  his  noble  countenance 
and  figure,  without  forgetting  the  humble- 
ness of  his  rank  in  life,  and  feeling  for  him  a 
marked  deference  and  respect. 

The  trial  then  proceeded  ;   but,  alas !    the 
hopes  of  Connor's  fiiends  abandoned  them  at 
its  conclusion  ;  for  although  the  judge's  charge 
was  as  favorable  as  the  nature  of  the  evidence 
permitted,  yet   it  was  quite  clear  that  the 
juiy  had  onl}""  one  course  to  pui-sue,  and  that 
was  to. bring  in   a  conviction.      After   the 
lapse  of  about  ten  minutes,  they  returned  to 
the   jvuy-box,  and,  as  the  foreman  handed 
down    their   verdict,  a  feather   might   have 
been  heard  fiilling  in  the  court.      The  faces 
of  the  spectators  got  pale,  and  the  hearts  of 
strong  men  beat  as  if  the  verdict  about  to  be 
announced  were  to  fall  upon  themselves,  and 
not  upon  the  prisoner.     It  is  at  all  times  an 
awful  and  trying  ceremony  to  witness,  but 
on  this  occasion  it  was  a  much  more  affect-  ; 
ing  one  than  had  occurred  in  that  court  for  : 
many  years.     As  the  foreman  handed  down 
the  verdict,  Connor's  eye  followed  the  paper 
mth  the  same  calm  resolution  which  he  dis- 
played durmg  the  trial.      On  himself  there 
was  no  change  visible,  iruless  the  appetu'ance 
of  two  round  spots,  one  on  each  cheek,  of  a 
somewhat  deeper   red   than   the  rest.      At  ; 
length,  in  the  midst  of  the  dead  silence,  pro-  | 
nounced  in  a  voice  that  reached  to  the  re-  ' 
motest  extremity  of  the  court,  was  heai'd  the 
fatal  sentence — "Guilty;"    and    aftei-wai-ds, 
in  a  less  distinct  manner — "  with  out  strong- 
est and  most  earnest  recommendation   for 
mercy,  in  consequence  of  his  youth  and  pre-  | 
vious  good  character."       The  wail  and  loud 
sobbings  of  the  female  pajrt  of  the  crowd, 
and  the  stronger  but  more  silent  gi'ief  of  the 
men,  could  not,  for  many  minutes,  be  re- 
pressed by  any  efforts  of  the  court  or  its  of-  i 
ficers.     In  the  midst  of  this,  a  little  to  the  ! 
left  of  the  dock,  was  an  old  man,  whom  those 
around  liim  were  convening  in  a  state  of  in-  ! 
sensibihty  out  of  the  court  ;   and  it  was  ob-  . 
vious  that,  fi"om  motives  of  humane  consid-  ; 
eration  for  the  prisoner,  they  endeavored  to  ! 
prevent  him  from  ascertaining  that  it  was  his  : 
father.      In  this,   however,  they  failed  ;  the  : 
son's  Qye  caught  a  ghmpse  of  his  grey  locks,  I 
and  it  was  observed  that  his  cheek  paled  for  | 
the  first  time,  indicating,  by  a  momentary 
change,  that  the  only  evidence  of  agitation 
he  betrayed  was  occasioned  by  sympathy  in 
the  old  man's  sorrows,  rather  than  by  the 
contemplation  of  his  own  fate. 

The  tragic  spmt  of  the  day,  however,  was 
still  to  deepen,  and  a  more  stunning  blow, 
though  less  acute  in  its  agony,  was  to  fall 
upon  the  prisoner.  The  stir  of  the  calm  and 
solemn  jurors,  as  they  issued  out  of  their  , 


room  ;  the  hushed  breaths  of  the  spectators, 
the  deadly  silence  that  prevails,  and  the  ap« 
palling  announcement  of  the  word  "  Guilty," 
ai'e  cu'cumsttinces  that  test  human  fortitude, 
more  even  than  the  passing  of  the  fearful 
sentence  itself.  In  the  latter  case,  hope  is 
banished,  and  the  worst  that  can  happen, 
known  ;  the  mind  is,  therefore,  throwTi  back 
upon  its  last  energies,  which  give  it  strength 
in  the  same  way  in  which  the  death-struggle 
fi'equently  arouses  the  muscular  action  of  the 
body — an  unconscious  power  or  resistance 
that  forces  the  culprit's  heai't  to  take  refuge 
in  the  first  and  strongest  instincts  of  its 
natui'e,  the  undoing  principle  of  self-preser- 
vation. No  sooner  was  the  verdict  returned 
and  silence  obtained,  than  the  judge,  now 
deeply  affected,  put  on  the  black  cap,  at 
which  a  low  ^vild  murmur  of  stifled  grief 
and  pity  rang  through  the  coiu-t-house  ;  but 
no  sooner  was  his  eye  bent  on  the  prisoner 
than  their  anxiety  to  hear  the  sentence 
hushed  them  once  more  into  the  stilLness  of 
the  grave.  The  prisoner  looked  upon  him 
with  an  open  but  melancholy  gaze,  which, 
from  the  candid  and  manly  character  of  his 
countenance,  was  touching  in  the  extreme. 

"  Connor  O'Donovan,"  said  the  judge, 
"  have  you  anything  to  sav  why  sentence  of 
death  should  not  be  passed  ujjon  you  ?  " 

"  My  lord,"  he  replied,  "  I  can  say  nothing 
to  prevent  it.  I  am  prepared  for  it.  I  know 
I  must  bear  it,  and  I  hope  I  will  bear  it  as  a 
man  ought,  that  feels  his  heart  free  from 
even  a  thought  of  the  crime  he  is  to  die  for. 
I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"You  have  this  day  been  found  guilty," 
proceeded  the  judge,  "  and,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  court,  ujDon  clear  and  satisfactory  evi- 
dence, of  a  crime  marked  by  a  character  of 
revenge,  which  I  am  bound  to  say  must  have 
proceeded  from  a  very  malignant  spirit.  It 
was  a  wanton  act,  for  the  pei^petration  of 
which  yoiu-  motives  were  so  inadequate,  that 
one  must  feel  at  a  loss  to  ascertain  the 
exact  principle  on  which  you  committed  it. 
It  was  also  not  only  a  wicked  act,  but  one  so 
mean,  that  a  young  man  bearing  the  charac- 
ter of  sjDirit  and  generosity  which  you  have 
hitherto  borne,  as  appears  fi*om  the  testimony 
of  those  respectable  persons  who  this  day 
have  spoken  in  your  favor,  ought  to  have 
scorned  to  contemplate  it  even  for  a  moment. 
Had  the  passion  you  entertained  for  the 
daughter  of  the  man  you  so  basely  injured, 
possessed  one  atom  of  the  dignity,  dis- 
interestedness, or  purity  of  true  affection, 
you  never  could  have  stooped  to  any  act 
offensive  to  the  object  of  your  love,  or  to 
those  even  in  the  remotest  degree  related  to 
her.  The  example,  consequently,  which  you 
have  held  out  to  society,  is  equally  vile  and 


254 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


dangerous.  A  parent  dischai'ges  the  most 
solemn  and  important  of  all  duties,  when 
disposing  of  his  children  in  marriage,  because 
by  that  act  he  seals  their  happiness  or  misery 
in  this  life,  and  most  probably  in  that  which 
is  to  come.  By  what  tie,  by  what  duty,  by 
what  consideration,  is  not  a  parent  botmd  to 
consult  the  best  interests  of  those  beloved 
beings  whom  he  has  brought  into  the  world, 
and  who,  in  a  great  measui'e,  depend  ujDon 
him  as  their  deai-est  relative,  their  guardian 
by  the  voice  of  natui-e,  for  the  fulfilment  of 
those  expectations  uj)on  which  depend  the 
principrd  comforts  and  enjoyments  of  life  ? 
Reason,  religion,  justice,  instinct,  the  whole 
economy  of  nature,  both  in  man  and  the 
inferior  animals,  all  teach  him  to  seciu'e  for 
them,  as  far  as  in  him  hes,  the  greatest  sum 
of  human  happiness  ;  but  if  there  be  one 
duty  more  sacred  and  tender  than  another,  it 
is  that  which  a  parent  is  caUed  upon  to 
exercise  on  behalf  of  a  daughter.  The  son, 
impressed  by  that  original  impulse  which 
moves  him  to  assume  a  loftier  place  in  the 
conduct  of  life,  and  gifted  also  with  a  stronger 
mind,  and  clearer  judgment,  to  guide  him  in 
its  varied  transactions,  goes  abroad  into 
society,  and  claims  for  himself  a  bolder  right 
of  thought  and  a  wider  range  of  action,  while 
determining  an  event  which  is  to  exercise,  as 
maiTiage  does,  such  an  imjDortant  influence 
upon  his  O'An  future  condition,  and  all  the 
relations  that  may  arise  out  of  it.  From  this 
privilege  the  beautiful  and  deUcate  fi-ame- 
work  of  woman's  moral  nature  debars  her, 
and  she  is  consequently^  forced,  by  the  graces 
of  her  own  modesty — by  the  finer  texture  of 
her  mind — by  her  greater  purity  and  gentle- 
ness— in  short,  by  all  her  vii'tues,  into  a 
tenderer  and  more  affecting  dependence  upon 
the  judgment  and  love  of  her  natiu'al  guard- 
ians, whose  pleasure  is  made,  by  a  wise 
decree  of  God,  commensurate  with  their 
duty  in  providing  for  her  wants  and  enjoy- 
ments. There  is  no  point  of  view  in  wliich 
the  parental  character  shines  forth  with 
greater  beauty  than  that  in  which  it  appears 
while  working  for  and  promoting  the  hapj)i- 
ness  of  a  daughter.  But  you,  it  would  seem, 
did  not  think  so.  You  punished  the  father 
by  a  dastardly  and  unmanly  act,  for  guarding 
the  future  peace  and  welfare  of  a  child  so 
young,  and  so  dear  to  him.  WTiat  would 
become  of  society  if  this  exercise  of  a  j^arent's 
right  on  behalf  of  his  daughter  were  to  be 
visited  upon  him  as  a  crime,  by  everj'  vindic- 
tive and  disappointed  man,  whose  affection 
for  them  he  might,  upon  proper  grounds, 
decline  to  sanction  ?  Yet  it  is  singular,  and, 
I  confess,  almost  inexplicable  to  me  at  least, 
why  you  should  have  rushed  into  the  com- 
mission of  such  an  act.     The  brief  period  of 


your  existence  has  been  stained  by  no 
other  crime.  On  the  contrary,  you  have 
maintained  a  chtu'acter  far  above  youi-  situa- 
tion in  life — a  character  equally  remai'kable 
for  gentleness,  spirit,  truth,  and  affection — 
all  of  which  your  ajjpearance  and  bearing 
have  this  day  exhibited.  Your  countenance 
presents  no  feattu-e  expressive  of  ferocity,  or 
of  those  headlong  propensities  which  lead  to 
outrage  ;  and  I  must  confess,  that  on  no 
other  occasion  in  my  judicial  Hfe  have  I  ever 
felt  my  judgment  and  my  feehngs  -so  much 
at  issue.  I  cannot  doubt  your  guilt,  but  I 
shed  those  tears  that  it  ever  existed,  and  th?>t 
a  youth  of  so  much  promise  should  be  cut 
down  prematm-ely  by  the  strong  arm  of 
necessary  justice,  leaving  his  bereaved  jjarents 
bowed  down  with  despair  that  can  never  be 
comforted.  Had  they  another  son — or 
another  child,  to  whom  their  affections  could 
turn " 

Here  the  judge  felt  it  necessary  to  pause, 
in  consequence  of  his  emotions.  Strong 
feelings  had,  indeed,  spread  through  the 
whole  couri,  in  which,  while  he  ceased,  coiQd 
be  heard  low  moanings,  and  other  s^^mptoms 
of  acute  sorrow. 

"It  is  now  your  duty  to  forget  every 
earthly  object  on  which  your  heart  may 
have  been  fixed,  and  to  seek  that  source  of 
consolation  and  mercy  vrhich  can  best  sus- 
tain and  comfort  you.  Go  with  a  jDenitent 
heart  to  the  throne  of  your  Redeemer,  who, 
if  your  repentance  be  sincere,  will  in  no  ■vN'ise 
cast  you  out.  Unhappy  youth,  prepare 
yourself,  let  me  implore  you,  for  an  infinitely 
greater  and  more  awful  tribunal  than  this. 
There,  should  the  judgment  be  in  your 
favor,  you  wiU  learn  that  the  fate,  which  has 
cut  you  off  in  the  bloom  of  early  life,  will 
bring  an  accession  of  hai:)piuess  to  your  be- 
ing for  which  no  earthly  enjoyment  here, 
however  j)i'olonged  or  exalted,  could  com- 
pensate you.  The  recommendation  of  the 
jurj'  to  the  mercy  of  the  crown,  in  considera- 
tion of  your  youth  and  previous  good  con- 
duct, will  not  be  overlooked  ;  but  in  the 
mean  time  the  court  is  bound  to  pronoiince 
upon  you  the  sentence  of  the  law,  which  is, 
that  you  be  taken  from  the  prison  from 
which  you  came,  on  the  eighth  of  next 
month,  at  the  hour  of  ten  o'clock  in  the 
forenoon,  to  the  fi-ont  drop  of  the  jail,  and 
there  hanged  by  the  neck,  until  you  be  dead  ; 
and  may  God  have  mercy  on  your  soul ! " 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  prisoner,  unmoved 
in  voice  or  in  manner,  unless  it  might  be 
that  both  expressed  more  decision  and  en- 
ergy than  he  had  shown  during  any  other 
pari  of  the  trial ;  "  my  lord,  I  am  now  a  con- 
demned man,  but  if  I  stood  with  the  rope 
about  my  neck,  ready  to  die,  I  would  not 


FARDOIWUGFIA,    THE  MISER. 


255 


exchange  situations  with  the  man  that  has 
been  my  accuser.  My  lord,  I  can  forgive 
him,  and  I  ought,  for  I  know  he  has  yet  to 
die,  and  must  meet  his  God.  As  for  my- 
self, I  am  thankful  that  I  have  not  such  a 
conscience  as  his  to  bring  before  my  Judge  ; 
and  for  this  reason  I  am  not  afraid  to  die." 

He  was  then  removed  amidst  a  murmur 
of  gi'ief,  as  deep  and  sincere  as  was  ever  ex- 
pressed for  a  human  being  under  circum- 
stances of  a  similar  character.  After  having 
entered  the  prison,  he  was  about  to  tvun 
aloug  a  passage  which  led  to  the  apartment 
hitherto  allotted  to  him. 

"  This  wa}^"  said  the  turnkej',  "  this  way  ; 
God  knows  I  would  be  glad  to  let  you  stop 
in  the  room  you  had,  but  I  haven't  the  power. 
We  must  put  you  into  one  of  the  condemned 

cells  ;  but  by ,  it'll  go  hard  if  I  don't 

stretch  a  httle  to  make  you  as  comfortable 
as  possible." 

"Take  no  trouble,"  said  Connor,  "take 
no  trouble.  I  care  now  but  httle  about  my 
own  comfort ;  but  if  you  wish  to  oblige  me, 
bring  me  my  father.  Oh,  my  mother,  my 
mother ! — you,  I  doubt,  are  struck  down 
ah'eady ! " 

"  She  was  too  iU  to  attend  the  trial  to- 
day," replied  the  turnkey.  ! 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Connor  ;  "  but  as  she's  ! 
not  here,  bring  me  my  father.     Send  out  a 
messenger  for  him,  and  be  quick,  for  I  wont 
rest  till  I  see  him— he  wants  comfort — the 
old  man's  heart  will  break."  , 

"I  heard  them  say,"  replied  the  turnkey,  ' 
after  they  had  entered  the  cell  allotted  to  \ 
him,  "  that  he  was  in  a  faint  at  Mat  Corri- 
gan's  public  house,  but  that  he  had  recov- 
ered.   I'll  go  myseK and  bring  him  in  to  you."  i 

"Do,"   said   Connor,    "an'   leave  us   the! 
moment  you  bring  him." 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  the  man  ' 
returned,  holding  Fardorougha  by  the  arm, 
and,  after  having  left  jiim  in  the  cell,  he  in- 
stantly locked  it  outside,  and  Avithdrew  as  he 
had  been  desired.  Connor  ran  to  support 
liis  tottering  steps  ;  and  wofull}'  indeed  did 
that  unfortunate  parent  stand  in  need  of  his 
assistance.  In  the  jiicture  presented  by 
Fardorougha  the  unhappy  3'oung  man  forgot 
in  a  moment  his  own  miserable  and  gloomy 
fate.  There  blazed  in  his  father's  eyes  an  ex- 
citement at  once  dead  and  ^^•ild — a  vague  fire 
^^•ithout  character,  yet  stirred  by  an  incom- 
prehensible energy  wholly  beyond  the  usual 
manifestations  of  thought  or  suffering.  The 
son  on  beholding  him  shuddered,  and  not 
for  the  first  time,  for  he  had  on  one  or  two 
occasions  before  become  apprehensive  that  \ 
his  father's  mind  might,  if  strongly  pressed,  j 
be  worn  downi,  by  the  singular  conflict  of  ! 
which  it  was  the  scene,  to  that  most  fi-ightful  \ 


of  all  maladies — insanity.  As  the  old  man, 
however,  folded  him  in  his  feeble  arms,  and 
attempted  to  express  what  he  felt,  the  im- 
happy  boy  groaned  aloud,  and  felt  even  in 
the  depth  of  his  cell,  a  blush  of  momentary 
shame  suffuse  his  cheek  and  brow.  His 
father,  notwithstanding  the  sentence  that  had 
been  so  shortly  before  passed  upon  his  son 
— that  father,  he  perceived  to  be  absolutely 
intoxicated,  or,  to  use  a  more  appropriate 
'expression,  decidedly  drunk.  There  was  less 
blame,  however,  to  be  attached  to  Fardo- 
rougha on  this  occasion,  than  Connor  imag- 
ined. When  the  old  man  swooned  in  the 
court-house,  he  was  taken  by  his  neighbors 
to  a  pubhc-house,  where  he  lay  for  some 
minutes  in  a  state  of  insensibility.  On  his 
recovery  he  was  phed  with  bm-nt  whiskey,  as 
well  to  restore  his  strength  and  prevent  a 
relapse,  as  upon  the  jjrinciple  that  it  would 
enable  him  to  sustain  with  more  firmness  the 
dreadful  and  shocking  destiny  which  awaited 
his  son.  Actuated  by  motives  of  mistaken 
kindness,  they  poured  between  two  and  three 
glasses  of  this  fiery  cordial  down  his  throat, 
which,  as  he  had  not  taken  so  much  during 
the  lajjse  of  thirty  yeai's  before,  soon  reduced 
the  feeble  old  man  to  the  condition  in  which 
^/e  have  described  him  when  enteiing  the 
gloomy  cell  of  the  prisoner. 

"  Father,"  said  Connor,  "  in  the  name  of 
Heaven  above,  who  or  what  has  jDut  you  into 
this  dreadful  state,  especially  when  we  con- 
sider the  hard,  hard  fate  that  is  over  us,  and 
upon  ns  ?  " 

"  Connor,"  returned  Fardorougha,  not 
perceiving  the  drift  of  his  question,  "  Con- 
nor, my  son,  I'll  hang — hang  him,  that's  one 
comfort." 

"  "Who  are  joxx  spaking  about?  " 

"  The  rillain  sentence  was  passed  on  to — 
to-day.     He'll  swing — s^ring  for  the  robbery  ; 

P e  will.     We  got  him  back  out  of  that 

nest  of  robbers,  the  Isle  o'  Man — o'  Man  they 
ctill  it — that  he  made  oft'  to,  the  \allain  !  " 

"Father  dear,  I'm  sorry  to  see  you  in  this 
state  on  sich  a  day — sich  a  black  day  to  us. 
For  your  sake  I  am.  What  will  the  world 
say  of  it  ?  " 

"  Connor,  I'm  in  gi'eat  spirits  all  out,  ex- 
ceptin'  for  something  that  I  foi'get,  that — 
that — h — lies  heavy  upon  me.  That  I 
mayn't  sin,  but  I  am — I  am,  indeed — for  now 
that  we've  cotch  him,  we'll  hang  the  rillain 
up.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  it's  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
sich  a  fellow  dangliu'  from  a  roj^e  !  " 

"  Father,  sit  down  here,  sit  down  here  uj)- 
on  this  bad  and  comfortless  bed,  and  keep 
yourself  quiet  for  a  little.  Ma3'be  you'D  bt 
better  soon.  Oh,  why  did  you  drink,  and  ua 
in  such  trouble  ?  " 

' '  I'll  not  sit  down  ;  I'm  very  well  able  to 


256 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


stand,"  said  he,  tottering  across  tlie  room. 
"  The  villain  thought  to  stai*ve  me,  Connor, 
but  you  heard  the  sentence  that  was  passed 
on  him  to-day.  Where's  Honor,  fi*om  me  ? 
she'U  be  glad  whin — whin  she  heai'S  it,  and 
my  son,  Connor,  mil  too — but  he's,  he's — 
where  is  Connor  ? — bring  me,  bring  me  to 
Connor.  All,  avourneen,  Honor's  heart's 
breaking  for  him — 't  any  rate,  the  mother's 
heart — the  mother's  heart — she's  laid  low 
wid  an  achin',  soiTOwful  head  for  her  boy." 

"  Father,  for  God's  sake,  will  you  try  and 
rest  a  Httle  ?  If  you  could  sleej),  father  dear, 
if  you  could  sleep." 

"  I'U  hang  P e — I'U  hang  him — but  if 

he  gives  me  back  my  money,  I'U  not  touch 
him.     "Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Father  dear,  I'm  Connor,  your  own  son, 
Connor." 

"  I'U  marry  you  and  Una,  then.  I'U  settle 
aU  the  viUain  robbed  me  of  on  you,  and 
you'U  have  every  penny  of  it  after  my  death. 
Don't  be  keejjin'  me  ujd,  I  can  walk  very  weU; 
ay,  an'  I'm  in  right  good  spirits.  Sure,  the 
money's  got,  Connor — got  back  every  skil- 
leen  of  it.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  God  be  praised  !  God 
be  praised !  We've  a  right  to  be  thankful — 
the  world  isn't  so  bad  afther  aU." 

"  Father,  wiU  you  try  and  rest  ?  " 

"  It's  not  bad,  afther  aU — I  won't  starve,  as 
I  thought  I  would,  now  that  the  arr'ighad  is 
got  back  fi-om  the  viUain.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  it's 
great,  Connor,  ahagur  ! " 

"  \\'Tiat  is  it,  father  dear." 

"  Connor,  sing  me  a  song — my  heart's  up — 
it's  light — am't  you  glad? — sing  me  a  song." 

"  If  3'Ou'U  sleep  first,  father  dear," 

"  The  Uligone,  Connor,  or  Shuilagra,  or  the 
Troxigha — for,  avourneen,  avourneen,  there 
must  be  sorrow  in  it,  for  my  heart's  low,  and 
your  mother's  heart's  in  sorrow,  an'  she's  ly- 
in'  far  from  us,  an'  her  boy's  not  near  her, 
an'  her  heart's  sore,  sore,  and  her  head  achin', 
bekase  her  boy's  far  from  her,  and  she  can't 
come  to  him  !  " 

The  boy,  whose  noble  fortitude  was  un- 
shaken during  the  formidable  trial  it  had  en- 
countered in  the  course  of  that  day,  now  felt 
overcome  by  this  simple  aUusion  to  his  moth- 
er's love.  He  thi-ew  his  arms  about  his 
father's  neck,  and,  placing  his  head  upon  his 
bosom,  wept  aloud  for  many,  many  minutes. 

"  Husth,  Connor,  husth,  asthore — what 
makes  you  ciy?  Sure,  all  'iU  be  right  now 
that  we've  got  back  the  money.  Eh?  Ha, 
ha,  ha,  it's  great  luck,  Connor,  isn't  it  gi'eat  ? 
An'  you'U  have  it,  you  an'  Una,  afther  my 
death — for  I  won't  starve  for  e'er  a  one  o' 
yees." 

"Father,  father,  I  wish  you  would  rest." 

"  Well,  I  wiU,  avick,  I  Anil  bring  me  to 
bed — ^you'U  sleep  in  your  own  bed  to-night. 


Your  poor  mother's  head  hasn't  been  off  o' 
the  place  where  your  owti  lay,  Connor.  No, 
indeed  ;  her  heart's  low — it's  breakin' — it'a 
breakin' — but  she  won't  let  anybody  make 
your  bed  but  herself.  Oh,  the  mother's  love, 
Connor — that  mother's  love,  tltat  mother's 
love — but,  Connor —  " 

"  WeU,  lather,  dear." 

"Isn't  there  something  -wrong,  avick? 
isn't  there  something  not  right,  somehow  ?  " 

This  question  occasioned  the  son  to  feel 
as  if  his  heart  would  literally  burst  to  pieces, 
especiaUy  when  he  considered  the  circum- 
stances under  which  the  old  man  put  it. 
Indeed,  there  was  sometliing  so  transcen- 
dently  appaUing  in  his  intoxication,  and  in 
the  wUd  but  affecting  tone  of  his  conversa- 
tion, that,  when  joined  to  his  palUd  and 
spectral  appearance,  it  gave  a  character,  for 
the  time  being,  of  a  mood  that  stiaick  the 
heai't  with  an  image  more  fi'ightful  than  that 
of  madness  itself. 

"Wrong,  father!"  he  repUed,  "aU's 
wrong,  and  I  can't  tmderstand  it.  It's  weU 
for  you  that  you  don't  know  the  doom  that's 
upon  us  now,  for  I  feel  how  it  woiild  bring 
you  down,  and  how  it  wiU,  too.  It  wUl  kill 
yovi,  my  father— it  wiU  kiU  you." 

"  Connor,  come  home,  avick,  come  home 
— I'm  tired  at  any  rate — come  home  to  your 
mother — come,  for  her  sake — I  know  I'm 
not  at  home,  an'  she'U  not  rest  till  I  bring 
you  safe  back  to  her.  Come  now,  I'U  have 
no  put  offs — you  must  come,  I  say — I 
ordher  you — I  can't  and  won't  meet  her  wid- 
out  you.  Come,  avick,  an'  you  can  sing  me 
the  song  goin'  home — come  wid  your  own 
poor  ould  father,  that  can't  Uve  widout  you — 
come,  a  sullish  machree,  I  don't  feel  right 
here- — we  won't  be  properly  happy  tiU  we  go 
to  your  lovin'  mother." 

"Father,  father,  you  don't  know  what 
you're  making  me  suffer  !  AVhat  heart,  bless- 
ed Heaven,  can  bear — " 

The  door  of  his  cell  here  opened,  and  the 
turnkey  stated  that  some  five  or  six  of  his 
fi'iends  were  anxious  to  see  him,  and,  above 
aU  things,  to  take  charge  of  his  father  to 
his  own  home.  This  was  a  manifest  reUef 
to  the  young  man,  who  then  felt  more  deep- 
ly on  his  unhappy  father's  account  than  on 
his  own. 

"Some  fooUsh  friends,"  said  he,  "have 
given  my  father  liquor,  an'  it  has  got  into 
his  head — indeed,  it  overcame  him  the  more, 
as  I  never  remember  him  to  taste  a  drop  of 
spirits  during  his  life  before.  I  can  see  no- 
body now  an'  him  in  this  state  ;  but  if  they 
wish  me  weU,  let  them  take  care  of  him,  and 
leave  him  safe  at  liis  own  house,  and  teU 
them  I'll  be  glad  if  I  can  see  them  to- 
morrow, or  any  other  time." 


FARDOROUGEA,   THE  MISER. 


257 


With  considerable  difficulty  Fardorouglia 
was  removed  from  Connor,  whom  he  clung 
to  with  all  his  strength,  attempting  also  to 
drag  him  away.  He  then  wept  bitterly, 
because  he  declined  to  accompany  him 
home,  that  he  might  comfort  liis  mother, 
and   enjoy   the    imagined    recovery   of  his 

money    from   P e,    and    the   conviction 

which  he  believed  they  had  just  succeeded 
in  getting  against  that  notorious  defaulter. 

After  they  had  departed,  Connor  sat  do^^'n 
upon  his  hard  pallet,  and,  supporting  his 
head  with  his  hand,  saw,  for  the  first  time, 
in  all  its  magnitude  and  horror,  the  death 
to  which  he  found  himself  now  doomed. 
The  excitement  occasioned  by  his  trial,  and 
his  increasing  firmness,  as  it  darkened  on 
through  all  its  stages  to  the  final  sentence, 
now  had  in  a  considerable  degree  aban- 
doned him,  and  left  his  heart,  at  j^resent, 
more  acces.sible  to  natural  weakness  than  it 
it  had  been  to  the  power  of  his  own  affec- 
tions. The  image  of  his  early-loved  Una 
bad  seldom  since  his  arrest  been  out  of  his 
imagination.  Her  youth,  her  beauty,  her 
wild  but  natural  grace,  and  the  flashing 
glances  of  her  dark  enthusiastic  eye,  when 
joined  to  her  tenderness  and  boundless  affec- 
tion for  himself — all  caused  his  heart  to 
quiver  with  deadly  anguish  through  every 
fibre.  This  j^roduced  a  transition  to  Flanagan 
— the  contemplation  of  whose  perfidious  ven- 
geance made  him  spring  from  his  seat  in  a 
paroxysm  of  indignant  but  intense  hatred, 
so  utterly  furious  that  the  swelling  temjDest 
which  it  sent  through  his  veins  caused  him 
to  reel  with  absolute  giddiness. 

"Great  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are 
just,  and  will  this  be  suffered  ?  " 

He  theii  thought  of  his  parents,  and  the 
fiery  mood  of  his  mind  changed  to  one  of 
melancholy  and  sorrow.  He  looked  back  up- 
on his  aged  father's  enduring  struggle — upon 
the  battle  of  the  old  man's  heart  against  the 
acciu'sed  vice  which  had  swayed  its  impulses 
so  long — on  the  protracted  conflict  between 
the  two  energies,  Avhich,  like  contending 
armies  in  the  field,  had  now  left  little  but 
ruin  and  desolation  behind  them.  His  heart, 
when  he  brought  all  these  things  near  him, 
expanded,  and  like  a  bird,  folded  its  wings 
about  the  gray-haired  martjT  to  the  love  he 
bore  him.  But  his  mother^the  caressing, 
the  proud,  the  affectionate,  whose  heart,  in 
the  vi\'id  tenderness  of  hope  for  her  beloved 
boy,  had  shaped  out  his  path  in  life,  as  that 
on  Avhich  she  could  brood  with  the  fondness 
of  a  loving  and  dehghted  spirit — that 
mother's  image,  and  the  idea  of  her  sorrows 
prostrated  his  whole  strength,  like  that  of  a 
stricken  infant,  to  the  earth. 

•'Mother,  mother,"  he  exclaimed,  "when 


I  think  of  what  you  reared  me  for,  and  what 
I  am  this  night,  how  can  my  heart  do  other- 
wise than  break,  as  well  on  your  account  as 
on  my  own,  and  for  all  that  love  us  !  Oh  ! 
what  will  become  of  you,  my  blessed  mother? 
Hard  does  it  go  with  you  that  you're  not 
about  your  joride,  as  you  used  to  call  me,  now 
that  I'm  in  tliis  trouble,  in  this  fate  that  is 
soon  to  cut  me  down  from  your  loving  arms ! 
The  thought  of  you  is  dear  to  my  heart,  dear, 
dearer,  dearer  than  that  of  any — than  my 
o\vn  Una.  What  will  become  of  her,  too,  and 
the  old  man  V  Oh,  why,  why  is  it  that  the 
death  I  am  to  suffer  is  to  fall  so  heavily  on 
them  that  love  me  best  ? "" 

He  then  returned  to  his  bed,  but  the  cold 
and  dreary  images  of  death  and  ruin  haunted 
his  imagination,  until  the  night  w\as  far 
spent,  when  at  length  he  fell  into  a  deep  and 
dreamless  sleejD. 

By  the  sympathy  expressed  at  his  trial,  our 
readers  may  easily  conceive  the  profound 
sorrow  which  was  felt  for  him,  in  the  dis- 
trict where  he  was  known,  from  the  moment 
the  knowledge  of  his  sentence  had  gone 
abroad  among  the  people.  This  was  much 
strengthened  by  that  which,  whether  in  man 
or  woman,  never  fails  to  create  an  amiable 
prejudice  in  its  favor — I  mean  youth  and 
personal  beauty.  His  whole  previous  char- 
acter was  now  canvassed  with  a  moiuTiful 
lenity  that  brought  out  his  vu-tues  into 
beautiful  rehef  ;  and  the  fate  of  the  affection- 
ate son  Avas  deplored  no  less  than  that  of  the 
youthful,  but  rash  and  inconsiderate  lover. 
Neither  was  the  father  without  his  share  of 
com2:)assion,  for  they  could  not  forget  that, 
desi:)ite  of  all  his  penury  and  extortion,  the 
old  man's  heart  had  been  fixed,  with  a  strong 
but  uncouth  affection,  upon  his  amiable  and 
only  boy.  It  was,  however,  when  they  thought 
of -his  mother,  in  whose  heart  of  hearts  he 
had  been  enshrined  as  the  idol  of  her  whole 
affection,  that  their  spirits  became  truly 
touched.  Many  a  mother  assumed  in  her 
OAvn  person,  by  the  force  of  imagination,  the 
sinking  woman's  misery,  and  poured  forth, 
in  unavailing  tears,  the  undeniable  pi'oofs  of 
the  sincerity  with  which  she  participated  in 
Honor's  bereavement.  As  for  Flanagan,  a 
deadly  weight  of  odium,  such  as  is  peculiar 
to  the  Informer  in  L-eland,  fell  upon  both 
him  and  his.  Nor  was  this  all.  Aided  by 
that  sagacity  which  is  so  conspicuous  in 
Irishmen,  when  a  vindictive  or  hostile  feehng 
is  excited  among  them,  they  depicted  Flana- 
gan's character  with  an  accuracy  unk  tnith 
astonishingly  correct  and  intuitive.  Nu- 
merous were  the  instances  of  cowardice, 
treachery,  and  revenge  remembered  against 
him,  by  those  who  had  been  his  close  and 
early  companions,  not  one  of  which  woulrl 


258 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


have  ever  occtuTed  to  them,  were  it  not  that 
their  minds  had  been  thi'own  bacli;  upon  the 
scrutiny  by  the  nielanclioly  fate  in  which  he 
had  involved  the  unhappy  Connor  O'Donovan. 
Had  he  been  a  mere  ordinary  witness  in  the 
matter,  he  would  have  exjDerieuced  httle  of 
this  boihng  indignation  at  their  hands  ;  but 
first  to  participate  in  the  guilt,  and  after- 
wards, for  the  sake  of  the  reward,  or  fi'om  a 
worse  and  more  flagitious  motive,  to  turn 
upon  him,  and  become  his  accuser,  even  to 
the  taking  away  of  the  young  man's  life — lo  stag 
against  his  companion  and  accomphce — this 
was  looked  upon  as  a  crime  ten  thousand 
times  more  black  and  damnable  than  that 
for  which  the  unhaj)py  culprit  had  been  con- 
signed to  so  shameful  a  death. 

But,  alas,  ot  what  avail  was  all  this  sym- 
pathy and  indignation  to  the  unfortunate 
youth  him-self  or  to  those  most  deeply  inter- 
rested  in  his  fate  ?  Would  not  the  very 
love  and  sorrow  felt  towards  her  son  fall 
upon  his  mother's  heart  with  a  heavier 
weight  of  bitterness  and  agony  ?  Would 
not  his  Una's  soul  be  wounded  on  that  ac- 
covmt  with  a  sliarj)er  and  more  deadly  pang 
of  despair  and  misery '?  It  woiild,  indeed, 
be  difiicult  to  say  whether  the  house  of  Bo- 
dagh  Buie  or  that  of  Fardorougha  was  then 
in  the  deeper  sorrow.  On  the  morning  of 
Connor's  trial,  Una  arose  at  an  earlier  hour 
than  usual,  and  it  was  observed  when  she 
sat  at  breakfeast,  that  her  cheek  was  at  one 
moment  pale  as  death,  and  again  flushed  and 
feverish.  These  symf>toms  were  first  per- 
ceived by  her  afiectionate  brother,  who,  on 
witnessing  the  mistakes  she  made  in  pouring 
out  the  tea,  exchanged  a  glance  with  his 
parents,  and  afterwards  asked  her  to  allow 
him  to  take  her  place.  She  laid  down  the 
tea-pot,  and,  looking  him  mournfully  in  the 
face,  attempted  to  smile  at  a  request  so  un- 
usual. 

"  Una,  dear,"  said  he,  '*  you  must  allow 
me.  There  is  no  necessity  for  attempting 
to  conceal  what  you  feel — we  all  know  it — 
and  if  we  did  not,  the  fact  of  your  having 
filled  the  sugar-bowl  instead  of  the  tea-cup 
would  soon  discover  it." 

She  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  him  again, 
as  if  she  scarcely  comprehended  what  he 
said.  A  glance,  however,  at  the  sugar-bowl 
con\'inced  her  that  she  was  incapable  of  per- 
forming the  usual  duties  of  the  breakfast 
table.  Hitherto  she  had  not  raised  her  eyes 
to  her  father  or  mother's  face,  nor  spoken 
to  them  as  had  been  her  wont,  when  meeting 
at  that  strictly  domestic  meal.  The  unre- 
strained sobbings  of  the  mother  now  aroused 
her  for  the  first  time,  and  on  looking  up, 
she  saw  her  father  wiping  away  the  big 
tears  fi-om  his  eyes. 


"Una,  avourneen,"  said  the  worthy  man, 
"  let  John  make  tay  for  us — for,  God  help 
you,  you  can't  do  it.  Don't  fret,  achora  ma- 
chree,  don't,  don't,  Una ;  as  God  is  over  me, 
I'd  give  all  I'm  worth  to  save  him,  for  your 
sake." 

She  looked  at  her  father  and  smiled 
again  ;  but   that  smile  cut  him  to  the  heart. 

"  I  will  make  the  tea  myself,  father,"  she  re- 
plied, "  and  I  won't  commit  any  more  mis- 
takes ;"  and  as  she  spoke  she  unconsciously 
poui'ed  the  tea  into  the  slop-bowl. 

"Avourneen,"  said  her  mother,  "let  John 
do  it  ;  acushla  maclu-ee,  let  him  do  it," 

She  then  rose,  and  viithout  uttering  a 
word,  passively  and  silently  placed  herself 
on  her  brother's  chair — he  having,  at  the 
same  time,  taken  that  on  which  she  sat. 

"  Una,"  said  her  father,  taking  her  hand, 
"  you  must  be  a  good  girl,  and  you  must 
have  courage  ;  and  whatever  happens,  my 
darling,  you'U  pluck  ujd  strength,  I  hope, 
and  bear  it." 

" I  hope  so,  father,"  said  she,  "I hope  so." 

"But,  avourneen  machi-ee,"  said  her 
mother,  "  I  would  rather  see  you  crjin'  fifty 
times  over,  than  smilin'  the  way  you  do." 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  my  heai't  is  sore — 
my  heart  is  sore." 

"  It  is,  ahagTir  machree  ;  and  your  hand  is 
tremblin'  so  much  that  you  can't  bring  the 
tay-cup  to  your  mouth ;  but,  then,  don't 
smile  so  sorrowfully,  anein  machree." 

"Why  should  I  cry,  mother?"  she  re- 
plied ;  "I  know  that  Connor  is  innocent. 
If  I  knew  him  to  be  guilty,  I  would  weep, 
and  I  ought  to  weep." 

"  At  all  events,  Una,"  said  her  father,  "  you 
know  it's  the  government,  and  not  us,  that's 
prosecuting  him." 

To  this  Una  made  no  rej^ly,  but,  thrusting 
away  her  cup,  she  looked  with  the  samo 
mournful  smile  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  Httle  circle  about  her.  At  length  she 
spoke. 

"  Father,  I  have  a  request  to  ask  of  you." 

"  If  it's  within  my  power,  Una  darling,  I'll 
grant  it  ;  and  if  it's  not,  it'll  go  hard  with 
me  but  I'll  bring  it  within  my  power.  What 
is  it,  asthore  machree  ?  " 

"In  case  he's  found  guilty,  to  let  John  put 
off  his  journey  to  Maynooth,  and  stay  with 
me  for  some  time — it  won't  be  long  I'll  keep 
him." 

"If  it  pleases  you,  darling,  he'U  never  put 
his  foot  into  Maynooth  again." 

"  No,"  said  the  mother,  "  dhamnho  to  the 
step,  if  you  don't  wish  him." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  Una,  "it's  only  for  a 
while." 

"Unless  she  desires  it,  I  will  never  go," 
replied  the  Joving  brother  ;  "nor  will  I  ever 


FAlWOIiOUGIIA,    TUK  MISER. 


259 


ieave  you  in  your  sorrow,  my  beloved  and 
only  sister — never — never — so  long  as  a  word 
from  my  lips  can  give  you  consolation." 

The  warm  tears  coursed  each  other  down 
his  cheeks  as  he  spoke,  and  both  his  parents, 
on  looking  at  the  almost  blighted  flower  be- 
fore them,  wept  as  if  the  hand  of  death  had 
already  been  upon  her. 

"Your  father,  and  John  are  going  to  his 
trial,"  she  observed;  "for  me  I  like  to  be 
alone  ; — alone  ;  but  when  you  return  to-night, 
let  John  break  it  to  me.  I'll  go  now  to  the 
garden.  I'll  walk  about  to-day — only  before 
you  go,  John,  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Calmly  and  without  a  tear,  she  then  left 
the  parlor,  and  proceeded  to  the  garden, 
where  she  began  to  dress  and  ornament  the 
hive  which  contained  the  swarm  that  Connor 
had  brought  to  her  on  the  day  their  mu- 
tual attachment  was  first  disclosed  to  each 
other. 

"  Father,"  said  John,  when  slie  had  gone, 
"  I'm  afx'aid  that  Una's  heart  is  broken,  or  if 
not  broken,  that  she  won't  survive  his  con- 
viction long—  it's  breaking  fast — for  my  part, 
in  her  present  state,  I  neither  will  nor  can 
leave  her." 

The  affectionate  father  made  no  reply, 
but,  putting  his  handkerchief  to  his  eyes, 
wept,  as  did  her  mother,  in  silent  but  bitter 
gi-ief. 

"  I  cannot  spake  about  it,  nor  think  of  it, 
John,"  said  he,  after  some  time,  "  but  we 
must  do  what  we  can  for  her." 

"  If  anything  hapi^ens  her,"  said  the  mo- 
ther, "  I'd  never  get  over  it.  Oh  marciful 
Savior  !  how  could  we  live  widout  her  ?  " 

"I  would  rather  see  her  in  tears,"  said 
John — "I  would  rather  see  her  in  outrageous 
grief  a  thousand  times  than  in  the  calm  but 
ghastly  resolution  with  which  she  is  bearing 
herself  up  against  the  trial  of  this  day.  If  he's 
condemned  to  death,  I'm  afraid  that  either 
her  health  or  reason  will  sink  under  it,  and, 
in  that  case,  God  pity  her  and  us,  for  how, 
as  you  say,  mother,  could  we  afford  to  lose 
her  ?  Still  let  us  hope  for  the  best.  Father, 
it's  time  to  j)repare  ;  get  the  car  ready.  I 
am  going  to  the  garden,  to  hear  what  the 
poor  thing  has  to  say  to  me,  but  I  will  be 
with  you  soon." 

Her  brother  found  her,  as  we  have  said, 
engaged  calmly,  and  with  a  melancholy 
pleasure,  in  adorning  the  hive  which,  on 
Connor's  account,  had  become  her  favorite. 
He  was  not  at  all  sorry  that  she  had  proposed 
this  short  interview,  for,  as  his  hopes  of 
Connor's  acquittal  were  but  feeble,  if,  indeed, 
he  could  truly  be  said  to  entertain  any,  he 
resolved,  by  delicately  communicating  his 
apprehensions,  to  gi-adually  prepare  her 
mind  for  the  worst  that  might  happen. 


PAKT  V. 

On  hearing  his  step  she  raised  her  head, 
and  advancing  towards  the  middle  of  the 
garden,  took  his  arm,  and  led  him  towards 
the  summer-house  in  which  Connor  and  she 
had  first  acknowledged  their  love.  She 
gazed  wistfully  upon  it  after  they  entered, 
and  WMung  her  hands,  but  still  shed  no  tears. 

"Una,"  said  her  brother,  "you  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  me  ;  what  is  it,  darling  ?  " 

She  glanced  timidly  at  him,  and  blushed. 

"  You  won't  be  angry  with  me,  John,"  she 
replied  ;  "  would  it  be  jiroper  for  me  to — to 
go  " 

"What !  to  be  present  at  the  trial ?  Dear 
Una,  you  cannot  think  of  it.  It  would 
neither  be  proper  nor  prudent,  and  you 
sureh'  would  not  be  considered  indelicate  ? 
Besides,  even  were  it  not  so,  your  strength 
is  unequal  to  it.  No,  no,  Una  dear  ;  dismiss 
it  from  your  thoughts." 

"I  fear  I  could  not  stand  it,  indeed,  John, 
even  if  it  were  proper  ;  but  I  know  not 
what  to  do  ;  there  is  a  weight  like  death 
upon  my  heart.  If  I  could  shed  a  tear  it 
would  relieve  me  ;  but  I  cannot." 

"  It  is  probably  better  you  should  feel  so. 
Una,  than  to  entertain  hopes  upon  the  mat 
ter  that  may  be  disappointed.  It  is  always 
wisest  to  prepare  for  the  worst,  in  order  to 
avoid  the  shock  that  may  come  upon  us, 
and  which  always  falls  hea\dest  when  it 
comes  contrary  to  our  expectations." 

"I  do  not  at  all  feel  well,"  she  replied, 
"  and  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  best  wa^y 
to  break  this  day's  tidings  to  me,  when  you 
come  home.  If  he's  cleared,  sa}^  good-hu- 
moredly,  '  Una,  all's  lost ; '  and  if — if  not, 
oil,  desire  me — say  to  me,  'Una,  you  had 
better  go  to  bed,  and  let  your  mother  go 
with  you  ; '  that  will  be  enough  ;  I  will  go  to 
bed,  and  if  ever  I  rise  from  it  again,  it  wiU 
not  be  from  a  love  of  Hfe." 

The  brother,  seeing  that  conversation  on 
the  subject  of  her  grief  only  caused  her  to 
feel  more  deeply,  deemed  it  better  to  ter- 
minate than  to  continue  a  dialogue  which 
only  aggravated  her  sufferings. 

"I  ti-ust  and  hojje,  dear  Una,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  will  observe  my  father's  adrice, 
and  make  at  least  a  worthy  effort  to  support 
yourself,  under  what  certainly  is  a  hea^'y 
affliction  to  you,  in  a  manner  becoming 
your  own  character.  For  his  sake — for  my 
mother's,  and  for  mine,  too,  endeavor  to 
have  courage  ;  be  firm — and,  Una,  if  you 
take  my  advice,  you'll  jiray  to  God  to 
strengthen  you  ;  for,  after  all,  there  is  no 
supjDort  in  the  moment  of  distress  and  sor- 
row, like  His." 

"  I  will  take  your  advice,"   she  replied ; 


k 


260 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  but  is  it  not  strange,  Jolin,  that  such  lieaAy 
misfortunes  should  fall  upon  two  persons  so 
young,  and  who  deserve  it  so  little '?  " 

"  It  may  he  a  trial  sent  for  your  advantage 
and  his  ;  who  can  say  but  it  may  yet  end  for 
the  good  of  you  both  ?  At  present,  indeed, 
there  is  no  probability  of  its  ending  favor- 
ably, and,  even  should  it  not,  we  are  bound 
to  beai*  "v\ith  patience  such  dispentiations 
as  the  Great  Being,  to  whom  we  owe  our 
existence,  and  of  whose  ways  we  know  so 
little,  may  think  right  to  lay  upon  us.  Now, 
God  bless  you,  and  support  j'ou,  dear,  till  I 
see  you  again.  I  must  go  ;  don't  you  hear 
the  jaunting-car  driving  up  to  the  gate  ;  be 
firm — dear  Una — be  firm,  and  good-by  ! " 

Never  was  a  day  spent  under  the  influence 
of  a  more  terrible  suspense  than  that  which 
di'ank  uj)  the  strength  of  this  sinking  girl 
during  the  trial  of  her.  lover.  Actuated  by 
a  burning  and  restless  sense  of  distraction, 
she  passed  from  place  to  place  with  that 
mechanical  step  which  mai'ks  those  who 
seek  for  comfort  in  vain.  She  retired  to 
her  apartment  and  strove  to  pray  ;  but  the 
effort  was  fruitless ;  the  confusion  of  her 
mind  rendered  connection  and  continuity  of 
thought  and  language  impossible.  At  one 
moment  she  repaired  to  the  scenes  where 
they  had  met,  and  again  with  a  hot  and  ach- 
ing brain,  left  them  with  a  shudder  that 
arose  fi'om  a  withering  conception  of  the 
loss  of  him  whose  image,  by  their  association, 
was  at  once  rendered  more  distinct  and 
more  beloved.  Her  poor  mother  frequently 
endeavored  to  console  her,  but  became  too 
much  affected  herself  to  proceed.  Nor  were 
the  servants  less  anxious  to  remove  the 
heavj'  load  of  soitow  which  weighed  dovm. 
her  young  spirit  to  the  earth.  Her  brief, 
but  affecting  reply  was  the  same  to  each. 

"  Nothing  can  comfort  me  ;  my  heart  is 
breaking ;  oh,  leave  me — leave  me  to  the 
sorrow  that's  upon  me." 

Deep,  indeed,  was  the  distress  felt  on  her 
account,  even  by  the  females  of  her  father's 
house,  who,  that  day,  shed  many  bitter  tears 
on  witnessing  the  mute  but  feverish  agony 
of  her  sufferings.  As  evening  api^roached 
she  became  evidently  more  distracted  and 
depressed  ;  her  head,  she  said,  felt  hot,  and 
her  temples  occasionally  throbbed  with  con- 
siderable violence.  The  alternations  of  color 
on  her  cheek  were  more  frequent  than  be- 
fore, and  their  pallid  and  carmine  hues  were 
more  alarming!}'  contrasted.  Her  weeping 
mother  took  the  stricken  one  to  her  bosom, 
and,  after  kissing  her  burning  and  passive 
lips,  pressed  her  temples  with  a  hope  that 
this  might  give  her  relief. 

"  ^\^ly  don't  you  cry,  anien  machree  ? 
(daughter   of  my   heart).     Tiny   and   shed 


'  tears  ;  it'ill  take  away  this  burning  pain  that's 
:  in  your  poor  head  ;  oh,  thry  and  let  down 
I  the  tears,  and  you'll  see  how  it'ill  reHeve 
:  you." 

i  "  Mother,  I  can't,"  she  repUed  ;  "I  can 
;  shed  no  tears ;  I  wish  they  were  home,  for 
;  the  worst  couldn't  be  worse  than  this." 
I  "  No,  asthore,  it  couldn't — it  can't ;  husth ! 
:  — do  you  heai'  it  ?  There  they  are  ;  that's 
:  the  car  ;  ay,  indeed,  it's  at  the  gate." 
j  They  both  listened  for  a  moment,  and  the 
!  voices  of  her  father  and  brother  were  dis- 
I  tinctly  heard  giving  some  necessary  orders 
i  to  the  sei-vant. 

i      "Mother,  mother,"  exclaimed  Una,  press- 

I  ing  her  hands  iipon  her  heart,  "  my  heart 

is  bursting,   and  my  temjDles — my  temples 


"  Chiema  yeelish,"  said  the  mother,  feeling 
its  strong  and  rapid  palpitations,  "you  can't 
stand  this.  Oh,  darling  of  my  heart,  for  the 
sake  of  your  own  hfe,  and  of  the  living  God, 
be  firm  ! " 

At  this  moment  their  knock  at  the  hall- 
door  occasioned  her  to  leap  wdth  a  sudden 
start,  almost  out  of  her  mother's  arms.  But, 
all  at  once,  the  tumult  of  that  heart  ceased, 
and  the  vermillion  of  her  cheek  changed  to 
the  hue  of  death.  "With  a  composure  prob- 
ably more  the  residt  of  weakness  than  forti- 
tude, she  clasj)ed  her  hands,  and  giving  a 
fixed  gaze  towards  the  parlor-door,  that 
spoke  the  resignation  of  desj^air,  she  awaited 
the  tidings  of  her  lover's  doom.  They  both 
entered,  and,  after  a  cautious  glance  about 
the  room,  immediately  perceived  the  situation 
in  which,  rechning  on  her  mother's  bosom, 
she  lay,  ghastly  as  a  corpse,  before  them.. 

"Una,  deal',"  said  John,  approaching  her, 
"I  am  afi'aid  you  are  ill." 

She  riveted  her  eyeg*  u^jon  him,  as  if  she 
would  read  his  soul,  but  she  could  not  utter 
a  syllable. 

The  J'oung  man's  countenance  became 
overshadowed  hy  a  deep  and  mournful  sense 
of  the  task  he  found  himself  compelled  to 
perform  ;  his  voice  faltered,  and  his  lips 
trembled,  as,  in  a  low  tone  of  heartfelt  and 
profound  sympathy,  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Una,  dear,  you  had  better  go  to  bed,  and 
let  my  mother  stay  with  you." 

Calmly  she  heard  him,  and,  rising,  she 
slowly  but  deliberately  left  the  room,  and  pro- 
ceeded up  stairs  with  a  degree  of  steadiness 
which  surprised  her  mother.  The  onl}'  words 
she  uttered  on  hearing  this  blighting  com- 
munication, were,  "  Come  \\\i\\  me,  mother." 

"Una,  darling,"  said  the  latter  Avhen  they 
had  reached  the  bed-room,  "  why  don't  you 
spake  to  me  ?  Let  me  hear  your  voice, 
jewel  ;  onh'  let  me  hear  your  voice." 

Una  stooped  and  affectionately  kissed  her, 


FARDOROUOTIA,    THE  MISER. 


261 


but  made  no  reply  for  some  minutes.  She 
then  began  to  undress,  which  she  did  in  fits 
and  starts  ;  sometimes  pausing,  in  evident 
abstraction,  for  a  considerable  time,  and 
again  resuming  the  task  of  preparing  for 
bed. 

"Mother,"  she  at  length  saic""  my  heart 
is  as  cold  as  ice  ;  but  my  brain  is  burning  ; 
feel  my  temples  ;  how  hot  they  ai'e,  and  how 
they  beat !  " 

"  I  do,  alanna  dheelish  ;  your  body,  as  well 
as  youi-  mind,  is  sick  ;  but  we'll  sind  for  the 
doctor,  darlin',  and  you'll  soon  be  betther,  I 
hope." 

"I  hope  so  ;  and  then  Connor  and  I  can 
be  married  in  spite  of  them.  Don't  they 
say,  mother,  th;it  marriages  are  made  in 
heaven  ? " 

"They  do,  darlin'." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  meet  him  there.  Oh, 
my  head— my  head!  I  cannot  bear — bear 
this  racking  pain." 

Her  mother,  who,  though  an  uneducated 
woman,  was  by  no  means  deficient  in  saga- 
cit}',  immediately  perceived  that  her  mind 
was  beginning  to  exhibit  symptoms  of  being 
unsettled.  Having,  therefore,  immediately 
c.illed  one  of  the  maid-sen^ants,  she  gave  her 
orders  to  stay  with  Una,  who  had  now  gone 
to  bed,  until  she  herself  could  again  return 
to  her.  She  instantly  proceeded  to  the  par- 
lor, where  her  husband  and  son  were,  and 
\vith  a  face  pale  from  alarm,  told  them  that 
she  feared  Una's  mind  was  going.  W 

"  May  the  Almighty  forljid  ! "  exclaimed 
her  father,  laying  do\\Ti  his  knife  and  fork, 
for  they  had  just  sat  down  to  dinner  ;  "  oh, 
what  makes  you  say  such  a  thing,  Bridget  ? 
What  on  earth  makes  you  think  it  ?  " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  mother,  tell  us  at 
once,"  inquired  the  son,  rising  fi'om  the 
table,  and  walking  distractedly  across  the 
room. 

"  Why,  she's  beginning  to  rave  about  him," 
replied  her  mother;  "she's  afther  sajdng 
that  she'll  be  married  to  him~m  spite  o' 
them." 

"In  spite  o'  who,  Bridget?"  asked  the 
Bodagh,  wiping  his  e^'es — "  in  spite  o'  who 
does  she  mane  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  suppose  in  spite  of  Flanagan  and 
thim  that  found  him  guilty,"  I'eplied  his 
wife. 

"  Well,  but  what  else  did  she  say,  mo- 
ther?" 

"  She  axed  me  if  marriages  M'arn't  made 
in  heaven  ;  and  I  tould  her  that  the  people 
said  so  ;  upon  that  she  said  she'd  meet  him 
there,  and  then  she  complained  of  her  head. 
The  trewth  is,  she  has  a  heavy  load  of  sick- 
ness on  her  back,  and  the  sorra  hour  should 
be  lost  till  we  eet  a  docthor." 


"  Yes,  that  is  the  truth,  mother  ;  I'll  go 
this  moment  for  Dr.  H .  There's  noth- 
ing like  taking  these  things  in  time.  Poor 
Una !  God  knows  this  trial  is  a  sore  one 
upon  a  heart  so  faithful  and  aflfectionate  as 
hers." 

"  John,  had  you  not  betther  ait  something 
before  you  go  ?  "  said  his  father  ;  "  you  want 
it  afther  the  troublesome  day  you  had." 

"  No,  no,"  rejDhed  the  son  ;  "  I  cannot — I 
cannot ;  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink  till  I 
hear  w^hat  the  doctor  will  say  about  her.  O, 
my  God  ! "  he  exclaimed,  whilst  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  "and  is  it  come  to  tliiswith  you, 
our  darHng  Una  ? — I  won't  lose  a  moment 
till  I  return,"  he  added,  as  he  w^ent  out ; 
"  nor  will  I,  under  any  cu'cumstances,  come 
without  medical  aid  of  some  kind." 

"Let  these  things  be  taken  away,  Brid- 
get," said  the  Bodagh  ;  "  my  appetite  is  gone, 
too  ;  that  last  news  is  the  worst  of  all.  May 
the  Lord  of  heaven  keep  our  child's  mind 
right !  for,  oh,  Bridget,  wouldn't  death  itself 
be  far  afore  that  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  up  to  her,"  repHed  his  wife  ; 
"  and  may  God  guard  her,  and  spare  her 
safe  and  sovmd  to  us  ;  for  what — what  kind 

of  a  house  would  it  be  if  she but  I  can't 

think  of  it.  Oh,  wurrah,  wurrah,  this 
night ! " 

Until  the  return  of  their  son,  with  the 
doctor,  both  O'Brien  and  his  wife  hung  in  a 
state  of  alarm  bordering  on  agony  over  the 
bed  of  their  beloved  daughter.  Indeed,  the 
rapidity  and  vehemence  with  which  incoher- 
ence, accompanied  by  severe  illness,  set  in, 
were  sufficient  to  excite  the  greatest  alarm, 
and  to  justif}^  their  darkest  apprehensions. 
Her  skin  was  hot  almost  to  burning  ;  her 
temples  throbbed  terribly,  and  such  were  her 
fits  of  starting  and  ra^-ing,  that  they  felt  as 
if  every  minute  were  an  hour,  until  the  phy- 
sician actually  made  his  appearance.  Long 
before  this  gentleman  reached  the  house,  the 
son  had  made  him  fully  acquainted  with 
what  he  looked  upon  as  the  immediate  cause 
of  her  illness ;  not  that  the  doctor  liimself 
had  been  altogether  ignorant  of  it,  for,  in- 
deed, there  were  few  persons  of  any  class  or 
condition  in  the  neighborhood  to  whom  that 
circumstance  was  unknown. 

On  examining  the  diagnostics  that  pre- 
sented themselves,  he  pronounced  her  com- 
plaint to  be  brain  fever  of  the  most  formi- 
dable class,  to  wit.,  that  which  arises  from 
extraordinary  pressure  upon  the  mind,  and 
unusual  excitement  of  the  feelings.  It  was 
a  relief  to  her  family,  however,  to  know  that 
beyond  the  temporary  mental  aberrations, 
inseparable  from  the  nature  of  her  complaint, 
there  was  no  erideuce  whatsoever  of  insanit}'. 
They  felt  grateful  to  God  for  this,  and  were 


262 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S,   WORKS. 


conaequently  enabled  to  watch  lier  sick-bed 
with  more  composure,  and  to  look  forward 
to  her  ultimate  recovery  A\-ith  a  hope  less 
morbid  and  gloomy.  In  this  state  we  are 
now  compelled  to  leave  them  and  her,  and 
to  beg  the  reader  will  accompany  us  to 
another  house  of  sorrow,  where  the  mourn- 
ing was  still  more  deejD,  and  the  spirits  that 
were  wounded  driven  into  all  the  wild  and 
dreary  darkness  of  afthction. 

Oui'  readers  cannot  forget  the  helpless 
^tate  of  intoxication,  in  which  Fai'dorougha 
left  his  unhappy  son  on  the  evening  of  the 
calamitous  day  that  saw  him  doomed  to  an 
ignominious  death.  His  neighbors,  as  we 
then  said,  ha\ing  procured  a  cai\  assisted 
him  home,  and  would,  for  his  wife's  and  son's 
sake,  have  afforded  him  all  the  sympath}^  in 
their  power  ;  he  was,  however,  so  completely 
overcome  with  the  spirits  he  had  drank,  and 
an  unconscious  latent  feehng  of  the  dreadful 
sentence  that  had  been  pronounced  upon 
his  son,  that  he  required  httle  else  at  their 
hands  than  to  keep  him  steady  on  the  car. 
Dui'ingthe  gTeater  part  of  the  journey  home, 
his  language  was  only  a  continuation  of  the 
incoherencies  which  Connor  had,  with  such 
a  humihating  sense  of  shame  and  sorrow, 
witnessed  in  his  prison  cell.  A  little  before 
they  arrived  within  sight  of  his  house,  his  com- 
panions perceived  that  he  had  fallen  asleep  ; 
but  to  a  stranger,  ignorant  of  the  occurrences 
^f  the  day,  the  car  j^resented  the  appearance 
of  a  party  returning  fifom  a  wedding  or  fi'om 
<5ome  other  occasion  equally  festive  and  so- 
cial. Most  of  them  were  the  worse  for  liquor, 
<ind  one  of  them  in  particular  had  reached  a 
/jondition  which  may  be  too  often  -v\'ituessed 
in  this  country.  I  mean  that  in  which  the 
language  becomes  thick  ;  the  eye  knowing 
but  vacant ;  the  face  impudent  but  relaxed  ; 
the  hmbs  tottering,  and  the  voice  inveter- 
dtely  disposed  to  melod3^  The  general  con- 
versation, therefore,  of  those  who  accompa- 
nied the  old  man  was,  as  is  usual  with  persons 
^o  circumstanced,  high  and  windy  ;  but  as 
far  as  could  be  supposed  by  those  who  heard 
them  cheerful  and  amiable.  Over  the  loud- 
ness of  their  dialogue  might  be  heard,  from 
time  to  time,  at  a  gTeat  distance,  the  song  of 
the  drunken  melodist  just  alluded  to,  rising 
into  those  desperate  tones  which  borrow 
their  drowsy  energy  from  intoxication  alone. 
jSuch  was  the  character  of  those  who  accom- 
panied the  miser  home  ;  and  such  were  the 
indications  conveyed  to  the  ears  or  eyes  of 
those  who  either  saw  or  heard  them,  as  they 
approached  Fardorougha's  dwelling,  where 
the  unsleeping  heart  of  the  mother  watched 
— and  oh  !  with  what  a  dry  and  buraing  an- 
guish of  expectation,  let  our  readers  judge — 
for  the  life  or  death  of  the  only  child  that 


God  had  ever  vouchsafed  to  that  loving  heart 
on  which  to  rest  all  its  tenderest  hopes  and 
affections. 

The  manner  in  which  Honor  O'Donovan 
spent  that  day  was  marked  by  an  earnest 
and  simple  piety  that  would  have  excited 
high  jDraise  and  admiration  if  mtnessed  in 
a  person  of  rank  or  consideration  in  society. 
She  was,  as  the  reader  may  remember,  too 
ill  to  be  able  to  attend  the  trial  of  her  son, 
or  as  she  herself  expressed  it  in  Iiish,  to 
di'aw  strength  to  her  heart  by  one  look  at 
his  manly  face  ;  by  one  glance  fi'om  her  boy's 
eye.  She  resolved,  however,  to  draw  conso- 
lation fi'om  a  higher  source,  and  to  rest  the 
bui-den  of  her  sorrows,  as  far  as  in  her  lay, 
uj)on  that  being  in  whose  hands  are  the  is- 
sues of  life  and  death.  From  the  moment 
her  husband  left  the  threshold  of  his  child- 
less house  on  that  morning  until  his  retiirn, 
her  j^rayers  to  God  and  the  saints  were  tinily 
incessant.  And  who  is  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  inscinitable  ways  of  the  Almighty, 
as  to  dare  assert  that  the  humble  supjjUca- 
tions  of  this  pious  and  soiTowful  mother 
were  not  heard  and  answered  ?  Whether  it 
was  owing  to  the  fervor  of  an  imagination 
wi'ought  upon  by  the  influence  of  a  creed 
which  nourishes  religious  enthusiasm  in  an 
extraordinary  degree,  or  whether  it  was  by 
du'ect  support  fi'om  that  God  who  compas- 
sionated her  affliction,  let  others  determine  ; 
but  certain  it  is,  that  in  the  course  of  that 
day  she  ^ined  a  calmness  and  resignation, 
joined  to  an  increasmg  serenity  of  heart, 
such  as  she  had  not  hoj)ed  to  feel  imder  a 
calamity  so  black  and  terrible. 

On  hearing  the  approach  of  the  car  which 
bore  her  husband  home,  and  on  Hstening  to 
the  noisy  mirth  of  those,  who,  had  they  been 
sober,  would  have  sincerely  resjDected  her 
grief,  she  put  up  an  inward  jDrayer  of  thanks- 
gi^^.ng  to  God  for  what  she  supposed  to  be 
the  happy  event  of  Connor's  acquittal.  Stun- 
ning was  the  blow,  however,  and  dreadful  the 
re\Tilsion  of  feehngs,  occasioned  by  the  dis- 
covery of  this  sad  mistake.  WTien  they 
reached  the  door  she  felt  still  further  per- 
suaded that  all  had  ended  as  she  vsished,  for 
to  nothing  else,  except  the  wildness  of  unex- 
pected joy,  could  she  think  of  ascribing  her 
husband's  intoxication. 

"  We  must  carry  Fardorougha  in,"  said  one 
of  them  to  the  rest ;  "  for  the  liquor  has  fair- 
ly overcome  him — he's  sound  asleep." 

"  He  is  cleared  !  "  exclaimed  the  mother  ; 
"he  is  cleared  !  My  heart  tells  me  he  has 
come  out  without  a  stain.  "What  else  could 
make  his  father,  that  never  tasted  liquor  for 
the  last  thirty  years,  be  as  he  is  ?  " 

"  Honor  O'Donovan,"  said  one  of  them, 
wringing  her  hand  as  he  spoke,  "  this  has 


FARDOROUGHA.    THE  MISER. 


363 


been  a  black  day  to  you  all ;  you  must  pre- 
pare yourself  for  bad  news." 

"  Tliin  Christ  and  his  blessed  mother  sup- 
port me,  and  support  us  all  I  but  what  is  the 
worst  ?  oh,  what  is  the  worst  ?  " 

"The  barradh  dha,"  rej^lied  the  man,  al- 
luding to  the  black  cap  which  the  judge  puts 
on  when  passing  sentence  of  death. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  may  the  name  of  the 
Lord  that  sent  this  upon  us  be  praised  for- 
ever !  That's  no  rason  why  we  shouldn't 
still  put  our  trust  and  rehance  in  him.  I 
vnR  show  them,  by  the  help  of  God's  grace, 
an'  by  the  assistance  of  His  blessed  mother, 
who  suffered  herself — an'  oh,  what  is  my  suf- 
ferin's  to  her's  ? — I  will  show  them  I  say,  that 
I  can  bear,  as  a  Christian  ought,  whatever 
hard  fate  it  may  plase  the  Saviour  of  the  earth 
to  lay  ujjon  us.  I  know  my  son  is  innocent, 
an'  surely^  although  it's  hard,  hard  to  part 
with  such  a  boy,  yet  it's  a  consolation  to  know 
that  he'll  be  better  wid  God,  who  is  tnkin' 
him,  than  ever  he'd  be  wid  us.  fSo  the 
Lord's  will  be  done  this  night  and  forever  ! 
amin  I " 

This  noble  display  of  glowing  piety  and 
fortitude  was  not  lost  upon  those  who  -^-it- 
nessed  it.  After  uttering  these  simple  but 
exalted  sentiments,  she  crossed  herself  de- 
voutly, as  is  the  custom,  and  bowed  her  head 
with  such  a  vi\-id  sense  of  God's  presence, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  she  actually  stood,  as  no 
doubt  she  did,  under  the  shadow  of  His  pow- 
er. These  men,  knowing  the  force  of  her 
love  to  that  son,  and  th^  consequent  dejDth 
of  her  misery  at  losing  him  by  a  death  so 
shameful  and  violent,  reverently  took  off  their 
hats  as  she  bent  her  head  to  express  this  obe- 
dience to  the  decrees  of  God,  and  in  a  sub- 
dued tone  and  manner  exclaimed,  almost  with 
one  voice — 

"  May  God  pity  you.  Honor  !  for  who  but 
yoiu'self  would  or  could  act  as  you  do  this 
bitther,  bitther  night  ?  " 

"  I'm  only  doin'  what  I  ought  to  do,"  she 
repHed,  "  what  is  rehgion  good  for  if  it 
doesn't  keep  the  heart  right  an'  support  us 
undher  thrials  hke  this  ;  what  'ud  it  be  then 
but  a  name  ?  But  how,  oh  how,  came  his 
father  to  be  in  sich  a  state  on  this  bitther, 
bitther  night,  as  you  say  it  is — an'  oh  !  Heav- 
en above  sees  it's  that — how  came  /as  father, 
T  say,  into  sich  a  state  ?  "  j 

They  then  related  the  cii'cumstance  as  it 
actually  happened  ;  and  she  appeared  much 
relieved  to  hear  that  his  inebriety  was  only 
accidental.  ; 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  "that  he  got  it  as 
he  did  ;  for,  indeed,  if  he  had  made  himseK 
dhrunk  this  day,  as  too  many  like  him  do 
on  such  occasions,  he  never  again  would  np- 
pear  the  same  man  in  my  eyes,  nor  would  , 


my  heart  ever  more  warm  to  him  as  it  did. 
But  thanks  to  God  that  he  didn't  take  it 
him.self !  " 

She  then  heard,  with  a  composui'e  that 
could  result  only  from  fortitude  and  resig- 
nation united,  a  more  detailed  account  of 
her  son's  trial,  after  which  she  added — 

"As  God  is  above  me  this  night  I  find  it 
asier  to  lose  Connor  than  to  forgive  the  man 
that  destroyed  him  ;  but  this  is  a  bad  state 
of  heart,  that  I  trust  my  Saviour  wall  give 
me  gi-ace  to  overcome  ;  an'  I  know  He  will 
if  I  ax  it  as  I  ought ;  at  all  events,  I  won't 
lay  my  side  on  a  bed  this  night  antil  I  pray 
to  God  to  forgive  Bartle  Flanagan  an'  to  tvun 
his  heart." 

She  then  pressed  them,  with  a  heart  as 
hospitable  as  it  was  pious,  to  partake  of 
food,  which  they  declined,  from  a  natural 
reluctance  to  give  trouble  where  the  heart  is 
known  to  be  pressed  down  by  the  violence 
of  domestic  calamity.  These  are  distinc- 
tions which  our  humble  countr^Tnen  draw 
with  a  deUcacy  that  may  well  shame  those 
who  move  in  a  higher  rank  of  Hfe.  Eespect 
for  unmerited  affliction,  and  s^iniDathy  for 
the  sorrows  of  the  just  and  vii'tuous,  are  never 
withheld  by  the  Iiish  peasant  when  allowed 
by  those  who  can  guide  him  either  for  good 
or  for  evil  to  follow  the  impulses  of  his  own 
heart.  The  dignity,  for  instance,  of  Honor 
O'Donovan's  bearing  imder  a  trial  so  over- 
whelming in  its  nature,  and  the  piety  with 
which  she  supported  it,  struck  them,  half 
tipsy  as  they  were,  so  forcibly,  that  they  be- 
came sobered  dowTa — some  of  them  into  a  full 
perception  of  her  firmness  and  high  rehgious 
feelings  ;  and  those  who  were  more  affected 
by  diink  into  a  maudhn  gravity  of  deport- 
ment still  more  honorable  to  the  admh-able 
principles  of  the  woman  who  occasioned  it. 

One  of  the  latter,  for  instance,  named  Bat 
Hanratty,  exclaimed,  after  they  had  bade 
her  good  night,  and  expressed  their  unaffect- 
ed sorrow  for  the  severe  loss  she  was  about 
to  sustain  : 

"  Well,  well,  you  may  all  talk  ;  but  be  the 
powdhers  o'  delf,  nothin'  bai-rin'  the  downi- 
right  gi-ace  o'  God  could  suj) — sup-port  that 
dacent  mother  of  ould  Fardorougha — I  mane 
of  his  son.  poor  Connor.  But  the  tinith  is,  you 
see,  that  there's  nothin' — nothin'  no,  the  div- 
il  saize  the  hap'o'rth  at  all,  good,  bad,  or  indif- 
ferent aquil  to  puttin'  your  tinist  in  God  ; 
bekase,  you  see — Con  Roach,  I  say — bekase 
you  see,  when  a  man  does  that  as  he  ought 
to  do  it  ;  for  it's  all  ftiisthelagh  if  you  go 
the  wi-ong  way  about  it  ;  but  Con — Condy, 
I  say,  you're  a  dacent  man,  an'  it  stands  to 
raison — it  does,  boys — upon  my  soul  it  does. 
It  wasn't  for  nothin'  that  money  was  lost 
upon  myseK,  when  I  was  takin'  in  the  edjig- 


264 


WILLIAM   CARLE  TON'S  WORKS. 


gation  ;  and  maybe,  if  Connor  O'Donovan, 
that  is  now  goin'  to  suffer,  poor  fellow — 

For  the  villain  swore  away  my  life,  an'  all  by  per- 

juree  / 
And  for  that  same  I  die  wid  shame  upon  the  gallows 

tree. 

So,  as  I  was  sajdn',  why  didn't  Connor  come 
in  an'  join  the  boys  like  another,  an'  then  we 
could  settle  Bartle  for  staggin'  against  him. 
For,  3'ou  see,  in  regard  o'  that,  Condy,  it 
doesn't  signify  a  traueen  whether  he  put  a 
match  to  the  haggard  or  not ;  the  thing  is, 
you  know,  that  even  if  he  did,  Bartle  daren't 
swear  against  him  widout  breakin'  his  first 
oath  to  the  boys  ;  an'  if  he  did  it  afther  that, 
an'  brought  any  of  them  into  throuble  con- 
thrary  to  the  articles,  be  gorra  he'd  be 
entitled  to  get  a  gusset  opened  undher  one 
o'  his  ears,  any  how.  But  you  see,  Con,  be 
the  book — God  pardon  me  for  swearin' — but 
be  the  book,  the  mother  has  the  thrue 
ralligion  in  her  heart,  or  she'd  never  stand  it 
the  way  she  does,  an'  that  proves  what  I  was 
axjDoundin' ;  that  afther  all,  the  sorra  hap'- 
o'rth  aquil  to  the  grace  o'  God." 

He  then  sang  a  comic  song,  and,  having 
passed  an  additional  eulogium  on  the  conduct 
of  Honor  O'Donovan,  concluded  by  exliibiting 
some  rather  unequivocal  symptoms  of  becom- 
ing pathetic  fi'om  sheer  sympathy ;  after 
which  the  soporific  effect  of  his  libations  soon 
hushed  him  into  a  snore  that  acted  as  a  base 
to  the  shi'ill  tones  in  which  his  companions 
addressed  one  another  fi'om  each  side  of  the 
car. 

Fardorougha,  ever  since  the  passion  of 
avarice  had  estabhshed  its  accursed  dominion 
in  his  heart,  narrowed  by  degrees  his  domes- 
tic establishment,  until,  towards  the  latter 
years  of  his  hfe,  it  consisted  of  only  a  labor- 
ing boy,  as  the  term  is,  and  a  sei-vant  girl. 

Indeed,  no  miser  was  ever  kno"mi  to  main- 
tain a  large  household  ;  and  that  for  reasons 
too  obvious  to  be  detailed.  Since  Connor's 
incarceration,  however,  his  father's  heart  had 
so  far  expanded,  that  he  hired  two  men  as 
inside  sei-vants,  one  of  them,  now  the  father 
of  a  large  family,  being  the  identical  Nogher 
M'Cormick,  who,  as  the  reader  remembers, 
was  in  his  sei'vice  at  the  time  of  Connor's 
birth.  The  other  was  a  young  man  named 
Thaddy  Star,  or  Keillaghan,  as  it  is  called  in 
Ii'ish,  who  was  engaged  upon  the  recom- 
mendation of  Biddy  Nulty,  then  an  estab- 
lished favorite  with  her  master  and  mistress, 
in  consequence  of  her  faithful  devotion  to 
them  and  Connor,  and  her  simiDle-hearted 
participation  in  their  heavy  trouble.  The 
manner  in  which  they  received  the  result  of 
her  son's  trial  was  not  indeed  calculated  to 
sustain  his  mother.     In   the   midst   of  the 


clamor,  however,  she  was  calm  and  com- 
posed ;  but  it  would  have  been  evident,  to  a 
close  observer,  that  a  deep  impression  of 
religious  duty  alone  sustained  her,  and  that 
the  yearnings  of  the  mother's  heart,  though 
stilled  by  resignation  to  the  Divine  Will,  were 
yet  more  intensely  agonized  by  the  sup- 
pression of  what  she  secretly  felt.  Such, 
however,  is  the  motive  of  those  heroic  acts 
of  self-denial,  which  religion  only  can  enable 
us  to  perform.  It  does  not  harden  the  heart, 
or  prevent  it  fi'om  feeling  the  full  force  of 
the  calamity  or  sorrow  which  comes  upon  us  ; 
no,  but  whilst  we  experience  it  in  aU  the 
rigor  of  distress,  it  teaches  us  to  reflect  that 
suffering  is  our  lot,  and  that  it  is  our  duty  to 
receive  these  severe  dispensations  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  prevent  others  from  being  cor- 
rupted by  our  impatience,  or  by  our  open  want 
of  submission  to  the  decrees  of  Providence. 
When  the  agony  of  the  Man  of  Sorrow  was 
at  its  highest,  He  retired  to  a  solitary  place, 
and  whilst  every  pore  exuded  water  and 
blood,  he  still  exclaimed — "  Not  My  wiU,  but 
Thine  be  done."  Here  was  resignation,  in- 
deed, but  at  the  same  time  a  heart  exquisitely 
sensible  of  aU  it  had  to  bear.  And  much,  in- 
deed, as  yet  lay  before  that  of  the  pious 
mother  of  our  unhappy  hero,  and  severe  was 
the  trial  which,  on  this  very  night,  she  was 
doomed  to  encounter. 

When  Fardorougha  awoke,  which  he  did 
not  do  until  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  looked  wildly  about  him,  and,  start- 
ing up  in  the  bec^  put  his  two  hands  on  his 
temples,  like  a  man  distracted  by  acute  pain ; 
yet  anxious  to  develop  in  his  memory  the 
proceedings  of  the  foregoing  day.  The  in- 
mates, however,  were  startled  from  their 
sleep  by  a  shriek,  or  rather  a  yell,  so  loud 
and  unearthly  that  in  a  few  minutes  they 
stood  collected  about  his  bed.  It  would  be 
impossible,  indeed,  to  conceive,  much  less  to 
describe,  such  a  picture  of  utter  horror  as 
then  presented  itself  to  their  observation. 
A  look  that  resembled  the  turbid  glare  of 
insanity  was  riveted  ujDon  them  whilst  he 
uttered  shriek  after  slii'iek,  without  the 
power  of  articulating  a  syllable.  The  room, 
too,  was  dim  and  gloomy  ;  for  the  light  of 
the  candle  that  was  left  burning  beside  him 
had  become  ghastly  for  want  of  snuffing. 
There  he  sat — his  fleshless  hands  pressed 
against  his  temples ;  his  thin,  gray  hair 
standing  out  wildly  fi'om  his  head  ;  his  hps 
asunder  ;  and  his  cheeks  sucked  in  so  far 
that  the  chasms  occasioned  in  his  jawbones, 
by  the  want  of  his  back  teeth,  were  plainly 
visible. 

"  Chiemah  dheelish,"  exclaimed  Honor, 
"what  is  this ?  as  Heaven's  above  me,  I  be- 
lieve he's  dyin' ;    see  how  he  gasps !     Here, 


I 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


265 


Oh, 
my 

thin 
an' 


Fardorougha,"  she  exclaimed,  seizing  a  jug 
of  water  which  had  been  left  on  a  chair  be- 
side him,  but  which  he  evidently  did  not 
see,  "  here,  here,  darlin',  wet  your  Hps  ;  the 
cool  water  will  refresh  you." 

He  immediately  clutched  the  jug  with 
eager  and  trembling  hands,  and  at  one  rapid 
draught  emptied  it  to  the  bottom. 

"  Now,"  he  shouted,  "  I  can  spake,  now  I 
can  spake.  Where's  my  son  ?  Avhere's  my 
son?  an'  what  has  hapi^ened  me?  how 
did  I  come  here  ?  was  I  mad  ?  am  I  mad  ? 
but  tell  me,  tell  me  first,  where's  Connor? 
Is  it  thrue  ?  is  it  all  thrue  ?  or  is  it  me 
that's  mad  ?  " 

" Fardorougha,  dear,"  said  his  wife,  "be 
a  man,  or,  rather,  be  a  Chi'istian.  It  was 
God  gave  Connor  to  us,  and  who  has  a  bet- 
ter right  to  take  him  back  from  us  ?  Don't 
be  ti.^Tin'  in  His  face,  bekase  He  won't  ordher 
everything  as  you  wish.  You  haven't  taken 
off  of  you  to-night,  so  rise,  dear,  and  calm 
yourself  ;  then  go  to  your  knees,  Uft  your 
heart  to  God,  and  beg  of  Him  to  grant  you 
strinth  and  patience.  Thry  that  coorse, 
avourneen,  an'  you'll  find  it  the  best." 

"How   did   I   come   home,   I  say? 
tell  me.   Honor,  tell  me,  was  I  out  c 
wits  ?  " 

"You   fainted,"  she  replied;    "and 
they  gave  you  whiskey  to  support  you 
not  bein'  accustomed  to  it,  it  got  into  your 
head." 

"  Oh,  Honor,  our  son,  our  son  !  "  he  re- 
plied ;  then,  stai'ting  out  of  the  bed  in  a  fit 
of  the  wildest  despair,  he  clasped  his  hands 
together,  and  shrieked  out,  "  Oh,  our  son, 
our  son,  our  son  Connor  !  Merciful  Sa\T.our, 
how  will  I  name  it  ?  to  be  hanged  by  the 
neck !  Oh,  Honor,  Honoi-,  don't  you  pity 
me  ?  don't  you  pity  me  ?  Mother  of  Heaven, 
tliis  night?  That  barradh  dhu,  that  barradh 
dhu,  put  on  for  our  boy,  our  innocent  boy  ; 
who  can  undherstand  it.  Honor?  It's  not 
justice  ;  there's  no  justice  in  Heaven,  or  my 
son  wouldn't  be  murdhered,  slaughtered 
down  in  the  jjrime  of  his  life,  for  no  rason  ! 
But  no  matther ;  let  him  be  taken  ;  only 
near  this :  if  he  goes,  I'll  never  bend  my 
knee  to  a  single  prayer  while  I've  life  ;  for 
't's  terrible,  it's  cruel,  'tisn't  justice  ;  nor  do 
i  care  what  becomes  of  me,  either  in  this 
;  <vorld  or  the  other.  All  I  want,  Honor,  is 
M  foUy  him  as  soon  as  I  can  ;  my  hopes,  my 
lappinesa,  my  life,  my  everything,  is  gone 
\vid  him  ;  an'  what  need  I  care,  thin,  what 
iDecomes  of  me?    I  don't,  I  don't." 

The  faces  of  the  domestics  grew  pale  as 
•Jiey  heard,  Avith  silent  horror,  the  inco- 
lerent  blasphemies  of  the  frantic  miser  ; 
Dut  his  wife,  whose  eyes  were  riveted  on 
dm  while  he  spoke,  and  paced,  with  a  hur- 


ried step,  up  and  down  the  room,  felt  at  a 
loss  whether  to  attribute  his  impiety  to  an 
attack  of  insanity,  or  to  a  temporai-y  fever, 
brought  on  by  his  late  sufferings  and  the 
intoxication  of  the  preceding  night. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Ghost,  Fardorougha,"  she  said  calmly, 
placing  her  hand  upon  liis  shoulder,  "are 
you  sinsible  that  you're  this  minute  afther 
blasj)hemin'  your  Creator  ?  " 

He  gave  her  a  quick,  disturbed,  and  pee- 
vish look,  but  made  no  reply.  She  then 
proceeded  : 

"  Fardorougha,  I  thought  the  loss  of  Con- 
nor the  greatest  pvmishment  that  could  be 
put  upon  me  ;  but  I  find  I  was  mistaken. 
I  would  rather  see  him  dead  to-morrow,  wid, 
wid  the  rope  about  his  neck,  than  to  hear  his 
father  blasphemin'  the  lixin'  God !  Fardo- 
rougha, it's  clear  that  you're  not  now  fit  to 
pray  for  yourself,  but,  in  the  name  of  our 
Saviour,  I'll  go  an'  pray  for  you.  In  the 
mean  time,  go  to  bed  ;  sleep  will  settle  your 
head,  and  you  will  be  better,  I  tinist,  in  the 
moiTiin'." 

The  calm  solemnity  of  her  manner  awed 
him,  notmthstanding  the  vehemence  of  his 
grief.  He  stood  and  looked  at  her,  A\ith  his 
hands  tightly  clasped,  as  she  went  to  her 
son's  bedroom,  in  order  to  pray  for  him. 
For  a  moment,  he  seemed  abashed  and 
stunned.  ^Vhile  she  addressed  him,  he  in- 
voluntarily ceased  to  utter  those  sounds  of 
anguish  which  Avere  neither  sliiieks  nor 
gi'oans,  but  something  between  both.  He 
then  resumed  his  pace,  but  vnth  a  more 
settled  step,  and  for  some  minutes  main- 
tained perfect  silence. 

"Get  me,"  said  he,  at  length,  "get  me  a 
drink  of  wather  ;  I'm  in  a  flame  wid  drouth." 

When  Biddy  Nuify  went  out  to  fetch  him 
this,  he  inquired  of  the  rest  what  Honor 
meant  by  charging  him  -nith  blasphemy. 

"  Surely  to  God,  I  didn't  blaspharae,"  he 
said,  peeA-ishly  ;  "  no,  no,  I'm  not  that  bad  ; 
but  any  how,  let  her  pray  for  me  ;  her  prayer 
will  be  heard,  if  ever  woman's  was." 

WTien  Biddy  returned,  he  emptied  the  jug 
of  water  vnth.  the  same  trembling  eagerness 
as  before  ;  then  clasped  his  hands  again,  and 
commenced  pacing  the  room,  e\-idently  in  a 
mood  of  mind  about  to  darken  into  all  the 
wildness  of  his  former  grief. 

"Fardorougha,"  said  Nogher  M'Cormick  ; 
"I  was  uhdher  this  roof  the  night  your 
manly  son  was  born.  I  remimber  it  weU  ; 
an'  I  remimber  more  betoken,  I  had  to  check 
you  for  flying  in  the  face  o'  God  that  sent 
him  to  you.  Instead  o'  feeliu'  happy  and 
delighted,  as  you  ought  to  ha'  done,  an'  as 
any  other  man  but  yourself  would,  you  gi*ew 
dark  an'  sulky,   and  grumbled  bekase  you 


266 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


tliought  there  was  a  family  comin'.  I  tovild 
you  that  night  to  take  cai-e  an'  not  be  com- 
mitting sin  ;  an'  you  may  remimber,  too, 
that  I  gev  you  chapter  an'  verse  for  it  out  o' 
Scripture  :  '  Woe  be  to  the  man  that's  bom 
wid  a  millstone  about  his  neck,  especially  if 
he's  to  be  cast  into  the  say.'  The  truth  is, 
Fardorougha,  you  wam't  thankful  to  God 
for  him  ;  and  you  see  that  afther  all,  it 
doesn't  do  to  go  to  loggerheads  wid  the  Al- 
mighty. Maybe,  had  you  been  thankful  for 
him,  he  wouldn't  be  where  he  is  this  night. 
Millstone  !  Faith,  it  was  a  home  thrust,  that 
same  verse  ;  for  if  you  didn't  carry  the  mill- 
stone about  your  neck,  you  had  it  in  your 
heart ;  an'  you  now  see  and  feel  the  upshot. 
I'm  now  goin'  fast  into  age  myself  ;  my  hair 
is  grayer  than  youi-  own,  and  I  could  take  it 
to  my  death,"  said  the  honest  fellow,  w^hile 
a  tear  or  two  ran  slowly  down  his  cheek  ; 
"  that,  exceptin'  one  o'  my  own  childre',  an' 
may  God  spare  them  to  me  !  I  couldn't  feel 
more  sorrow  at  the  fate  of  any  one  Hvin', 
than  at  Connor's.  Many  a  time  I  held  him 
in  these  arms,  an'  many  a  little  play  I  made 
for  him  ;  an'  many  a  time  he  axed  me  why 
his  father  didn't  nurse  him  as  I  did  ; '  bekase,' 
he  used  to  say,  '  I  would  rather  he  would 
nurse  me  than  anybody  else, .  barring  my 
mother  ;  and,  afther  him,  you,  Nogher.'  " 

These  last  obervations  of  his  servant 
probed  the  heart  of  the  old  man  to  the 
quick  ;  but  the  feehng  which  they  excited 
was  a  healthy  one  ;  or,  rather,  the  associa- 
tions they  occasioned  threw  Fardorougha's 
mind  upon  the  memory  of  those  affections, 
which  avarice  had  suppressed,  without  de- 
stroying. 

"I  loved  him,  Nogher,"  said  he,  deeply 
agitated  ;  "  Oh  none  but  God  knows  how  I 
loved  Mm,  although  I  didn't  an'  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  show  it  at  the  time.  There 
was  something  ujjon  me  ;  a  curse,  I  think, 
that  prevented  me  ;  an'  now  that  I  love  him 
as  a  father  ought  to  do,  I  will  not  have  him. 
Oh,  my  son,  my  son,  what  will  become  of 
me,  after  you?  Heavenly  Father,  pity  me 
and  support  me !  Oh,  Connor,  my  son,  my 
son,  what  will  become  of  me  ?  " 

He  then  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and,  placing 
his  hands  upon  his  face,  wept  long  and  bit- 
terly. His  grief  now,  however,  was  natural, 
for,  during  the  most  violent  of  his  paroxysms 
in  the  preceding  hour,  he  shed  not  a  tear  ;  yet 
now  they  ran  down  his  cheeks,  and  through 
his  fingers,  in  toi'rents. 

"  Cry  on,  cry  on,"  said  Nogher,  wiping  his 
own  eyes ;  "it  will  lighten  your  heart;  an' 
who  knows  but  it's  his  mother's  prayers 
that  brought  you  to  yourseK,  and  got  this 
rehef  for  you.  Go,  Biddy,"  said  he,  in  a 
..Jiisper,  to  tlie  servant-maid,  "  and  tell  the 


mistress  to  come  here  ;  she'll  know  best  ho\* 
to  manage  him,  now  that  he's  a  little  calm." 

"  God  be  jDraised  ! "  ejaculated  Honor,  on 
seeing  him  weep  ;  "  these  tears  will  cool  youi 
head,  avourneen;  an' now,  Fardorougha,  when 
you're  tired  cryin',  if  you  take  my  advice, 
you'll  go  to  your  knees  an'  offer  up  five  pa- 
thers,  five  Aves,  an'  a  creed,  for  the  gi-ace  of 
the  Almighty  to  dii-ect  and  strengthen  you  ; 
and  thin,  afther  that,  go  to  bed,  as  I  sed,  an' 
you'll  find  how  well  you'll  be  afther  a  sound 
sleep." 

"  Honor," replied  her  husband,  "avourneen 
machree,  I  think  you'll  save  youi*  husband's 
sowl  3'et,  undher  my  merciful  Saviour." 

"  Your  son,  undher  the  same  merciful 
God,  will  do  it.  Your  heai't  was  hai*d  and 
godless,  Fardorougha,  and,  siu-ely,  if 
Connor's  death  '11  be  the  manes  of  savin'  his 
father's  sowi,  woioldn't  it  be  a  blessin'  instead 
of  a  misfortune  ?  Think  of  it  in  that  hght, 
Fardorougha,  and  turn  your  heart  to  God. 
As  for  Connor,  isn't  it  a  comfort  to  know 
that  the  breath  won't  be  out  of  his  body  till 
he's  a  bright  angel  in  heaven  ?  " 

The  old  man  wij)ed  his  eyes  and 
knelt  down,  first  ha%ing  desired  them  to 
leave  him.  When  the  prayei's  were  recited 
he  called  in  Honor. 

"I'm  afeard,"  said  he,  "that  my  heart 
wasn't  properly  in^  them,  for  I  couldn't  pre- 
vent my  mind  fi'om  wanderin'  to  our  boy." 

This  touching  observation  took  the 
mother's  affections  by  surprise.  A  tear 
started  to  her  eye,  but,  after  what  was  evi- 
dently a  severe  struggle,  she  suppressed  it. 

"  It's  not  at  once  you  can  do  it,  Fardo- 
rougha ;  so  don't  be  cast  dowoi.  Now,  go  to 
bed,  in  the  name  of  God,  and  sleep  ;  and 
may  the  Lord  in  heaven  supjDort  you — and 
support  us  both  !  for  oh  !  it's  we  that  w'ant 
it  this  night  of  sorrow  !  " 

She  then  stooped  down  and  affectionately 
kissed  him,  and,  having  wished  him  good 
night,  she  retired  to  Connor's  bed,  where, 
ever  since  the  day  of  his  incarceration,  this 
w-ell-tried  mother  and  enduring  Christian 
slept. 

At  this  stage  of  our  story  we  w'ill  pause, 
for  a  moment,  to  consider  the  state  of  mind 
and  comparative  happiness  of  the  few  persons 
who  are  actors  in  our  humble  drama.  / 

To  a  person  capable  of  observing  only  hu 
man  action,  independently  of  the  motives  by 
which  it  is  regulated,  it  may  appear  that  the 
day  which  saw  Connor  O'Donovan  consigned 
to  a  premature  and  shameful  death,  was  one 
of  unmingled  happiness  to  Bartle  Flanagan  / 
They  know  little  of  man's  heart,  however  "^ 
who  could  suppose  this  to  be  the  case,  or 
who  could  even  imagine  that  he  was  happiei 
than  those  on  whom  his  revenge  and  pei^dy 


FARDOROUGUA,   THE  MISER. 


267 


had  entailed  such  a  crushing  load  of  misery.  | 
It  is,  indeed,  impossible  to  gxiess  what  the  j 
nature  of  that  feeling  must  be  which  arises  ! 
from  the  full  gratification  of  mean  and 
diabolic  malignity.  Every  action  of  the 
heax't  at  variance  wdth  virtue  and  truth  is 
forced  to  keep  up  so  many  minute  and  fear- 
ful precautions,  aU  of  which  are  felt  to  be  of 
vast  moment  at  the  time,  that  we  question  if 
ever  the  greatest  glut  of  vengeance  produced, 
no  matter  what  the  occasion  may  have  been, 
any  satisfaction  capable  of  counterbalancing 
all  the  contigencies  and  apprehensions  by 
which  the  mind  is  distracted  l3oth  before  and 
after  its  preparation.  The  plan  and  accom- 
plishment must  both  be  j^erfect  in  all  their 
parts — for  if  either  fail  only  in  a  single 
point,  all  is  lost,  and  the  pleasure  arising 
from  them  resembles  tlie  fniit  wliich  is  said 
to  grow  by  the  banks  of  the  Dead  Sea — it  is 
beautiful  and  tempting  to  the  eye,  but  bit- 
terness and  ashes  to  the  taste. 

The  failing  of  the  county  treasurer,  for  in- 
stance, deprived  Bartle  Flanagan  of  more 
than  one  half  his  revenge.  He  was  certainly 
far  more  anxious  to  punish  the  father  than 
the  son,  and  were  it  not  that  he  saw  no  other 
mode  of  eflecting  his  vengeance  on  Fardo- 
rougha,  than  by  destroying  the  only  object 
on  earth  that  he  loved  next  to  his  wealth,  he 
would  have  never  made  the  innocent  pay  the 
penalty  of  the  guilty.  As  he  had  gone  so 
far,  however,  self-jireservation  now  made  him 
anxious  that  Connor  should  die  ;  as  he  knew 
his  death  would  remove  out  of  his  way  the 
only  person  in  existence  absolutely  acquaint- 
ed with  his  villany.  One  would  think,  indeed, 
that  the  sentence  pronounced  upon  his  vic- 
tim ought  to  have  satisfied  him  on  that  head. 
This,  however,  it  failed  to  do.  That  sentence 
contained  one  clause,  which  utterly  destro^^ed 
the  completeness  of  his  design,  and  fiUed  his 
soul  with  a  secret  apprehension  either  of  just 
retribution,  or  some  future  ill  which  he  could 
not  shake  oflf,  and  for  which  the  reward  re- 
ceived for  Connor's  apprehension  was  but  an 
ineffectual  antidote.  The  clause  alluded  to 
in  the  judge's  charge,  viz. — "  the  recommen- 
dation of  the  jury  to  the  mercy  of  the  Crown, 
m  consideration  of  your  youth,  and  i)revious 
good  conduct,  shall  not  be  overlooked " — 
sounded  in  his  ears  Kke  some  mysterious 
sentence  that  involved  his  own  fate,  and  liter- 
ally filled  his  heart  A\ith  terror  and  dismay, 
independently  of  all  this  his  \'illanous  pro- 
ects  had  involved  him  in  a  systematic 
30urse  of  guilt,  wliicli  was  yet  far  from  being 
wrought  to  a  close.  In  fact,  he  now  found  by 
experience  how  difficult  it  is  to  work  out  a 
3ad  action  with  success,  and  how  the  means, 
-nd  jil'ins,  and  instiniments  necessaiy  to  it 
jaust  multiply  and  become  so  deep  and  com- 


pHcated  in  guilt,  that  scarcely  any  single  in- 
tellect, in  the  case  of  a  person  who  can  be 
reached  by  the  laws,  is  equal  to  the  task  of 
executing  a  great  crime  against  society,  in  a 
perfect  manner.  If  tliis  were  so,  discovery 
would  be  impossible,  and  revenge  certain. 

With  respect  to  Connor  himself  it  is  only 
necessary  to  say  that  a  short  but  weU-spent 
hfe,  and  a  heart  naturally  firm,  depi'ived 
death  of  its  greatest  terrors.  Still  he  felt  it, 
in  some  deprerjsed  moods,  a  terrible  thing  in- 
deed to  reflect,  that  he,  in  the  very  fuUness 
of  strength  and  youth,  should  be  cut  down 
from  among  his  fellows — a  ^ictim  without  a 
crime,  and  laid  with  shame  in  the  grave  of  a 
felon.  But  he  had  witnessed  neither  his 
mother's  piety  nor  her  example  in  vain,  and 
it  was  in  the  gloom  of  his  dungeon  that  he 
felt  the  light  of  both  upon  his  sj^ii-it. 

"  Surely,"  said  he,  "as  I  am  to  die,  is  it 
not  better  that  I  should  die  innocent  than 
guilty  ?  Instead  of  fretting  that  I  suffer,  a 
guiltless  man,  sui-ely  I  ought  to  thank  God 
that  I  am  so  ;  an'  that  my  soul  hasn't  to  meet 
the  sin  of  such  a  revengeful  act  as  I'm  now 
condemned  for.  I'U  die,  then,  like  a  Chris- 
tian man,  putting  my  hope  and  trust  in  the 
mercy  of  my  Redeemer — ever  an'  always  hop- 
ing that  by  His  assistance  I  will  be  enabled 
to  do  it." 

Different,  indeed,  were  the  moral  state  and 
position  of  these  two  young  men  ;  the  one, 
though  lying  in  his  prison  cell,  was  sustain- 
ed by  the  force  of  conscious  innocence,  and 
that  rehance  ujjon  the  mercy  of  God,  which 
constitutes  the  highest  order  of  piety,  and 
the  noblest  basis  of  fortitude  ;  the  other,  on 
the  contrary,  disturbed  by  the  tumultuous 
and  gloomy  associations  of  guilt,  and  writh- 
ing under  the  conriction,  that,  although  he 
had  revenge,  he  had  not  satisfaction.  The 
terror  of  crime  was  upon  him,  and  he  felt 
himself  deprived  of  that  best  and  only  secu- 
rity, wliich  sets  all  vain  apprehensions  at  de- 
fiance, the  consciousness  of  inward  integrity. 
WTio,  after  all,  would  barter  an  honest  heart 
for  the  danger  arising  fx'om  secret  riUany, 
when  such  an  apparently  triumphant  villain 
as  Bartle  Flanagan  felt  a  deadly  fear  of  Con- 
nor O'Donovan  in  his  very  dungeon  ?  Such, 
however,  is  guilt,  and  such  are  the  terrors 
that  accompany  it. 

The  circumstances  which,  in  Ireland,  usual- 
ly foUow  the  conriction  of  a  criminal,  are  so 
similar  to  each  other,  that  we  feel  it,  even  in 
this  case,  unnecessary  to  do  more  than  give 
a  mere  sketch  of  Connor's  brief  life  as  a  cul- 
prit. We  have  just  obsei'ved  that  the  only 
clause  in  the  judge's  charge  wliich  smote  the 
heart  of  the  traitor,  Flanagan,  with  a  pre- 
sentiment of  evil,  W'as  that  containing  th'^ 
words  in  which  something  like  a  hope  of  I....- 


268 


WILLIAM  OARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ing  Ms  sentence  mitigated  was  held  out  to 
Tiirn,  in  consequence  of  the  recommendation 
to  mercy  by  which  the  jury  accompanied 
their  verdict.  It  is  very  strange,  on  the 
other  hand,  that,  at  the  present  stage  of  our 
story,  neither  his  father  n3r  mother  knew  any- 
thing whatsoever  of  the  judge  having  given 
expression  to  such  a  hope.  The  old  man, 
distracted  as  he  was  at  the  time,  heard  noth- 
ing, or  at  least  remembered  nothing,  but 
the  a^vful  appearance  of  the  black  cap,  or,  as 
they  term  it  in  the  country,  the  harradhdhu, 
and  the  paralyzing  words  in  which  the  sen- 
tence of  death  was  pronounced  upon  his  son. 
It  consequently  happened  that  the  same 
clause  in  the  charge  actually,  although  in  a 
different  sense,  occasioned  the  misery  of  Bar- 
tie  Flanagan  on  the  one  hand,  ^nd  of  Con- 
nor's parents  on  the  other. 

The  morning  after  the  trial,  Fardorougha 
was  up  as  early  as  usual,  but  his  grief  was 
nearly  as  vehement  and  frantic  as  on  the 
preceding  night.  It  was  observed,  however 
— such  is  the  power  of  sorrow  to  humanize 
and  create  symjDathy  in  the  heart — that, 
when  he  arose,  instead  of  peevishly  and 
weakly  obtruding  his  grief  and  care  upon 
those  about  him,  as  he  was  wont  to  do,  he 
now  kept  aloof  from  the  room  in  which  Hon- 
or slejDt,  fi'om  an  ap]Drehension  of  disturbing 
her  repose — a  fact  which  none  who  knew  his 
previous  selfishness  would  have  beheved,  had 
he  not  himself  expressed  in  strong  terms  a 
fear  of  awakening  her.  Nor  did  this  new 
trait  of  his  character  escajae  the  observation 
of  his  own  servants,  especially  of  his  honest 
monitor,  Nogher  M'Cormick. 

"Well,  well,"  exclaimed  this  rustic  phil- 
osopher ;  "  see  what  God's  affliction  does. 
Faith,  it  has  brought  Fardorougha  to  feel  a 
trifle  for  others,  as  well  as  for  himseK.  Who 
knows,  begad,  biit  it  may  take  the  millstone 
out  of  his  heart  yet  ;  and  if  it  does,  my  word 
to  you,  he  may  thank  his  wife,  undher  God, 
for  it." 

Before  leaving  home  that  morning  to  see 
his  son,  he  found  with  deep  regret  that 
Honor's  illness  had  been  so  much  increased 
by  the  events  of  the  preceding  day,  that  she 
could  not  leave  her  bed.  And  now,  for  the 
first  time,  a  thought,  loaded  with  double  an- 
guish, struck  ujion  his  heart. 

"  Saver  of  earth  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  what 
would  become  of  me  if  both  should  go  and 
lave  me  alone  ?  God  of  heaven,  alone  !  Ay, 
ay,"  he  continued,  "  I  see  it.  I  see  how 
asily  God  might  make  my  situation  still 
worse  than  I  thought  it  could  be.  Oh  God, 
forgive  me  my  sins  ;  and  may  God  soften  my 
heart !     Amin  ! " 

He  then  went  to  see  his  wife  ere  he  set 
a  lit  for  his  unhappy  son  ;  and  it  was  with 


much  satisfaction  that  Honor  observed  a 
changed  and  chastened  tone  in  his  manner, 
which  she  had  never,  except  for  a  moment  at 
the  birth  of  his  child,  noticed  before.  Not 
that  his  grief  was  much  lessened,  but  it  was 
more  rational,  and  altogether  free  fi-om  the 
violence  and  impiety  which  had  characterized 
it  when  he  awoke  from  his  intoxication. 

"  Honor,"  said  he,  "  how  do  you  find  your- 
self this  mornin',  alanna?  They  tell  me 
you're  worse  than  you  wor  yesterday." 

"  Indeed,  I'm  wake  enough,"  she  replied, 
"  and  very  much  bate  down,  Fardorougha  ; 
but  you  know  it's  not  our  own  stringth  at 
any  time  that  we're  to  depend  upon,  but 
God's.  I'm  not  vidlling  to  attempt  anything 
bey  ant  my  power  at  present.  My  seeing 
him  now  would  do  neither  of  us  any  good, 
and  might  do  me  a  great  dale  o'  harm.  I 
must  see  him,  to  be  sure,  and  I'll  strive, 
plase  God,  to  gather  up  a  httle  strength  for 
that.'" 

"  My  heart's  breakin'.  Honor,  and  I'm 
beginnin'  to  see  that  I've  acted  a  bad  part  to 
both  of  you  all  along.  I  feel  it,  indeed  ; 
and  if  it  was  the  will  of  God,  I  didn't  care 

if " 

"  Whisht,  accushla,  wliisht — sich  talk  as 
that's  not  right.  Think,  Fardorougha, 
whether  you  acted  a  bad  part  towards  God 
or  not,  and  never  heed  us ;  an'  think,  too, 
dear,  whether  you  acted  a  bad  or  a  good 
part  towards  the  poor,  an'  them  that  was  in 
distress  and  hardship,  an'  that  came  to  you 
for  rehef  ;  they  were  your  fellow-crathers, 
Fardorougha,  at  all  evints.  Think  of  these 
things  I'm  sayin,  and  never  heed  us.  You 
know  that  Connor  and  I  forgive  you,  but 
you  arn't  so  sure  whether  God  and  them 
will." 

These  observations  of  this  estimable 
woman  had  the  desired  effect,  which  was,  as 
she  afterwards  said,  to  divert  her  husband's 
mind  as  much  as  possible  from  the  contem- 
jDlation  of  Connor's  fate,  and  to  fix  it  iipon 
the  consideration  of  those  duties  in  which 
she  knew  his  conscience,  now  touched  by 
calamity,  would  tell  him  he  had  been  -defi- 
cient. 

Fardorougha  was '  silent  for  some  time 
after  her  last  observations — but  at  length  he 
obsei'ved : 

"  Would  it  be  possible,  Honoi",  that  all 
this  was  brought  upon  us  in  ordher  to  pun- 
ish me  for — for " 

"To  punish  you,  Fardorougha?  Fareer 
gaih  avourneen,  arn't  we  all  jaunished  ?  look 
at  my  worn  face,  and  think  of  what  ten  days 
sorrow  can  do  in  a  mother's  heart — think, 
too,  of  the  boy.  Oh  no,  no — do  you  think 
^ve  have  nothin'  to  be  i^imished  for  ?  But  we 
liave  all  one  comfort,  Fardorougha,  and  tliai 


FABDOROUGRA,   THE  MISER. 


269 


k 


ig,  that  God's  ever  and  always  wiDin'  to  re- 
save  us,  when  we  turn  to  Ilim  wid  a  true 
heart  ?  Nobody,  aviliish,  can  forget  and  for- 
give as  He  does." 

"  Honor,  why  didn't  you  oftener  spake  to 
me  this  a-way  than  you  did  ?  " 

"I  often  did,  dear,  an' you  may  remember 
it ;  but  you  were  then  strong  ;  you  had  your 
wealth  ;  everything  flowed  wid  you,  an'  the 
same  wealth — the  world's  temptation — was 
strong  in  your  heart ;  but  God  has  taken  it 
from  you  I  hope  as  a  blessing — for,  indeed, 
Fai'dorougha,  I'm  afeard  if  you  had  it  now, 

that  neither  he  nor but  I  won't  saj'  it, 

dear,  for  God  sees  I  don't  wish  to  say  one 
woid  that  'ud  distress  you  now,  avoui'neen. 
Any  how,  Fardorougha,  never  despair  in 
God's  goodness — never  do  it ;  who  can  tell 
what  may  happen  ?  " 

Her  husband's  grief  was  thus  checked, 
and  a  train  of  serious  reflection  laid,  which, 
hke  some  of  those  self-evident  convictions 
that  fastened  on  the  awakened  conscience, 
the  old  man  could  not  shake  oif. 

Honor,  in  her  further  conversation  with 
him,  touching  the  coming  interview  with  the 
unhappy  culprit,  desired  liim,  above  all 
things,  to  set  "their  noble  boy  "  an  example 
of  firmness,  and  by  no  means  to  hold  out  to 
him  any  expectation  of  life. 

"  It  would  be  worse  than  murdher,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  to  do  so.  No — prepare  him  by 
your  advice,  Fardorougha,  ay,  and  by  your 
example,  to  be  firm— and  tell  him  that  his 
mother  exj)ects  he  will  die  like  an  innocent 
man — noble  and  brave — and  not  like  a  giiilty 
cowai'd,  afeard  to  look  up  and  meet  his 
God." 

Infidels  and  hypocrites,  so  long  as  their 
career  in  vice  is  unchecked  by  calamity,  will 
no  doubt  sneer  when  we  assure  them,  that 
Fardorougha,  after  leaving  his  wife  that 
morning  once  more  to  visit  his  son,  felt  a 
sense  of  relief,  or,  pei*haps  we  should  say,  a 
breaking  of  faint  hght  upon  his  mind, 
which,  shght  as  it  was,  aiibrded  him  more 
comfort  and  support  than  he  ever  hoped  to 
experience.  Indeed,  it  was  almost  impossi- 
ble for  any  heart  to  exist  within  the  influ- 
ence of  that  piety  which  animated  his  ad- 
mirable wife,  and  not  catch  the  holy  fire 
which  there  biu-ned  with  such  jjurity  and 
brightness. 

Ii'eland,  however,  abounds  with  such  in- 
stances of  female  piety  and  fortitude,  not, 
indeed,  as  they  would  be  made  to  appear  in 
the  unfeminine  violence  of  political  turmoil, 
in  which  a  truly  pious  female  would  not 
embroil  herself ;  but  in  the  quiet  recesses  of 
domestic  life — in  the  hard  struggles  against 
poverty,  and  in  those  cmel  visitations,  where 
the  godly  mother  is  forced  to  see  her  inno- 


cent son  corrupted  by  the  dark  influence  of 
political  crime,  dra^\'n  ^vithin  the  vortex  of 
secret  confederacy',  and  subsequently  yielding 
up  his  life  to  the  outraged  laws  of  that  coun- 
try which  he  assisted  to  distract.  It  is  in 
scenes  like  these  that  the  unostentatious 
magnanimity  of  the  pious  Irish  wife  or 
mother  may  be  discovered  ;  and  it  is  here 
where,  as  the  night  and  storms  of  life  darken 
her  path,  the  holy  fortitude  of  her  heart 
shines  with  a  lustre  proportioned  to  the 
dejDth  of  the  gloom  around  her. 

When  Fardorougha  reached  the  town  in 
which  his  ill-fated  son  occujoied  the  cell  of  a 
felon,  he  found  to  his  surprise  that,  early  as 
were  his  habits,  there  were  others  whose 
movements  were  still  more  early  than  his 
own.  John  O'Brien  had  come  to  town — 
been  with  his  attorney — had  got  a  memorial 
in  behalf  of  Connor  to  the  Irisli  government, 
engrossed,  and  actually  signed  by  more  than 
one-half  of  the  jury  who  tried  him — all  before 
the  hour  of  ten  o'clock.  A  copy  of  tliis  docu- 
ment, which  was  written  by  O'Brien  himself, 
now  lies  before  us,  with  the  names  of  all  the 
jurors  attached  to  it  ;  and  a  more  beautiful 
or  affecting  piece  of*  composition  we  have 
never  read.  The  energy  and  activity  of 
O'Brien  were  certainly  uncommon,  and  so, 
indeed,  were  his  motives.  As  he  himself 
told  Fardorougha,  whom  he  met  as  the  latter 
entered  the  to^vn — 

"  I  would  do  what  I  have  done  for  Connor, 
although  I  have  never  yet  exchanged  a  sylla- 
ble with  him.  Yet,  I  do  assure  you,  Fardo- 
rougha, that  I  have  other  motives — which 
you  shall  never  know — far  stronger  than  any 
connected  with  the  fate  of  your  son.  Now, 
don't  misunderstand  me." 

"  No,"  replied  the  helj^less  old  man,  who 
was  ignorant  of  the  condition  of  his  sister, 
"I  will  not,  indeed — I'd  be  long  sarry." 

O'Brien  saw  that  any  rational  exjDlanation 
he  might  give  would  be  only  tlu'OWTi  away 
upon  a  man  who  seemed  to  be  so  utterly 
absorbed  and  stupefied  by  the  force  of  his 
own  siaff'erings. 

"Poor  old  man,"  he  exclaimed,  as  Fardo- 
rougha left  liim,  to  visit  Connor ;  "  see  what 
affliction  does  ?  There  are  thousands  now 
who  pity  you — even  you,  whom  ahnost  eveiy 
one  who  knew  you,  cursed  and  detested." 

Such,  indeed,  was  the  fact.  The  old  man's 
hardness  of  heart  was  forgotten  in  the  pity 
that  was  produced  by  the  dreadful  fate  wliich 
awaited  his  unhappy  son.  We  must  now 
pass  briefly  over  occm-rences  which  are  better 
understood  when  left  to  the  reader's  imagina- 
tion. John  O'Brien  was  not  the  only  one 
who  intei*ested  himself  in  the  fate  of  Connor. 
Fardorougha,  as  a  matter  of  course,  got  the 
priest  of  th©  pai'ish,  a  good  and  pious  man, 


270 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


to  draw  up  a  memorial  in  the  name,  as  he 
said,  of  himself  and  his  vrde.  The  gentry  of 
the  neighborhood,  also,  including  the  mem- 
bers of  the  grand  jiuy,  addressed  government 
on  his  behaK — for  somehow  there  was  created 
among  those  who  knew  the  parties,  or  even 
who  heard  the  history  of  their  loves,  a 
s^^Tnpathy  which  resulted  more  fi'om  those 
generous  impulses  that  intuitively  perceive 
truth,  than  fi-om  the  cooler  calcidations  of 
reason.  The  heart  never  reasons — it  is, 
therefore,  the  seat  of  feehng,  and  the  foun- 
tain of  mercy ;  the  head  does — and  it  is 
probably  on  that  account  the  seat  of  justice, 
often  of  severity,  and  not  unfi'equently  of 
cruelty  and  persecution,  Connor  himself 
was  much  reheved  by  that  day's  interview 
with  his  father.  Even  he  could  perceive  a 
change  for  the  better  in  the  old  man's  deport- 
ment. Fardorougha's  praises  of  Honor,  and 
his  strong  allusions  to  the  sujDport  and 
aifection  he  experienced  at  her  hands,  under 
circumstances  so  trying,  were  indeed  well 
calculated  to  prepare  "her  noble  boy,"  as 
she  truly  called  him,  for  the  reception  of  the 
still  more  noble  message  which  she  sent  him. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  as  they  separated  that 
day,  "  tell  my  mother  that  I  will  die  as  she 
wishes  me  ;  and  tell  her,  too,  that  if  I  wasn't 
an  innocent  man,  I  could  not  do  it.  And  oh, 
father,"  he  added,  and  he  seized  his  hands, 
and  fell  upon  his  neck,  "oh,  father  dear,  if 
you  love  me,  your  own  Connor — and  I  know 
you  do — oh,  then,  father  dear,  I  say  again, 
be  guided  in  this  lieaT)'  affliction  by  my  dear 
mother's  ad^•ice." 

"  Connor,"  retiu'ned  the  old  man,  deeply 
affected,  "I  will.  I  had  made  my  mind  up 
to  that  afore  I  saw  you  at  all  to-day.  Con- 
nor, do  you  know  what  I'm  beginning  to 
think?" 

"No,  father  dear,  I  do  not." 

"Wliy,  then,  it's  this,  that  she'll  be  the 
manes  of  sa^dn'  your  father's  soul.  Connor, 
I  can  look  back  now  upon  my  money — all  I 
lost — it  was  no  doubt  terrible — terrible  all 
out.  Connor,  my  rint  is  due,  and  I  haven't 
the  manes  of  meetin'  it." 

Alas  !  thought  the  boy,  how  hard  it  is  to 
root  altogether  out  of  the  heart  that  prin- 
ciple wliich  inchnes  it  to  the  love  of  wealth ! 

"At  any  rate,  I  will  take  your  advice, 
Connor,  and  be  guided  by  yoiu'  mother. 
She's  very  poorly,  or  she'd  be  wid  you  afore 
now  ;  but,  indeed,  Connor,  her  heaith  is  the 
occasion  of  it — it  is — it  is  !  " 

Fardorougha's  apolog}'  for  his  wife  con- 
tained much  more  truth  than  he  himself  was 
aware  of  at  the  time  he  made  it.  On  return- 
ing home  that  night  he  found  her  consider- 
ably worse,  but,  as  she  had  been  generally 
iiCidtliy,  be  verj'  natui*aUy  ascribed  her  illness 


to  the  affliction  she  felt  for  tlie  fate  of  then 
son.  In  tliis,  however,  he  was  mistaken,  af 
the  original  cause  of  it  was  unconnected  witL 
the  hea^y  domestic  dispensation  which  had 
fallen  upon  them.  So  fai'  as  she  wari  con- 
cerned, the  fate  of  her  boy  would  liave  called 
up  from  her  heart  fresh  energy  and  if  pos- 
sible a  liigher  order  of  meek  but  pious  coiir- 
age.  She  would  not  have  left  him  imsue- 
tained  and  uncherished,  had  the  physical 
powers  of  the  mother  been  able  to  second 
the  sacred  j)riiiciples  \\ith  which  she  met  and 
triumphed  over  the  trial  that  was  laid  upon 
her. 

It  was  one  evening  about  ten  days  after 
O'Donovan's  conviction  that  Bodagh  Buie 
O'Brien's  wife  sat  by  the  bedside  of  her  en- 
feebled and  languishing  daughter.  The 
crisis  of  her  complaint  had  passed  the  day 
before  ;  and  a  very  slight  improvement,  visi- 
ble only  to  the  eye  of  her  jjhysician,  had 
taken  place.  Her  delirium  remained  much 
as  before  ;  sometimes  returning  with  con- 
siderable violence,  and  again  leaving  reason, 
though  feeble  and  easily  distui'bed,  yet  when 
unexcited  by  external  causes,  capable  of  ap- 
phing  its  j3owers  to  the  circumstances 
around  her.  On  this  occasion  the  mother, 
who  watched  evei^  motion  and  anticipated 
eveiy  wish  of  the  beloved  one,  saw  that  she 
tiu'ned  her  eye  several  times  upon  her  as  if 
some  pecuhar  anxiety  distressed  her. 

"Una,  jewel,"  she  at  length  inqviired,  "is 
there  anything  you  want,  colleen  machree ; 
or  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Come  neai-  me,  mother,"  she  repHed, 
"come  neai-  me." 

Her  mother  approached  her  still  more 
nearly. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice, 
"  I'm  afraid  to  ask  it." 

"  Onl}'  wait  for  a  minute  or  two,"  said  her 
mother,  "  an'  John  wiU — but  here's  the  doc- 
tor's foot ;  they  wor  spakin'  a  word  or  two 
below  ;  an'  whisper,  darlin'  o'  my  heart,  sure 
John  has  sometlung  to  teU  you — something 
that  will" 

She  looked  with  a  searching  anxiety  into 
her  mother's  face  ;  and  it  might  have  been 
perceived  that  the  morning  twilight  of  hope 
beamed  faintly  but  beautifully  ujDon  her  pale 
features.  The  expression  that  passed  over 
them  was  indeed  so  hght  and  transient  that 
one  could  scarcely  say  she  smiled  ;  yet  that 
a  more  perceptible  serenity  diffused  its  gen- 
tle irradiation  over  her  languid  countenance 
was  observed  even  by  her  mother. 

The  doctor's  report  was  favorable. 

"  She  is  slowly  improAdng,"  he  said,  on 
reaching  the  parlor,  "  since  yesterday  ;  I'm 
afi'aid,  however,  she's  too  weak  at  present  to 
sustain  this  intelligence.     I  Avould  recom- 


FARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


271 


noend  you  to  wait  for  a  day  or  two,  and  in 
the  meantime  to  assume  a  cheerfvd  deport- 
ment, and  to  break  it  to  her  rather  by  your 
looks  and  manner  than  by  a  direct  or  abrupt 
communication. " 

They  promised  to  observe  his  directions  ; 
but  when  her  mother  infonned  them  of  the 
hint  she  herself  threw  out  to  her,  they  re- 
solved to  delay  the  matter  no  longer  ;  and 
John,  in  consequence  of  what  his  mother 
had  led  her  to  expect,  went  to  break  the  in- 
telhgence  to  her  as  well  as  he  could.  Aij 
expectation  had  been  raised  in  her  mind, 
and  he  judged  properly  enough  that  there 
was  less  danger  in  satisfying  it  than  in  leav- 
ing her  just  then  in  a  state  of  such  painful 
uncertainty. 

"Dear  Una,"  said  he,  "I  am  glad  to  hear 
the  doctor  say  that  you  are  better." 

"I  think  I  am  a  little,"  said  she. 

"  What  was  my  mother  saying  to  you, 
just  now,  before  the  doctor  was  with  you  ? 
But  why  do  you  look  at  me  so  keenly,  Una  ?  " 
said  he,  cheerfully  ;  "  it's  some  time  since  you 
saw  me  in  such  a  good  humor — isn't  it  ?  " 

She  paused  for  a  moment  herself  ;  and 
her  brother  could  observe  that  the  hope 
which  his  manner  was  calculated  to  awaken, 
Ht  itself  into  a  faint  smile  rather  visible  in 
her  eyes  than  on  her  featiires. 

"Why,  I  beHeve  you  are  smihng  yourself, 
Una." 

"  John,"  said  she,  earnestly,  "  is  it  good  ?  " 

"  It  is,  darhug — lie  v^on't  die." 

"  Kiss  me,  kiss  me,"  she  said ;  "  may 
et«mal  blessings  rest  uj3on  you  !  " 

She  then  kissed  him  affectionately,  laid 
her  head  back  npoi^  the  pillow,  and  John 
saw  M-ith  delight  that  the  large  tears  of  hap- 
piness rolled  in  ton-ents  do^vn  her  pale 
cheeks. 

It  was  indeed  true  that  Connor  O'Dono- 
van  was  not  to  die.  The  memorials  which 
had  reached  government  fi-om  so  many 
quarters,  backed  as  they  were  by  very  power- 
ful influence,  and  detailing  as  they  did  a 
case  of  such  very  romantic  interest,  could 
scarcely  fail  in  arresting  the  execution  of  so 
stern  and  deadly  a  sentence.  It  was  ascer- 
tained, too,  by  the  intercoui'se  of  his  fi*iends 
with  government,  that  the  judge  who  tried 
his  case,  notwithstanding  the  apparent  se- 
verity of  his  charge,  had  been  moved  by  an 
irresistible  impulse  to  save  him,  and  he  act- 
ually determined  from  the  beginning  to 
have  his  sentence  commuted  to  transporta- 
tion for  life. 

The  happy  effect  of  this  communication 
on  Una  O'Brien  diffused  a  cheerful  spmt 
among  her  family  and  relatives,  who,  in 
truth,  had  feared  that  her  fate  would  ulti- 
mately depend  upon  that  of  her  lover.    After 


having  been  much  relieved  by  the  copious 
flood  of  tears  she  shed,  and  heard  with  com- 
posm-e  all  the  details  connected  with  the 
mitigation  of  his  sentence,  she  asked  her 
brother  if  Connor's  parents  had  been  yet 
made  acquainted  ^\■ith  it. 

"  I  think  not,"  he  repUed  ;  "  the  time  is 
too  short." 

"  John,"  said  the  affectionate  girl,  "  oh, 
consider  his  mother  ;  and  think  of  the  misery 
that  one  single  hour's  knowledge  of  this 
may  take  away  fi'om  her  heart  !  Go  to  her, 
my  dear  John,  and  may  all  the  blessings  of 
heaven  rest  upon  you  !  " 

"  Good-by,  then,  Una  dear  ;  I  will  go." 

He  took  her  worn  hand  in  his,  as  he 
spoke,  and,  looking  on  her  with  affectionate 
admiration,  added — 

"Yes  !  good-by,  my  darhng  sister  ;  believe 
me,  Una,  that  I  think  if  there's  justice  in 
Heaven,  you'll  have  a  light  heart  yet." 

"It  is  very  hght  now,"  she  returned, 
"compared  with  what  it  was  ;  but  go,  John, 
don't  lose  a  moment ;  for  I  know  what  they 
suffer." 

Her  mother,  after  John's  departvu*e  for 
Fardorougha's,  went  up  to  sit  with  her  ;  but 
she  found  that  the  previous  scene,  although 
it  reheved,  had  exhausted  her.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  minutes  then-  hmited  dia- 
logue ceased,  and  she  sank  into  a  sound  and 
refi'eshing  sleep,  fi'om  which  she  did  not 
awaken  until  her  brother  had  some  time  re- 
tvu'ned  fi'om  the  execution  of  his  pious  mes- 
sage. And  jjiously  was  that  message  received 
by  her  for  whose  misery  the  considerate 
heart  of  Una  O'Brien  felt  so  deeply.  Far- 
dorougha  had  been  out  about  the  jDremises, 
mechanically  looking  to  the  manner  in  which 
the  business  of  his  farm  had  been  of  late 
managed  by  his  two  servants,  when  he  de- 
scried O'Brien  approaching  the  house  at  a 
quick  if  not  a  hurried  pace.  He  immediately 
went  in  and  communicated  the  cii'cumstance 
to  his  wife. 

"Honor,"  said  he,  "here  is  BodaghBuie's 
son  comin'  up  to  the  house — what  on  earth 
can  bring  the  boy  here  ?  " 

Tliis  was  the  lirst  day  on  which  his  wife 
had  been  able  to  nse  from  her  sick  bed.  She 
was  consequently  feeble,  and,  physically 
speaking,  capable  of  no  domestic  exertion. 
Her  mind,  however,  was  firm  as  ever,  and 
prompt  as  before  her  calamity  to  direct  and 
overlook,  in  her  own  sweet  and  affectionate 
manner,  whatever  required  her  supeiinten- 
dence. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Fardorougha," 
she  rephed.  "It  can't,  I  hope,  be  wid  bad 
news — they  thravel  fast  enough — an'  I'm 
sure  the  Bodagh's  son  wouldn't  take  pleasure 
in  beiu'  the  first  to  tell  tbem  to  us." 


272 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"But  what  can  bring  him,  Honor?  Wliat 
on  earth  can  bring  the  boy  here  now,  that 
never  stood  undher  our  roof  afore  ?  " 


your  two  knees  you  ought  to  drop,  an' — 
Saver  above,  what's  the  matther  wid  himV 
He's  off ;  keep  him  up.    Oh,  God  bless  you ! 


Three   or   four   minutes,    Fardorougha,  !  that's  it,  avourneen  ;  jist  plac^e  him   on  the 


vtCIlL  tell  us.  Let  us  hojie  in  God  it  isn't  bad 
Eh,  Saver  above,  it  wouldn't  be  the  death  of 
his  sister — of  Connor's  Oona  !  No,"  she  add- 
ed, "  they  Avouldu't  send,  much  less  come, 
to  tell  us  that;  but  sure  well  hear  it — we'll 
heai-  it ;  and  may  God  give  us  stringth  to  hear 
it  right,  whether  it's  good  or  bad  !  Amin, 
Jasus,  this  day  !  " 

She  had  hardly  uttered  the  last  words, 
when  O'Brien  entered. 

"Young  man,"  said  this  superior  woman, 
"  it's  a  poor  welcome  we  can  give  you  to  a 
house  of  sorrow." 

"Ay,"  said  Fardorougha,  "his mother  an' 
I's  here,  but  where  is  he  ?  Nine  days  fi'om 
this  ;  but  it  'ill  kill  me — it  will — it  will. 
"Whin  he's  taken  from  me,  I  don't  care  how 
soon  I  folly  him  ;  God  forgive  me  if  it's  a  sin 
to  say  so  !  " 

"  Fardorougha,"  said  his  wife,  in  a  tone  of 
affectionate  reproof,  "  remimber  what  you 
promised  me,  an',  at  all  evints,  you  forget 
that  ]\Ir.  O'Brien  here  may  have  his  own 
troubles  ;  I  heard  your  sister  was  unwell. 
Oh,  how  is  she,  poor  thing  ?  " 

"I  thank  you,  a  great  deal  better  ;  I  will 
not  deny  but  she  heard  a  piece  of  intelligence 
tliis  da}',  that  has  reheved  her  mind  and 
taken  a  dead  weight  off  her  heart." 

Honor,  -^-ith  uncommon  firmness  and 
solemnity  of  manner,  jDlaced  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  and,  looking  him  earnestly  in 
the  face,  said, 

"  That  news  is  about  our  son  ?  " 

"It  is,"  rephed  O'Brien,  "and  it's  good; 
his  sentence  is  changed,  and  he  is  not  to 
die." 

"  Not  to  die  ! "  shrieked  the  old  man, 
starting  up,  and  clapping  his  hands  frantic- 
ally— '•  not  to  die  !  our  son — Connor,  Con- 
nor— not  to  be  hanged — not  to  be  hanged  ! 
Did  you  say  that,  son  of  O'Brien  Buie,  did 
you — did  you?" 

" I  did,"  replied  the  other  ;  "he  will  not 
suffer." 

"  Now  that's  God,"  ejaculated  Fardor- 
ougha, wildly  ;  "  that's  God  an'  his  mother's 
prayers.  Boys,"  he  shrieked,  "come  here; 
come  here,  Biddy  Nulty,  come  here  ;  Con- 
nor's not  to  die.;  he  won't  suffer — he  won't 
suffer  !  " 

He  was  i-ushing  wildly  to  the  door,  but 
Honor  placed  herself  before  him;  and  said, 
in  that  voice  of  calmness  Avhich  is  uniformly 
that  of  authority  and  power  : 

"  Fardorougha,  dear,  calm  yom-self.  If 
this  is  God's  work,  as  you  say,  Avhy  not 
resave   it   as  comin'  from  God?    It's  upon 


chair  there  forninst  the  door,  where  he  can 
have  air.  Here,  dear,"  said  she  to  Biddy 
Nulty,  who,  on  hearing  herself  called  by  her 
master,  had  come  in  from  another  room ; 
"  get  some  feathers,  Biddy,  till  we  burn  them 
vmdher  his  nose  ;  but  first  fetch  a  jug  of  cold 
water." 

,  On  looking  at  the  face  of  the  miser, 
O'Brien  started,  as  indeed  well  he  might,  at 
such  a  pallid,  worn,  and  death-like  counte- 
nance ;  why^  thought  he  to  liimself,  surely 
this  must  be  death,  and  the  old  man's  car^s, 
and  sorrows,  and  hopes,  are  all  passed  for- 
ever. 

Honor  now  bathed  his  face,  and  wet  his 
hps  with  water,  and  as  she  sprinkled  and 
rubbed  back  the  gray  hair  from  his  emaciated 
temples,  there  might  be  read  there  an  ex- 
pression of  singular  wildness  that  resembles 
the  -m-eck  produced  by  insanity. 

"  He  looks  ill,"  observed  O'Brien,  who 
actually  thought  him  dead  ;  "  but  I  hope  it 
won't  signify." 

"  I  trust  in  God's  mercy  it  won't,"  rephed 
Honor  ;  "  for  till  his  heart,  poor  man,  is 
brought  more  to  God — " 

She  paused  with  untaught  dehcacy,  for  she 
reflected  that  he  was  her  husband. 

"For  that  matther,  who  is  thei'e,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  that  is  fit  to  go  to  theu-  last  account 
at  a  moment's  waniin'  ?  That's  a  good  girl, 
Biddy  ;  give  me  the  feathers ;  there's  noth- 
ing like  them.  Dheah  Grasthias !  Dheah 
Gradhias  !  "  she  excWmed,  "  he's  not — he's 
not — an'  I  was  afeard  he  was — no,  he's  re- 
coverin'.  Shake  him ;  rouse  him  a  Httle  ; 
Fardorougha,  dear  !  " 

"Where — where  am  I?"  exclaimed  her 
husband  ;  "  what  is  this  ?  what  ails  me  ?  " 

He  then  looked  inquiringly  at  his  vdle  and 
O'Brien  ;  but  it  appeared  that  the  presence 
of  the  latter  revived  in  lais  mind  the  cause  of 
his  excitement. 

"  Is  it — is  it  thrue,  young  man?  tell  me — 
teU  me !  " 

"  How,  deax*,  can  any  one  have  spirits  to 
tell  you  good  news,  when  you  can't  beai"  it 
aither  like  a  man  or  a  Christian  ?  " 

"Good  news!  You  say,  then,  it's  thrue, 
an'  he's  not  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck,  as  the 
judge  said  ;  an'  my  ciu-se — my  heavy  curse 
upon  him  for  a  judge  !  " 

"  I  hate  to  hear  the  words  of  his  sentence, 
Fai'dorougha,"  said  the  wife  ;  "but  if  you 
have  patience  j'ou'll  find  that  his  life's  gi'ant- 
ed  to  him ;  an',  for  Heaven's  sake,  ciu'se 
nobody.     The  judge  only  did  his  duty." 

"Well,"  he  exclaimed,  sinking  upon  his 


FARDOROUGIIA,    THE  MI8ER. 


273 


knees,  "  now,  from  this  day  out,  let  what 
mil  happen,  I'll  stick  to  my  duty  to  God — 
I'll  repent — I'll  repent  and  lead  a  new  life. 
I  will,  an'  ■while  I'm  ahve  111  never  say  a 
word  against  tne  "will  of  my  heavenly  Saviour ; 
never,  never." 

"Fai-dorougha,"  replied  his  wife,  "it'c 
good,  no  doubt,  to  have  a  gi-ateful  heart  to 
God ;  but  I'm  afeard  there's  sin  in  what 
you're  saj-in',  for  you  know,  dear,  that, 
whether  it  plased  the  Almighty  to  take  our 
boy,  or  not,  what  you've  promised  to  do  is 
your  duty.  It's  like  sayin',  'I'll  now  turn 
my  heart  bekase  God  has  desei'ved  it  at  my 
hands.'  Still,  deai*,  Fm  not  goin'  to  con- 
dimn  you,  only  I  think  it's  betther  an'  safer 
to  love  an'  obey  God  for  His  own  sake, 
blessed  be  His  holy  name  I  " 

Young  O'Brien  was  forcibly  struck  by  the 
uncommon  character  of  Honor  O'Donovan. 
Her  patience,  good  sense,  and  sincere  ac- 
quiescence in  the  will  of  God,  under  so  severe 
a  trial,  wei-e  such  as  he  had  never  seen 
equalled.  Nor  could  he  help  admitting  to 
himself,  while  contemplating  her  conduct, 
that  the  example  of  such  a  woman  was  not 
only  the  most  beautiful  comment  on  reUgious 
truth,  but  the  noblest  testimony  of  its 
power. 

"  Yes,  Honor,"  said  the  husband,  in  reply, 
•'  you're  right,  for  I  know  that  what  you  s  ly 
is  alwaj-s  tlu-ue.  It  is,  indeed,"  he  added, 
addressing  O'Brien,  "  she's  aquil  to  a  prayer- 
book." 

"  Yes,  and  far  superior  to  any,"  replied  the 
latter  ;  "  for  she  not  only  gives  you  the  advice, 
but  sets  you  the  example." 

"Ay,  the  sorra  lie  in  it;  an',  oh,  Honor, 

lie's  not  to  die — he's  not  to  be  h ,  not  to 

suffer.     Our   son's   to   live !      Oh,    Saver  of 
earth,  make  me  thankful  tliis  day  ! " 

The  tears  ran  fast  from  his  eyes  as  he 
looked  up  to  heaven,  and  uttered  the  last 
words,  indeed,  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel 
deep  compassion  for  this  aged  man,  whose 
heart  had  been  smitten  so  heavily,  and  on 
the  only  two  points  where  it  was  capable  of 
feehng  the  blow. 

After  having  indulged  his  grief  for  some 
time,  he  became  considerably  more  com- 
posed, if  not  cheerful.  Honor  made  many 
kind  inquu'ies  after  Una's  health,  to  which 
her  brother  answered  -^ith  strict  candor,  for 
he  had  heard  fi-om  Una  that  she  was  ac- 
quainted ^ith  the  whole  history  of  their 
courtshii^. 

"  AVho  knows,"  said  she,  speaking  with 
reference  to  their  melancholy  fate,  "  but  the 
God  who  has  saved  his  life,  an'  most  hkely 
hers,  may  yet  do  more  for  them  both? 
While  there's  hfe  there's  hope." 

"Young  man,"  said  Fardorougha,  "you 


carr\'  a  blessin'  -svid  you  wherever  you  go,  an 
may  God  bless  you  for  the  news  you  have 
brouglit  to  us  tliis  day  !  I'll  go  to  see  him  to- 
moiTow,  an'  wid  a  light  heart  111  go  too,  for 
my  son  is  not  to  die." 

O'Brien  then  took  his  leave  and  returned 
home,  pondering,  as  he  went,  upon  the 
singula!'  contrast  which  existed  between  the 
character  of  the  miser  and  that  of  his  ad- 
mirable wife.  He  was  no  sooner  gone  than 
Honor  addi-essed  her  husband  as  follows  : 

"Fardorougha,  what  do  you  think  we 
ought  both  to  do  now  afther  the  hapjiy  news 
we've  heard  ?  " 

"in  be  guided  by  you,  Honor ;  111  be 
guided  by  you." 

'•  Then,"  said  she,  "  go  an'  thank  God  that 
has  taken  the  edge,  the  bitther,  keen  edge 
off  of  our  sufferin' ;  an'  the  best  way,  in  my 
opinion,  for  you  to  do  it,  is  to  go  to  the  bam 
by  yoiu'self,  an'  strive  to  put  youi*  whole 
heart  into  yoiu'  prayers.  Youll  pray  betther 
by  yourself  than  "srid  me.  An'  in  the  name 
of  God  I'll  do  the  same  as  well  as  I  can  in 
the  house  here.  To-morrow,  too,  is  Friday, 
an',  plaise  our  Saviour,  well  both  fast  in 
honor  of  His  goodness  to  us  an'  to  our  son." 

"  We  will.  Honor,"  said  he,  "  we  will,  in- 
deed ;  for  now  I  have  spirits  to  fa.st,  and 
spirits  to  pray,  too.  Wliat  will  I  say,  now  ? 
Will  I  say  the  five  Decades  or  the  whole  Ro- 
sary?" 

"If  you  can  keep  your  mind  in  the  pray- 
ers, I  think  you  ought  to  say  the  whole  of 
it ;  but  if  you  wandher  don't  say  more  than 
the  five." 

Fardorougha  then  went  to  the  bam,  rather 
because  his  -nife  desired  him,  than  from  a 
higher  motive,  whilst  she  withdrew  to  her 
own  apartment,  there  humbly  to  worship 
God  in  thanksgiving. 

The  next  day  had  made  the  commutation 
of  Connor's  ixinishment  a  matter  of  notoriety 
through  the  whole  parish,  and  very  sincere 
indeed  was  the  gi'atification  it  conveyed  to 
all  who  heaixl  it.  Public  fame,  it  is  tnie, 
took  her  usual  liberties  "onth  the  facts.  Some 
said  he  had  got  a  free  pardon,  others  that  he 
was  to  be  liberated  after  six  months'  im- 
prisonment ;  and  a  third  report  asserted  that 
the  lord  lieutenant  sent  him  doAvn  a  hundred 
jjoirnds  to  fit  him  out  for  mairriage  with 
Una  ;  and  it  further  added  that  his  excellency 
"wi'ote  a  letter  with  his  own  hand,  to  Bodagh 
Buie,  desiring  him  to  give  his  daughter  tc 
Connor  on  receipt  of  it,  or  if  not,  thnt  the 
Knight  of  the  Black  Rod  would  come  dovN'n, 
strip  him  of  his  property,  and  bestow  it  upon 
Connor  and  his  daughter. 

The  young  man  himself  was  almost  one 
of  the  first  who  heard  of  this  favorable  change 
in  his  dreadfvd  sentence. 


•J74 


WILLIAM   CARLETOi^'S   WOUKS. 


He  was  seated  on  Lis  bedside  readinfr, 
when  the  sheriff  and  jailer  entered  his  cell, 
anxious  to  lay  before  him  the  reply  which 
had  that  morning  arrived  from  government. 

"I'm  inclined  to  think,  O'Donovan,  that 
your  case  is  likely  to  turn  out  more  favor- 
ably than  we  exjDected,"  said  the  humane 
sheiiff. 

"  I  hope,  with  all  my  heart,  it  may,"  re- 
plied the  other  ;  "  there  is  no  denjdng,  sir, 
that  I'd  wish  it.  Life  is  sweet,  especially  to 
a  young  man  of  my  years." 

"  But  if  we  should  fail,"  obseiTed  the 
jailer,  "  I  trust  you  will  act  the  part  of  a 
man." 

"I  hope,  at  all  events,  that  I  will  act  the 
part  of  a  Christian,"  returned  O'Donovan. 
"  I  certainly  would  rather  hve  ;  but  I'm  not 
afeard  of  death,  and  if  it  comes,  I  trust  I  will 
meet  it  humbly  but  firmly." 

"I  beheve,"  said  the  sheriff,  "you  need 
entertain  little  apprehension  of  death  ;  I'm 
inclined  to  think  that  that  part  of  your  sen- 
tence is  not  hkely  to  be  put  in  execution.  I 
^ave  heard  as  much." 

"  I  think,  sir*,  by  yoiu'  manner,  that  you 
tg-ve,"  returned  Connor  ;  "but  I  beg  you  to 
xeU  me  without  goin'  about.  Don't  be 
afeared,  sir,  that  I'm  too  wake  to  hear  either 
good  news  or  bad." 

The  sheriff  made  no  rejDly  ;  but  jjlaced  in 
his  hands  the  official  document  which  remit- 
ted to  him  the  awful  penalty  of  his  hfe. 
Connor  read  it  over  slowly,  and  the  other 
kept  his  eye  fixed  keenly  upon  his  counte- 
nance, in  order  to  observe  his  bearing  under 
circumstances  that  are  often  kno-uTi  to  test 
human  fortitude  as  severely  as  death  itself. 
He  could,  however,  perceive  no  change  ;  not 
even  the  unsteadiness  of  a  nerve  or  muscle 
was  visible,  nor  the  slightest  fluctuation  in 
the  hue  of  his  complexion. 

"I  feel  grateful  to  the  lord  lieutenant  for 
his  mercy  to  me,"  said  he,  handing  him  back 
the  letter,  "  as  I  do  to  the  friends  who  inter- 
ceded for  me  ;  I  never  will  or  can  forget 
their  goodness.     Oh,  never,  never  ! " 

"I  believe  it,"  said  the  sheriff;  "but 
there's  one  thing  that  I'm  anxious  to  press 
upon  3'our  attention  ;  and  it's  this,  that  no 
further  mitigation  of  your  punishment  is  to 
be  expected  from  government ;  so  that  you 
must  make  up  your  mind  to  leave  your 
fi'iends  and  your  countiy  for  life,  as  you 
know  now." 

"  I  expect  nothing  more,"  returned  Con- 
nor, "  except  this,  that  the  hand  of  God  may 
yet  bring  the  guilt  of  burning  home  to  the 
man  that  committed  it,  and  prove  my  inno- 
cence. I'm  now  not  without  some  hope  that 
such  a  thing  may  be  brought  about  some 
.how.    I  thank  you,  IVIisther  Sheriff,  for  your  ; 


kindness  in  coming  to  me  with  this  good 
news  so  soon  ;  all  that  I  can  say  is,  that  1 
thank  you  fi-om  my  heart.  I  am  bound  to 
say,  too,  that  any  ci^•ility  and  comfort  that 
could  be  shovsTi  was  afforded  me  ever  since 
I  came  here,  an'  I  feel  it,  an'  I'm  gi'ateful  for 
it." 

Both  were  deeply  impressed  by  the  firm 
tone  of  manly  sincerity  and  earnestness  with 
which  he  spoke,  blended  as  it  was  by  a  mel- 
ancholy which  gave,  at  the  same  time,  a 
character  of  elevation  and  pathos  to  all  he 
said.  They  then  shook  hands  with  him, 
after  chatting  for  some  time  on  indifferent 
subjects,  the  jailer  promising  to  make  his 
situation  while  he  should  remain  in  prison 
as  easy  as  the  regulations  would  alloM'  him  ; 
or,  "  who  knows,"  he  added,  smiHng,  "  but 
we  might  make  them  a  little  easier  ?  " 

"That's  a  fine  young  fellow,"  said  he  to 
the  sheriff,  after  they  had  left  him. 

"  He  is  a  gentleman,"  replied  the  sheriff, 
"  by  natiu'e  a  gentleman  ;  and  a  very  vmcom- 
mon  one,  too.  I  defy  a  man  to  doubt  a 
word  that  comes  out  of  his  lips  ;  all  he  says 
is  impressed  with  the  stamp  of  truth  itself, 

and  by  h n's  he  never   committed   the 

felony  he's  in  for !  Keep  him  as  comforta- 
ble as  you  can. " 

They  then  separated. 

The  love  of  hfe  is  the  first  and  strongest 
l^rincij^le  in  our  nature,  and  what  man  is 
there  except  some  unhappy  wretch  pressed 
down  by  long  and  gaUing  misery  to  the  ut- 
termost depths  of  despair,  who,  knowing 
that  life  was  forfeited,  whether  justly  or  not 
matters  little,  to  the  laws  of  his  comitiy, 
will  not  feel  the  mercy  which  bids  him  live 
with  a  corresponding  sense  of  gratitude  ? 
The  son  of  the  pious  mother  acted  as  if  she 
was  still  his  guide  and  monitress. 

He  knelt  do"v\-n  and  jDoui-ed  out  his  grati- 
tude to  that  gi'eat  Being  who  had  the  first 
claim  upon  it,  and  whose  blessing  he  fervent- 
ly invoked  ujDon  the  heads  of  those  true  fi'iends 
by  whose  exertions  and  influence  he  now  felt 
that  life  Avas  restored  to  him. 

Of  his  life  while  he  remained  in  this  coun- 
tiy there  is  little  more  to  be  said  than  what 
is  usually  known  to  occur  in  the  case  of  other 
convicts  similarly  circumstanced,  if  we  except 
his  separation  from  the  few  persons  Avho  were 
dear  to  him.  He  saw  his  father  the  next  day, 
and  the  old  man  felt  almost  disappointed  on 
discovering  that  he  was  deprived  of  the  pleas- 
ure which  he  proposed  to  himself  of  being 
the  bearer  of  such  glad  tidings  to  him. 
Those  who  visited  him,  however,  noticed, 
wdth  a  good  deal  of  sui-pi'ise,  that  he  apjDear- 
ed  as  laboring  under  some  secret  anxiety, 
which,  however,  no  tact  or  address  on  their 
part  could  induce  him  to  disclose.     Many  oi 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


27& 


them,  actuated  by  the  best  motives,  asked 
him  iu  distinct  terms  why  he  appeai'ed  to  be 
troubled ;  but  the  only  reply  they  received 
was  a  good-humored  remark  that  it  was  not 
to  be  expected  that  he  could  leave  forever  all 
that  was  dear  to  him  on  earth  with  a  xjery 
cheerful  spirit. 

It  was  at  this  period  that  his  old  fi'iend 
Nogher  M'Cormick  came  to  pay  him  a  visit ; 
it  being  the  last  time,  as  he  said,  that  he 
would  ever  have  an  opportunity  of  seeijig  his 
face.  Nogher,  whose  moral  impressions  were 
by  no  means  so  coiTect  as  Connor's,  asked 
him,  with  a  face  of  drj',  pecuhar  mystery,  if 
he  had  any  particular  A\-ish  unfulfilled  ;  or  if 
there  remained  behind  him  any  indi\ddual 
against  whom  he  entertained  a  sj^irit  of  en-, 
mity.  If  there  were  he  begged  him  to  make 
no  scruple  in  entrusting  to  him  a  full  state- 
ment of  his  "wishes  on  the  subject,  adding 
that  he  might  rest  assui'ed  of  having  them  ac- 
comphshed. 

"  One  thing  you  may  be  certain  of,  Nogh- 
er," said  he,  to  the  aifectionate  fellow,  "  that 
I  have  no  secrets  to  tell ;  so  don't  let  that  go 
abroad  upon  me.  I  have  heard  to-day,"  he 
added,  "  that  the  vessel  we  are  to  go  in  will 
sail  on  this  day  week.  My  father  was  here 
this  moi-nin' ;  but  I  hadn't  heard  it  then. 
WiU  you,  Nogher,  tell  my  mother  privately 
that  she  mustn't  come  to  see  me  on  the  day 
I  appointed  with  my  father  ?  From  the  state 
of  health  she's  in,  I'm  tould  she  couldn't  bear 
it.  Tell  her,  then,  not  to  come  till  the  day 
before  I  sail ;  an*  that  I  will  exj)ect  to  see  her 
early  on  that  da}'.  And,  Nogher,  as  you 
know  more  about  this  unhappy  business  than 
any  one  else,  except  the  O'Briens  and  our- 
selves, will  you  give  this  Httle  packet  to  my 
mother?  There's  three  or  four  locks  of  my 
hair  in  it ;  one  of  them  is  for  Una  ;  and  de- 
sire my  mother  to  see  Una,  and  to  get  a  link 
of  her  hair  to  wear  next  my  heart.  My  poor 
father — now  that  he  finds  he  must  part  -nith 
me — is  so  distracted  and  distressed,  that  I 
couldn't  trust  him  witli  this  message.  I  want 
it  to  be  kept  a  secret  to  every  one  bul^you,  my 
mother,  and  Una  ;  but  my  poor  father  would 
be  apt  to  mention  it  in  some  fit  of  giief." 

"  But  is  there  nothing  elsei  on  j'our  mind, 
Connor  ? " 

"  There's  no  heavy  guilt  on  my  mind, 
Nogher,  I  thank  my  God  and  my  dear  mother 
I'or  it." 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  one  thing  before  you 
go,  Connor — Bartle  Flanagan's  well  watched. 
If  he  has  been  guilty — if — derry  downs,  who 
I loubts  it ? — well,  never  mind  ;  111  hould  a 
trifie  we  get  him  to  show  the  cloven  foot, 
and  condemn  himself  yet." 

"The  villain,"  said  Connor,  "will  be  too 
deep — too  polished  f.  It  yoii." 


"  Ten  to  one  he's  not.  Do  you  know  what 
we've  found  out  smce  this  business  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  ^\^ly,  the  divil  resave  the  squig  of  punch, 
whiskey,  or  liquor  of  any  sort  or  size  he'll 
allow  to  pass  the  lips  of  him.  Now,  Connor, 
aren't  you  up  to  the  cunnin'  villainy  of  the 
thi'aitor  in  that  ma}'new^Te  ?  " 

"  I  am,  Nogher  ;  I  see  his  design  in  it 
He  is  afeard  if  he  got  dnmk  that  he  wouldn't 
be  able  to  keep  his  own  secret." 

"Ah,  then,  by  the  holy  Nelly,  well  sleep 
him  yet,  or  he'll  look  sharp.  Never  you  mind 
him,  Connor." 

"  Nogher !  stop,"  said  Connor,  almost 
angrily,  "  stop  ;  what  do  you  mane  by  them 
last  words  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  much  ;  it's  about  the  blaggard 
I'm  siDakin' ;  he'll  be  ped,  I  can  tell  you. 
There's  a  few  friends  of  yoiu'S  that  iutmds, 
some  o'  these  nights,  to  oj^en  a  gusset  under 
one  of  his  ears  only  ;  the  diril  a  thing  more." 

"  WTiat !  to  take  the  unhappy  man's  hfe^ 
to  murdher  him  ?  " 

"  Hut,  Connor  ;  who's  spakin'  about  mur- 
dher ?  No,  only  to  make  hiim  miss  his  breath 
some  night  afore  long.  Does  he  desarve 
mercy  that  'ud  sweai*  away  the  hfe  of  an  in^ 
nocent  man  ?  " 

"Nogher,"  rephed  the  other,  rising  up 
and  sj)eaking  with  the  utmost  solemnity — 

"  If  one  di-op  of  his  blood  is  spilt  on  my 
account,  it  a^tlU  biing  the  vengeance  of 
Heaven  upon  the  head  of  every  man  harin'  a 
hand  in  it.  Will  you,  because  he's  a  villain, 
make  yourseK  miu'dherers — make  youi'selves 
blacker  than  he  is  ?  " 

"  WTiy,  thin,  death  alive !  Connor,  have 
you  your  seven  sin  sis  about  you  ?  Faith, 
that's  good  ;  as  if  it  was  a  sin  to  knock  such 
a  Avliite-hvered  Judas  upon  the  head  !  Sin  ! 
— oh  hell  resave  the  morsel  o'  sin  in  that  but 
the  eontraiiT.  Siu-e  its  only  sarrin'  honest 
people  right,  to  knock  such  a  desaiver  on 
the  iiead.  If  he  had  paijured  himself  for 
sake  of  the  truth,  or  to  assist  a  brother  in 
trouble — or  to  help  on  the  good  cause — it 
woidd  be  something  ;  but  to  go  to — but— 
arra,  be  me  sowl,  he'll  sup  sarra  for  it,  sure 
enough !  I  thought  it  would  make  your 
mind  aisy,  or  I  wouldn't  mintion  it  tiU  we'd 
let  the  breath  out  of  him." 

"  Nogher,"  said  Connor,  "  before  you  leave 
this  unfortunate  room,  you  must  take  the 
Almighty  to  Avitness  that  you'll  have  no  hand 
in  this  bloody  business,  an'  that  you'll  put  a 
stop  to  it  altogether.  If  you  don't,  and  that  his 
hfe  is  taken,  in  the  first  jDlace,  I'll  be  misera- 
ble for  life  ;  and  in  the  next,  tiike  my  word 
for  it,  that  the  judgment  of  God  'oill  fall 
hearily  upon  eveiy  one  consarned  in  it." 

"\\liat  for?    Is  it  for  slitUa'  the  jugglei 


.•J76 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


of  sich  a  lip?  Isn't  he  as  bad  as  a  heretic, 
an'  worse,  for  lie  turned  against  his  own. 
He  has  got  liimself  made  the  head  of  a  lodge, 
too,  and  holds  Articles  ;  but  it's  not  bein'  an 
Article-beai-er  that'll  save  him,  an'  he'U  find 
that  to  his  cost.  But,  indeed,  Connor,  the 
Tillain's  a  double  thraitor,  as  you'd  own,  if 
you  knew  what  I  heard  a  hint  of  ?  " 

"  Well,  but  you  must  lave  him  to  God." 

"  What  do  you  think  but  I  got  a  whisper 
that  he  has  bad  designs  on  her." 

"On  who?"  said  O'Donovan^  starting. 

"  AMiy,  on  your  o\\~a  girl,  Oona,  the  Bo- 
dagh's  daughter.  He  intends,  it's  wliispei-ed, 
to  take  her  off ;  an'  it  seems,  as  her  father 
doesn't  stand  well  with  the  boys,  that  Bar- 
tie's  to  get  a  great  body  of  them  to  assist 
him  in  bringing  her  away." 

Connor  paced  his  cell  in  deep  and  vehement 
agitation.  His  resentment  against  this  dou- 
ble-dyed ^illain  rose  to  a  fearful  pitch  ;  his 
color  deepened — his  eye  shot  fire,  and,  as  he 
clenched  his  hand  con'siilsively,  Nogher  saw 
the  fury  which  this  intelligence  had  excited 
in  him. 

"  No,"  he  jDroceeded,  "  it  would  be  an  open 
sin  an'  shame  to  let  such  an  etamal  Hmb  of 
the  devil  escaj^e." 

It  may,  indeed,  be  said  that  O'Donovan 
never  j^roperly  felt  the  sense  of  his  restraint 
until  this  moment.  T\Taen  he  reflected  on 
the  danger  to  which  his  beloved  Una  was  ex- 
posed from  the  dark  plans  of  this  detestable 
\illain,  and  recollected  that  there  existed  in 
the  members  of  the  illegal  confederacy  such 
a  strong  spiiit  of  enmity  against  Bodagh 
Buie,  as  would  induce  them  to  support  Bar- 
tie  in  his  designs  upon  his  daughter,  he 
pressed  his  hand  against  his  forehead,  and 
walked  about  in  a  tumult  of  distress  and  re- 
sentment, such  as  he  had  never  yet  felt  in  his 
bosom. 

"It's  a  charity  it  will  be,"  said  Nogher, 
shrewdly  avaihng  himself  of  the  comir^tion 
he  had  created,  "to  stop  the  vagabone  short 
in  the  coorse  of  his  villany.  He"ll  surely 
bring  the  darlin'  young  giii  off,  an'  destroy 
her." 

For  a  few  moments  he  felt  as  if  his  heart 
were  disposed  to  rebel  against  the  common 
ordinances  of  Providence,  as  they  appeared 
to  be  manifested  in  his  ovfu  punishment,  and 
the  successful  villainy  of  Bartle  Flanagan. 
The  reflection,  however,  of  a  strong  and 
naturally  pious  mind  soon  enabled  him  to  per- 
ceive the  errors  into  w^hich  his  jDassions 
would  lead  him,  if  not  restrained  and  sub- 
jected. He  made  an  efltbrt  to  be  calm,  and 
in  a  considerable  degi'ee  succeeded. 

" Nogher," said  he,  "let  us  not  forget  that 
this  Bartle — this — but  I  will  not  say  it — 
let  us  not  forget  that  God  can  asily  turn 


his  pkms  against  himself.  To  God,  then,  let 
us  lave  him.  Now,  hear  me — you  must  sweat 
in  His  presence  that  you  will  have  neither  act 
nor  \)i\vt  in  doing  him  an  injury — that  you 
will  not  shed  his  blood,  nor  allow  it  to  be 
shed  by  others,  as  far  as  you  can  prevent  it 

Nogher  rubbed  his  chin  gravely,  and  al- 
most smiled  at  what  he  considered  to  be  a 
piece  of  silly  nonsense  on  the  part  of  Con- 
nor. He  determined,  therefore,  to  satisfy 
his  scruples  as  well  as  he  could ;  but,  let  the 
consequence  be  what  it  might,  to  evade  such 
an  oath. 

"Why,  Connor,"  said  he,  "surely,  if  you 
go  to  that,  we  can  have  no  ill-will  against 
the  d — n  villain ;  an'  as  you  don't  wish  it, 
.  we'll  dhrop  the  thing ;  so  now  make  your 
mind  aisy,  for  another  word  you  or  any  one 
else  won't  ever  hear  about  it." 

"  And  you  w^on't  injure  the  man  ?  " 

"  Hut !  no,"  replied  Nogher,  with  a  gra- 
vity whose  irony  was  barely  perceptitjle, 
"what  would  ice  mui-dher  him  for,  now 
that  xjou  don't  wish  it  ?  I  never  had  any  par- 
ticular wish  to  see  my  own  funeral." 

"  And,  Nogher,  you  vnXi.  do  aU  you  can 
to  prevent  him  fi-om  being  murdhered  ?  " 

"To  be  sure,  Connor — to  be  sure.  By 
He  that  made  me,  we  won't  give  pain  to  a 
single  hair  of  his  head.  Axe  you  satisfied 
now  ?  " 

"I  am,"  replied  the  ingenuous  young 
man,  who  was  himself  too  candid  to  see 
through  the  sophistry  of  Nogher's  oath. 

"And  now,  Nogher,"  he  rephed,  "many 
a  day  have  we  spent  together— you  are  one 
of  my  oldest  friends.  I  suppose  this  is  the 
last  time  y^u  will  ever  see  Connor  O'Dono- 
van ;  however,  don't,  man- — don't  be  cast 
down  ;  you  will  hear  from  me,  I  hope,  and 
heai'  that  I  am  well  too." 

He  uttered  this  with  a  smile  which  cost 
him  an  eftbrt ;  for,  on  looking  into  the  face 
of  his  faithful  old  fiiend,  he  saw  his  muscles 
working  under  the  influence  of  strong  feel- 
ing—  or,  I  should  rather  saj^,  deep  sorrow — 
which  hp  felt  anxious,  by  a  show  of  cheerful- 
ness, to  remove.  The  fountains,  however, 
of  the  old  servant's  heart  were  opened,  and, 
after  some  ineffectual  attempts  to  repress 
his  giief,  he  fell  upon  Connor's  neck,  and 
wept  aloud. 

"  Tut,  Nogher,"  said  Connor,  "  surely  it's 
glad  you  ought  to  be,  instead  of  sorry. 
What  would  you  have  done  if  my  first  sen- 
tence had  been  acted  upon  ?  " 

"  I'm  glad  for  your  sake,"  replied  the 
other,  "but  I'm  now  sony  for  my  own. 
You  wiD  live,  Connor,  and  you  may  yet  be 
hapj)y ;  but  he  that  often  held  you  in  his 
arms — that  often  played  with  you,  and  that, 
next  to  yom-  father  and  mother,  you  loved 


FARDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


277 


betther  than  any  other  hviu' — he,  poor 
Xoj^her,  will  never  see  his  boy  more." 

On  uttering  these  words,  ho  threw  him- 
self again  upon  Connor's  neck,  and  we  are 
not  ashamed  to  say  that  their  tears  flowed 
together. 

"  I'll  miss  you,  Connor,  dear  ;  I'U  not  see 
your  face  at  fair  or  market,  nor  on  the 
chapel-gi'een  of  a  Sunday.  Your  poor  father 
will  break  his  heai-t,  and  the  mother's  eye 
■will  never  more  have  an  opportunity  of  being 
proud  out  of  her  son.  It's  hard  upon  me 
to  part  wid  you,  Connor,  but  it  can't  be 
helped  ;  I  only  ax  you  to  remember  Xogher, 
that,  you  know,  loved  you  as  if  you  wor  his 
o^-n  ;  remimber  me,  Connor,  of  an  odd 
time.  I  never  thought — oh,  God,  I  never 
thought  to  see  this  day  !  No  wondher — oh, 
no  wondher  that  the  fair  young  crature 
should  be  pale  and  wora,  an'  sick  at  heart ! 
I  love  her  now,  an'  ever  will,  as  well  as  I  did 
yourself.  Ill  never  see  her,  Connor,  widout 
thinkin'  hea%'ily  of  him  that  her  heart  was 
set  upon,  an'  that  ^\all  then  be  far  away  fi'om 
her  an'  fi'om  all  that  ever  loved  him." 

"Nogher,"  repUed  Connor,  "I'm  not 
Avithout  hope  that — but  this — this  is  folly. 
You  know  I  have  a  right  to  be  thankful  to 
God  and  the  goodness  of  government  for 
spaiin'  my  life.  Now,  farewell— it  w  forever, 
Nogher,  an'  it  in  a  \xjiVi  word  to-day  ;  but 
you  know  that  every  one  goin'  to  America 
must  say  it ;  so,  think  that  I'm  goin'  there, 
an'  it  won't  signify." 

"All,  Connor,  I  wish  I  could,"  rephed 
Nogher  ;  "  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  what  breaks 
my  heai't  is,  to  think  of  the  way  you  are 
goin'  from  us.  Fai'ewell,  then,  Connor 
darhn' ;  an'  may  the  blessin'  of  God,  an'  His 
holy  mother,  an'  of  all  the  saints  be  upon 
you  now  an'  foriver.     Amin  !  " 

His  teai-s  flowed  fast,  and  he  sobbed  aloud, 
whilst  uttering  the  last  words ;  he  then 
threw  his  arms  about  Connor's  neck,  and, 
having  kissed  him,  he  again  "VNTung  his  hand, 
and  passed  out  of  the  cell  in  an  agony  of 
gi-ief. 

Such  is  the  anomalous  nature  of  that 
peculiar  temperament,  which,  in  Ii-eland, 
combines  ^rithin  it  the  extremes  of  gen- 
erosity and  crime.  Here  was  a  man  who 
had  been  HteraUj'  aftectionate  and  harm- 
less dui'ing  his  whole  past  life,  yet,  who  was 
now  actually  plotting  the  murder  of  a  person 
who  had  never, — except  remotely,  by  his 
treacheiy  to  Connor,  whom  he  loved — ren- 
dered him  an  injuiy,  or  given  him  any 
cause  of  ofi'ence.  And  what  can  show  us 
the  degi'aded  state  of  moral  feeling  among 
a  people  whose  natural  impvdses  are  as 
quick  to  A-irtue  as  to  rice,  and  the  reckless 
estimate  wliich  the  peasantry  form  of  human 


life,  more  clearly  than  the  fact,  that  Connor, 
the  noble-minded,  heroic,  and  pious  peasant, 
could  admire  the  honest  attachment  of  hig 
old  fiiend,  without  dweUing  upon  the  dark 
point  in  his  character,  and  mingle  his  tears 
with  a  man  who  was  deUberately  about  to 
join  in,  or  encompass,  the  assassination  of  a 
fellow-creature  ! 

Even  against  persons  of  his  own  creed  the 
Irishman  thinks  that  revenge  is  a  duty  which 
he  owes  to  himself ; — but  against  those  of  a 
difi'erent  faith  it  is  not  only  a  duty  but  a 
rirtue — and  any  man  who  acts  out  of  this 
feehng,  either  as  a  juror,  a  witness,  or  an 
elector — for  the  principle  is  the  same — must 
expect  to  meet  such  retribution  as  was  sug- 
gested by  a  heart  like  Nogher  M'Connick's, 
which  was  otherwise  aflfectionate  and  honest. 
In  the  secret  code  of  perverted  honor  by 
which  Iiishmen  are  guided,  he  is  imdoubt- 
edly  the  most  heroic  and  manly,  and  the 
most  worthy  also  of  imitation,  who  indulges 
in,  and  executes  his  vengeance  for  injuries 
whether  real  or  supposed,  with  the  most 
determined  and  unshrinking  spirit ;  but  the 
man  who  is  capable  of  braving  death,  by 
quoting  his  own  innocence  as  an  argument 
against  the  justice  of  law,  even  when  noto- 
riously guilty,  is  looked  upon  by  the  people, 
not  as  an  innocent  man — for  his  accomphcea 
and  fiiends  know  he  is  not — but  as  one  who 
is  a  hero  in  his  rank  of  Hfe  ;  and  it  is  vm- 
fortunately  a  kind  of  ambition  among  too 
many  of  our  ill-thinking  but  generous 
countr\'men,  to  projiose  such  men  as  the 
best  models  for  imitation,  not  only  in  their 
hves,  but  in  that  hardened  h}i)ocrisy  which 
defies  and  triumphs  over  the  ordeal  of  death 
itself. 

Connor  O'Donovan  was  a  happy  repre- 
sentation of  all  that  is  noble  and  jiious  in 
the  Iiish  character,  without  one  tinge  of  the 
crimes  which  darken  or  discolor  it.  But 
the  heart  that  is  full  of  generosity  and  forti- 
tude, is  generally  most  susceptible  of  the 
kinder  and  more  amiable  ati'ections.  The 
noble  boy,  who  could  hear  the  sentence  of 
death  without  the  commotion  of  a  nerve, 
was  forced  to  weep  on  the  neck  of  an  old 
and  faithful  follower  who  loved  him,  when 
he  remembered  that,  after  that  melancholy 
risit,  he  should  see  his  familiar  face  no  more. 
T^Tien  Nogher  left  him,  a  train  of  painful 
reflections  passed  through  his  mind.  He 
thought  of  Una,  of  liis  father,  of  his  mother, 
and  for  some  time  was  more  depressed  than 
usual.  But  the  gift  of  Hfe  to  the  young  is 
ever  a  counterbalance  to  every  eril  that  is 
less  than  death.  In  a  shori  time  he  reflected 
that  the  same  Proridence  which  had  inter- 
posed between  him  and  his  recorded  sen- 
tence, had  his  future  fate  in  its  hands  ;  and 


:f78 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


that  he  had  health,  and  youth,  and  strength 
— and,  above  all,  a  good  conscience — to  bear 
him  through  the  future  vicissitudes  of  his 
appointed  fate. 


PAET  VI. 

To  those  whose  minds  and  bodies  are  of 
active  habits,  there  can  be  scai'cely  anj'thing 
more  trying  than  a  position  in  which  the 
latter  is  deprived  of  its  usual  occujDation, 
and  the  former  forced  to  engage  itself  only 
on  the  contemjjlation  of  that  which  is  pain- 
ful. In  such  a  situation,  the  mental  and 
physical  powers  are  rendered  incajDable  of 
mutually  sustaining  each  other  ;  for  we  aU 
know  that  mere  corporal  emplo}Taent  lessens 
aflSiction,  or  enables  us  in  a  shorter  time  to 
forget  it,  whilst  the  acuteness  of  bodily  suf- 
feiing,  on  the  other  hand,  is  blunted  by 
those  pui'suits  which  fill  the  mind  with 
agreeable  imj^ressions.  During  the  few 
days,  therefore,  that  intei^ened  between  the 
last  interview  which  Connor  held  with  No- 
gher  M'Cormick,  and  the  day  of  his  final  de- 
partui'e  he  felt  himself  rather  reheved  than 
depressed  by  the  number  of  fiiends  w^ho 
came  to  visit  him  for  the  last  time.  He 
was  left  less  to  soUtude  and  himself  than  he 
otherwise  would  have  been,  and,  of  course, 
the  days  of  his  imprisonment  were  neither 
so  dreary  nor  oj^pressive  as  the  uninterrupted 
contemplation  of  his  gloomy  destiny  would 
have  rendered  them.  Full  of  the  irrepres- 
sible ardor  of  youth,  he  longed  for  that 
change  which  he  knew  must  bring  him  on- 
ward in  the  path  of  life  ;  and  in  this  how 
little  did  he  resemble  the  generality  of  other 
convicts,  who  feel  as  if  time  were  bringing 
about  the  day  of  their  departure  with  j)ain- 
ful  and  more  than  ordinary  celerity  !  At 
length  the  interviews  between  him  and  all 
those  whom  he  wished  to  see  were  concluded, 
with  the  exception  of  tliree,  viz.  —  John 
O'Brien  and  his  own  parents,  whilst  only 
two  clear  days  intervened  until  the  period 
of  his  departure. 

It  was  on  the  thu'd  morning  previous  to 
that  unhapj)y  event,  that  the  brother  of  his 
Una — the  most  active  and  indefatigable  of 
aU  those  who  had  interested  themselves  for 
him — was  announced  as  recjuiring  an  inter- 
view. Connor,  although  prejDared  for  this, 
experienced  on  the  occasion,  as  eveiy  high- 
minded  person  would  do,  a  strong  feeling  of 
degi-adation  and  shame  as  the  predominant 
sensation.  That,  indeed,  was  but  uatm-al, 
for  it  is  undoubtedly  ti'ue  that  we  feel  dis- 
p^'ace  lie  more  heavily  upon  us  in  the  eyes 
of  thoae  we  esteem,  than  we  do  under  any 


other  circumstances.  This  impression,  how« 
ever,  though  as  we  have  said  the  strongest, 
was  far  from  being  the  only  one  he  felt.  A 
heai-t  like  his  could  not  be  insensible  to  the 
obHgations  under  which  the  generous  and 
idefatigable  exeriions  of  young  O'Brien  had 
placed  him.  But,  independently  of  tliis,  he 
was  Una's  brother,  and  t'  le  aj^jiearance  of 
one  so  dear  to  her  gave  to  all  his  love  for 
her  a  chai'acter  of  melancholy  tenderness, 
more  deep  and  full  than  he  had  probably 
ever  experienced  before.  Her  brother  would 
have  been  received  with  extraordinary 
warmth  on  his  o\a\  account,  but,  in  addition 
to  that,  Connor  knew  that  he  now  came  on 
behalf  of  Una  herself.  It  was,  therefore, 
under  a  tumult  of  mingled  sensations,  that 
he  received  him  in  liis  gloomy  apartment — 
gloomy  in  despite  of  all  that  a  humane  jailer 
could  do  to  lessen  the  rigors  of  his  confine- 
ment. 

"  I  cannot  welcome  you  to  sich  a  place  as 
this  is,"  said  Connor,  gTasjDing  and  wringing 
his  hand,  as  the  other  entered,  "although  I 
may  well  say  that  I  would  be  glad  to  see  you 
anywhere,  as  I  am,  indeed,  to  see  you  even 
here.  I  know  what  I  owe  you,  an'  what  you 
have  done  for  me." 

"  Thank  God,"  rephed  the  other,  return- 
ing his  grasp  with  equal  pressure,  "  thank 
God,  that,  at  all  events,  the  worst  of  what 

we  expected  will  not "     He  paused,  for, 

on  looking  at  O'Donovan,  he  observed  upon 
his  open  brow  a  singular  depth  of  melan- 
choly, mingled  less  with  an  expression  of 
shame,  than  with  the  calm  but  indignant 
sorrow  of  one  who  could  feel  no  resentment 
against  him  with  whom  he  sjDoke. 

O'Brien  saw,  at  a  glance,  that  Connor,  in 
consequence  of  something  in  his  manner, 
joined  to  his  inconsiderate  congratulations, 
imagined  that  he  believed  him  guilty.  He 
lost  not  a  moment,  therefore,  in  correcting 
this  mistake. 

"It  would  have  been  dreadful,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  to  see  innocent  blood  shed,  thi'ough 
the  j)ei"jury  of  a  villain — for,  of  coui-se,  you 
cannot  suj^pose  for  a  moment  that  one  of  our 
family  suppose  you  to  be  guUty." 

"  I  was  neai'  doin'  you  injustice,  then,"  re- 
l^lied  the  other ;  "  but  I  ought  to  know  that 
if  you  did  think  me  so,  you  wouldn't  now 
be  here,  nor  act  as  you  did.  Not  but  that 
I  thought  it  i^ossible,  on   another  account 

you No,"   he   added,    after  a  pause, 

"that  would  be  doin'  the  brother  of  Una ^ 
injustice."  ■ 

"  You  are  right,"  returned  O'Brien.  "  No 
cu'cumstance  of  any  kind  " — and  he  laid  a  p& 
culiar  emphasis  on  the  words — "  no  circum- 
stance of  any  kind  could  bring  me  to  visit  n 
man  capable  of  such  a  mean  iiud  cowardl,^ 


FARDOROUGIIA,   THE  MTSER. 


279 


act ;  for,  as  to  the  loss  "we  sustained,  I 
wouldn't  think  of  it.  You,  Connor  O'Dono- 
van,  are  not  the  man  to  commit  any  act,  eith- 
er the  one  or  the  other.  If  I  did  not  feel 
this,  you  would  md  see  me  before  you."  He 
extended  his  hand  to  him  while  he  spoke, 
and  the  brow  of  Connor  brightened  as  he  met 
his  grasp. 

"I  believe  you,"  he  rephed  ;  "and  now  I 
hope  we  may  spake  out  like  men  that  un- 
dherstand  one  another.  In  case  you  hadn't 
come,  I  intended  to  lave  a  message  for  you 
with  my  mother.  I  beheve  you  know  all 
Una's  secrets  ?  " 

"I  do,"  rephed  O'Brien,  "just  as  well  as 
her  confessor." 

"  Yes,  I  beheve  that,"  said  Connor.  "  The 
sun  in  heaven  is  not  purer  than  she  is.  The 
only  fault  she  ever  could  be  charged  with 
was  her  love  for  me  ;  and  heavily,  oh  !  far 
too  heavily,  has  she  suffered  for  it !  " 

"I,  for  one,  never  blamed  her  on  that  ac- 
count," said  her  brother.  "I  knew  that  her 
good  sense  would  have  at  any  time  prevented 
her  from  forming  an  attachment  to  an  un- 
worthy object  ;  and  upon  the  strength  of  her 
own  judgment,  I  approved  of  that  which  she 
avowed  for  you.  Indeed,  I  perceived  it  my- 
self before  she  told  me  ;  but  ujjon  attempting 
to  gain  her  secret,  the  candid  creatui'e  at  once 
made  me  her  confidant." 

"It  is  like  her,"  said  Connor  ;  "she  is  all 
ti-uth.  Well  would  it  be  for  her,  if  she  had 
never  seen  me.  Not  even  the  parting  fi-om 
my  father  and  mother  sinks  my  heart  with  so 
much  sorrow,  as  the  thought  that  her  love 
for  me  had  made  her  so  unhappy.  It's  a 
strange  case,  John  O'Brien,  an'  a  tr^'ing  one; 
but  since  it  is  the  Avill  of  God,  we  must  sub- 
mit to  it.  How  did  you  leave  her  ?  I  heard 
she  was  getting  bettei'." 

"She  is  better,"  said  John — "past  dan- 
ger, but  still  very  dehcate  and  feeble.  Indeed, 
she  is  so  much  worn  dowai,  that  you  would 
scarcely  know  her.  The  brightness  of  her 
dark  eye  is  dead— her  complexion  gone.  Sor- 
row, as  she  says  herself,  is  in  her  and  upon 
her.  Never,  indeed,  was  a  young  creature's 
love  so  pure  and  true." 

O'Donovan  made  no  reply  for  some  time  ; 
l)ut  the  other  observed  that  he  turned  away 
his  face  from  him,  as  if  to  conceal  his  emo- 
tion. At  length  his  bosom  heaved  vehement- 
ly, tlu-ee  or  fovu-  times,  and  his  breath  came 
and  went  with  a  quick  and  quivering  motion, 
that  betrayed  the  powerful  sti-uggle  which  he 
felt. 

"I  know  it  is  but  natural  for  you  to  feel 
deeply,"  continued  her  brother  ;  "but  as  you 
have  borne  everything  heretofore  with  so 
much  firmness,  \o\\  must  not  break  down 
now." 


"  But  you  know  it  is  a  deadly  thrial  to  be 
forever  separated  fi-om  sich  a  gu'l.  Sufferin' 
so   much  as  you  say — so  worn !     Her  dark 

eye  dim  with oh,  it  is,  it  is  a  deadly 

thi-ial — a  heart-breaking  thrial !  Jolm  O'Bri- 
en," he  proceeded,  with  uncommon  earnest- 
ness, "you  are  her  only  brother,  an'  she  is 
your  only  sister.  Oh,  will  you,  for  the  sake 
of  God,  and  for  my  sake,  if  I  may  take  the 
hberty  of  sayin'  so — but,  above  aU  things, 
will  you,  for  her  o^\ti  sake,  when  I  am  gone, 
comfort  and  support  her,  and  raise  her 
heart,  if  possible,  out  of  this  heavy  throuf 
ble  ?  " 

Her  brother  gazed  on  him  with  a  melan- 
choly smile,  in  which  might  be  read  both 
admiration  and  sympathy. 

"  Do  you  think  it  possible  that  I  would,  or 
could  omit  to  cherish  and  sustain  poor  Una, 
under  such  thr^dng  circumstances'?  Every- 
thing considered,  however,  yom'  words  are 
only  natural — only  natxu-al." 

"  Don't  let  her  think  too  much  about  it," 
continued  O'Donovan.  "  Bring  her  out  aa 
much  as  you  can — let  her  not  be  much  by 
herself.  But  this  is  folly  in  me,"  he  added  ; 
"  you  know  yourself  better  than  I  can  instruct 
you  how  to  act." 

"  God  knows,"  rephed  the  brother,  struck 
and  softened  by  the  moiu-nful  anxiety  for  her 
welfare  which  Connor  expressed,  "God 
knows  that  aU  you  say,  and  aU  I  can  think  of 
besides,  shall  be  done  for  our  dear  girl — so 
make  yovu*  mind  easy." 

•  "I  thank  you,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  from 
my  soul  an'  from  the  bottom  of  my  heari,  I 
thank  you.  Endeavor  to  make  her  forget 
me,  if  you  can  ;  an'  when  this  j^asses  away 
out  of  her  mind,  she  may  yet  be  happy — a 
happy  wife  and  a  happy  mother— an'  she  can 
then  think  of  her  love  for  Connor  O'Donovan, 
only  as  a  troubled  di'eam  that  she  had  in  her 
eai'ly  life." 

"Connor,"  said  the  other,  "this  is  not 
right — you  must  be  firmer  ; "  but  as  he 
uttered  the  words  of  reproof,  the  tears 
almost  came  to  his  eyes. 

"As  for  my  part,"  continued  Connor, 
"  what  is  the  world  to  me  now,  that  I've  lost 
her  ?  It  is — it  is  a  hju'd  and  a  dark  fate,  but 
why  it  should  fall  upon  us  I  do  not  know.  It's 
as  much  as  I  can  do  to  bear  it  as  I  ought." 

"  Well,  well,"  rephed  John,  "  don't  dweli 
too  much  on  it.  I  have  something  else  lo. 
speak  to  you  about." 

"Dwell  on  it!"  returned  the  other;  "as. 
God  is  above  me,  she's  not  one  minute  out 
of  my  thoughts  ;  an'  I  teU  you,  I'd  rather  be 
dead  this  minute,  than  forget  her.  Her 
memory  now  is  the  only  happiness  that  is  left 
to  me — my  only  wealth  in  this  world." 

"No,"  said  John,  "it  is  not.     Connor,  Z. 


2S0 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


have  now  a  few  words  to  say  to  you,  and  I 
know  they  will  prove  whether  you  ai-e  as 
generous  as  you  are  said  to  be  ;  and  whether 
your  love  for  my  sister  is  truly  tender  and  dis- 
interested. You  have  it  now  in  your  power 
to  ease  her  heart  very  much  of  a  hea\y  load  of 
concern  which  she  feels  on  your  account.  Your 
father,  you  know,  is  now  a  ruined  man, 
or  I  should  say  a  poor  man.  You  are  going 
out  under  circumstances  the  most  jDainful. 
In  the  country  to  which  you  are  unhappily 
destined,  you  will  have  no  friends — and  no 
one  living  feels  this  more  acutely  than  Una  ; 
for,  observe  me,  I  am  now  speaking  on  her 
behalf,  and  acting  in  her  name.  I  am  her 
agent.  Now  Una  is  richer  than  you  might 
imagine,  being  the  possessor  of  a  legacy  left 
her  by  our  gi-andfather  by  my  father's  side. 
Of  this  legacy,  she  herseK  stands  in  no  need 
— but  you  may  and  will,  when  you  reach  a 
distant  country.  Now,  Connor,  you  see  how 
that  admirable  creature  loves  you — you  see 
how  that  love  would  follow  you  to  the  utter- 
most ends  of  the  earth.  Will  you,  or  rather 
ai'e  you  capable  of  being  as  generous  as  she 
is  ? — and  can  you  show  her  that  you  are  as 
much  above  the  absurd  prejudice  of  the 
world,  and  its  cold  forms,  as  he  ought  to  be 
who  is  loved  by  a  creature  so  truly  generous 
and  cleHcate  as  Una  ?  You  know  how  veiy 
poorly  she  is  at  jDresent  in  health  ;  and  I  tell 
you  candidly^  that  your  declining  to  accept 
this  as  a  gift  and  memorial  by  which  to  re- 
member her,  may  be  attended  wdth  very 
serious  consequences  to  her  health." 

Connor  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
speaker,  with  a  look  of  deep  and  earnest  at- 
tention ;  and  as  O'Brien  detailed  with  singu- 
lar address  and  delicacy  these  striking  jjroofs 
of  Una's  affection,  her  lover's  countenance 
became  an  index  of  the  truth  with  which  his 
heart  corresponded  to  the  noble  girl's  ten- 
derness and  generosity.  He  seized  O'Brien's 
hand. 

"  John,"  said  he,  "you  are  worthy  of  bein' 
Una's  brother,  and  I  could  say  nothing  higher 
in  your  favor  ;  but,  in  the  mane  time,  you 
and  she  both  know  that  I  want  nothing  to 
enable  me  to  remember  her  by.  This  is  a 
proof,  I  grant  you,  that  she  loves  me  truly ; 
but  I  knew  thai  as  well  before,  as  I  do  now. 
In  this  business  I  cannot  comply  with  her 
wish  an'  yours,  an'  you  musn't  press  me.  You, 
I  say,  musn't  j^ress  me.  Through  ni}'  whole 
iife  I  have  never  lost  my  own  good  opinion ; 
but  if  I  did  what  you  wan£  me  now  to  do,  I 
couldn't  respect  myself— I  would  feel  low- 
ered in  my  o\vn  mind.  In  short,  I'd  feel 
unhapp3%  an'  that  I  was  too  mane  to  be  wor- 
thy of  yoiu-  sister.  Once  for  all,  then,  I  can- 
not comply  in  this  business  with  your  wish 
an'  hers." 


*'  But  the  anxiety  produced  by  your  refusal 
mav  have  veiy  dangerous  effects  on  her 
health." 

"Then  you  must  contrive  somehow  to 
consale  my  refusal  fi-om  her  tiU  she  gets  re- 
covered. I  couldn't  do  what  you  want  me  ; 
an'  if  you  press  me  further  upon  it,  I'll  think 
you  don't  respect  me  as  much  as  I'd  wish 
her  brother  to  do.  Oh,  God  of  Heaven  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  clasping  his  hands,  "  must  I  lave 
you,  my  daiiing  Una,  forever?  I  must,  I 
must !  an'  the  drame  of  all  we  hoped  is  past 
— but  never,  never,  wiU  she  lave  my  heart ! 
Her  eye  dim,  an'  her  cheek  pale  !  an'  all  for 
me — for  a  man  covered  with  shame  and  dis- 
gi'ace  !  Oh,  John,  John,  what  a  heart ! — to 
love  me  in  spite  of  all  this,  an'  in  spite  of 
the  world's  ojDinion  along  with  it !  " 

At  this  moment  one  of  the  turnkeys  en- 
tered, and  told  him  that  his  mother  and  a 
young  lady  were  coming  up  to  see  him. 

"My  mother  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "I  am  glad 
she  is  come  ;  but  I  didn't  expect  her  till  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  A  young  lady  !  Heav- 
ens above,  what  young  lady  would  come  with 
my  mother  ?  " 

He  involuntarily  exchanged  looks  with 
O'Brien,  and  a  thought  flashed  on  the  instant 
across  the  minds  of  both.  They  immediately 
understood  each*  other. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  said  John,  "  it  can  be  no 
other — it  is  she — it  is  Una.  Good  God,  how 
is  this  ?  The  interview  and  sejDaration  will 
be  more  than  she  can  bear — she  will  sink 
under  it." 

Connor  made  no  reply,  but  sat  down  and 
pressed  his  right  hand  upon  his  fox-ehead,  as 
if  to  collect  energy  sufficient  to  meet  the 
double  trial  which  was  now  before  him. 

"  I  have  only  one  course,  John,"  said  he, 
"  now,  and  that  is,  to  appear  to  be — what  I 
am  not — a  firm-hearted  man.  I  must  tiy  to 
jDut  on  a  smiling  face  before  them." 

"  If  it  be  Una,"  returned  the  other,  "  I 
shall  withdraw  for  a  while.  I  know  her 
extreme  bashfulness  in  many  cases  ;  and  I 
know,  too,  that  anything  like  restraint  upon 
her  heart  at  present — in  a  word,  I  shall  retire 
for  a  little." 

"It  maybe  as  well,"  said  Connor;  "but 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence—just as  you  think  proper." 

"  Yowc  mother  will  be  a  sufficient  witness," 
said  the  deUcate-minded  brother ;  "  but  J 
will  see  you  again  after  the}'  have  left  you." 

"You  must,"  replied  O'Donovan.  "Oh 
see  me — see  me  again.,  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you  of  more  value  even  than  Una's 
Ufe." 

The  door  then  opened,  and  assisted,  or 
rather  supported,  by  the  governor  of  the 
gaol,  and  one  of  the  tixmkeys,  Honor  O'Don* 


FARDOROUGnA,    THE   MISER. 


281 


ovan  and  Una  O'Brien  entered  the  gloomy 
cell  of  the  guiltless  convict. 

The  situation  in  which  O'Donovan  was 
now  placed  will  be  admitted,  we  think,  by 
the  reader,  to  have  been  one  equally  un- 
precedented and  distressing.  It  has  been 
often  said,  and  on  many  occasions  with  per- 
fect ti-uth,  that  opposite  states  of  feehng 
existing  in  the  same  breast  generally  neutral- 
ize each  other.  In  Connor's  heart,  however, 
there  was  in  this  instance  nothing  of  a  con- 
flicting nature.  The  noble  boy's  love  for 
such  a  mother  bore  in  its  melancholy  beauty 
a  touching  resemblance  to  the  purity  of  his 
affection  for  Una  O'Brien — each  exhibiting  in 
its  highest  character  those  virtues  which 
made  the  heart  of  the  mother  proud  and 
loving,  and  that  of  his  beautiful  girl  generous 
and  devoted.  So  far,  therefore,  fi'om  their 
appearance  together  tending  to  concentrate 
his  moral  fortitude,  it  actually  dirided  his 
strength,  and  forcecPhim  to  meet  each  with  a 
heart  subdued  and  softened  by  his  love  for 
the  other. 

As  they  entered,  therefore,  he  approached 
them,  smiling  as  well  as  he  could  ;  and,  first 
taking  a  hand  of  each,  would  have  led  them 
over  to  a  deal  form  beside  the  fire,  but  it  was 
soon  evident,  that,  owing  to  their  weakness 
and  agitation  united,  they  required  greater 
support.  He  and  O'Brien  accordingly  helped 
tliem  to  a  seat,  on  which  they  sat  with  every 
symptom  of  that  exliaustion  which  results  at 
once  fi'om  illness  and  mental  suffering. 

Let  us  not  forget  to  inform  our  readers 
that  the  day  of  this  moiu-nful  visit  was  that 
on  which,  accoi'ding  to  his  original  sentence, 
he  should  have  yielded  up  his  life  as  a  penalty 
to  the  law. 

"  My  dear  mother,'^  said  he,  "you  an'  Una 
know  that  this  day  ought  not  to  be  a  day  of 
sorrow  among  us.  Only  for  the  goodness 
of  my  friends,  an'  of  Government,  it's  not 
my  voice  you'd  be  now  listening  to — but 
that  is  now  changed — so  no  more  about  it. 
I'm  glad  to  see  you  both  able  to  come  out." 

His  mother,  on  fii'st  sitting  do'^^^l,  clasped 
her  hands  together,  and  in  a  silent  ejacula- 
tion, ^\ith  closed  eyes,  raised  her  heart 
to  the  Almighty,  to  supphcate  aid  and 
strength  to  enable  her  to  part  finally  with 
that  boy  who  was,  and  ever  had  been,  dearer 
to  her  than  her  own  heart.  Una  trembled, 
and  on  meeting  her  brother  so  vmexpectedly, 
blushed  faintly,  and,  indeed,  appeared  to 
breathe  wdth  difficulty.  She  held  a  bottle  of 
smelling  salts  in  her  hand. 

"  John,"  she  said,  "  I  -will  explain  tliis 
visit." 

"  My  dear  Una,"  he  replied,  affectionately, 
"  you  need  not — it  requii'es  none — and  I  beg 
you  will  not  think  of  it  one  moment  more. 


I  must  now  leave  you  together  for  about 
half  an  hour,  as  I  have  some  business  to  do 
in  town  that  ^riU  detain  me  about  that  time." 
He  then  left  them. 

"Connor,"  said  his  mother,  "  sit  do^^^l  be- 
tween this  darhn'  girl  an'  me,  till  I  spake  to 
you." 

He  sat  down  and  took  a  hand  of  each. 

"  A  darlin'  girl  she  is,  mother.  It's  now  I 
see  how  very  ill  you  have  been,  my  owm 
Una." 

"  Yes,"  she  rei^lied,  "  I  was  ill — but  when  I 
heard  that  your  Hfewas  spared,  I  got  better." 

This  she  said  Avith  an  artless  but  melan- 
choly naicefe,  that  was  very  trjdng  to  the 
fortitude  of  her  lover.  As  she  spoke  she 
looked  fondly  but  mounifull}'  into  his  face. 

"  Connor,"  j^roceeded  his  mother,  "  I  hope 
3'ou  are  fully  sensible  of  the  mercy  God  has 
shoAvn  you,  imder  this  great  trial  ?  " 

"  I  hope  I  am,  indeed,  my  dear  mother. 
It  is  to  God  I  surely  owe  it." 

"  It  is,  an'  I  trust  that,  go  where  you  will, 
and  Hve  where  you  may,  the  day  will  never 
come  when  you'U  forget  the  debt  you  owe 
the  Almighty,  for  preveutin'  you  fifom  bein' 
cut  do^\Ti  like  a  flower  in  the  very  bloom  of 
your  life.  I  hope,  avillish  machree,  that 
that  day  will  never  come." 

"  God  forbid  it  ever  should,  mother 
dear  !  " 

"  Thin  you  may  learn  fi'om  what  has  hap- 
pened, arick  agus  asthore,  never,  oh  never, 
to  despaii"  of  God's  mercy — no  matter  into 
what  thrial  or  diifficulty  you  may  be  brought. 
You  see,  whin  you  naither  hoped  for  it  here, 
nor  expected  it,  how  it  came  for  all  that." 

"  It  did,  blessed  be  God  !  " 

"  You're  goin'  now,  ahagur,  to  a  strange 
land,  where  you'll  meet — ay,  where  my  dar- 
lin' boy  Avill  meet  the  worst  of  comjiany ; 
but  remember,  alanna  aviUish,  that  your 
mother,  well  as  she  loves  you,  an'  weU,  I 
own,  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved — that 
mother  that  hung  over  the  cradle  of  her 
only  one — that  dressed  him,  an'  reared  him, 
an'  felt  many  a  proud  heart  out  of  him — 
that  mother  would  sooner  at  any  time  see 
him  in  his  gi*ave,  his  sowl  bein'  fi'ee  from 
stain,  than  to  know  that  his  heart  was  cor- 
rupted by  the  world,  an'  the  people  you'll 
meet  in  it." 

Something  in  the  last  sentence  must 
have  touched  a  chord  in  Una's  heart,  for  the 
tears,  without  showing  any  other  external 
signs  of  emotion,  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 

"  My  adrice,  then,  to  you — an'  oh,  arick 
machree,  machree,  it  is  my  last,  the  last  you 
will  ever  hear  from  my  lips — " 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother !  "  exclaimed  Con- 
nor, but  he  could  not  proceed — voice  was 
denied  him.     Una  here  sobbed  aloud. 


282 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"You  bore  your  thrial  nobly,  my  darlin' 
son — you  must  thin  bear  this  as  well  ;  an' 
you,  a  coUeen  dhas,  remember  your  promise 
to  me  afore  I  consinted  to  come  with  you 
this  day." 

The  weeping  girl  here  dried  her  eyes, 
and,  by  a  strong  effort,  hushed  her  grief. 

"  My  advice,  thin,  to  you,  is  never  to  neg- 
lect your  duty  to  God  ;  for,  if  3'ou  do  it  wanst 
or  twist,  you'll  begin  by  degrees  to  get  care- 
less— thin,  bit  by  bit,  asthore,  your  heart 
will  harden,  yoiu-  conscience  will  leave  you, 
an'  -wdckedness,  an'  sin,  an'  guilt  "odll  come 
upon  you.  It's  no  matter,  asthore,  how 
much  wicked  comrades  may  laugh  an' 
jeer  at  you,  keep  you  thrue  to  the  will  of 
your  good  God,  an'  to  your  religious  duties, 
an'  let  them  take  their  own  coorse.  Will  you 
promise  me  to  do  this,  aauillviJimachree?  " 

"  Mother,  I  have  always  sthrove  to  do  it, 
an'  with  God's  assistance,  always  will." 

"  An',  my  son,  too,  will  you  bear  up  un- 
dher  this  hke  a  man  ?  Remember,  Connor 
darlin',  that  although  you're  lavin'  us  for- 
ever, yet  your  poor  father  an'  I  have  the 
blessed  satisfaction  of  knowin'  that  we're 
not  childless — that  you're  alive,  an'  that 
you  may  yet  do  well  an'  be  happy.  I  min- 
tion  these  things,  acushla  machree,  to  show 
you  that  there's  nothin'  over  you  so  bad, 
but  you  may  show  yourself  firm  and  manly 
undher  it — act  as  you  have  done.  It's  you, 
asthore,  ought  to  comfort  your  father  an 
me  ;  an'  I  hope,  whin  you're  parted  fi'om 
liim,  that  you  'iU — Oh  God,  support  him  !  I 
wish,  Connor,  darlin',  that  that  partin'  was 
over,  but  I  depend  upon  you  to  make  it  as 
light  upon  him  as  you  can  do." 

She  paused,  apparently  fi-om  exhaustion. 
Indeed,  it  was  evident,  either  that  she  had  ht- 
tle  else  to  add,  or  that  she  felt  too  weak  to 
speak  much  more,  with  such  a  load  of  sor- 
row and  affliction  on  her  heart. 

"  There  is  one  thing,  Connor  jewel,  that 
I  needn't  mintion.  Of  coorse  you'll  write  to 
us  as  often  as  you  convaniently  can.  Oh, 
do  not  forget  that !  for  you  know  that  that 
bit  of  paper  fi-om  your  own  hand,  is  all  be- 
longin'  to  you  we  will  ever  see  more.  Avick 
machree,  machree,  many  a  long  look-out  we 
will  have  for  it.  It  may  keej:)  the  ould  man's 
heart  from  breakin'." 

She  was  silent,  but,  as  she  uttered  the  last 
words,  there  was  a  shaking  of  the  voice, 
which  gave  clear  proof  of  the  difficulty  with 
which  she  went  through  the  solemn  task  of 
being  calm,  which,  for  the  sake  of  her  son, 
she  had  heroically  imposed  upon  herself. 

She  was  now  silent,  but,  as  is  usual  with 
Irish  women  under  the  influence  of  soitow, 
she  rocked  herself  involujitary  to  and  fi-o, 
whilst,  with  closed  eyes,  and  hands  clasped 


as  before,  she  held   communion  with  God, 
the  only  true  source  of  comfort. 

"  Connor,"  she  added,  after  a  pause,  dur- 
ing which  he  and  Una,  though  silent  from 
respect  to  her,  were  both  deeply  affected ; 
"  sit  fornint  me,  avick  machree,  that,  for 
the  short  time  you're  to  be  with  me,  I  may 
have  you  before  my  eyes.  Husth  now,  a  col- 
leen machree,  an'  remimber  your  promise. 
Where's  the  stringth  you  said  you'd  show  ?  " 

She  then  gazed  with  a  long  look  of  love 
and  sorrow  upon  the  fine  countenance  of 
her  manly  son,  and  nature  would  be  no  lon- 
ger restrained — 

"  Let  me  lay  my  head  upon  your  breast," 
said  she  ;  I'm  attemptin'  too  much — the  mo- 
ther's heart  will  give  out  the  mother's  voice — 
will  speak  the  mother's  sorrow  !  Oh,  my  son, 
my  son,  my  darlin',  manly  sou — are  you  lavin' 
your  lovin'  mother  for  evermore,  for  ever- 
more ?  " 

She  was  overcome  ;  placing  her  head  upon 
his  bosom,  her  grief  fell  into  that  beautiful 
but  mournful  wail  with  which,  in  Ireland, 
those  of  her  sex  weep  over  the  dead. 

Indeed,  the  scene  assumed  a  tenderness, 
from  this  incident,  which  was  inexpressibly 
affecting,  inasmuch  as  the  cry  of  death  was 
but  Httle  out  of  place  when  bewailing  that 
beloved  boy,  whom,  by  the  stern  decree  of 
law,  she  was  never  to  see  again. 

Connor  kissed  her  pale  cheek  and  hps, 
and  rained  down  a  flood  of  bitter  tears  upon 
her  face  ;  and  Una,  borne  away  by  the  en- 
thusiasm of  her  sorrow,  threw  her  arms  also 
around  her,  and  wejat  aloud. 

At  length,  after  having,  in  some  degree, 
eased  her  heart,  she  sat  up,  and  with  that 
consideration  and  good  sense  for  which  she 
had  ever  been  remarkable,  said — 

"Natiu'e  must  have  its  way  ;  an'  surely, 
within  reason,  it's  not  sinful,  seein'  that  God 
himself  has  given  us  the  feelin's  of  sorrow, 
whin  thim  that  we  love  is  lavin'  us — lavin'  us 
never,  never  to  see  them  agin.  It's  only 
nature,  afther  aU;  and  now  ma  colleen 
dhas" — 

Her  allusion  to  the  final  separation  of 
those  who  love — or,  in  her  own  words,  "  to 
the  feehn's  of  sorrow,  whin  thim  that  we 
love  is  lavin'  us " — was  too  much  for  the 
heart  and  affections  of  the  fair  girl  at  her 
side,  whose  grief  now  passed  all  the  bounds 
which  her  previous  attempts  at  being  firm.j 
had  prescribed  to  it. 

O'Donovan  took  the  beloved  one  in 
arms,  and,  in  the  long  embrace  which  en- 
sued, seldom  were  love  and  sorrow  so  singu- 
larly and  mournfully  blended. 

"  I  don't  want  to  prevent  you  from  cryin*, 
a  colleen  machree  ;  for  I  know  it  will  lighten ; 
an'  aise  your  heart,"  said  Honor ;  "  but  re* 


FARDOROUQHA,    TEE  MISER, 


283 


mimber  your  wakeness  an'  your  poor  health ; 
an',   Connor   avourneen,   don't  you — if  you 

L    love  her — don't  forget  the  state  her  health's 

'    in  either." 

"  Mother,  mother,  you  know  it's  the  last 
time  I'll  ever  look  upon  my  Una's  face 
again,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  well  may  I  be 
loath  an'  unwillin'  to  part  \nih.  her.  You'll 
think  of  me,  my  darlin'  life,  when  I'm  gone 
— not  as  a  guilty  man,  Una  dear,  but  as  one 
that  if  he  ever  committed  a  crime,  it  was 
lovin'  you  an'  bringin'  you  to  this  unhappy 
state." 

"  God  sees  my  heart  this  day,"  she  re- 
plied— and  she  spoke  with  difficulty — "  that 

,    I  could  and  would  have  travelled  over  the 

i'  world  ;  borne  joy  and  sorrow,  hardship  and 
distress — good  fortune  and  bad — all  happily, 
if  you  had  been  by  my  side — if  you  had  not 
been  taken  from  me.  Oh,  Connor,  Connor, 
you  may  well  pity  your  Una — for  yours  I 
am  and  was — another's  I  never  will  be.  You 
are  entering  into  scenes  that  will  relieve  you 

;  by  their  novelty — that  will  force  you  to  think 
of  other  things  and  of  other  persons  than 

.  those  you've  left  behind  you  ;  but  oh,  what 
can  I  look  upon  that  wdU  not  fill  my  heart 

.  with  despair  and  sorrow,  by  reminding  me 
of  you  and  your  affection  ?  " 

'' Fareer  gair,"  exclaimed  the  mother, 
speaking  involuntarily  aloud,  and  interrupt- 
ing her  own  words  with  sobs  of  bitter 
anguish — "Fareergair,  ma  colleen  dhas,  but 
that's  the  heavy  trutli  with  us  all.  Oh,  the 
ould  man — the  ould  man's  heart  will  break 
all  out,  when  he  looks  upon  the  place,  an' 
everj'thing  else  that  our  boy  left  behind  him." 
"Dear  Una,"  said  Connor,  "you  know 
that  we're  partin'  now  forever." 

"My  breaking  heart  tells  me  that,"  she 
rejjlied.  "I  would  give  the  wealth  of  the 
world  that  it  was  not  so — I  would — I  would." 
"Listen  to  me,  my  ovm  life.  You  must 
not  let  love  for  me  lie  so  hea\y  upon  your 
heart.      Go  out  and  keep   your  mind   em- 

■  ployed  upon  other  thoughts — by  degi'ees 
you'U  forget — no,  I  don't  think  you  could 
altogether  forget  me — me — the  first,  Una, 
you  ever  loved." 

"And  the  last,  Connor — the  last  I  ever 
will  love." 

"  No,  no.  In  the  presence  of  my  lovin' 
mother  I  say  that  you  must  not  think  that 
way.  Time  will  pass,  my  o\\^l  Una,  an'  you 
will  yet  be  happy  with  some  other.  You're 
very  young  ;  an',  as  I  said,  time  "will  wear  me 
by  degrees  out  of  your  mimoiy." 

Una  broke  hastily  from  his  embrace,  for 
she  lay  upon  his  breast  all  this  time — 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Connor  O'Donovan  ?  " 
she  exclaimed  ;  but  on  looking  into  his  face, 
and  reading  the  history  of  deep-seated  sor- 


row which  appeared  there  so  legible,  she 
again  "  fled  to  him  and  wept." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  continued,  "I  cannot  quar- 
rel with  you  now  ;  but  you  do  the  heart  oi 
your  own  Una  injustice,  if  you  think  it  could 
ever  feel  haj^piness  with  another.  Already 
I  have  my  mother's  consent  to  enter  a  con- 
vent— and  to  enter  a  convent  is  my  fixed 
determination." 

"  Oh,  mother,"  said  Connor,  "  How  will  I 
lave  this  blessed  girl  ?  how  will  I  part  with 
her  ?  " 

Honor  rose  up,  and,  by  two  or  three 
simple  words,  disclosed  more  forcibly,  more 
touchingly,  than  any  direct  exhibition  of 
gi'ief  could  have  done,  the  inexpressible 
power  of  the  misery  she  felt  at  this  eternal 
separation  from  her  only  boy.  She  seized 
Una's  two  hands,  and,  kissing  her  lips,  said, 
in  tones  of  the  most  heart-rending  pathos — 

"  Oh,  Una,  Una,  j)ity  me — I  am  his  mo- 
ther ! " 

Una  threw  herself  into  her  arms,  and 
sobbed  out — 

"Yes,  and  mine." 

"  Thin  you'll  obey  me  as  a  daughter 
should,"  said  Honor.  "  This  is  too  much 
for  you,  Oona  ;  part  we  both  must  from  him, 
an'  neither  of  us  is  able  to  bear  much  more." 

She  here  gave  Connor  a  j^rivate  signal  to 
be  firm,  pointing  unobservedly  to  Una's  pale 
cheek,  which  at  that  moment  lay  upon  her 
bosom. 

"Connor,"  she  proceeded,  "Oona  has 
what  you  sent  her.  Nogher — an'  he  is 
breakin'  his  heart  too — gave  it  to  me  ;  an' 
my  daughter,  for  I  will  always  caU  her  so, 
has  it  this  minute  next  her  lo^dn'  heart. 
Here  is  hers,  an'  let  it  he  next  yours." 

Connor  seized  the  glossy  ringlet  from  his 
mother's  hand,  and  placed  it  at  the  moment 
next  to  the  seat  of  his  undjdng  affection  for 
the  fair  girl  fi'om  whose  ebon  locks  it  had 
been  taken. 

His  mother  then  kissed  Una  again,  and,, 
rising,  said — 

"Now,  my  daughther,  remimber  I  am 
yom'  mother,  an'  obey  me." 

"I  will,"  said  Una,  attempting  to  rejjress 
her  grief — "I  wUl ;  but^ — " 

"  Yes,  darhn',  you  will'.  Now,  Connor,  my 
son,  my  son — Connor  ?  " 

"  Wiioi  is  it,  mother,  dai-hn'  ?  " 

"We're  goin',  Connor, — we're lavin'  you — 
be  firm — be  a  man.  Ai-en't  you  my  son, 
Connor?  my  only  son — an'  the  ould  man — 
an'  never,  never  moi-e — kneel  down — kneel 
doA\-u,  till  I  bless  you.  Oh,  many,  many  a 
blessin'  has  risen  from  your  mother's  hps  an' 
your  mother's  heart,  to  Heaven  for  you,  my 
son,  my  son  !  " 

Connor  knelt,  his  heart  bursting,  but  ha 


284 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


knelt  not  alone.  By  his  side  was  bis  own 
Una,  with  meek  and  bended  head,  awaiting 
for  his  mother  ii  blessing. 

She  then  poui-ed  forth  that  blessing  ;  first 
upon  him  who  was  nearest  to  her  heart,  and 
afterwards  ujDon  the  worn  but  still  beautiful 
girl,  whose  love  for  that  adored  son  had  made 
her  so  inexi^ressibly  dear  to  her.  Whilst 
she  uttered  this  fervent  but  sorrowful  bene- 
diction, a  hand  was  placed  upon  the  head  of 
each,  after  which  she  stooped  and  kissed 
them  both,  but  without  shedding  a  single 
tear. 

"Now,"  said  she,  "comes  the  mother's 
wakeness  ;  but  my  son  will  helj)  me  by  his 
manliness — so  will  my  daughter.  I  am  very 
weak.  Oh,  what  heart  can  know  the 
sufferin's  of  this  hour,  but  mine  ?  My  son, 
my  son — Connor  O'Donovan,  my  son  ! "' 

At  this  moment  John  O'Brien  entered  the 
room  ;  but  the  solemnity  and  pathos  of  her 
inanner  and  voice  hushed  him  so  completely 
hito  silent  attention,  that  it  is  probable  she 
did  not  perceive  him. 

"  Let  me  put  my  arms  about  him  and  kiss 
his  lips  once  more,  an'  then  I'll  say  farewell." 

She  again  ajDproached  the  boy,  who 
opened  his  arms  to  receive  her,  and,  after 
having  kissed  him  and  looked  into  his  face, 
said,  "  I  will  now  go — I  ^-iU  now  go  ; "  but 
instead  of  withdi-awing,  as  she  had  intended, 
it  was  obser^•ed  that  she  j^ressed  him  more 
closety  to  her  heart  than  before  ;  phed  her 
hands  about  his  neck  and  bosom,  as  if  she 
were  not  actually  conscious  of  what  she  did  ; 
and  at  lengih  sunk  into  a  forgetfulness  of 
all  her  miser}'  upon  the  aching  breast  of  her 
unhappy  son. 

"  Now,"  said  Una,  rising  into  a  spirit  of 
unexpected  fortitude,  "  now,  Connor,  I  will 
be  her  daughter,  and  you  must  be  her  son. 
The  moment  she  recovers  we  must  separate, 
and  in  such  a  manner  as  to  show  that  our 
affection  for  each  other  shall  not  be  injuri- 
ous to  her." 

"It  is  nature  only,"  said  her  brother  ;  "or, 
in  other  words,  the  love  that  is  natural  to 
such  a  mother  for  such  a  son,  that  has  over- 
come her.     Connor,  this  must  be  ended." 

"I  am  willing  it  should,"  rej^lied  the  other. 
"  You  must  assist  them  home,  and  let  me  see 
you  again  to-morrow.  I  have  something  of 
the  deepest  importance  to  say  to  you." 

Una's  bottle  of  smelling  salts  soon  reheved 
the  woe- worn  mother  ;  and,  ere  the  lapse  of 
many  minutes,  she  was  able  to  summon  her 
own  natural  firmness  of  character.  The 
lovers,  too,  strove  to  be  firm  ;  and,  after  one 
long  and  last  embrace,  they  separated  from 
Connor  with  more  composure  than,  from  the 
preceding  scene,  might  have  been  expected. 

The  next  day,  according  to  promise,  John 


O'Brien  paid  him  an  early  visit,  in  order  to 
hear  what  Connor  had  assured  him  was  ol 
more  importance  even  than  Una's  hfe  itself. 
Their  conference  was  long  and  serious,  for 
each  felt  equally  interested  in  its  subject- 
matter.  When  it  was  concluded,  and  they 
had  separated,  O'Brien's  friends  observed 
that  he-  appeared  like  a  man  whose  mind  was 
occupied  by  something  that  occasioned  him 
to  feel  deejj  anxiety.  \\Tiat  the  cause  of  this 
secret  care  was,  he  did  not  disclose  to  any 
one  except  his  father,  to  whom,  in  a  few  days 
afterwards,  he  mentioned  it.  His  college 
vacation  had  now  nearly  expired  ;  but  it  was 
mutually  agreed  upon,  in  the  course  of  the 
communication  he  then  made,  that  for  the 
present  he  shorJd  remain  with  them  at  home, 
and  posti:)one  his  return  to  Mapiooth,  if  not 
abandon  the  notion  of  the  priesthood  alto- 
gether. "Wlien  the  Bodagh  left  his  son,  after 
this  dialogue,  his  open,  good-humored  coun- 
tenance seemed  clouded,  his  brow  thought- 
ful, and  his  whole  manner  that  of  a  man  who 
has  heard  something  more  than  usually  un- 
pleasant ;  but,  whatever  this  intelligence 
was,  he,  too,  ajDjDeared  equally  studious  to 
conceal  it.  The  day  now  arrived  on  which 
Connor  O'Donovan  was  to  see  his  other  pa- 
rent for  the  last  time,  and  this  interview  he 
dreaded,  on  the  old  man's  account,  more 
than  he  had  done  even  the  separation  fi'om 
his  mother.  Our  readers  may  judge,  there- 
fore, of  his  surprise  on  finding  that  his  father 
exliibited  a  want  of  sorrow  or  of  common 
feeling  that  absolutely  amounted  almost  to 
indifference. 

Connor  felt  it  difficult  to  account  for  a 
change  so  singular  and  extraordinary  in  one 
with  whose  affection  for  himself  he  was  so 
well  acquainted.  A  httle  time,  however,  and 
an  odd  hint  or  two  thrown  out  in  the  eaj'ly 
part  of  their  conversation,  soon  enabled  him 
to  perceive,  either  that  the  old  man  labored 
under  some  strange  hallucination,  or  had 
discovered  a  secret  source  of  comfort  known 
only  to  himself.  At  length,  it  appeared  to 
the  son  that  he  had  discovered  the  cause  of 
this  unaccountable  change  in  the  conduct  of 
his  father  ;  and,  we  need  scarcely  assure  our 
readers,  that  his  heart  sank  into  new  and 
deeper  distress  at  the  words  fi-om  which  he 
drew  the  mference. 

"Connor,"  said  the  miser,  "I  had  gi-eat 
luck  yestherday.  You  remember  Antony  Cu- 
sack,  that  ran  away  fi-om  me  wid  seventy- 
three  pounds  fifteen  shillin's  an'  nine  jaence, 
now  betther  than  nine  years  ago.  Many  a 
curse  he  had  from  me  for  his  roguery  ;  but 
somehow,  it  seems  he  only  lhTu\:i  under  them. 
His  son  Andy  called  on  me  yestherday 
mornin',  an'  ped  me  to  the  last  farden,  in- 
th'rest  an'  all.     Wasn't  I  in  luck  ?  " 


FARDOROUGHA.   THE  MISER. 


285 


"  It  was  verj-  fortunate,  father,  an'  I'm  glad 
uf  it." 

"  It  was,  indeed,  the  hoighth  o'  luck.  Now, 
Connor,  you  tliink  one  thing,  an'  that  is,  that 
we're  partin'  forever,  an'  that  we'll  never  see 
one  another  till  we  meet  in  the  next  world. 
Isn't  that  what  you  think  ?  — eh,  Connor  ?  " 

"  It's  hard  to  tell  what  may  happen,  father. 
We  may  see  one  another  even  in  this;  stranger  : 
things  have  been  brought  about."  ; 

"  I  tell  you,   Connox-,  we'll  meet  agin  ;  I 
have  made  out  a  plan  in  my  own  head  for 
that ;  but  the  luckiest  of  all  was  the  money  , 
yestherday."  i 

"  Whatsis  the  plafa,  father  ?  "  ! 

"  Don't  ax  me,  a^'ick,  bekase  it's  betther  ' 
for  you  not  to  know  it.  I  may  be  disappoint-  ! 
ed,  but  it's  not  likeh'  aither  ;  still  it  'ud  be 
risin'  exi^ectations  in  you,  an'  if  it  didn't 
come  to  pass,  you'd  only  be  more  unhappy  ; 
an'  you  know,  Connor  darlin',  I  wouldn't 
■wish  to  be  the  manes  of  making  yoiu"  jDoor 
heart  sore  for  one  minute.  God  knows  the 
same  voung  heart  has  suffered  enough,  an' 
more  than  it  ought  to  suffer.     Connor  ?  " 

"  WeU,  father  ?  " 

"  Keep  up  your  spirits,  darlin',  don't  be  at 
all  cast  do\\Ti,  I  teU  you." 

The  old  man  caught  his  son's  hands  ere  he  : 
spoke,  and  uttered  these  words  with  a  voice 
of  such  tenderness  and  affection,  that  Con- 
nor, on  seeing  him  assume  the  office  of  com-  '• 
forter,  contrary  to  all  he  had  expected,  felt 
himself  more  deej^ly  touched  than  if  his  fa- 
ther had  fallen,  as  was  his  wont,  into  all  the 
impotent  violence  of  giief. 

"It  was  only  comin'  here  to-day,  Connor, 
that  I  thought  of  this  plan  ;  but  I  wish  to 
goodness  your  poor  mother  knew  it,  for  thin 
maybe  she'd  let  me  mintion  it  to  you." 

"  If  it  would  make  me  any  way  unhappy," 
replied  Connor,  "  I'd  rather  not  hear  it ;  only, 
whatever  it  is,  father,  if  it's  against  my  dear 
mother's  "s\'ishes,  don't  put  it  in  practice." 

"I  couldn't,  Connor,  -n-idout  her  consint, 
barrin'  we'd — but  there's  no  us  in  that ;  only 
keep  up  your  spirits,  Connor  dear.  Still  I'm 
glad  it  came  into  my  head,  this  plan  ;  for  if 
I  thought  that  I'd  never  see  you  agin,  I 
wouldn't  know  how  to  part  vnd  you  ;  my 
heai't  'ud  fciirly  break,  or  my  head  'ui  get 
light.  Now,  won't  you  promise  me  not  to 
fi'et,  acushla  machree — an'  to  keep  your  heart 
up,  an'  your  spirits  ?  " 

"  I'll  fret  as  little  as  I  can,  father.  You 
know  there's  not  much  pleasiu*e  in  frettin',  an' 
th;it  no  one  would  fi'et  if  they  could  avoid  it ; 
but  will  you  promise  me,  my  dear  father,  to  be 
guided  an'  advised,  in  whatever  you  do,  or 
intend  to  do,  by  my  mother — my  blessed 
mother  ?  " 

"I  will — I  will,  Connor  ;  an'  if  I  had  always 


done  so,  maybe  it  isn't  here  now  you'd  be 
standing,  an'  my  heart  breakin'  to  look  at 
you  ;  but,  indeed,  it  was  God,  I  hope,  put  this 
plan  into  my  head  ;  an'  the  money  yesther- 
day— that,  too,  was  so  lucky — far  more  so, 
Connor  dear,  than  you  think.  Only  fol 
that — but  sure  no  matther,  Connor,  we'ra 
not  partin'  for  evermore  now  ;  so  acushla 
machree,  let  your  mind  be  aisy.  Cheer  up, 
cheer  up  my  dai'hn'  son." 

Much  more  conversation  of  this  kind  took 
place  between  them  during  the  old  man's 
stay,  which  he  prolonged  almost  to  the  last 
hour.  Connor  wondex'ed,  as  was  but  natiu-al, 
what  the  plan  so  recently  fallen  upon  by  his 
father  could  be.  Indeed,  sometimes,  he 
feared  that  the  idea  of  their  separation  had 
shaken  his  intellect,  and  that  his  allusions  to 
this  mysterious  discovery,  mixed  up,  as  they 
were,  with  the  uncommon  deUght  he  ex- 
pressed at  having  recovered  Cusack's  money, 
boded  nothing  less  than  the  ultimate  de- 
rangement of  liis  faculties.  One  thing,  how- 
ever, seemed  obvious — that,  whatever  it 
might  be,  whether  i-easonable  or  other^n-ise, 
his  father's  mind  was  exclusively  occupied  by 
it  ;  and  that,  during  the  whole  scene  of  their 
parting,  it  sustained  him  in  a  manner  for 
which  he  felt  it  utterly  impossible  to  account. 
It  is  true  he  did  not  leave  him  without  shed- 
ding tears,  and  bitter  tears  ;  but  they  were 
unaccompanied  by  the  ■w'ild  vehemence  of 
gi'ief  which  had,  on  former  occasions,  raged 
through  and  almost  desolated  his  heart. 
The  reader  may  entertain  some  notion  of 
what  he  would  have  felt  on  this  occasion, 
were  it  not  for  the  "  plan,"  as  he  called  it, 
which  supported  him  so  much,  when  we  tell 
him  that  he  blessed  his  son  three  or  four 
times  during  their  inten'iew,  without  being 
conscious  that  he  had  blessed  him  more  than 
once.  His  last  words  to  him  were  to  keep 
up  his  spmts,  for  that  there  was  little  doubt 
that  they  would  meet  again. 

The  next  morning,  at  daybreak,  "  their 
noble  boy,"  as  they  fondly  and  proudly  called 
him,  was  conveyed  to  the  transport,  in  com- 
pany -^"ith  many  others ;  and  at  the  hour  of 
live  o'clock  p.  m.,  that  melancholy  vessel 
weighed  anchor,  and  spread  her  broad  sails 
to  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

Although  the  necessary  affairs  of  hfe  are, 
after  all,  the  great  assuager  of  soitow,  yet 
there  are  also  cases  where  the  heart  persists 
in  rejecting  the  consolation  brought  by  time, 
and  in  chnging  to  the  memory  of  that  which 
it  loved.  Neither  Honor  O'Donovan  nor 
Una  O'Brien  could  forget  our  unhappy  hero, 
nor  school  their  affections  into  the  apathy  of 
ordinary  feelings.  Of  Fardorougha  we  might 
say  the  same  ;  for,  although  he  probably  fcl< 
the  want  of  his  son's  presence  more  keenly 


286 


WILLIAM  CAIiLETON'S   WORKS. 


even  than  his  wife,  yet  his  grief,  notwith- 
standing its  severity,  was  mingled  with  the 
interi-uption  of  a  habit — such  as  is  frequently 
the  prevaihng  cause  of  sorrow  in  selfish  and 
contracted  minds.  That  there  was  much 
selfishness  in  his  grief,  our  readers,  we  dare 
say,  Avill  admit.  At  all  events,  a  scene  which 
took  place  between  him  and  his  wife,  on  the 
night  of  the  day  which  saw  Connor  depart 
fi'om  his  native  land  forever,  \vill  satisfy  them 
of  the  different  spirit  which  marked  their 
feehngs  on  that  unfortunate  occasion. 

Honor  had,  as  might  be  expected,  recov- 
ered her  serious  composure,  and  spent  a 
gi'eat  portion  of  that  day  in  offering  up  her 
prayers  for  the  welfare  of  theu'  son.  Indeed, 
much  of  her  secret  grief  was  checked  by  the 
alann  which  she  felt  for  her  husband,  whose 
conduct  on  that  morning  before  he  left  home 
was  marked  by  the  A^■ild  excitement,  which  of 
late  had  been  so  peculiar  to  him.  Her  sur- 
prise was  consequently  great  when  she  ob- 
served, on  his  return,  that  he  manifested  a 
degree  of  calmness,  if  not  serenity,  utterly  at 
variance  with  the  outrage  of  his  grief,  or,  we 
should  rather  say,  the  dehi'ium  of  his  despair, 
in  the  early  part  of  the  day.  She  resolved, 
however,  with  her  usual  discretion,  not  to 
catechize  him  on  the  subject,  lest  his  violence 
might  re\ive,  but  to  let  his  conduct  explain 
itself,  whicli  she  knew  in  a  httle  time  it 
would  do.  Nor  was  she  mistaken.  Scarcely 
had  an  hour  elapsed,  when,  with  something 
like  exultation,  he  disclosed  his  plan,  and 
asked  her  adrice  and  opinion.  She  heard  it 
attentively,  and  for  the  first  time  since  the 
commencement  of  their  affliction,  did  the 
mother's  brow  seem  unbui'dened  of  the  sor- 
row which  sat  upon  it,  and  her  eye  to  gleam 
with  something  like  the  light  of  expected 
happiness.  It  was,  however,  on  their  retiring 
to  rest  that  night  that  the  affecting  contest 
took  place,  which  exhibited  so  strongly  the 
contrast  between  their  characters.  We 
mentioned,  in  a  preceding  pari  of  this  narra- 
tive, that  ever  since  her  son's  incarceration 
Honor  had  slept  in  his  bed,  and  with  her 
head  on  the  very  pillow  which  he  had  so  often 
pressed.  As  she  was  about  to  retire,  Fardo- 
rougha,  for  a  moment,  appeared  to  forget  his 
"plan,"  and  even'thing  but  the  departure  of 
his  son.  He  followed  Honor  to  his  bedi'oom, 
which  he  traversed,  distractedly  clasping  his 
hands,  kissing  his  boy's  clothes,  and  utteiing 
•.sentiments  of  extreme  miserj'  and  despair. 

"There's  his  bed,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "there's 
<our  boy's  bed — but  where  is  he  himself? 
^one,  gone  forever  !  There's  his  clothes,  our 
darlin'  son's  clothes ;  look  at  them.  Oh 
God !  oh  God  !  my  heart  wall  break  oiitright. 
Oh  Connor,  our  boy,  our  boy,  are  you  gone 
from  us  forever  !     We  must  sit  down  to  our 


breakfast  in  the  mornin',  to  our  dinner,  an 
to  our  supper  at  night,  but  our  noble  boy's 
face  we'll  never  see — his  voice  we'U  never 
hear." 

"  All,  Fardorougha,  it's  thi'ue,  it's  tlirue  !  * 
replied  the  wife  ;  "  but  remember  he's  not  in 
the  grave,  not  in  the  clay  of  the  churchyard  ; 
we  haven't  seen  him  carried  there,  and  laid 
down  undher  the  heart-breakin'  sound  of  the 
dead-bel'  ;  we  haven't  hard  the  cowld  noise 
of  the  clay  faUin'  in  upon  his  coffin.  Oh  no, 
no — thanks,  everlastin'  thanks  to  God,  that 
has  spared  our  boy's  life  !  How  often  have 
you  an'  I  hard  peojjle  say  over  the  coipses  of 
their  children,  '  Oh,  if  he  was  only  alive  I 
didn't  care  in  what  part  of  the  world  it  was, 
or  if  I  was  never  to  see  his  face  again,  only 
that  he  was  hrin' ! '  An'  wouldn't  they, 
Fardorougha  dear,  give  the  Avorld's  wealth  to 
have  their  wishes?  Oh  they  would,  they 
would — an'  thanks  forever  be  to  the  Al- 
mighty !  om-  boy  is  livin'  and  may  jit  be 
happy.  Fardorougha,  let  us  not  fl}'  into  the 
face  of  God,  who  has  in  His  mercy  spared 
our  son." 

"  I'll  sleep  in  his  bed,"  replied  the  hus- 
band ;  "  on  the  very  spot  he  lay  on  I'll  he." 

This  was,  indeed,  trenching,  and  selfishly 
trenching  ujDon  the  last  mournful  privilege 
of  the  mother's  heart.  Her  sleeping  here 
was  one  of  those  secret  but  melancholy  en- 
joyments, which  the  love  of  a  mother  or  of  a 
wife  will  often  steal,  like  a  miser's  theft,  fi'om 
the  very  hoard  of  their  own  sorrows.  In 
fact,  she  was  not  prepared  for  this,  and  when 
he  spoke  she  looked  at  him  for  some  time  in 
silent  amazement. 

"Oh,  no,  Fardorougha  dear — the  mother, 
the  mother,  that  her  breast  was  so  often  his 
pillow,  has  the  best  right,  now  that  he's  gone, 
to  lay  her  head  where  his  lay.  Oh,  for  Heav- 
en's sake,  lave  that  poor  jjleasure  to  me,  Far- 
dorougha !  " 

"  No,  Honor,  you  can  bear  up  undher  grief 
better  than  I  can.  I  must  sleep  where  my 
boy  slept." 

' '  Fardorougha,  I  could  go  upon  my  knees 
to  you,  an'  I  will,  avoumeen,  if  you'll  grant 
me  this." 

"I  can't,  I  can't,"  he  replied,  distractedly  ; 
"  I  could  sleep  nowhere  else.  I  love  eveiy- 
thing  belongin'  to  him.  I  can't,  Honor,  J 
can't,  I  can't." 

"  Fardorougha,  my  heart — his  mother's 
heart  is  fixed  upon  it,  an'  was.  Oh  lave  this 
to  me,  acushla,  lave  this  to  me — it's  all  I 
axe !  " 

"  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't — my  heart  is  break- 
m' — it'll  be  sweet  to  me — I'll  think  I'll  be 
nearer  him,"  and  as  he  uttered  these  words 
the  tears  flowed  copiously  down  his  cheeks. 

His  affectionate  wife  was  touched  with  com* 


FABDOEOUGIIA,   THE  2IlSEIi. 


2>7 


passion,  and  immediately  resolved  to  let  him 
have  his  way,  whatever  it  might  cost  herself. 

"  God  pity  you,"  she  said  ;  "  I'll  give  it  up, 
I'll  give  it  up,  Fardorougha.  Do  sleep  where 
he  slejj' ;  I  can't  blame  you,  nor  I  don't ;  for 
sm-e  it's  only  a  j^roof  of  how  much  you  love 
him."  She  then  bade  him  good-night,  and, 
with  spirits  dreadfully  weighed  do\\'n  by  this 
singular  incident,  withdrew  to  her  lonely  pil- 
low ;  for  Connor's  bed  had  been  a  single 
one,  in  which,  of  course,  two  persons  could 
not  sleep  together.  Thus  did  these  bereav- 
ed parents  retire  to  seek  that  rest  wliich 
nothing  but  exhausted  nature  seemed  dispos- 
ed to  give  them,  until  at  length  they  fell  asleep 
under  the  double  shadow  of  night  and 
a  calamity  which  filled  their  hearts  with  so 
much  distress  and  miseiy. 

In  the  mean  time,  whatever  these  two  fam- 
ihes  might  have  felt  for  the  sufferings  of 
their  respective  children  in  consequence  of 
Bartle  Flanagan's  villainy,  that  plausible  trai- 
tor had  watched  the  dej^arture  of  his  \'ictim 
with  a  palpitating  anxiety  almost  equal  to 
what  some  unhappy  culprit,  in  the  dock  of  a 
prison,  would  experience  when  the  foreman 
of  his  juiy  nan  J  J  down  the  sentence  which  is 
either  to  hang  or  acquit  him.  Up  to  the 
very  moment  on  which  the  vessel  sailed,  his 
cruel  but  cowardly  heart  was  hterally  sick 
with  the  apprehension  that  Connor's  mitiga- 
ted sentence  might  be  still  further  commut- 
ed to  a  term  of  imprisonment.  Great,  there- 
fore, was  his  joy,  and  boundless  his  exultation 
on  satisf\'ing  himself  that  he  was  now  per- 
fectly safe  in  the  crime  he  had  committed, 
and  that  his  path  was  never  to  be  crossed  by 
him,  whom,  of  all  men  hving,  he  had  most 
feared  and  hated.  The  reader  is  not  to  sup- 
pose, however,  that  by  the  ruin  of  Connor, 
and  the  revenge  he  consequently  had  gained 
upon  Fardorougha,  the  scoj^e  of  his  dark  de- 
signs was  by  any  means  accomphshed.  Far 
from  it  ;  the  fact  is,  his  measures  were  only 
in  a  progressive  state.  In  Nogher  M'Cor- 
mick's  last  inter%iew  -^ith  Connor,  our  read- 
ers will  please  to  remember  that  a  hint  had 
been  thrown  out  by  that  attached  old  follow- 
er, of  Flanagan's  entertaining  certain  guilty 
purposes  involving  nothing  less  than  the  ab- 
duction of  Una.  Now,  in  justice  even  to 
Flanagan,  we  are  bound  to  say  that  no  one 
liAdng  had  ever  received  fi'om  himself  any  in- 
timation of  such  an  intention.  The  whole 
story  was  fabricated  by  Nogher  for  the  pur- 
pose of  getting  Connor's  consent  to  the 
vengeance  which  it  had  been  determined  to 
execute  upon  his  enemy.  By  a  curious  co- 
incidence, however,  the  stoiy,  though  decided- 
ly false  so  far  as  Nogher  knew  to  the  contra- 
ry', happened  to  be  hteraDy  and  absolutely 
U^e      Flanagan,  indeed,  was  too  skilful  and 


secret,  either  to  precipitate  his  own  designs 
until  the  feehng  of  the  parties  should  abate 
and  settle  do^vn,  or  to  place  himself  at  the 
mercy  of  another  person's  honesty.  He  knew 
his  own  heart  too  well  to  risk  his  Kfe  by 
such  dangerous  and  unseasonable  confidence. 
Some  months  consequently  passed  awaj'  sinca 
Connor's  departure,  when  an  event  took  place 
which  gave  him  still  gi-eater  secvuity.  This 
was  nothing  less  than  the  fulfilment  by  Far- 
dorougha of  that  plan  to  which  he  looked 
forward  "svdth  such  prospective  satisfaction. 
Connor  had  not  been  a  month  gone  when  his 
father  commenced  to  dispose  of  his  property, 
which  he  soon  did,  ha\ing  sold  out  his  farm 
to  good  advantage.  He  then  paid  his  rent, 
the  only  debt  he  owed  ;  and,  ha^ang  taken  a 
passage  to  New  South  Wales  for  himself  and 
Honor,  they  departed  with  melancholy  satis- 
faction to  seek  that  son  without  whose  soci- 
ety they  found  their  desolate  hearth  gloomier 
than  the  cell  of  a  j^rison. 

This  was  followed,  too,  by  another  circum- 
stance— but  one  aj)parently  of  httle  impor- 
tance— which  was,  the  removal  of  Biddy 
Nulty  to  the  Bodagh's  family,  through  the 
interference  of  Una,  by  whom  she  was  treated 
"v\dth  singular  afi'ection,  and  admitted  to  her 
confidence. 

Such  was  the  position  of  the  parties  after 
the  laj)se  of  five  months  subsequent  to  the 
trans j)ortation  of  Connor.  Flanagan  had 
conducted  himself  with  gi-eat  cu'cumspection, 
and,  so  far  as  pubhc  obsen^ation  could  go, 
with  much  j^rojDriety.  There  was  no  change 
whatsoever  percejotible,  either  in  his  dress 
or  manner  except  that  alluded  to  by  Nogher 
of  his  altogether  dechning  to  taste  any  in- 
toxicating liquor.  In  tnith,  so  weU  did  he 
act  his  part,  that  the  obloquy  raised  against 
him  at  the  period  of  Connor's  trial  was 
nearly,  if  not  altogether,  removed,  and  many 
l^ersons  once  more  adopted  an  impression  of 
his  victim's  guilt. 

With  resjiect  to  the  Bodagh  and  his  son,, 
the  anxiety  which  we  have  described  them  as; 
feehng  in  consequence  of  the  latter's  inter- 
view with  O'Donovau,  was  now  completely- 
removed.  Una's  mother  had  nearly  forgotteni 
both  the  crime  and  its  consequences  ;  but. 
ujion  the  spirit  of  her  daughter  there  ap- 
peai-ed  to  rest  a  silent  and  settled  sorrow  not. 
likely  to  be  diminished  or  removed.  Her 
cheei-fulness  had  abandoned  her,  and  many 
an  hour  did  she  contrive  to  spend  with 
Biddy  Nulty,  eager  in  the  mournful  satis- 
faction of  talking  over  aU  that  affection 
prompted  of  her  banished  lover. 

.  We  must  now  beg  our  readers  to  accom- 
pany us  to  a  scene  of  a  difierent  description 
from  any  we  have  yet  drawn.  The  night  of 
a  November  da^'  had  set  in.  or  rather  had 


288 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S  WORKS. 


advanced  so  far  as  nine  o'clock,  and  towards 
the  angle  of  a  smiill  three-cornered  field, 
called  lay  a  peculiar  coincidence  of  name, 
Oona's  Handkerchief,  in  consequence  of  an 
old  legend  connected  with  it,  might  be  seen 
moving  a  number  of  straggling  figures, 
sometimes  in  groups  of  foiu'S  and  fives ; 
sometimes  in  twos  or  threes  as  the  case 
might  be,  and  not  unfrequently  did  a  single 
straggler  advance,  and,  after  a  few  private 
words,  either  join  the  others  or  proceed  alone 
to  a  house  situated  in  the  angular  corner  of 
the  field  to  which  we  allude.  As  the  district 
was  a  remote  one,  and  the  night  rather  dai'k, 
several  shots  might  be  heard  as  they  jjroceed- 
ed,  and  several  flashes  in  the  pan  seen  from 
the  rusty  ai'ms  of  those  who  were  probably 
anxious  to  p\ill  a  trigger  for  the  first  time. 
The  country,  at  the  period  we  write  of,  be  it 
observed,  was  in  a  comparative  state  of 
tranquility,  and  no  such  thing  as  a  police 
corps  had  been  heaixl  of  or  known  in  the 
neighborhood.  • 

At  the  lower  end  of  a  long,  level  kind  of 
moor  called  the  Black  Park,  two  figures  ap- 
proached a  kind  of  gate  or  j^ass  that  oj)ened 
into  it.  One  of  them  stood  until  the  other 
advanced,  and,  in  a  significant  tone,  asked 
who  comes  there  ? 

"  A  friend  to  the  guard,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Good  moiTOw,"  said  the  other. 

"  Good  moiTow  mornin'  to  you." 

"What  age  are  vou  in?" 

"In  the  end  of  the  Fifth." 

"  All  right ;  come  on,  boy ;  the  true 
blood's  in  you,  whoever  you  are." 

"  An'  is  it  possible  you  don't  know  me, 
Dandy  ?  " 

"Faix,  it  is ;  I  forgot  my  spectacles  to- 
night.    "\Mio  the  dickins  are  you  at  all  ?  " 

"I  supjiose  j'ou  piu'tind  to  forget  Ned 
M'Cormick  ?  " 

"Is  it  Nogher's  son ?  " 

"  The  diril  a  other ;  an',  Dandy  Dviffy, 
how  are  you,  man  alive  ?  " 

""\Mi3%  you  see,  Ned,  I've  been  so  long 
out  of  the  counthiy,  an'  I'm  now  so  short  a 
time  back,  that,  upon  my  sowl,  I  forget  a 
gi-eat  many  of  my  ould  acquaintances,  es- 
pecially them  that  wor  only  slips  when  I  wint 
acrass.  Faith,  I'm  purty  well  considherin, 
Ned,  I  thank  you." 

"  Bad  luck  to  them  that  sint  you  acrass. 
Dandy  ;  not  but  that  you  got  off  piu'ty  well 
on  the  whole,  by  all  accounts.  They  say 
only  that  Eousin  Redhead  swore  like  a  man 
you'd  'a'  got  a  touch  of  the  Shaggy  Shoe." 

"  To  the  divil  vdd  it  aU  now,  Ned  ;  let  us 
have  no  more  about  it  ;  I  don't  for  my  own 
part  like  to  think  of  it.  Have  you  any 
notion  of  what  we're  called  upon  for  to- 
night ?  " 


"  Divil  the  laste  ;  but  I  believe.  Dandy, 
that  Bai'tle's  not  the  white-neaded  boy  wid 
you  no  more  nor  wid  some  more  of  us." 

"  Him  !  a  double-distilled  villain.  Faith, 
there  wor  never  good  that  had  the  white 
liver ;  an'  he  has  it  to  the  backbone.  My 
brother  Lachlin,  that's  now  dead,  God  rest 
him,  often  tould  me  about  the  way  he  tricked 
him  and  Barney  Bradly  when  they  wor 
greenhorns  about  nineteen  or  twenty.  He 
got  them  to  join  him  in  steaUn'  a  sheep  for 
their  Christmas  dinner,  he  said  ;  so  they  all 
three  stole  it  ;  an'  the  blaggard  skinned  and 
cut  it  up,  sendin'  my  poor  boacun  of  a 
bi'other  home  to  hide  the  skin  in  the  straw 
in  our  bai-n,  and  poor  Baraey,  wid  only  the 
head  an'  trotters,  to  hide  them  in  his  father's 
tow-house.  Tery  good  ;  in  a  day  or  two 
the  neighbors  wor  all  called  upon  to  clear 
themselves  upon  the  holy  EvangeHsp  ;  and 
the  two  first  that  he  egg'd  an'  to  do  it  was 
my  brother  an'  Barney.  Of  coorse  he  switch- 
ed the  primmer  himself  that  he  was  inno- 
cent ;  but  whin  it  was  all  over  some  one  sint 
Jar'my  Campel,  that  lost  the  sheep,  to  the 
veiy  spot  where  they  hid  the  fleece  an'  trot- 
ters. Jai-my  didn't  wish  to  say  much  about 
it ;  so  he  tould  them  if  they'd  fairly  acknowl- 
edge it  an'  pay  him  betime  them  for  the 
sheep,  he'd  dhrop  it.  My  fither  an'  Andy 
BracUy  did  so,  an'  there  it  ended  ;  but  pur- 
shue  the  morsel  of  mutton  ever  they  tasted 
in  the  mane  time.  As  for  Bartle,  he  man- 
aged the  thing  so  weU  that  at  the  time  they 
never  suspected  him,  although  divil  a  other 
could  betray  them,  for  he  was  the  only  one 
knew  it ;  an'  he  had  the  aiten  o'  the  mutton, 
too,  the  blaggard  !  Faith,  Ned,  I  know  him 
well." 

"He  has  conthi-ived  to  get  a  strong  back 
o'  the  boys,  anyhow." 

"He  has,  an'  'tis  that,  and  bekase  he's  a 
good  hand  to  be  luidher  for  m}'  revinge  on 
Blennerhasset,  that  made  me  join  him." 

"I  dvmna  what  could  make  him  refuse  to 
let  Ahck  Nulty  join  him  ?  " 

"Is  it  my  cousin  fi'om  Annaloghan ?  an' 
did  he  ?  " 

"Divil  a  He  in  it  ;  it's  as  fchrue  as  you're 
standin'  there  ;  but  do  you  know  what  is 
suspected  ?  " 

"No." 

"Why,  that  he  has  an  eye  on  Bodagh 
Buie's  daughter.  Ahck  towld  me  that,  for 
a  long  time  afther  Connor  O'Donovan  was 
thransported,  the  father  an'  son  wor  afeard 
of  him.  He  hju'd  it  from  his  sister  Biddy, 
an'  it  appears  that  the  Bodagh's  daughter 
tould  her  family  that  he  used  to  stare  her 
out  of  countenance  at  mass,  an'  several  times 
struv  to  piit  the  furraun  on  her  in  hopes  to 
get  acquainted." 


1 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


289 


**  He  would  do  it ;  an'  my  hand  to  you,  if 
he  undhertakes  it  he'll  not  fail ;  an'  I'll  tell 
yt  u  another  thing,  if  he  suspected  that  I 
knew  anything  about  the  thraicherous  thrick 
he  put  on  my  poor  bi'other,  the  divil  a  toe 
he  d  let  me  join  him  ;  but  you  see  I  was 
only  a  mere  gorsoon,  a  child  I  may  say  at 
the  time. 

'  At  all  events  let  us  keep  an  eye  on  him  ; 
an'  in  regard  to  Connor  O'Donovan's  busi- 
ness ,  let  him  not  be  too  sure  that  it's  over 
wid  him  yet.  At  any  rate,  by  dad,  my  father 
has  sHpped  out  a  name  upon  him  an'  us 
that  will  do  him  no  good.  The  other  boys 
now  call  us  the  Stags  of  Liadhu,  that  bein' 
the  place  where  his  father  lived,  an'  the 
nickniime  you  see  rises  out  of  his  thracheiy 
to  poor  Connor  O'Donovan." 

"  Did  he  ever  give  any  hint  himseK  about 
carryin'  away  the  Bodagh's  pretty  daugh- 
ter?" 

"Is  it  him?  Oh,  oh!  catch  him  at  it; 
he's  a  damn  sight  too  close  to  do  any  sich 
thing." 

Aftei  some  further  conversation  upon 
that  and  other  topics,  they  arrived  at  the 
place  of  appointment,  which  was  a  hedge 
school-hjuse ;  one  of  those  where  the 
master,  generally  an  unmarried  man,  merely 
wields  his  sceptre  during  school-hours,  leav- 
ing it  optn  and  uninhabited  for  the  rest  of 
the  twentv-four. 

The  ap|:tearance  of  those  who  were  here 
assembled  was  indeed  singularly  striking. 
A  large  fir  j  of  the  unconsumed  peat  brought 
by  the  schc  ilars  on  that  morning,  was  kind- 
led in  the  middle  of  the  floor — it's  usual 
site.  Aroind,  upon  stones,  hobs,  bosses, 
and  seats  of  various  descriptions,  sat  the 
"boys" — S(ime  smoking  and  others  drink- 
ing ;  for  up  on  nights  of  this  kind,  a  shebeen- 
housekeepe;.f,  uniformly  a  member  of  such 
societies,  gsnerally  attends  for  the  sale  of 
his  Uquor,  if  he  cannot  succeed  in  prevaihug 
on  them  to  hold  their  meetings  in  his  own 
house — a  circumstance  which  for  many  rea- 
sons may  not  be  in  every  case  advisable. 
A.S  they  had  not  all  yet  assembled,  nor  the 
business  of  the  night  commenced,  they  were, 
of  course,  divided  into  several  groups  and 
engaged  in  various  amusements.  In  the 
iower  end  of  the  house  was  a  knot,  busy  at 
the  game  of  "  spoiled  five,"  their  ludicrous 
table  being  the  crown  of  a  hat,  placed  upon 
the  floor  in  the  centre.  These  all  sat  upon 
the  ground,  their  legs  stretched  out,  their 
torch-bearer  holding  a  Ht  bunch  of  fir  splin- 
ters, stuck  for  convenience  sake  into  the 
muzzle  of  a  horse-pistol.  In  the  upper  end, 
again,  sat  another  cHque,  listening  to  a  man 
who  was  reading  a  treasonable  ballad.  Such 
of  them  as  could  themselves  read  stretched 
10 


over  their  necks  in  eagerness  to  peruse  it 
along  with  him,  and  such  as  could  not — in- 
deed, the  greater  number — gave  force  to  its 
principles  by  verj'  significant  gestures  ;  some 
being  those  of  melody,  and  others  those  of 
murder  ;  that  is  to  say,  part  of  them  were 
attempting  to  hum  a  tune  in  a  low  voice 
suitable  to  the  words,  whilst  others  more  fe- 
rocious brandished  their  weapons,  as  if 
those  against  whom  the  spirit  of  the  baDad 
was  directed  had  been  then  within  the  reach 
of  their  savage  passions.  Beside  the  fire, 
and  near  the  middle  of  the  house,  sat  a  man, 
who,  by  his  black  stock  and  military  appear- 
ance, together  with  a  scar  over  his  brow 
that  gave  him  a  most  repulsive  look,  was 
evidently  a  pensioner  or  old  soldier.  This 
person  was  engaged  in  examining  some  rusty 
fire-arms  that  had  been  submitted  to  his  in- 
spection. His  self-importance  was  amusing, 
as  was  also  the  deferential  aspect  of  those 
who,  with  arms  in  their  hands,  hammering 
flints  or  tiirning  screws,  awaited  patiently 
their  turn  for  his  opinion  of  their  efficiency. 
But  perhaps  the  most  striking  group  of  all 
was  that  in  which  a  thick-necked,  bull-head- 
ed young  fellow,  -svith  blood-colored  hair, 
a  son  of  Rousin  Redhead's — who,  by  the 
way,  was  himself  present — and  another  bee- 
tle-browed slip  were  engaged  in  dramng  for 
a  wagpr,  upon  one  of  the  school-boy's  slates, 
the  figure  of  a  coffin  and  cross-bones.  A 
hardened-looking  old  sinner,  with  murder 
legible  in  his  face,  held  the  few  half-pence 
which  they  wagered  in  his  open  hand,  whilst 
in  the  other  he  clutched  a  pole,  surmounted 
by  a  bent  bayonet  that  had  evidently  seen 
service.  The  last  group  worthy  of  remark 
was  composed  of  a  few  persons  who  were 
writing  threatening  notices  upon  a  leaf  torn 
out  of  a  school-boy's  copy,  which  was  laid 
upon  what  they  formerly  termed  a  copy- 
board,  of  plain  deal,  kept  upon  the  knees,  as 
a  substitute  for  desks,  while  the  boys  were 
writing.  This  mode  of  amusement  was 
called  waiting  for  the  Article-bearer,  or  the 
Captain,  for  such  was  Bartle  Flanagan,  who 
now  entered  the  house,  and  saluted  all  pres- 
ent -vNith  great  cordiahty. 

"  Begad,  boys,"  he  said,  "  our  four  guards 
widout  is  worth  any  money.  I  had  to  pass 
the  sign-word  afore  I  could  pass  myself,  and 
that's  the  way  it  ought  to  be.  But,  boys, 
before  we  go  further,  an'  for  fraid  of  thrait- 
ors,  I  must  call  the  rowl.  You'll  stand  in  a 
row  roun'  the  walls,  an'  thin  we  can  make 
sure  that  there's  no  spies  among  us." 

He  then  called  out  a  roll  of  those  who 
were  members  of  his  lodge  and,  having 
ascertained  that  all  was  right,  he  proceeded 
immediately  to  business. 

"Rousin  Redhead,  what's  the  mi  sin  you 


290 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


didn't  take  the  arms  from  Captain  St.  Ledg- 
er's Stewart  ?  Sixteen  men  armed  was  enough 
to  do  it,  an'  yees  failed." 

"  Ay,  an'  if  you  had  been  wid  us,  and  six- 
teen more  to  the  back  o'  that,  you'd  failed 
too.  Begarra,  captain  dear,  it  seems  that 
good  people  is  scarce.  Look  at  IVIickey 
Mulvather  there,  you  see  his  head  tied  up  ; 
but  aldo  he  can  play  cards  well  enough,  be 
me  sowl,  he's  short  of  wan  ear  any  how,  an' 
if  you  could  meet  wan  o'  the  same  Stewart's 
bullets,  goin'  abroad  at  night  like  ourselves 
for  its  divarsion,  it  might  tell  how  he  lost  it. 
Bartle,  I  tell  you  a  number  of  us  isn't  satis- 
fied -ndd  you.  You  sends  us  out  to  meet 
danger,  an'  you  won't  come  yourself." 

"  Don't  you  know,  Eouser,  that  I  always 
do  go  whenever  I  can?  But  I'm  caged 
now  ;  faix  I  don't  sleep  in  a  bam,  and  can't 
budge  as  I  used  to  do." 

"An'  who's  tyin'  you  to  your  place,  thin?" 

"  Eouser."  replied  Bai'tle,  "  I  wish  I  had  a 
thousand  like  you,  not  but  I  have  fine 
fellows.  Boys,  the  thi'uth  is  this,  you  must 
all  meet  here  to-morrow  night,  for  the  short 
an'  long  of  it  is,  that  I'm  goin'  to  run  away 
wid  a  wife." 

"  Well,"  rephed  Redhead,  "  sure  you  can 
do  that  widout  oiu'  assistance,  if  she's  willin' 
to  come." 

"Willin'!  why,"  repHed  Bartle,  "it's  by 
her  own  appointment  we're  goin'." 

"An'  if  it  is,  then,"  said  the  Rouser,  who, 
in  truth,  was  the  leader  of  the  suspicious 
and  disaffected  party  in  Flanagan's  lodge, 
"  what  the  blazes  use  have  you  for  us  ?  " 

"Rouser  Redhead,"  said  Bartle,  casting  a 
suspicious  and  maHgnant  glance  at  him, 
"  might  I  take  the  liberty  of  axin'  what  you 
mane  by  spakin'  of  me  in  that  disparagin' 
manner  ?  Do  you  remimber  jowc  oath  ?  or 
do  you  forget  that  you're  bound  by  it  to 
meet  at  twelve  hours'  notice,  or  less,  whin- 
ever  you're  called  upon  ?  Dar  Chriestha ! 
man,  if  I  hear  another  woi'd  of  the  kind  out 
of  your  hps,  down  you  go  on  the  black  list. 
Boys,"  he  proceeded,  with  a  wheedling  look 
of  good-humor  to  the  rest,  "we'U  have 
neither  Spies  nor  Stags  here,  come  or  go 
what  may." 

"  Stags !  "  repHed  Rouser  Redhead,  whose 
face  had  ah-eady  become  scai'let  with  indig- 
nation. "  Stags,  you  say,  Bartle  Flanagan  ! 
Arrah,  boys,  I  wondher  where  is  poor  Con- 
nor O'Donovan  by  this  time  ?  " 

"I  suppose  bushin'  it  afore  now,"  said 
our  friend  of  the  preceding  part  of  the 
night.  "  I  bushed  it  myself  for  a  year  and 
a  half,  but  be  Japurs  I  got  sick  of  it.  But 
any  how,  Bartle,  you  oughn't  to  spake  of 
Stags,  for  although  Connor  refused  to  join 
us,  damn  jour  blood,  you  had  no  right  to 


go  to  inform  upon  him.  Sure,  only  for  the 
intherest  that  was  made  for  him,  you'd  have 
his  blood  on  your  sowl." 

"  An'  if  he  had  itself,"  observed  one  of 
Flanagan's  friends,  "'twould  signify  very 
Uttle.  The  Bodagh  desarved  what  he  got, 
and  more  if  he  had  got  it.  What  right  has 
he,  one  of  our  own  purswadjion  as  he  is  to 
hould  out  against  us  the  way  he  does?  Sure 
he's  as  rich  as  a  Sassenach,  an'  may  heU  re- 
save  the  farden  he'U  subscribe  towards  our 
gettin'  ai'ms  or  ammunition,  or  towards  de- 
findin'  us  when  we're  brought  to  thrial.  So 
heU's  delight  -nid  the  dirty  Bodagh,  says 
myself  for  wan." 

"An'  is  that  by  way  of  defince  of  Captain 
Bartle  Flanagan  ? "  inquii*ed  Rouser  Red- 
head, indignantly.  "  An'  so  our  worthy 
captain  sint  the  man  across  that  punished 
our  inimy,  even  accordian  to  your  own  pfov 
in',  an'  that  by  sfaggin'  aginst  him.  Of 
coorse,  had  the  miser's  son  been  one  of  huz, 
Bartle's  brams  would  be  scattered  to  the 
four  quarthers  of  heaven  long  agone." 

"  An'  how  did  I  know  but  he'd  stag  aginst 
me  ?  "  said  Bartle,  very  calmly. 

"Damn  well  you  knew  he  would  not,"  ob- 
served Ned  M'Cormick,  now  encouraged  by 
the  bold  and  decided  manner  of  Rouser 
Redhead.  "Before  ever  you  went  into  Far- 
dorougha's  san^ice  you  sed  to  more  than  one 
that  you'd  make  him  sup  sorrow  for  his 
harshness  to  your  father  and  family." 

"  An'  didn't  he  desarve  it,  Ned  ?  Didn't  he 
minus?" 

"  He  might  desarve  it,  an'  I  suppose  he 
did  ;  but  what  right  had  you  to  punish  the 
innocent  for  the  guilty  ?  You  knew  very  weU 
that  both  his  son  and  his  wife  always  set 
their  faces  against  his  doin's." 

"  Boys,"  said  Flanagan,  "  I  don't  under- 
stand this,  and  I  tell  you  more  I  won't  bear 
it.  This  night  let  any  of  you  that  doesn't 
like  to  be  undher  me  say  so.  Rouser  Red- 
head, you'U  never  meet  in  a  Ribbon  Lodge 
agin.  You're  scratched  out  of  wan  book, 
but  by  way  of  comfort  you're  down  in 
another  " 

"^Vhat  other,  Bartle?" 

"  The  black  list.  An'  now  I  have  nothin' 
more  to  say  except  that  if  there's  anything  on 
your  mind  that  wants  absolution,  look  to  it." 

We  must  now  pause  for  a  moment  to  ob- 
serve upon  that  which  we  suppose  the  saga- 
city of  the  reader  has  already  discovered — 
that  is,  the  connection  between  what  has  oc- 
curred in  Flanagan's  lodge,  and  the  last  dia- 
logue  which  took  place  between  Nogher  and 
Connor  O'Donovan.  It  is  e\'ident  that  No- 
gher  had  spirits  at  work  for  the  purpose 
both  of  watching  and  contravening  aU  Flana- 
gan's plans,  and,  if  possible,  of  drawing  him 


FARDOROUGEA,    THE  MISER. 


291 


into  some  position  which  might  justify  the 
"  few  fiiends,"  as  he  termed  them,  first  in 
disgracing  him,  and  afterwai'ds  of  setthng 
their  account  ultimately  with  a, man  whom 
they  wished  to  blacken,  as  dangerous  to  the 
society  of  which  they  were  members.  The 
curse,  howevei*,  of  these  secret  confederacies, 
and  indeed  of  ribbonism  in  general,  is,  that 
the  savage  principle  of  jiersonal  vengeance  is 
transfen-ed  from  the  nocturnal  assault,  or  the 
midday  assassination,  which  may  be  directed 
against  religious  or  pohtical  enemies,  to  the 
private  bickexings  and  petty  jealousies  that 
must  necessaiily  occur  in  a  combination  of 
ignorant  and  bigoted  men,  whose  passions 
ai'e  guided  by  no  princij^le  but  one  of  prac- 
tical cruelty.  This  explains,  as  we  have  just 
put  it,  and  justly  put  it,  the  incredible  num- 
ber of  murders  which  are  committed  in  this 
unhappy  country',  under  the  name  of  way- 
laj'ings  and  midnight  attacks,  where  the  of- 
fence that  caused  them  cannot  be  traced  by 
society  at  large,  although  it  is  an  incontro- 
vertible fact,  that  to  all  those  who  are  con- 
nected with  ribbonism,  in  its  varied  phases, 
it  often  happens  that  the  projection  of  such 
murders  is  kno^\^l  for  weeks  before  the}'  are 
peiiDetrated.  The  "svi'etched  assassin  who 
murders  a  man  that  has  never  offended  him 
personally,  and  who  suffers  himself  to  become 
the  iustiniment  of  executing  the  hatred  which 
originates  fi'om  a  principle  of  general  enmity 
again  a  clans,  will  not  be  likely,  once  his 
hands  are  stained  with  blood,  to  spare  any 
one  who  may,  by  direct  personal  injury,  in- 
cur his  resentment.  Eveiy  such  offence, 
where  secret  societies  ai'e  concerned,  is  made 
a  matter  of  personal  feeling  and  trial  of 
strength  between  factions,  and  of  course  a 
similar  spii-it  is  superinduced  among  persons 
of  the  same  creed  and  principles  to  that 
which  actuates  them  against  those  who  differ 
from  them  in  poHtics  and  rehgion.  It  is  ti-ue 
that  the  occui'rence  of  murders  of  this  char- 
acter has  been  refeiTed  to  as  a  proof  that 
secret  societies  ai'e  not  founded  or  conducted 
upon  a  spirit  of  reUgious  rancor  ;  but  such 
an  assertion  is,  in  some  cases,  the  result  of 
gross  ignorance,  and,  in  many  more,  of  far 
grosser  dishonesty.  Their  mui-deiing  each 
other  is  not  at  all  a  proof  of  any  such  thing, 
but  it  is  a  proof,  as  we  have  said,  that  their 
habit  of  taking  away  human  hfe,  and  shed- 
ding human  blood  upon  slight  grounds  or 
pohtical  feelings,  follows  them  fi-om  their 
conventional  principles  to  their  private  re- 
sentments, and  is,  therefore,  such  a  conse- 
quence as  might  naturally  be  expected  to  re- 
sult from  a  combination  of  men  who,  in  one 
sense,  consider  mvu'der  no  crime.  Thus  does 
this  secret  tyranny  fall  back  upon  society,  as 
well  as  upon  those  who  are  concerned  in  it, 


as  a  double  curse  ;  and,  indeed,  we  believe 
that  even  the  gi-eater  number  of  these  un- 
happy \\Tetciies  whom  it  keeps  within  its 
toils,  would  be  glad  if  the  principle  were 
rooted  out  of  the  country  forever. 

"An'  so  you're  goin'  to  jjut  my  father 
down  on  the  black  list,"  said  the  beetle- 
browed  son  of  the  Kouser.  "Very  well, 
Bartle,  do  so  ;  but  do  you  see  that  ?  "  he  ad- 
ded, pointing  to  the  sign  of  the  cofl&n  and 
the  cross-bones,  which  he  had  previously 
drawn  upon  the  slate  ;  "dhar  a  sphu'itNeev, 
if  you  do,  you'll  Avaken  some  mornin'  in  a 
wai'mer  eounthry  than  Ireland." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bartle,  quietly,  but  evi- 
dently shrinking  from  a  threat  neai'ly  as  fear- 
ful, and  far  more  daring  than  his  ovsTi. 
"You know  I  have  nothin'  to  do  except  my 
duty.  Yez  are  goin'  aginst  the  cause,  an'  I 
must  report  yez  ;  afther  whatever  happens 
won't  come  fi-om  me,  nor  from  any  one  here. 
It  is  from  thim  that's  in  higher  quarters 
you'll  get  your  doom,  an'  not  from  me,  or, 
as  I  said  afore,  fi'om  any  one  here.  Mark 
that ;  but  indeed  you  know  it  as  well  as  I 
do,  an'  I  beheve,  Rouser,  a  good  deal  bet- 
ther." 

Flanagan's  argument,  to  men  who  under- 
stood its  dreadful  import,  was  one  before 
which  almost  every  description  of  personal 
courage  must  quail.  Persons  were  then 
present,  Rouser  Redliead  among  the  rest, 
who  had  been  sent  upon  some  of  those  mid- 
night missions,  which  contumacy  against  the 
system,  when  operating  in  its  cnielty,  had 
dictated.  Persons  of  humane  disposition, 
declining  to  act  on  these  sanguinary  occa- 
sions, are  generally  the  first  to  be  sacri- 
ficed, for  individual  hfe  is  nothing  when  ob- 
stnicting  the  propagation  of  general  princi- 
ple. 

This  ti-uth,  coming  fi'om  Flanagan's  Hps, 
they  themselves,  some  of  whom  had  executed 
its  spiiit,  knew  but  too  well.  The  difference, 
however,  between  their  apprehension,  so  far 
as  they  were  indiridually  concerned,  was  not 
much  ;  Flanagan  had  the  person  to  fear,  and 
liis  opponents  the  jirinciple. 

Redhead,  however,  who  knew  that  what- 
ever he  had  executed  upon  dehnquents  like 
himself,  might  also  upon  himself  be  risited 
in  his  tuni,  saw  that  his  safest  plan  for  the 
present  was  to  submit  ;  for  indeed  the- 
meshes  of  the  White-boys'  system  leave  no 
man's  life  safe,  if  he  express  hostile  opinions 
to  it. 

"  Bartle,"  said  he,  "  you  know  I'm  no  cow- 
ard ;  an'  I  gi'ant  that  you've  a  long  head  at 
plannin'  anything  you  set  about.  I  don't 
see,  in  the  mane  time,  why,  afther  all,  we 
should  quarrel.  You  know  me,  Baiile  ;  an' 
if  anything  happens  me,  it  won't  be  for  noth* 


292 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


tn\  I  say  no  more  ;  but  I  say  still  that  you 
throw  the  danger  upon  uz,  and  don't — " 

"'  Rouser  Redhead,"  said  Bartle,  "  give  me 
yoxir  hand.  I  say  now,  what  I  didn't  wish 
to  say  to-night  afore,  by  Japurs,  you're  worth 
live  men  ;  an'  I'll  tell  you  iiH,  boys,  j'ou  must 
meet  the  Rouser  here  to-morrow  night,  an' 
we'll  have  a  dhrink  at  my  cost ;  an',  boys — 
Jiouser,  hear  me — you  all  know  your  oaths  ; 
we'll  do  something  to-morrow  night — an'  I 
say  again,  Rouser,  I'D  be  wid  yez  an'  among 
yez  ;  an'  to  prove  my  opinion  of  the  Rouser, 
I'll  allow  him  to  head  us." 

"  An',  by  the  cross  o'  Moses,  I'll  do  it  in 
style,"  rejoined  the  hot-headed  but  unthink- 
ing fellow,  who  did  not  see  that  the  adroit 
captain  was  placing  him  in  the  post  of 
danger.  "  I  don't  care  a  damn  what  it  is — 
we'll  meet  here  to-mon-ow  night,  boys,  an' 
I'll  show  you  that  I  can  lead  as  well  as 
foUy." 

"  Whatever  happens,"  said  Bartle,  "  we 
oughtn't  to  have  any  words  or  bickerin's 
among  ourselves  at  any  rate.  I  undherstand 
that  two  among  yez  sthruck  one  another. 
Sure  yez  know  that  there's  not  a  blow  ye 
giv  to  a  brother  but's  a  peijury — an'  there's 
no  use  in  that,  barin  an'  to  helpforid  the 
thinith.  I'll  say  no  more  about  it  now  ; 
but  I  hope  there'll  never  be  another  blow 
given  among  yez.  Now,  get  a  hat,  some  o' 
yez,  till  we  draw  cuts  for  six  that  I  want  to 
Ijeat  Tom  L^oichagan,  of  Lisdhu ;  he's 
worken  for  St.  Ledger,  afther  gettin'  two 
notices.  He's  a  quiet,  civil  man,  no  doubt  ; 
but  that's  not  the  thing.  Obadience,  or 
whei-e's  the  use  of  om-  meetin's  at  all  V  Give 
him  a  good  sound  batin',  but  no  fui-ther — 
break  no  bones." 

He  then  marked  slips  of  paper,  equal  in 
number  to  those  who  were  present,  with  the 
numbers  1,  2,  3,  &c.,  to  correspond,  after 
which  he  determined  that  the  three  first 
numbers  and  the  three  last  should  go — all 
of  which  was  agi'eed  to  without  remonstrance, 
or  any  apparent  show  of  reluctance  whatever. 

"Now,  boys,"  he  continued,  "don't  forget 
to  attend  to-morrow  night ;  an'  I  say  to 
every  man  of  you,  as  Darby  Spaight  said  to 
the  divil,  when  he  promised  to  join  the  re- 
bellion, 'phe  dha  f)hecka  laght,'  (bring  your 
pike  with  you,)  bring  the  weapon." 

"  An  who's  the  purty  girl  that's  goin' to 
get  you,  Captain  Bartle  ?  "  inquired  Dandy 
Dufty. 

"  The  purtiest  girl  in  this  parish,  any- 
how," replied  Flanagan,  unawares.  The  words, 
however,  wtre  scarcely  out  of  his  lips,  when 
he  felt  that  he  had  been  indiscreet.  He 
immediately  added — "that  is,  if  she  is  of 
this  parish  ;  but  I  didn't  say  she  is.  Maybe 
we'U  have  tt>   thravel  a  bit  to  find  her  out, 


but  come  what  come  may,  don't  neglect  to 
be  all  here  about  half-past  nine  o'clock,  wid 
your  arms  an'  ammunition." 

Duffy,  who  had  sat  beside  Ned  M'Cormick 
during  the  night,  gave  him  a  significant 
look,  wliich  the  other,  who  had,  in  tinith, 
joined  himself  to  Flanagan's  lodge  only  to 
watch  his  movements,  as  significantly  re-, 
turned. 

\\Tien  the  men  deputed  to  beat  Lj-ncha- 
ghan  had  blackened  their  faces,  the  lodge 
dispersed  for  the  night.  Dandy  Duffy  and 
Ned  M'Cormick  taking  their  way  home  to- 
gether, in  order  to  consider  of  matters, 
with  which  the  reader,  in  due  time,  shall  be 
made  acquainted. 


PART  vn. 

OuE  readers  may  recollect,  that,  at  the 
close  of  that  part  of  our  tale  which  appeared 
in  the  preceding  number,  Dandy  Duffy  and 
Ned  M'Cormick  exchanged  significant  glances 
at  each  other,  upon  Flanagan's  having  ad- 
mitted unawares  that  the  female  he  designed 
to  take  away  on  the  following  night  was  "  the 
purtiest  girl  in  the  jDarish."  The  truth  was, 
he  imagined  at  the  moment  that  his  designs 
were  fully  matured,  and  in  the  secret  vanity, 
or  rather,  we  should  say,  in  the  triumphant 
villainy  of  his  heart,  he  allowed  an  expi-ession 
to  incautiously  pass  his  lips  which  was  nearly 
tantamount  to  an  admission  of  Una's  name. 
The  truth  of  this  he  instantly  felt.  But  even 
had  he  not,  by  his  ovni  natural  sagacity, 
perceived  it,  the  look  of  mutual  intelligence 
which  his  quick  and  suspicious  eye  observed 
to  jjass  between  Du%  and  Ned  M'Cormick 
would  at  once  have  convinced  him.  Una 
was  not  merely  entitled  to  the  compliment  so 
covertly  bestowed  upon  her  extraordinaiy 
personal  attractions,  but  in  addition  it  might 
have  been  tiaily  affirmed  that  neither  that 
nor  any  adjoining  parish  could  jjroduce  a 
female,  in  any  rank,  who  coiild  stand  on  a 
level  with  her  in  the  character  of  a  rival 
beauty.  This  was  admitted  by  all  who  had 
ever  seen  the  colleen  dhas  dhun,  or  "  the 
purty  brown  girl,"  as  she  was  called,  and  it 
followed  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  Flanagan's 
words  could  imply  no  other  than  the  Bodagh's 
daughter. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say,  that  Flanagan, 
knowing  this  as  he  did,  could  almost  have 
bit  a  portion  of  his  own  tongue  off'  as  a 
punishment  for  its  indiscretion.  It  was  then 
too  late,  however,  to  efface  the  impression 
which  the  words  were  calculated  to  make, 
and  he  felt  besides  that  he  would  only 
strengthen  the  suspicion  by  an  over-anxietjf 


FARDOROUGnA,   THE  MISER. 


29S 


CO  remove  it.  He,  therefore,  repeated  his 
orders  respecting  the  appointed  meeting  on 
the  following  night,  although  he  had  already 
resolved'  in  his  o^vn  mind  to  change  the 
whole  plan  of  his  operations. 

Such  was  the  precaution  with  which  this 
cowardly  but  accomphshed  miscreant  pro- 
ceeded towards  the  accomjDlishment  of  his 
purposes,  and  such  was  his  ajDj^i'ehension  lest 
the  premature  suspicion  of  a  single  indi- 
vidual might  by  contingent  treachery  defeat 
his  design,  or  affect  his  personal  safety.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  communicate  the 
secret  of  his  enterprise  to  none  until  the 
moment  of  its  execution  ;  and  this  being  ac- 
comphshed, his  ultimate  plans  were  laid,  as 
he  thought,  with  sufficient  skill  to  bafHe 
pursuit  and  defeat  either  the  maUce  of  his 
J  enemies  or  the  vengeance  of  the  law. 

No  sooner  had  they  left  the  schoolhouse 
than  the  Dandy  and  M'Cormick  immediately 
separated  from  the  rest,  in  order  to  talk  over 
the  proceedings  of  the  night,  with  a  view  to 
their  suspicions  of  the  "  Captain."  They 
had  not  gone  far,  however,  when  they  were 
overtaken  by  two  others,  who  came  up  to 
them  at  a  quick,  or,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the 
expression,  an  earnest  pace.  The  two  latter 
were  Rousin  Redhead  and  his  son,  Corney. 

"So,  boys,"  said  the  Rouser,  "what  do 
you  think  of  our  business  to-night?  Didn't 
I  get  well  out  of  his  clutches  ?  " 

"  Be  me  troth,  Rouser,  darlin',"  repHed  the 
Dandy,  "you  niver  wor  completely  in  them 
till  this  minnit." 

"  Dhar  ma  Iham  charth,"  said  Corney,  "  I 
say  he's  a  black-hearted  villin." 

"  But  how  am  I  in  his  clutches,  Dandy  ?  " 
inquired  the  Rouser. 

"  Why,"  rejoined  Duffy,  "  didn't  you  see 
that  for  all  you  said  about  his  throwin'  the 
post  of  danger  on  other  people,  he's  givin'  it 
to  you  to-morrow  night  ?  " 

Rousin  Redhead  stood  still  for  nearly  half 
a  minute  without  uttering  a  syllable  ;  at 
length  he  seized  Dandy  by  the  arm,  which 
he  pressed  with  the  gripe  of  Hercules,  for 
he  was  a  man  of  huge  size  and  strength. 

"  Chorp  ad  dioual,  you  giant,  is  it  my  ai*m 
you're  goin'  to  break  ?  " 

'  Be  the  tarnal  gj'immer.  Dandy  Duff)',  but 
I  see  it  now !  "  said  the  Rouser,  struck  by 
Bartle's  address,  and  indignant  at  the  idea  of 
having  been  overreached  by  him.  "  Eh, 
Corney,"  he  continued,  addressing  the  son, 
"  hasn't  he  the  Rouser  set  ?  I  see,  boys,  I  see. 
I'm  a  marked  man  wid  him,  an'  it's  Hkely, 
for  all  he  said,  will  be  on  the  black  hst  afore 
he  sleeps.  Well,  Corney  avic,  you  an'  others 
know  how  to  act  if  anything  happens  me." 

"  I  don't  think,"  said  M'Cormick,  who  was 
a  lad  of  considerable  penetration,  "that  you 


need  be  afeard  of  either  him  or  the  black 
list.  Be  me  sowl,  I  know  the  same  Bartle 
well,  au'  a  bigger  coward  never  put  a  coat  on 
his  back.  He  got  as  pale  as  a  sheet,  to-night, 
when  Comey  there  threatened  him  ;  not  but 
he's  desateful  enough  I  grant,  but  he'd  be  a 
greater  tyrant  only  that  he's  so  hen-heart- 
ed." 

"But  what  job,"  said  the  rouser,  "  has  he 
for  us  to-morrow  night,  do  you  think  ?  It 
must  be  something  past  the  common.  Who 
the  dioual  can  he  have  in  his  eye  to  run  away 
wid?" 

"  Who's  the  the  purtiest  girl  in  the  parish, 
Rouser  ?  "  asked  Ned.  "  I  thought  every  one 
knew  that." 

"  Why,  you  don't  mane  for  to  say,"  replied 
Redhead,  "  that  he'd  have  the  spunk  in  him 
to  run  away  with  Bodagh  Buie's  daughter  ? 
Be  the  contents  o'  the  book,  if  I  thought  he'd 
thry  it,  I  stick  to  him  like  a  Throjan  ;  the 
dirty  Bodagh,  that,  as  Lariy  Lawdher  said  to- 
night, never  backed  or  supported  us,  or  gev 
a  single  rap  to  help  us,  if  a  penny  'ud  save 
us  fi'om  the  galhs.  To  hell's  delights  wid  him 
an'  all  belongin'  to  him,  I  say  too  ;  an'  I'll 
tell  you  what  it  is,  boys,  if  Flanagan  has  the 
manliness  to  take  away  his  daughter,  I'll  be 
the  first  to  sledge  the  door  to  pieces." 

"Dhar  a  f^nridh,  an'  so  will  I,"  said  the 
young  beetle-browed  tiger  beside  him ; 
"thim  that  can  an'  won't  help  on  the  cause, 
desarves  no  mercy  from  it." 

Thus  spoke  from  the  lips  of  ignorance  and 
bratahty  that  esprit  de  corps  of  blood,  which 
never  scniples  to  sacrifice  all  minor  resent- 
ments to  any  opportunity  of  extending  the 
cause,  as  it  is  termed,  of  that  ideal  monster, 
in  the  i:)romotion  of  which  the  worst  princi- 
jiles  of  our  nature,  still  most  active,  are  sure 
to  experience  the  greatest  glut  of  low  and 
gross  gratification.  Oh,  if  reason,  virtue, 
and  true  rehgion,  were  only  as  earnest  and 
vigorous  in  extending  their  own  cause,  as  ig- 
norance, persecution,  and  bigotry,  how  soon 
would  society  present  a  different  aspect  I 
But,  unfortunately,  theij  cannot  stoop  to  call 
in  the  aid  of  tyranny,  and  cnielty,  and  blood-- 
shed,  nor  of  the  thousand  other  atrocious 
aUies  of  falsehood  and  dishonesty,  of  which 
ignorance,  craft,  and  cruelty,  never  fail  to 
avail  themselves,  and  without  which  they 
could  not  proceed  successfuDy. 

M'Cormick,  ha^ing  heard  Rousin  Redhead 
and  his  son  utter  such  sentiments,  did  not 
feel  at  all  justified  in  admitting  them  to  any 
confidence  with  himself  or  Dutty.  He  accord- 
ingly replied  with  more  of  adroitness  than 
of  candor  to  the  savage  sentiments  they  ex- 
pressed. 

"  Faith,  you're  right,  Rouser  ;  he'd  never 
have  sj)unk,   sure  enough,  to  carry  off  the 


294 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Bodagh's  daughter.  But,  in  the  mane  time, 
who  was  spakin'  about  her?  Begor,  if  I 
thought  he  had  the  heart  I'd — but  he 
hasn't." 

"I  know  he  hasn't,"  said  the  Eouser. 

"  He's  nothing  but  a  white-hvered  dog," 
said  Duffy. 

"I  thought,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  said 
M'Cormiek,  "  that  you  might  give  a  guess  as 
to  the  gii'l,  but  for  the  Bodagh's  daughter, 
he  has  not  the  mettle  for  that." 

"If  he  had,"  rephed  the  Eouser,  "he 
might  count  upon  Corney  an'  myself  as 
right-hand  men.  We  aU  have  a  crow  to 
pluck  wid  the  dirty  Bodagh,  an',  be  me 
zounds,  it'U  puzzle  him  to  find  a  bag  to 
hould  the  feathers." 

"  One  'ud  think  he  got  enough,"  obsei'ved 
M'Cormiek,  "in  the  loss  of  his  haggard." 

"  But  that  didn't  come  from  uz,"  said  the 
Rouser ;  "we  have  our  share  to  give  him 
vet,  an'  never  fear  he'll  get  it.  We'll  taich 
him  to  abuse  us,  an'  set  us  at  defiance,  as 
he's  constantly  doin'." 

"  Well,  Rouser,"  said  M'Cormiek,  who  now 
felt  anxious  to  get  rid  of  him,  "  we'U  be 
wishin'  you  a  good  night ;  we're  goin'  to 
have  a  while  of  a  kailyeah^  ujs  at  my  uncle's. 
Corney,  my  boy,  good  night." 

"  Good  night  kindly,  boys,"  rephed  the 
other,  "an'  banaght  lath  any  how." 

"  Eouser,  you  di^dl,"  said  the  Dandy,  call- 
ing after  them,  "will you  an'  blessed  Corney 
there,  offer  up  a  Patthernavy  for  my  conver- 
sion, for  I'm  sui'e  that  both  your  prayers 
win  go  far  ?  " 

Rousin  Redhead  and  Corney  responded 
to  this  with  a  loud  laiTgh,  and  a  banter. 

"  Ay,  ay.  Dandy  ;  but,  be  me  sowl,  if  they 
only  go  as  far  as  your  own  goodness  sint  you 
before  now,  it'U  be  seven  years  before  they 
come  back  again ;  eh,  do  you  smell  anjiihing  ? 
— ha,  ha,  ha  ! " 

"The  big boshthoon hot  me  fairly,  begad," 
observed  the  Dandy.  Aside — "The  divil's 
own  tongue  he  has." 

"  Bad  cess  to  you  for  a  walkin'  bonfire, 
an'  go  home,"  replied  the  Dandy  ;  "  I'm  not 
a  match  for  vou  "u-id  the  tongue,  at  all  at 
fiU." 

"  No,  nor  wid  anything  else,  barrin'  your 
heels,"  rephed  the  Rouser  ;  "or  your  hands, 
if  there  was  a  horse  in  the  way.  Arrah, 
Dandy  ?  " 

"Well,  you  gi-aceful  youth,  well?  " 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  good  workman  by 
this  time  ;  you  first  lai'ned  your  thrade,  an' 
thin  you  put  in  your  apprenticeship — ha,  ha, 
ha !  " 

"  Faith,  an'  Eouser  I  can  promise  you  a 

*  An  evening  conversational  visit. 


merry  end,  my  beauty  ;  you'll  be  the  onl;f 
man  that'll  dimce  at  your  oa\'ti  funeral ;  an' 
I'll  tell  you  what,  Eouser,  it'll  be  hke  an 
egg-hornpipe,  wid  your  eyes  covered.  That's 
what  I  caU  an  active  death,  avouchal !  " 

"Faith,  an'  if  you  wor  a  priest,  Dandy, 
you'd  never  die  with  yoiu"  face  to  the  con- 
gregation. You'll  be  a  rope-dancer  yourself 
yet;  only  this.  Dandy,  that  you'll  be  undher 
the  rope  instead  of  over  it,  so  good  night." 

"  Eouser,"  exclaimed  the  other.  "  Eousin 
Eedhead ! " 

"  Go  home,"  replied  the  Eouser.  "  Good 
night,  I  say  ;  you've  thravelled  a  great  deal 
too  far  for  an  ignorant  man  like  me  to  stand 
any  chance  wid  you.  Your  tongue's  hghter 
than  yo\ir  hands  *  even,  and  that's  payin'  it 
a  high  compliment." 

"Divil  sweep  you,  Brien,"   said   Dandy, 
"you'd  beat  the  divU  an'  Docthor  Fosther* 
Good  night  again  !  " 

"  Oh,  ma  bannaght  laht,  I  say." 

And  they  accordingly  parted. 

"Now,"  said  Ned,  "what's  to  be  done 
Dandy  ?  As  siu-e  as  gun's  iron,  this  limb  ol 
hell  will  take  away  the  Bodagh's  daughter, 
if  we  don't  do  something  to  jDrevent  it." 

"  I'm  not  jDuttin'  it  past  him,''  returnee? 
his  companion,  "  but  how  to  jDrevent  it  ii 
the  thing.  He  has  the  boys  all  on  nis  side, 
barrin'  yourself  and  me,  an'  a  few  more." 

"  An'  you  see,  Ned,  the  Bodagh  is  s^ 
much  hated,  that  even  some  of  thim  tha* 
don't  hke  Flanagan,  won't  scruple  to  joiu 
him  in  this." 

"  An'  if  we  were  known  to  let  the  cat  out 
o'  the  bag  to  the  Bodagh,  we  might  as  weU 
prepare  our  coffins  at  wanst." 

"Faith,  sure  enough — that's  but  gospel, 
Ned,"  replied  the  Dandy  ;  still  it  'ud  be  the 
milliah  murdher  to  let  the  double-faced  \'illiii 
carry'  off  such  a  gii'l." 

"I'll  teU  you  what  you'U  do,  thin,  Dandy," 
rejoined  Ned,  "what  if  you'd  walk  down 
"v\ad  me  as  far  as  the  Bodagh's." 

"For  why?  Sure  they're  in  bed  now, 
man  alive." 

"I  know  that,"  said  M'Cormiek;  "but 
how-an-ever,  if  you  come  down  wid  me  that 
far,  I'll  conthrive  to  get  in  somehow,  widout 
wakenin'  them." 

"The  dickens  you  wiff!  How,  the  sarra, 
man  ?  " 

"  No  matther,  I  will ;  an'  you  see,"  he  add- 
ed, jxiUing  out  a  flask  of  spu'its,  "I'm  not 
goin'  impty-handed." 

"Phew!"  exclaimed  Duffy,  "is  it  there 
you  are  ? — oh,  that  indeed  !  Faith  I  got  a 
whisper  of  it  some  time  ago,  but  it  wiat  out 


*  In  Ireland,  to  be  light-handed  signifies  to  b»  a 
thief. 


FARDOROUGEA,   THE  MISER. 


295 


o'  my  head.  Biddy  Xulty,  faix — a  nate 
clane  girl  she  is,  too." 

"But  that's  not  the  best  of  it,  Dandy. 
Sure,  blood  alive,  I  can  tell  you  a  sacret— 
may  dipind  ?  Honor  bright !  The  Bodagh's 
daughter,  man,  is  to  give  her  a  portion,  in 
regard  to  her  bein'  so  thinie  to  Connor 
O'Donovan.  Bad  luck  to  the  oath  she'd 
swear  aginst  him  if  they'd  made  a  queen  of 
her,  but  outdone  the  counsellors  and  law- 
yers, an'  all  the  whole  bobberv'  o'  them, 
whin  they  wanted  her  to  turn  king's  evi- 
dence. Now,  it's  not  but  I'd  do  anything  to 
sai've  the  purty  Bodagh's  daughter  widout 
it ;  but  you  see.  Dandy,  if  white  Hver  takes 
her  off,  I  may  stand  a  bad  chance  for  the 
poi-tiou." 

"  Say  no  more  ;  I'll  go  wid  you  ;  but  how 
will  you  get  in,  Ned  ?  " 

"Never  you  mind  that  ;  here,  take  a 
pull  out  of  this  flask  before  you  go  any  fui*- 
ther.  Blood  an'  flummeiy  !  what  a  night ; 
di\dl  a  my  linger  I  can  see  before  me.  Here 
— where's  your  hand  ? — that's  it ;  warm 
yovu'  heart,  my  boy." 

"  You  iutind  thin,  Ned,  to  give  Biddy  the 
hard  word  about  Flanagan  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  bid  her  put  them  on  their 
guard  ;  sure  there  can  be  no  harm  in  that." 

"  They  say,  Ned,  it's  not  safe  to  trust  a 
woman ;  what  if  you'd  ax  to  see  the  Bo- 
dagh's son,  the  young  soggarth  ?  " 

"I'd  tinist  my  life  to  Biddy — she  that 
was  so  honest  to  the  Donovans  wouldn't  be 
desateful  to  her  sweetheart  that — he — hem 
— she's  far  gone  in  consate  wid^yoiu'  sowl. 
Her  brother  AJick's  to  meet  me  at  the  Bo- 
dagh's on  his  way  fi'om  their  lodge,  for  they 
hould  a  meetin'  to-night  too." 

"  Never  say  it  again.  I'll  stick  to  you  ;  so 
|Dush  an,  for  it's  late.  You'll  be  apt  to  make 
up  the  match  before  you  part,  I  suppose." 

"  That  won't  be  hard  to  do  any  time, 
Dandy." 

Both  then  proceeded  down  the  same  field, 
which  we  have  already  said  was  called  the 
Black  Park,  in  consequence  of  its  dark  and 
moss}-  soil.  Having,  with  some  difficulty, 
found  the  stile  at  the  lower  end  of  it,  they 
passed  into  a  short  car  track,  which  they 
were  barely  able  to  follow. 

The  night,  considering  that  it  was  the 
month  of  November,  was  close  and  foggy — 
such  as  fi'equently  follows  a  calm  day  of  in- 
cessant rain.  The  bottoms  were  plashing, 
the  drains  all  full,  and  the  small  rivulets  and 
streams  about  the  country  were  above  their 
banks,  whilst  the  larger  rivers  swept  along 
with  the  hoarse  continuous  miuTuurs  of  an 
unusual  flood.  The  sky  was  one  sheet  of 
dai-kness — for  not  a  cloud  could  be  seen,  or 
Wiything,  except  the  passing  gleam  of  a  cot- 


■  tage  taper,  lessened  by  the  haziness  of  the 
I  night  into  a  mere  point  of  faint  hght,  and 
I  thrown  by  the  same  cause  into  a  distance 
:  which  appeared  to  the  eye  much  more  re- 
mote than  that  of  reality. 
i  After  having  threaded  their  way  for 
nearly  a  mile,  the  water  spouting  almost  at 
ever}'  step  up  to  their  knees,  they  at  length 
came  to  an  old  bridle-way,  deeply  shaded 
with  hedges  on  each  side.  They  had  not 
spoken  much  since  the  close  of  their  last 
dialogue  ;  for,  the  truth  is,  each  had  enough 
to  do,  independently  of  dialogue,  to  keep 
himself  out  of  drains  and  quagmires.  An 
occasional  "  hanamondioul,  I'm  into  the 
hinches  ;"  "hoty  St.  Peter,  I'm  stuck  ;  "tun- 
dher  an'  tui-f,  where  are  you  at  all  ? "  or, 
"  by  this  an'  by  that,  I  dunno  where  I 
am,"  were  the  only  words  that  passed  be- 
tween them,  until  they  reached  the  Uttle 
road  we  are  speaking  of,  which,  in  fact,  was 
one  vmbroken  rut,  and  on  such  a  night  almc/st 
impassable. 

"  Now,"  said  M'Connick,  "  we  musn't 
keep  this  de^•i^s  gut,  for  conshumin'  to  the 
shoe  or  stockiu'  ever  we'd  bring  out  of  it ; 
however,  do  you  folly  me,  Dandy,  and  there's 
no  danger." 

"I  can  do  nothing  else,"  rejDhed  the  other, 
"for  I  know  no  more  where  I  am  than  the 
man  of  the  moon,  who,  if  all's  thnie  that's 
sed  of  him,  is  the  biggest  blockhead  ahve." 

M'Cormick,  who  knew  the  path  well,  turned 
off  the  road  into  a  j^athway  that  ran  inside  the 
hedge  and  along  the  fields,  but  pai-allel  with 
the  muddy  boreen  in  question.  They  now 
found  themselves  upon  comparatively  clear 
gi-ound,  and,  with  the  exception  of  an  occa- 
sional slip  or  two,  in  consequence  of  tne 
heavy  rain,  they  had  Httle  difficulty  in  ad- 
vancing. At  this  stage  of  their  jom-ney  not 
a  hght  was  to  be  seen  nor  a  sound  of  hfe 
neard,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  whole 
25opulation  of  the  neighborhood  had  sunk  to 
rest. 

"  Where  will  this  biing  us  to,  Ned  ? " 
asked  the  Dandy — "  I  hoj^e  we'll  soon  be  at 
the  Bodagh's." 

M'Cormick  stood  and  suddenly  pressed 
his  arm,  "  Whisht  I  "  said  he,  in  an  under  tone, 
"  I  tliink  I  hard  voices." 

"  No,"  replied  the  other  in  the  same  low 
tone. 

"  I'm  sure  I  did,"  said  Ned,  "  take  my  word 
for  it,  there's  people  before  us  on  the  boreen 
— whisht ! " 

They  both  listened,  and  veiy  distinctly 
heai'd  a  confused  but  suppressed  miu*mur 
of  voices,  apparently  about  a  hvmdred  yards 
before  them  on  the  little  bridle-way.  Without 
uttering  a  word  they  botli  proceeded  as  quietly 
and  quickly  as  possible,  and  in  a  few  minute;? 


296 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


nothing  separated  them  but  the  hedge.  The 
party  on  the  road  were  wallo\\'ing  through 
the  mii-e  with  great  difficulty,  many  of  them, 
at  the  same  time,  bestowing  veiy  energetic 
execrations  upon  it  and  upon  those  who 
suifered  it  to  remain  in  such  a  condition. 
Even  oaths,  however,  were  uttered  in  so  low 
and  cautious  a  tone,  that  neither  M'Cormick 
nor  the  Dandy  could  distinguish  their  voices 
so  clearly  as  to  recognize  those  who  sjDoke, 
supposing  that  they  had  known  them.  Once 
or  twice  they  heaixl  the  clashing  of  ai-ms  or 
of  iron  insti-uments  of  some  sort,  and  it 
seemed  to  them  that  the  noise  was  occasioned 
b}'  the  accidental  jostling  together  of  those 
who  earned  them.  At  length  they  heard 
one  voice  exclaim  rather  testily.  "D — n 
your  blood,  Bartle  Flanagan,  will  you  have 
patience  till  I  get  my  shoe  out  o'  the  mud — 
you  don't  expect  me  to  lose  it,  do  you? 
We're  not  goin'  to  get  a  purty  wife,  whatever 
you  may  be." 

The  reply  to  this  was  short,  but  pithy — 
"May  all  the  di^•ils  in  hell's  fire  jduU  the 
tongue  out  o'  you,  for  nothin'  but  hell  itself, 
you  viUin,  timj)ted  me  to  bring  you  with 
me." 

This  was  not  intended  to  be  heard,  nor 
was  it  by  the  person  against  whom  it  was 
uttered,  he  being  some  distance  behind — 
but  as  Ned  and  his  companion  w^ere  at  that 
moment  exactly  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge,  they  could  hear  the  words  of  this 
precious  soliloquy — for  such  it  w^as — de- 
livered as  they  w-ere  with  a  suppressed 
energy  of  mahgiiity,  worthy  of  the  heai't 
which  suggested  them. 

M'Cormick  immediately  pulled  Duffy's 
coat,  without  speaking  a  Avord,  as  a  hint  to 
follow  him  with  as  Httle  noise  as  possible, 
which  he  did,  and  ere  many  minutes  they 
were  so  far  in  advance  of  the  others,  as  to 
be  enabled  to  converse  without  being  heai'd. 

"  Thar  Dheah  Duffy,"  said  his  companion, 
"there's  not  a  minute  to  be  lost." 

"There  is  not,"  repUed  the  other — "but 
what  will  you  do  with  me  ?  I'll  lend  a  hand 
in  any  way  I  can — but  remember  that  if  we're 
seen,  or  if  it's  known  that  we  go  against 
them  in  this — " 

"  I  know,"  said  the  other,  "  we're  gone 
men  ;  still  we  must  manage  it  somehow,  so 
as  to  save  the  girl ;  God  !  if  it  was  only  on 
Connor  O'Donovan's  account,  that's  far  away 
this  night,  I'd  do  it.  Dandy  you  wor  only 
a  boy  wiien  Blannarhasset  prosecuted  you, 
and  people  pitied  you  at  the  time,  and  now 
they  don't  think  much  the  worse  of  you  for 
it ;  an'  you  know-  it  was  proved  since,  that 
what  you  sed  then  was  thi-ue,  that  other 
rogues  made  you  do  it,  an'  tliin  lift  you  in 
the  lurch.     But  d — n  it,  where 's  the  use  of 


all  this?  give  me  your  hand,  it's  life  of 
death — can  I  thrust  you  ?  " 

"You  may,"  said  the  other,  "you  n)*.y, 
Ned  ;   do  whatever  you  wish  with  me." 

"Then,"  continued  Ned,  "I'll  go  into  the 
house,  and  do  you  keep  near  to  them  with- 
out bein'  seen  ;  watch  their  motions ;  but 
above  all  things,  if  they  take  her  off — folly 
on  till  you  see  where  they'll  bring  her ;  af- 
ter that  they  can  get  back  enough — the  so- 
gers, if  they're  a  wantin'." 

"  Depind  an  me,  Ned  ;  to  the  core  depind 
an  me." 

They  had  now  reached  the  Bodagh's 
house,  upon   which,    as  upon   every   other 


object  around   them, 
night  rested  hetivily. 
his  position    behind 
of  the  gate 
plot    before 


the  deep  shadows  of 
The  Dandy  took  up 

one  of  the  porches 
that  di\ided  the  httle  gTass- 
the   hall-door   and    the    farm- 


yard, as  being  the  most  central  spot,  and 
from  which  he  could  with  more  ease  hear, 
or  as  far  as  might  be  observe,  the  jDlan  and 
nature  of  their  proceedings. 

It  was  at  least  fifteen  minutes  before  they 
reached  the  little  avenue  that  led  up  to  the 
Bodagh's  residence  ;  for  we  ought  to  have 
told  oui-  readers,  that  M'Cormick  and  Duffy, 
having  taken  a  short  path,  left  the  others — 
who,  being  ignorant  of  it,  were  forced  to 
keep  to  the  road — considerable  beliind  them. 
Ned  was  consequently'  from  ten  to  fifteen 
minutes  in  the  house  previous  to  their 
arrival.  At  length  they  aj^proached  silently, 
and  with  that  creepmg  pace  which  betokens 
either  fear  or  caution,  as  the  case  may  be, 
and  stood  outside  the  gate  which  led  to  the 
gi^ass-jjlot  before  the  hall-door,  not  more 
than  three  or  four  yaixls  from  the  porch  of 
the  farm-yard  gate  where  the  Dandj-  stood 
concealed.  And  here  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  witnessing  the  extreme  skill  with  which 
Flanagan  conducted  this  nefarious  exploit. 
After  listening  for  about  a  minute,  he  found 
that  their  worth}-  leader  was  not  present, 
but  he  almost  immediately  discovered  that 
he  was  engaged  in  placing  guards  upon  all 
the  back  windows  of  the  dweUing-house  and 
kitchen.  Duiing  his  absence  the  foUowing 
short  consultation  took  place  among  those 
whom  he  left  behind  him,  for  the  pui-pose  of 
taking  a  personal  part  in  the  enterprise  : 

"  It  was  too  thrue  what  Eousin  Redhead 
said  to-night,"  obsei'A'ed  one  of  them,  "  he 
always  takes  care  to  throw  the  post  of  dan- 
ger on  some  one  else.  Now  it's  not  that  I'm 
afeared,  but  as  he's  to  have  the  girl  himself, 
it's  but  fair  that  his  own  neck  should  run  the 
first  danger,  an'  not  mine." 

They  aU  assented  to  this. 

"  Well,  then,  boys,"  he  proceeded,  "if  yez 
support  me,  we'll  make  him  head  this  busi* 


FARDOMOUanA,    THE  MISER. 


291 


ness  liirtiself.  It's  his  own  consam,  not  ours; 
im'  besides,  as  he  houlds  the  Ai-ticles,  it's  his 
duty  to  lead  us  in  everj'thing.  So  I  for  wan, 
won't  take  away  his  girl,  an'  himself  keepin' 
back.  If  there's  any  one  here  that'll  take  my 
place  for  his,  let  him  now  say  so." 

They  were  all  silent  as  to  that  point ;  but 
most  of  them  said,  they  wished,  at  all  events, 
to  give  "  the  dii'ty  Bodagh,"  for  so  they  usu- 
ally called  him,  something  to  remember  them 
by,  in  consequence  of  his  having,  on  all  occa- 
sions, stood  out  against  the  system. 

"  Still  it's  fair,"  said  several  of  them,  "that 
in  takin'  away  the  colleen,  Bartle  should  go 
foremost,  as  she's  for  himself  an'  not  for 
huz." 

"  Well,  then,  you'll  all  agree  to  tliis  ?  " 

"  We  do,  but  whist — here  he  is." 

Deeply  mortified  was  their  leader  on  find- 
ing that  they  had  come  unanimousl}'  to  this 
determination.  It  was  too  late  now,  how- 
ever, to  reason  with  them,  and  the  crime,  to 
the  perpetration  of  which  he  brought  them, 
too  dangerous  in  its  consequences,  to  render 
a  quan-el  Avith  them  safe  or  pinident.  He  felt 
himself,  therefore,  in  a  position  which,  of  all 
others,  he  did  not  "Rdsh.  Still  his  addi'ess 
was  too  perfect  to  allow  any  symptoms  of 
chagi-in  or  di.sapi)ointment  to  be  perceptible 
in  his  voice  or  manner,  although,  the  tnith 
is,  he  cursed  them  in  his  heai't  at  the  moment, 
and  vowed  in  some  shape  or  other  to  visit 
their  insubordination  with  vengeance. 

Such,  indeed,  is  the  nature  of  these  secret 
confederacies  that  are  opposed  to  the  laws  of 
the  land,  and  the  spiiit  of  rehgion.  It  mat- 
ters Httle  how  open  and  apparently  honest 
the  conduct  of  such  men  may  be  among  each 
other  ;  there  is,  notwithstanding  this,  a  dis- 
tmst,  a  fear,  a  suspicion,  lui'king  at  eveiy 
heart,  that  renders  personal  secimty  unsafe, 
and  life  miserable.  But  how,  indeed,  can 
they  repose  confidence  in  each  other,  w^hen 
they  know  that  in  consequence  of  their  con- 
nection with  such  systems,  many  of  the  ci\il 
duties  of  life  cannot  be  pei-formed  without 
perjury  on  the  one  hand,  or  risk  of  hfe  on 
the  othei',  and  that  the  whole  principle  of  the 
combination  is  founded  upon  hatred,  re- 
venge, and  a  \-iolation  of  all  moral  obliga- 
tion? i 

"Well,  then,"  said  their  leader,  "as  your  ; 
minds  is  made  up,  boys,  follow  me  as  quick- 
ly as  you  can,  an'  don't  spake  a  word  in  your 
own  voice.s." 

They  appi'oached  the  hall-door,  with  the 
exception  of  six,  who  stood  guarding  the  ; 
front  windows  of  the  dweUing-house  and 
kitchen  ;  and,  to  the  Dandy's  astonishment,  ' 
the  whole  party,  amounting  to  about  eigh- 
teen, entered  the  house  without  either  noise 
or  obstruction  of  any  kind. 


"  By  Japurs,"  thought  he  to  himself 
"there's  tla-aicher}'  there,  any  how." 

This  now  to  the  Dandy  was  a  moment  of 
intense  interest.  Though  by  no  means  a 
coward,  or  a  young  fellow  of  delicate  nerves, 
yet  his  heai't  beat  furiously  against  his  ribs, 
and  his  whole  frame  shook  with  excitement. 
He  would,  in  tmth,  much  rather  have  been 
engaged  in  the  outrage,  than  forced  as  he 
was,  merely  to  look  on  without  an  opportu- 
nity of  taking  a  part  in  it,  one  way  or  the 
other.  Such,  at  least,  were  his  own  impres- 
sions, when  the  report  of  a  gun  was  heard 
inside  the  house. 

Dhar  an  Ijfrin,  thought  he  again.  111  bolt  in 
an'  see  what's  goin'  an — oh  ma  nhagld  millia 
mallach  orth,  Flanagan,  if  you  spill  blood — 
Jasus  above !  Well,  any  how,  come  or  go 
what  mav,  we  can  hang  him  for  this — glory 
be  to  God ! 

These  reflections  were  very  near  breaking 
forth  into  words. 

"I  don't  hke  that,"  said  one  of  the  guards 
to  another  ;  "  he  may  take  the  gii'l  away,  but 
it's  not  the  tiling  to  murdher  any  one  be- 
longin'  to  a  dacent  family,  an'  of  our  own  re- 
hgion." 

"If  it's  only  the  Bodagh  got  it,"  rephed 
his  comrade,  who  was  no  other  than  Micky 
Midvathra,  "  blaizes  to  the  hair  I  care.  "N^'hen 
my  brother  Barney,  that  sufiiered  for  Caam 
Beal  (crooked  mouth)  Grime's  business,  was 
before  his  thi-ial,  hell  resave  the  taisther  the 
same  Bodagh  would  give  to  defind  him." 

"Damn  it,"  rejoined  the  other,  "but  to 
murdher  a  man  in  his  bed  I  TMiy,  now,  if  it 
was  only  comin'  home  from  a  fail*  or  market, 
but  at  midnight,  an'  in  his  bed,  begorra  it  is 
not  the  thing,  ^Mickey." 

There  was  now  a  pause  in  the  conversation 
for  some  minutes  ;  at  length,  screams  were 
heard,  and  the  noise  of  men's  feet,  as  if  en- 
gaged in  a  scutHe  upon  the  staii's,  for  the  hall- 
door  lay  open.  A  light,  too,  was  seen,  but  it 
appeared  to  have  been  blo\\Ti  out ;  the  same 
noise  of  feet  tramping,  as  if  still  in  a  tumult, 
approached  the  door,  and  almost  immediately 
afterwards  Flanagan's  party  approached, 
bearing  in  their  arms  a  female,  who  panted 
and  stmggled  as  if  she  had  been  too  weak  to 
shriek  or  call  for  assistance.  The  hall-door 
was  then  pulled  to  and  locked  by  those  who 
were  outside. 

The  Dandy  could  see,  by  the  passing 
gleam  of  hght  which  fell  upon  those  who 
watched  beside  him,  that  their  faces  were 
blackened,  and  their  clothes  covered  by  a 
shui;,  as  was  usual  \\-ith  the  "\Miiteboys  of  old, 
and  for  the  snme  object — that  of  preventing 
themselves  from  being  recognized  by  their 
apparel. 

"So   far   so   good,"   said  Flanagan,  who 


298 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


cared  not  now  whether  his  voice  was  known 
or  not ;  "  the  prize  is  mine,  boys,  an'  how  to 
bring  ma  colleen  dhas  dhun  to  a  snug  place, 
an'  a  fiiendly  priest  that  I  have  to  put  the 
knot  on  us  for  life." 

"Be ,"   thought  Du%,    "I'll   put   a 

different  kind  of  a  knot  on  you  for  that,  if  I 
shovdd  swing  myself  for  it." 

They  hui'ried  onwards  with  as  much  speed 
as  possible,  bearing  the  fainting  female  in  a 
seat  formed  by  clasping  their  hands  to- 
gether. Duffy  still  stood  in  his  jilace  of  con- 
cealment, waiting  to  let  them  get  so  far  in 
advance  as  that  he  might  dog  them  without 
danger  of  being  heard.  Just  then  a  man 
cautiously  apj^roached,  and  in  a  whisper 
asked,  "  Is  that  Dandy  ?  " 

"It  is — Saver  above,  Ned,  how  is  this? 
all's  lost ! " 

"  No,  no — I  hope  not — but  go  an'  watch 
them  ;  we'll  foUy  as  soon  as  we  get  help. 
My  curse  on  Alick  Nulty,  he  disapjDointed 
me  an'  didn't  come  ;  if  he  had,  some  of  the 
Bodagh's  sai'vant  boys  would  be  up  ^vdd  us 
in  the  kitchen,  an'  we  could  bate  them  back 
aisy  ;  for  Flanagan,  as  I  tould  you,  is  a  dam 
coward." 

"  Well,  thin,  I'll  trace  them,"  replied  the 
other  ;  "  but  you  know  that  in  sich  darkness 
as  this  you  haven't  a  minute  to  lose,  other- 
wise you'll  miss  them." 

"  Go  an  ;  but  afore  you  go  hsten,  be  the 
Hght  of  day,  not  that  we  have  much  of  it 
now  any  Avay — by  the  vestment,  Biddy 
Nultj^'s  worth  her  weight  in  Bank  of  Ii'eland 
notes  ;  now  pelt  and  afther  them  ;  I'll  tell 
you  again." 

Flanagan's  party  were  necessarily  forced  to 
retrace  their  stejDS  along  the  sludgy  boreen 
we  have  mentioned,  and  we  need  scarcely 
say,  that,  in  consequence  of  the  charge  with 
which  they  were  encumbered,  theii*  progress 
was  proportionally  slow  ;  to  cross  the  fields 
on  such  a  night  was  out  of  the  question. 

The  first  thing  Flanagan  did,  when  he 
foTind  his  prize  safe,  was  to  tie  a  handker- 
chief about  her  mouth  that  she  might  not 
scream,  and  to  secure  her  hands  together  by 
the  wrists.  Indeed,  the  first  of  these  precau- 
tions seemed  to  be  scarcely  necessaiy,  for  what 
■with  the  terror  occasioned  by  such  unexpec- 
ted and  fi'ightfid  violence,  and  the  extreme 
delicacy  of  her  health,  it  was  evident  that 
she  could  not  utter  even  a  shi'iek.  Yet,  did 
she,  on  the  other  hand,  lajise  into  fits  of  such 
spasmodic  violence  as,  wrought  up  as  she 
was  by  the  horror  of  her  situation,  called 
forth  all  her  physical  energies,  and  literally 
gave  her  the  strength  of  three  Avomen. 

"Well,  well,"  observed  one  of  the  fellows, 
who  had  assisted  in  holding  her  down  during 
these   wild  fits,  "  you   may   talk   of  jinteel 


people,  but  be  the  piper  o'  Moses,  that  same 
sick  daughter  of  the  Bodagh's  is  the  hardiest 
sprout  I've  laid  my  hands  on  this  month  o' 
Sundays." 

"  May  be  you'd  make  as  hai'd  a  battle 
yourself,"  replied  he  to  whom  he  spoke,  "if 
you  wor  forced  to  a  thmg  you  hate  as  much 
as  she  hates  Bartle." 

"  May  be  so,"  rejoined  the  other,  with  an 
incredulous  shiaig,  that  seemed  to  say  he  was 
by  no  means  satisfied  by  the  reasoning  of  his 
companion. 

Bartle  now  addressed  his  charge  with  a 
hope  of  reconciling  her,  if  possible,  to  the 
fate  of  becoming  united  to  him. 

"  Don't  be  at  aU  alarmed,  IVIiss  Oona,  for 
indeed  you  may  take  vaj  word  for  it,  that  I'll 
make  as  good  and  as  lovin'  a  husband  as  ever 
had  a  purty  vrde.  It's  two  or  three  years 
since  I  fell  in  consate  wid  you,  an'  I  needn't 
tell  you,  darhn',  how  hajDjDy  I'm  now,  that 
you're  mine.  I  have  two  horses  waitin'  for 
us  at  the  end  of  this  vile  road,  an',  plase 
Pro"\-idence,  we'U  ride  onwards  a  bit,  to  a 
fi'ieud's  house  o'  mine,  where  I've  a  priest 
ready  to  tie  the  knot  ;  an'  to-moiTOW,  if 
you're  willin',  we'U  start  for  America  ;  but  if 
you  don't  hke  that,  we'll  live  together  till 
you'll  be  wilhn'  enough,  I  hope,  to  go  any 
where  I  wish.  So  take  heart,  darlin',  take 
heart.  As  for  the  money  I  made  free  wid 
out  o'  your  desk,  it'll  help  to  keep  us  com- 
fortable ;  it  was  your  otvti,  j-ou  know,  an' 
who  has  a  betther  right  to  be  at  the  spendin' 
of  it?" 

This,  which  was  meant  for  consolation, 
utterly  failed,  or  rather  aggravated  the 
sufferings  of  the  affrighted  gii'l  they  bore, 
who  once  more  stniggied  with  a  power  that 
resembled  the  intense  muscular  strength  of 
epilepsy,  more  than  anything  else.  It 
hterally  required  io^xr  of  them  to  hold  her 
down,  so  dreadfully  spasmodic  were  her 
efforts  to  be  fr-ee. 

The  delay  caused  by  those  occasional 
workings  of  terror,  at  a  moment  when  Flan- 
agan expected  every  soimd  to  be  the  noise  of 
pursuit,  wTOught  up  his  ovm.  bad  passions  to 
a  furious  height.  His  own  companions  could 
actually  hear  him  grinding  his  teeth  with 
vexation  and  venom,  whenever  anything  on 
her  part  occurred  to  retard  their  flight.  All 
this,  however,  he  kept  to  himself,  owing  to 
the  singular  command  he  possessed  over  his 
passions.  Nay,  he  undertook,  once  more, 
the  task  of  reconciling  her  to  the  agreeable 
prospect,  as  he  tenned  it,  that  life  presented 
her. 

"  We'll  be  as  happy  as  the  day's  long," 
said  he,  "  espichilly  when  heaven  sends  us 
a  family  ;  an'  upon  my  troth  a  purty  mother 
you'll   make.     I   suppose,    dai*lin'  love,  you 


FAIiDOROUGHA,    THE  MISER. 


299 


wondher  how  I  got  in  to-night,  but  I  tell 
you  I've  my  ^vits  about  me  ;  you  don't  know 
that  it  was  I  encouraged  Biddy  Nulty  to  go 
to  Hve  wid  you,  but  I  know  what  I  was  about 
then  ;  Biddy  it  was  that  left  the  door  open 
for  me,  an'  that  tould  me  the  room  you  lay 
in,  an'  the  place  you  keep  your  hard  goold 
an'  notes  ;  I  mintion  these  things  to  show 
you  how  I  have  you  hemmed  in,  and  that 
your  wisest  way  is  to  submit  without  makin' 
a  rout  about  it.  You  know  that  if  you  wor 
taken  fi'om  me  this  minit,  there  'ud  be  a 
stain  upon  your  name  that  'ud  never  lave  it, 
an'  it  wouldn't  be  my  business,  you  know,  to 
clear  up  your  character,  but  the  conthrary. 
As  for  Biddy,  the  poor  fool,  I  did  all  in  my 
power  to  pre^'int  her  bein'  fond  o'  me,  but 
ever  since  we  two  hved  with  the  ould  miser, 
somehow  she  couldn't." 

For  some  time  before  he  had  proceeded  thus 
far,  there  was  felt,  by  those  who  can-ied  their 
fair  charge,  a  slight  working  of  her  whole 
body,  especially  of  the  arms,  and  in  a  moment 
Flanagan,  who  walked  a  Uttle  in  advance  of 
her,  with  his  head  bent  down,  that  he  might 
not  be  put  to  the  necessity  of  speaking  loud, 
suddenly  received,  right  upon  his  nose,  such 
an  incredible  facer  as  made  the  blood  sj)in  a 
yard  out  of  it. 

"  May  all  the  curses  of  heaven  an'  hell 
blast  you,  for  a  cowardly,  thi-aicherous,  par- 
jured  stag !  ^Miy,  you  black-hearted  infor- 
mer, see  now  what  you've  made  by  your 
cunnin'.  Well,  we  hope  you'll  keep  your 
word — won't  I  make  a  purty  mother,  an' 
won't  we  be  haj^py  as  the  day's  long,  espi- 
chilly  when  Heaven  sends  us  a  family  ?  Why, 
you  rap  of  heU,  aren't  you  a  laughing-stock 
this  minute  ?  An'  to  go  to  take  my  name 
too — an'  to  leave  the  guilt  of  some  other 
body's  thraicherj'  on  me,  that  you  knew  in 
your  burniu'  sowl  to  be  innocent — me,  a 
poor  girl  that  has  only  my  name  an'  good 
character  to  cany  me  thi'ough  the  world. 
Oh,  you  mane-spirited,  revengeful  dog,  for 
you're  not  a  man,  or  you'd  not  go  to  take 
sich  revenge  upon  a  woman,  an'  all  for  sapn' 
an'  puttia'  it  out  on  you,  what  I  ever  an'  al- 
ways will  do,  that  stiiiv  to  hang  Connor  O'- 
Donovan,  kno^vin'  that  it  was  youi'self  did 
the  Clime  the  poor  boy  is  now  suflerin'  for. 
Ha !  may  the  sweetest  an'  bitterest  of  bad 
luck  both  meet  upon  you,  you  riUin  !  Amin 
I  pray  this  night !  " 

The  scene  that  followed  this  discoveiy, 
and  the  unexpected  act  which  produced  it, 
could  not,  we  think,  be  properly  described 
by  either  pen  or  pencil.  Flanagan  stood 
with  his  hands  alternately  kept  to  his  nose, 
from  which  he  flung  away  the  blood,  as  it 
sprung  out  in  a  most  copious  stream.  Two- 
thirds,  indeed  we  might  sav  three-fom'ths  of 


his  party,  were  convulsed  mth  suppressed 
laughter,  nor  could  they  prevent  jm  occa- 
sional cackle  from  being  heard,  when  forcibly 
di-awinj^in  their  breath,  in  an  effort  not  to 
offend  their  leader.  The  discovery  of  the 
mistake  was,  in  itself,  extremely  ludicrous, 
but  when  the  home  truths  uttered  by  Biddy, 
and  the  indescribable  bitterness  caused  hy 
the  disappointment,  joined  to  the  home 
blow,  were  aU  put  together,  it  might  be  said 
that  the  darkness  of  hell  itself  was  not  so 
black  as  the  rage,  hatred,  and  thirst  of  ven- 
geance, M'hich  at  this  moment  consumed 
Bai'tle  Flanagan's  heart.  He  who  had  laid 
his  plans  so  artfully  that  he  thought  failure 
in  secm-ing  his  prize  impossible,  now  not 
only  to  feel  that  he  was  baffled  by  the  supe- 
rior cunning  of  a  girl,  and  made  the  laughing- 
stock of  his  own  pariy,  who  valued  him 
principally  upon  his  ability  in  such  matters  ; 
but,  in  addition  to  this,  to  have  his  heart 
and  feelings  torn,  as  it  were,  out  of  his  body, 
and  flung  down  before  him  and  his  confi'eres 
in  aU  their  monstrous  deformity,  and  to  be 
jeered  at,  moreover,  and  despised,  and  liter- 
ally cufiied  by  the  female  who  outreached 
him — this  was  too  much  ;  all  the  worst  pas- 
sions within  him  were  fii'ed,  and  he  swore  in 
his  own  heart  a  deep  and  blasphemous  oath, 
that  Biddy  Nulty  never  shoxild  part  from 
him  unless  as  a  degi'aded  giii. 

The  incident  that  we  have  just  related 
hapi^ened  so  quickly  that  Flanagan  had  not 
time  to  reply  a  single  word,  and  Biddy  fol- 
lowed up  her  imprecation  by  a  powerful  ef- 
fort to  release  herself. 

"Let  me  home  this  minnit,  you  villin," 
she  continued  ;  "now  that  you  find  yourself 
on  the  wrong  scent — boys,  don't  hould  me, 
nor  back  that  ruffin  in  his  viUany." 

"  Hould  her  like  hell,"  said  Bartle,  "an' 
tie  her  up  wanst  more  ;  we'U  gag  you,  too, 
my  lady — ay,  vn)!  we.  Take  away  your  name 
— I'll  take  care  you'll  carry  shame  upon  yom' 
face  fi-om  this  night  to  the  hour  of  your 
death.  Characther  indeed  I — ho,  by  the 
crass  I'U  lave  you  that  Httle  of  that  will  go 
far  wid  you." 

"May  be  not,"  repHed  Biddy  ;  "the  same 
God  that  disappointed  you  in  hangin'  Con- 
nor O'Donovan " 

"Damn  you,"  said  he,  "take  that;"  and 
as  he  spoke  he  struck  the  poor  girl  a  heavy 
blow  in  the  cheek,  which  cut  her  deeply, 
and  for  a  short  time  reudei'ed  her  speechless. 

"Bartle,"  said  more  than  one  of  them, 
"that's  unmanly,  an'  it's  conthraiy  to  the 
regulations. ' 

"  To  perdition  Arid  the  regukitions  !  Hasn't 
the  vagabone  dra^vTi  a  pint  of  blood  from 
my  nose  ah'eady  ? — look  at  that !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, throwing  away  a  handful  of  the 


300 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


-"  hell  seize  her !   look  at  that. 
— "    He  made  another  onset  at 


warm  gore- 
Ho  be  the  - 
the  yet  unconscious  girl  as  he  spoke,  and 
woiild  have  still  inflicted  further  jjunish- 
ment  upon  her,  were  it  not  that  he  was  pre- 
vented. 

"  Stop,"  said  several  of  them,  "  if  you  wor 
over  us  fifty  times  you  won't  laj'  another 
finger  on  her ;  that's  wanst  for  all,  so  be 
quiet." 

"  Are  yez  threat enin'  me  ?  "  he  asked,  furi- 
ously, but  in  an  instant  he  changed  his  tone 
— "  Boys  dear,"  continued  the  wily  but  un- 
manly villain — "boys  dear,  can  you  blame 
me  ?  disappointed  as  I  am  by  this — by  this 
— ha  anhien  va  sfhreepa — I'll — — "  but  again 
he  checked  himself,  and  at  length  burst  out 
into  a  bitter  fit  of  weeping.  "Look  at 
this,"  he  proceeded,  throwing  away  another 
handful  of  blood,  "I've  lost  a  quart  of  it  by 
her." 

"  Be  the  hand  af  my  body,"  said  one  of 
them  in  a  whisper,  "he's  hke  every  coward, 
it's  at  his  own  blood  he's  crjin'  ;  be  the  var- 
tue  of  my  oath,  that  man's  not  the  thing  to 
dej^ind  on." 

"Is  she  tied  an'  gagged?"  he  then  in- 
quired. 

"  She  is,"  I'eiDhed  those  who  tied  her. 
"  It  was  very  asy  done,  Bartle,  afther  the 
blow  you  hot  her." 

"  It  wasn't  altogether  out  of  ill-will  I  hot 
her  aither,"  he  replied,  "  although,  boys 
dear,  you  know  how  she  vexed  me,  but  you 
see,  the  thruth  is,  she'd  a'  given  us  a  great 
dale  o'  throuble  in  gettin'  her  quiet." 

"An'  you  tuck  the  right  way  to  do  that," 
they  replied  ironically ;  and  they  added, 
"Bai-tle  Flanagan,  you  may  thank  the  oaths 
we  tuck,  or  be  the  crass,  a  single  man  of  us 
wouldn't  assist  you  in  this  consarn,  afther 
your  cowardly  behaver  to  this  poor  girl. 
Takin'  away  the  Bodagh's  daughter  was  an- 
other thing  ;  you  had  betther  let  the  girl  go 
home." 

Biddy  had  now  recovered,  and  heard  this 
suggestion  with  joy,  for  the  poor  girl  began 
to  entertain  serious  apj^rehensions  of  Flana- 
gan's revenge  and  violence,  if  left  alone  with 
him  ;  she  could  not  speak,  however,  and 
those  who  bore  her,  quickened  their  pace  at 
his  desire,  as  much  as  thej'  could. 

"No,"  said  Bartle,  artfully,  "I'll  keep  her 
prisoner  anyhow  for  this  night.  I  had  once 
a  notion  of  marryin'  her — an'  may  be — as  I 
am  disappointed  in  the  other — but,  we'll 
think  of  it.  Now  we're  at  the  horses,  an' 
we'll  get  an  faster." 

This  was  indeed  time.  After  the  journey 
we  have  just  described,  they  at  length  got 
out  of  the  boreen,  where,  in  the  corner  of  a 
^ftld,  a  little  to  the  right,  two  horses,  e^ob 


saddled,  were  tied  to  the  branch  of  a  tree. 
They  now  made  a  slight  delay  until  their 
charge  should  be  got  mounted,  and  were 
collected  in  a  group  on  the  road,  when  a 
voice  called  ovit,  "^Mio  goes  there?" 

"  A  fi'iend  to  the  guard." 

"  Good  morrow !  " 

"  Good  morrow  momin'  to  you !  " 

"  "\Miat  Age  are  you  in  ?  " 

"  The  end  of  the  fifth." 

"AU  right,"  said  Bartle,  aloud;  "now, 
boys,"  he  whispered  to  his  own  party,  "  we 
must  tell  them  good-humoredly  to  pass  on 
■ — that  this  is  a  runaway — jist  a  girl  we're 
bringin'  aff  wid  us,  an'  to  hould  a  hard 
cheek*  about  it.  You  know  we'd  do  as 
much  for  them." 

Both  parties  now  met,  the  strangers  con- 
sisting of  about  twenty  men. 

"Well,  boys,"  said  the  latter,  "what's  the 
fun?" 

"  Devil  a  thing  but  a  gu'l  we're  helpin'  a 
boy  to  take  away.     "WTiat's  your  own  sport  ?  " 

"  Begorra,  we  wor  in  luck  to-night ;  we 
got  as  purty  a  double-barrelled  gun  as  ever 
you  seen,  an'  a  case  of  murdherin'  fine 
pistols." 

"  Success,  OTild  heart !  that's  right ;  we'll 
be  able  to  stand  a  tug  whin  the  '  Day '  comes." 

"Which  of  you  is  takin'  away  the  girl, 
boys  ?  "  inquired  one  of  the  strangers. 

"Begad,  Bartle  Flanagan,  since  there's  no 
use  in  hidin'  it,  when  we're  all  as  we  ought 
to  be." 

"  Bartle  Flanagan  !  "  said  a  voiiRe — "  Bartle 
Flanagan,  is  it  ?     An'  who's  the  girl  ?  " 

"  Blur  an'  agres,  Alick  Nulty,  don't  be 
too  curious,  she  comes  from  Bodagh  Buie's." 

Biddy,  on  hearing  the  voice  of  her  brother, 
made  another  riolent  efibrt,  and  succeeded 
in  partially  working  the  gag  out  of  her  mouth 
— she  screamed  faintly,  and  struggled  with 
such  energy  that  her  hands  again  became 
loose,  and  in  an  instant  the  gag  was  wholly 
removed. 

"  Oh  Alick,  Alick,  for  the  love  o'  God  save 
me  from  Flanagan !  it's  me,  your  sisther 
Biddy,  that's  in  it ;  save  me,  Alick,  or  I'U  be 
lost ;  he  has  cut  me  to  the  bone  wid  a  blow, 
an'  the  blood's  pourin'  from  me." 

"Her  brother  flew  to  her.  "Whisht, 
Biddy,  don't  be  afeard ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"Boys,"  said  he,  "let  my  party  stand  by 
me  ;  this  is  the  way  Bartle  Flanagan  keeps 
his  oath."f 

"  Secure  Bartle,"  said  Biddy.  "  He  rob- 
bed Bodagh  Buie's  house,  an'  has  the  money 
aboiit  him." 


*  To  keep  it  secret. 

f  One  of  the  clauses  of  the  Ribbon  oath  was,  not 
to  injure  or  maltreat  the  wife  or  sister  of  a  brothel 
EibboQuian, 


FARDOROVGHA,    THE  MISER. 


301 


The  horses  were  already  on  the  road,  but, 
in  consequence  of  both  parties  filling  up  the 
passage  in  the  direction  which  Bartle  and 
his  followers  intended  taking,  the  animals 
could  not  be  brought  through  them  without 
delay  and  trouble,  even  had  there  been  no 
resistance  offered  to  their  jorogress. 

"  A  robber  too  !  "  exclaimed  Nulty,  "  that's 
more  of  his  parjury  to'ards  uz.  Bartle  Flan- 
agan, 3'ou're  a  thrfiitor,  and  you'll  get  a 
thraitor's  death  afore  you're  much  oulder. 
He's  not  fit  to  be  among  us,"  added  Alick, 
addressing  himself  to  both  parties,  "  an'  the 
truth  is,  if  we  don't  hang  or  settle  him,  he'll 
some  day  hang  us." 

"Bartle's  no  thraitor,"  said  Mulvather, 
"  but  he's  a  tlu'aitor  that  says  he  is." 

The  comiug  reply  was  interrupted  by 
"  Boys,  good  night  toyez  ;"  and  immediately 
the  clatter  of  a  liorse's  feet  was  heard  stum- 
bling and  tiouiidering  back  along  the  deep 
stony  boreen.  "Be  the  vestment  he's  aff," 
said  one  of  his  party  ;  "the  cowardly  viUin's 
aff  wid  himself  the  minit  he  seen  the  ap- 
proach of  danger." 

"  Sure  enough,  the  bad  dhrop's  in  him," 
exclaimed  several  on  both  sides.  "But 
what  the  h — 1  does  he  mane  now,  I  dunna?  " 
"It'll  be  only  a  good  joke  to-morrow  wid 
him,"  obseiwed  one  of  them — "  bjit,  boys,  we 
must  think  how  to  manage  him  ;  I  can't 
forgive  him  for  the  cowardly  blow  he  hot 
the  poor  colleen  here,  an'  for  the  same  rason 
I  didn't  dhraw  the  knot  so  tight  upon  her 
as  I  could  a'  done." 

"  Was  it  you  that  nipped  iay  arm  ?  "  asked 
Biddy. 

"Faix,  you  may  say  that,  an'  it  was 
to  let  you  know  that,  let  him  say  as  he 
would,  after  what  we  seen  of  him  to-night, 
we  wouldn't  allow  him  to  thrate  you  badly 
without  mariyin'  you  first." 

The  night  having  been  now  pretty  far 
advanced,  the  two  parties  separated  in  order 
to  go  to  their  respective  homes — Alick 
taking  Biddy  under  his  protection  to  her 
master's.  As  the  way  of  many  belonging  to 
each  lodge  lay  in  the  same  direction,  they 
were  accompanied,  of  course,  to  the  turn 
that  led  up  to  the  Bodagh's  house.  Biddy, 
notwithstiuiding  the  severe  blow  she  had 
got,  related  the  night's  adventui-e  with  much 
humor,  dwelling  upon  her  oavti  part  in  the 
transaction  with  singular  glee. 

"  There's  some  thraicherous  viUin  in  the 
Bodagh's,"  said  she,  "  be  it  man  or  woman  ; 
for  what'id  you  think  but  the  hall-door  was 
left  lying  to  only — neither  locked  nor  boulted. 
But,  indeed,  anyhow,  it's  the  start  was 
taken  out  o'  me  whin  Ned  M'Cormick — 
that  you  wor  to  meet  in  our  kitchen,  Alick 
•^throth,  J  wo^'t  let  aiity  Liowry  wait  up 


for  you  so  long  another  time."  She  added  this 
to  throw  the  onus  of  the  assignation  off  her 
o^^^^  shoultlers,  and  to  lay  it  upon  those  oi 
Alick  and  Kitty.  "  But,  anyhow,  I  had  just 
time  to  throw  her  clothes  upon  me  and  get 
into  her  bed.  Be  me  sowl,  but  I  acted 
the  flight  an'  sickness  in  style.  I  wasn't 
able  to  spake  a  word,  you  persave,  till  we 
got  far  enough  from  the  house  to  give  IVIiss 
Oona  time  to  hide  herself.  Oh,  thin,  the 
robbin'  viUin  how  he  put  the  muzzle  of 
his  gim  to  the  lock  of  Miss  Oona's  desk, 
when  he  couldn't  get  the  key,  an'  blewn  it  to 
pieces,  an'  thin  he  took  every  fardin'  he  could 
lay  his  hands  upon." 

She  then  detailed  her  own  feeUngs  dur- 
ing the  abduction,  in  terms  so  ludicrously 
abusive  of  Flanagan,  that  those  who  accom- 
panied her  were  exceedingly  amused  ;  for 
what  she  said  was  strongly  provocative  of 
mirth,  yet  the  chief  cause  of  laughter  lay 
in  the  vehement  sincerity  with  which  she 
spoke,  and  in  the  utter  unconsciousness  of  ut- 
tering anything  that  was  calculated  to  excite 
a  smile.  There  is,  however,  a  class  of  such 
persons,  whose  power  of  provoking  laugh- 
ter consists  in  the  utter  absence  of  humor. 
Those  I  speak  of  never  laugh  either  at  what 
they  say  themselves,  or  what  any  one  else 
may  say ;  but  they  drive  on  right  ahead 
with  an  inverted  originaHty  that  is  i^erfectly 
irresistible. 

We  must  now  beg  the  reader  to  accompany 
them  to  the  Bodagh's,  where  a  scene  awaited 
them  for  which  they  were  scarcely  pi'epai'ed. 
On  approaching  the  house  they  could  per- 
ceive, by  the  light  glitteiing  from  the  window 
chinks,  that  the  family  were  in  a  state  of 
alarm  ;  but  at  this  they  were  not  surprised  ; 
for  such  a  commotion  in  the  house,  after 
what  had  occurred,  was  but  natural.  They 
went  dii'ectly  to  the  kitchen  door  and  rapped. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  said  a  voice  within. 

"  It's  Biddy ;  for  the  love  o'  God  make 
haste,  Kitty,  an'  open." 

"  What  Biddy  are  you  ?    I  won't  open." 

"  Biddy  Nult}'.  You  know  me  well  enough, 
Kitty  ;  so  make  haste  an'  open,  Ahck,  mark 
my  words,"  said  she  in  a  low  voice  to  her 
brother,  "  Kitty's  the  very  one  that  practised 
the  desate  this  night — that  left  the  hall-door 
open.     Make  haste,  Kitty,  I  say." 

"  I'll  do  no  such  thing  indeed,"  rephed  the 
other ;  "  it  was  you  left  the  hall-door  open 
to-night,  an'  I  heard  you  spakin'  to  fellows 
outside.  I  have  too  much  regai-d  for  my 
masther's  house  an'  family  to  let  you  or  any 
one  else  in  to-night.     Come  in  the  mornin'." 

"  FoUy  me,  Alick,"  said  Biddy,  "  foUy  me." 

She  went  immediately  to  the  haU-door, 
and  gave  such  a  single  rap  with  the  knocker, 
as  brought  wore  than  Kittj^  to  the  dppr, 


302 


WILLIAM   GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Who's  there  ?  "  inquired  a  voice,  which 
she  and  her  brother  at  once  knew  to  be  Ned 
M'Cormick's. 

"  Ned,  for  the  love  o'  God,  let  me  an' 
Ahck  in  !  "  she  replied  ;  "we  got  away  from 
that  netarual  vilhu." 

Instantly  the  door  was  opened,  and  the 
first  thing  Ned  did  was  to  put  his  arms  about 
Bidd3''s  neck,  and — we  were  going  to  say  kiss 
her. 

"Saints  above!  "said  he,  "what's  this?" 
on  seeing  that  her  face  was  di-eadfuUy  dis- 
figured with  blood. 

"Nothin'  to  signify,"  she  rephed  ;  "but 
thanks  be  to  God,  we  got  clane  away  from 
the  villin,  or  be  the  Padheren  Partha,  the 
viUin  it  was  that  got  clane  away  from  hus. 
How  is  Miss  Oona  ?  " 

"  She  went  over  to  a  neighbor's  house  for 
safety,"  replied  Ned,  smihng,  "  an'  will  be 
back  in  a  few  minutes  ;  but  who  do  you 
think,  above  all  men  in  the  five  quarters  o' 
the  earth,  we  have  got  widin  ?    Guess  now." 

"  Wlio  ?  "  said  Biddy  ;  "  why,  I  dunna,  save 
— but  no,  it  couldn't." 

"Faix  but  it  could,  thotigh,"  said  Ned, 
mistaking  her,  as  the  matter  turned  out. 

" ^^^ly,  vtck  na  hoiah,  no!  Connor  O'Don- 
ovan  back !  Oh !  no,  no,  Ned  ;  that  'ud  be 
too  good  news  to  be  thrue." 

The  honest  lad  shook  his  head  with  an  ex- 
pression of  regret  that  could  not  be  mis- 
taken as  the  exponent  of  a  sterling  heart. 
And  yet,  that  the  reader  may  perceive  how 
near  akin  that  one  circumstance  was  to  the 
other  in  his  mind,  we  have  only  to  say,  that 
whilst  the  regret  for  Connor  was  deeply  en- 
graven on  his  features,  yet  the  expression  of 
triumph  was  as  clearly  legible  as  if  his  name 
had  not  been  at  all  mentioned. 

"Who,  then,  Ned?"  said  Alick.  "Who 
the  dickens  is  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  di^al  resave  the  other  than  Bartle 
Flanagan  himseK — secwed — and  the  consta- 
bles sent  for — an'  plaze  the  Saver  he'll  be  in 
the  stone  jug  afore  his  head  gets  gray  any 
how,  the  black-hearted  villin  !  " 

It  was  even  so  ;  and  the  circumstances  ac- 
counting for  it  are  very  simple.  Flanagan, 
having  mounted  one  of  the  horses,  made  the 
best  of  his  way  from  what  he  apprehended 
was  likely  to  become  a  scene  of  deadly  strife. 
Such  was  the  nature  of  the  road,  however, 
that  anything  like  a  rapid  pace  was  out  of 
the  question.  When  he  had  got  over  about 
half  the  boreen  he  was  accosted  in  the  signi- 
ficant terms  of  the  Kibhon  pass-word  of  that 
day. 

"  Good  morrow  ! " 

"  Good  morrow  momin'  to  you ! " 

"Ai-rah  vrhat  Age  may  you  be,  neigh- 
bor?" 


Now  the  correct  words  were,  "  What  Age 
are  we  in  ?  "  *  but  they  were  often  shghtly 
changed,  sometimes  through  ignorance  and 
sometimes  fi'om  design,  as  in  the  latter  case 
less  liable  to  remark  when  addressed  to  per- 
sons not  iqx  "In  the  end  of  the  Fifth,"  waa 
the  reply. 

"An'  if  you  wor  shakin'  hands  wid  a 
friend,  how  would  you  do  it  ?  Or  stay — all's 
right  so  fai' — but  give  us  a  grip  of  your 
cham  ahas  (right  hand)." 

Flanagan,  who  apprehended  pursuit,  was 
too  cautious  to  trust  himself  within  reach  of 
any  one  coming  fi'om  the  direction  in  which 
the  Bodagh  hved.  He  made  no  reply,  there- 
fore, to  this,  but  urged  his  horse  forward, 
and  attempted  to  get  clear  of  his  catechist. 

"Dhar  Dhegh!  it's  Flanagan,"  said  a  voice 
which  was  that  of  Alick  Nulty  ;  and  the  next 
moment  the  equestrian  was  stretched  in  the 
mud,  by  a  heavy  blow  from  the  but  of  a 
carbine.  Nearly  a  score  of  men  were  im- 
mediately about  him  ;  for  the  party  he  met 
on  his  return  were  the  Bodagh's  son,  his 
servants,  and  such  of  the  cottiers  as  hved 
near  enough  to  be  called  up  to  the  rescue. 
On  finding  himself  secured,  he  lost  all  pres- 
ence of  mind,  and  almost  all  consciousness 
of  his  situation. 

"  I'm  gone,"  said  he  ;  "  I'm  a  lost  man  ;  aU 
Europe  can't  save  my  life.  Don't  kill  me, 
boys  ;  don't  kill  me  ;  I'll  go  wid  yez  quietly 
— only,  if  I  am  to  die,  let  me  die  by  the  laws 
of  the  land." 

"The  laws  of  the  land?"  said  John  O'- 
Brien ;  "  oh,  httle,  Bartle  Flanagan,  you  re- 
spected them.  You  needn'  be  alarmed  now 
— you  are  safe  here — to  the  laws  of  the  land 
we  will  leave  you ;  and  by  them  you  must 
stand  or  fall." 

Bartle  Flanagan,  we  need  scarcely  say,  was 
well  guarded  until  a  posse  of  constables 
shoiild  arrive  to  take  him  into  custody.  But, 
in  the  mean  time,  a  large  and  increasing 
l^arty  sat  up  in  the  house  of  the  worthy  Bo  ■ 
dagh  ;  for  the  neighbors  had  been  alarmed, 
and  came  flocking  to  his  aid.  'Tis  true,  the 
danger  was  now  over  ;  but  the  kind  Bodagh, 
thankful  in  his  heart  to  the  Almighty  for  the 
escape  of  his  daughter,  would  not  let  them 
go  without  first  partaking  of  his  hospitality. 
His  wife,  too,  for  the  same  reason,  was  in  a 
flutter  of  delight ;  and  as  her  heart  was  as 
Irish  as  her  husband's,  and  consequently  as 
hospitable,  so  did  she  stir  about,  and  work, 
and  order  right  and  left  until  abundant  re- 
freshments were  smoking  on  the  table.  Nor 
was  the  gentle  and  melancholy  Una  herself, 
now  that  the  snake  was  at  all  events  scotched. 


*  This  order  or  throng  of  the  Ages  is  taken  from 
Pastorini. 


I 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


303 


averse  to  show  herself  among  them — for  so 
they  would  have  it.  Biddy  Xulty  had  washed 
her  face  ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  poultice 
of  stirabout  which  her  mistress  with  her  own 
hands  applied  to  her  wound,  she  I'eally  was 
the  most  interesting  person  jjresent,  in  con- 
sequence of  her  heroism  during  the  recent 
outrage.  After  a  glass  of  punch  had  gone 
round,  she  waxed  inveterately  eloquent,  in- 
deed, so  much  so  that  the  mourner,  the  col- 
leen dhas  dhun,  herself  was  more  than  once 
forced  to  smile,  and  in  some  instances  fau'ly 
to  laugh  at  the  odd  grotesque  spmt  of  her 
descriptions. 

"  The  rascal  was  quick  !  "  said  the  Bodagh, 
"  but  upon  my  credit,  Biddy,  you  wor  apojD 
afore  him  for  all  that.  Divil  a  thing  I,  or 
John,  or  the  others,  could  do  wid  only  one 
gun  an'  a  case  o'  pistols  against  so  many — 
still  we  would  have  fought  life  or  death  for 
poor  Una  anyhow.  But  Biddy,  here,  good 
girl,  by  her  cleverness  and  invention  saved  us 
the  danger,  an'  maybe  was  the  manes  of  sav- 
in' some  of  our  liver  or  theirs.  God  knows 
I'd  have  no  relish  to  be  shotmj^self,"  said  the 
pacific  Bodagh,  "nor  would  I  ever  have  a  day 
or  night's  pace  if  I  had  the  blood  of  a  feUow- 
crathur  on  my  sowl — upon  my  sowl  I 
wouldn't." 

"  But,  blood  ahve,  masther,  what  could  I 
'a'  done  only  for  Ned  M'Cormick,  that  gave 
us  the  hard  word  ?  "  said  Biddy,  anxious  to 
transfer  the  merit  of  the  transaction  to  her 
lover. 

"WeU,  weU,  Bid,"  rephed  the  Bodagh, 
"  maybe  neither  Ned  nor  yourself  will  be  a 
loser  by  it.  If  you're  bent  on  layin'  your 
heads  together  we'll  find  you  a  weddin'  pres- 
ent, anyway." 

"  Bedad,  sir,  I'm  puzzled  to  know  how  they 
got  in  so  aisy,"  said  Ned. 

"  That  matter  remains  to  be  cleared  up 
yet,"  said  John.  "  There  is  certainly  treach- 
ery in  the  camp  somewhere." 

"I  am  cock  sure  the  hall-door  was  not 
latched,"  said  Du%  ;  "  for  they  had  neither 
stop  nor  stay  at  it." 

•'There  is  a  villing  among  us  sartainly," 
observed , IVIi's.  O'Brien  ;  "for  as  heaving  is 
above  me,  I  locked  it  wid  my  own  two  hands 
this  blessed  night." 

"I  thought  it  might  be  wid  the  kay, 
Bridget,"  said  the  Bodagh,  laughing  at  his 
own  easy  joke  ;  "  for  you  see,  doors  is  gin- 
erally  locked  wid  kays — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! " 

"  Faix,  but  had  Oona  been  tuck  away  to- 
night wid  that  vag  o'  the  world,  it's  not 
laughin'  you'd  be." 

"God,  He  sees,  that's  only  thi-uth,  too, 
Bridget,"  he  rephed  ;  "but  still  there's  some 
rogue  about  the  place  that  opened  the  door 
for  the  villins." 


"  Bar  ma  chuirp,  I'll  hould  goold  I  put  the 
saddle  on  the  right  horse  in  no  time,"  said 
Biddy.  "  ]\Iisthress,  will  you  call  Kitty  Low- 
i-y,  ma'am,  i'  you  plase  ?  I'll  do  everything 
above  boord  ;  no  behind  backs  for  me  ;  blaz- 
es to  the  one  alive  hates  foul  play  more  nor 
I  do." 

We  ought  to  have  observed  that  one  of 
Biddy's  peculiarities  was  a  more  than  usual 
readiness  at  letting  fly,  and  not  unfi-equently 
at  giving  an  oath  ;  and  as  her  character  pre- 
sented a  strange  compound  of  simjjlicity  and 
cleverness,  honesty  and  adi'oitness,  her  mas- 
ter and  mistress,  and  felIow-sei-\'ants,  were 
fi'equently  amused  by  this  unfeminine  pro- 
pensity. For  instance,  if  Una  happened  to 
ask  her,  "Biddy,  did  you  ii'on  the  Unen?" 
her  usual  rejily  was,  "No,  blast  the  ii-on, 
miss,  I  hadn't  time."  Of  course  the  family 
did  everything  in  their  power  to  discourage 
such  a  practice  ;  but  on  this  jjoint  they  found 
it  impossible  to  reform  her.  Kitty  Lowry's 
countenance,  when  she  apj^eared,  certainly 
jDresented  strong  indications  of  guilt  ;  but 
still  there  was  a  hardness  of  outline  about  it 
which  gave  promise  at  the  same  time  of  the 
most  intrei:)id  assurance.  Biddy,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  brimful  of  consequence,  and 
a  sense  of  authority,  on  finding  that  the  ju- 
dicial power  was  on  this  occasion  entinisted 
chiefly  to  her  hands.  She  rose  up  when  Kit- 
ty entered,  and  stuck  a  paii*  of  red  formida- 
ble fists  with  great  energy  into  her  sides. 

"Pray  ma'am,"  said  she,  "what's  the  rai- 
sin' you  refused  to  let  me  in  to-night,  afther 
gettin'  away  wid  my  life  fi-om  that  netamal 
blackguard,  Bartle  Flanagan — what's  the 
raisin  I  say,  ma'am,  that  you  kep'  me  out 
afther  you  knewn  who  was  in  it  ?  " 

There  was  here  risible  a  slight  ribration 
of  the  head,  rather  gentle  at  the  beginning, 
but  cleai'ly  prophetic  of  ultimate  energy,  and 
an  unequivocal  determination  to  enforce 
whatever  she  might  say  with  suitable  action 
even  in  its  widest  sense. 

"  An'  i^ray,  ma'am,"  said  the  other,  for 
however  paradoxical  it  may  appear,  it  is  an 
established  case  that  in  all  such  displays  be- 
tween women,  politeness  usually  keeps  pace 
with  scTUTihty  ;  "  An'  pray,  ma'am,"  rephed 
Kitt}',  "  is  it  to  the  likes  o'  you  we're  to  say 
our  catechize  ?  " 

Biddy  was  resolved  not  to  be  outdone  in 
pohteness,  and  replied — 

"  Af  you  plaise,  ma'am,"  with  a  courtesy. 

"  Lord  jDrotect  us  !  what  will  we  hear  next, 
I  wondher  ?  WeU,  ma'am  ?  "  Here  her  an- 
tagonist stood,  evidently  waiting  for  the  on- 
set. 

"  Youll  hear  more  thanll  go  down  your 
back  pleasant  afore  I've  done  wid  you, 
ma'am." 


304 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Don't  be  makin'  us  long  for  it  in  the 
mane  time,  IVIiss  Biddy." 

"  You  didn't  answer  my  question,  Miss 
Kitty.  ^Tiy  did  you  refuse  to  let  me  in  to- 
night?" 

"For  good  raisons — bekase  I  hard  you 
cologgin'  an'  whispeiin'  wid  a  pack  of  fellows 
'ithout." 

"  An'  have  you  the  brass  to  say  so,  knowin' 
that  it's  false  an'  a  He  into  the  bargain  ? " 
(Head  energetically  shaken.) 

"  Have  I  the  brass,  is  it  ?  I  keep  my  brass 
in  my  pocket,  ma'am,  not  in  my  face,  like 
some  of  our  fi'iends."  (Head  shtiken  in  re- 
ply to  the  action  displayed  by  I^tty.) 

This  was  a  sharp  retort ;  but  it  was  very 
well  returned. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  repHed  Biddy,  "if 
it's  faces  you're  spakin'  about,  I  know  you're 
able  to  outface  me  any  day  ;  but  whatever's 
in  my  face  there's  no  desate  in  my  heai't. 
Miss  Lowiy.  Put  that  in  yovu-  pocket." 
(One  triumphant  shake  of  the  head  at  the 
conclusion.) 

"  There's  as  much  in  your  heart  as'll 
shame  your  face,  yet,  IVIiss  Nulty.  Put  that 
in  yoiu-s."  (Another  triumphant  shake  of 
the  head.) 

"  Thank  God,"  retorted  Biddy,  "  none  o' 
my  fi'iends  ever  knewn  what  a  shamed  face 
is.  I  say,  madam,  none  o'  viy  family  iver 
wore  a  shamed  face.  Thiguthu  shin  f  "  (Do 
you  understand  that  ? ) 

Tliis,  indeed,  was  a  bitter  hit ;  for  the 
reader  must  know  that  a  sister  of  Lowry's 
had  not  passed  through  the  world  without 
the  breath  of  slander  tarnishing  her  fair 
fame. 

"Oh,  it's  well  known  your  tongue's  no 
slander,  Biddy." 

"  Thin  that's  more  than  can  be  said  of 
yours,  Kitty." 

"  If  my  sisther  met  with  a  misfortune,  it 
was  many  a  betther  woman's  case  than  ever 
you'll  be.  Don't  shout  till  you  get  out  of 
the  wood,  ma'am.  You  dunna  what's  afore 
yom-self.  Any  how,  it's  not  be  lettin'  fellows 
into  the  masther's  kitchen  whin  the  family's 
in  bed,  an'  dhrinkin'  whiskey  wid  them,  that'll 
get  you  through  the  world  wid  your  charac- 
ter safe.  *  *  *  An'  you're  nothin'  but  a 
barge,  or  you'd  not  dhraw  down  my  sisther's 
name  that  never  did  you  an  ill  turn,  what- 
ever she  did  to  herself,  poor  girl !  " 

"An'  do  you  dar'  for  to  call  me  a  barge  ? 
*  *  *  *  Blast  your  insurance !  be  this 
an'  be  that,  for  a  farden  I'd  mahvogue  the 
devil  out  o'  you." 

"  We're  not  puttin'  it  past  you,  madam, 
you're  blaggard  enough  to  fight  like  a  man  ; 
but  we're  not  goin'  to  make  a  blaggard  an'  a 
bully  of  ourselves,  in  the  mane  time." 


[The  conversation,  of  which  we  are  giving 
a  very  imiDerfect  report,  was  garnished  by 
both  ladies  Avith  sundry  vituperative  epi- 
thets, which  it  would  be  inconsistent  with 
the  dignity  of  our  history  to  record.] 

"  That's  bekase  you  haven't  the  blood  of  a 
hen  in  you  *  *  *  sure  we  know  what 
you  are  !  But  howld !  be  me  sowl,  you're 
doi7i'  me  for  aU  that.  Ali,  ha  !  I  see  where 
you're  ladin'  me  ;  but  it  won't  do,  ]\Iiss  Kitty 
Lowi-y.  I'U  biing  you  back  to  the  catechize 
agin.  You'd  light  the  straw  to  get  away  in 
the  smoke  ;  but  you're  worth  two  gone  peo- 
ple yet,  dhough." 

"  Worth  haK  a  dozen  o'  you,  any  day." 

"Well,  as  we're  both  to  the  fore,  we'll 
soon  see  that.  How  did  you  know,  my  lady, 
that  the  masther's  hall  door  was  left  open 
to-night  ?  Answer  me  that,  on  the  nail !  " 

This  was  what  might  be  veiy  properly 
called  a  knock-down  blow  ;  for  if  the  reader 
but  reflects  a  moment  he  will  see  that  Kitty, 
on  taxing  her  antagonist,  after  her  rescue, 
with  leaving  it  ojDen,  directly  betrayed  her- 
self, as  there  w'as  and  could  have  been  no 
one  in  the  house  cognizant  of  the  fact  at  the 
time  unless  the  guilty  person.  With  this 
latter  exception,  Alick  Nulty  was  the  only 
individual  aware  of  it,  and  from  whom  the 
knowledge  of  it  could  come.  Kitty,  there- 
fore, by  her  over-anxiety  to  exculpate  her- 
self fi'om  a  charge  which  had  not  been 
made,  became  the  unconscious  instrument 
of  disclosing  the  fact  of  her  having  left  the 
door  open. 

This  trying  query,  coming  upon  her  un- 
expectedly as  it  did,  threw  her  into  palpable 
confusion.  Her  face  became  at  once  suffused 
with  a  deep  scarlet  hue,  occasioned  by  min- 
gled shame  and  resentment,  as  was  at  once 
evident  fi'om  the  malignant  and  fiery  glare 
which  she  turned  upon  her  querist. 

"  Get  out,"  she  rej^hed  ;  "do  you  think  I'd 
think  it  worth  my  while  to  answer  the  hkes 
o'  you  ?  I'd  see  you  farther  than  I  could 
look  first.  You,  indeed  !  faugh !  musha  bad 
luck  to  your  impidence  !  " 

"Oh,  i' you  plaise,  ma'am,"  said  Biddy, 
dropping  a  coiu'tesy,  that  might  weU  be 
termed  the  veiy  pink  of  politeness  — "  we 
hope  you'll  show  yoiu'self  a  betther  Christin 
than  to  be  ignorant  o'  your  catechize.  So, 
ma'am,  if  it  'ud  be  plaisin'  to  you  afore  the 
company  maybe  you'd  answer  it." 

"  ^Vho  made  j'ou  my  misthress,  you  blag- 
gard flipe  ?  who  gave  j^ou  authority  to  ax  me 
sich  a  question  ?  "  rephed  the  other.  "  A 
feUow-servant  hke  myself!  to  the  devil  I 
pitch  you.  You,  indeed  !  Faix,  it's  well  come 
up  vnd  the  likes  o'  you  to  ballyrag  over  me." 

"  WeU,  but  ma'am  deai',  will  you  answer 
— that  is,  i'  you  plaise,  for  sure  we  can't  for- 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


305 


k 


get  oiir  manners,  you  know — will  you  jist 
answer  what  I  axed  you  ?  Oh,  be  me  sowl, 
your  face  condimns  you,  my  lady !  "  said 
Biddy,  abruptly  changing  her  tone  ;  "  it  does, 
you  yolla  MuUatty,  it  does.  You  bethrayed 
the  masther's  house,  an'  IMiss  Oona,  too,  you 
villin  o'  blazes  I  If  you  could  see  your  face 
now — your  guilty  face  !  " 

The  spirit  of  her  antagonist,  being  that  of 
a  woman,  could  bear  no  more.  The  last 
words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  Lowiy 
made  a  spring  like  a  tigi'ess  at  her  opponent, 
who,  however,  received  this  onset  with  a  skill 
and  intrepidity  worthy  of  PenthesUea  her- 
self. They  were  immediately  separated,  but 
not  until  they  had  twisted  and  t^\^ned  about 
one  another  two  or  three  times,  after  which, 
each  displayed,  by  way  of  a  trophy,  a  copious 
handful  of  hair  that  had  changed  proprietor- 
shijj  during  theu-  brief  but  energetic  conflict. 

Li  addition  to  this,  there  were  visible  on 
Kitty's  face  five  sm^ill  streams  of  Hquid  gore, 
which,  no  doubt,  would  have  been  found  to 
correspond  with  the  red  expanded  talons  of 
her  antagonist. 

John  O'Brien  then  put  the  question  seri- 
ously to  Lowry,  who,  now  that  her  blood  was 
up,  or  probably  feehng  that  she  had  betrayed 
herself,  declined  to  answer  it  at  all. 

"  I'll  answer  notliin' I  don't  like,"  she  re- 
pHed,  "  an'  I'U  not  be  ballp-aged  by  any  one 
— not  even  by  you,  Misther  John  ;  an'  what's 
more,  I'll  lave  the  sai*vice  at  the  shriek  o'  day 
to-morrow.  I  wouldn't  live  in  the  house  wid 
that  one  ;  my  life  'udn't  be  safe  undher  the 
wan  roof  wid  her." 

"  Thin  you'll  get  no  carrecther  from  any 
one  here,"  said  ^Irs.  O'Brien  ;  "  for,  indeed, 
any  way,  there  was  never  a  minute's  peace  in 
the  kitchen  since  you  came  into  it." 

"  Divil  cares,"  she  replied,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head  ;  "  if  I  don't,  I  must  only  Uve  wid- 
out  it,  and  wiD,  I  hope." 

She  then  flounced  out  of  the  room,  and 
kept  grumbling  in  an  insolent  tone  of  voice, 
until  she  got  to  her  bed.  AHck  Xulty  then 
detailed  all  the  circumstances  he  had  wit- 
nessed, by  which  it  appeai-ed  imquestionable 
that  Kitty  Lo\vi-y  had  been  aware  of  Flan- 
agan's design,  and  was  consequently  one  of 
his  accomplices.  This  in  one  sense  was  time, 
whilst  in  another  and  the  worst  they  did  her 
injustice.  It  is  time  that  Bartle  Flanagan 
pretended  affection  for  her,  and  contrived  on 
many  occasions  within  the  preceding  five 
months,  that  several  secret  meetings  should 
take  place  between  them,  and  almost  always 
upon  a  Sunday,  which  was  the  only  day  she 
had  any  opportunity  of  seeing  him.  He  had 
no  notion,  however,  of  entimsting  her  with 
his  secret.  In  fact,  no  man  could  j^ossibly 
lay  his  plans  with  deeper  design  or  more  in-  \ 


genious  precaution  for  his  own  safety  than 
Flanagan.  Having  gained  a  promise  fi-om 
the  credulous  girl  to  elope  with  him  on  the 
night  in  question,  he  easily  induced  her  to 
leave  the  hall  door  open.  His  exploit,  how- 
ever, having  tvuned  out  so  different  in  its 
issue  from  that  which  Kitty  expected,  she 
felt  both  chaginned  and  confounded,  and 
knew  not  at  first  whether  to  ascribe  the  ab- 
duction of  Biddy  Nulty  to  mistake  or  design  ; 
for,  indeed,  she  was  not  ignorant  of  Flan- 
agan's treacherous  conduct  to  the  sex — no 
female  having  ever  repulsed  him,  whose 
character  he  did  not  injiu-e  whenever  he 
could  do  so  with  safety.  Biddy's  return, 
however,  satisfied  her  that  Bartle  must  have 
made  a  blunder  of  some  kind,  or  he  would 
not  have  taken  away  her  fellow-sei*vant  in- 
stead of  herself  ;  and  it  was  the  bitterness 
which  weak  minds  always  feel  when  their 
own  wishes  hai^pen  to  be  disappointed,  that 
prompted  her  resentment  against  poor 
Biddy,  who  was  unconsciously  its  object. 
Flanagan's  primary  intention  was  still,  how- 
ever, in  some  degi'ee,  effected,  so  far  as  it  re- 
garded the  abduction.  The  short  space 
of  an  hour  gave  him  time  to  cool  and  collect 
himself  sufficiently  to  form  the  best  mode  of 
action  under  the  circumstances.  He  re- 
solved, therefore,  to  plead  mistake,  and  to 
produce  Kitty  Lo\\'rv'  to  prove  that  his  visit 
that  night  to  the  Bodagh's  house  was  merely 
to  fulfil  their  mutual  promise  of  eloping  to- 
gether. 

But  there  was  the  robbery  staring  him  in 
the  face  ;  and  how  was  he  to  manage  that  ? 
This,  indeed,  was  the  point  on  which  the 
accompUshed  villain  felt  by  the  sinking  of 
his  heart  that  he  had  overshot  his  mark. 
"Wlien  he  looked  closely  into  it,  his  whole 
fi-ame  became  cold  and  feeble  from  despair, 
the  hard  paleness  of  mental  suffering  settled 
upon  his  face,  and  his  brain  was  stunned  by 
a  stupor  which  almost  destroyed  the  power 
of  thinking. 

All  this,  however,  availed  him  not.  Before 
twelve  o'clock  the  next  day  informations  had 
been  sworn  against  him,  and  at  the  hour  of 
three  he  found  himself  in  the  very  room 
which  had  been  assigned  to  Connor  O'Don- 
ovan,  sinking  under  the  double  charge  of 
abduction  and  robber^-. 

And  now  once  more  did  the  mutabihty  of 
public  feeling  and  opinion  as  usual  become 
apparent.  No  sooner  had  fame  spread  abroad 
the  report  of  Flanagan's  two-fold  crime,  and 
his  imprisonment,  than  those  very  people 
who  had  only  a  day  or  two  before  inferred 
that  Connor  O'Donovan  was  guilty,  because 
his  accuser's  conduct  continued  correct  and 
blameless,  now  changed  their  tone,  and  in- 
sisted that  the  hand  of  God  was  visible  in 


306 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Flanagan's  punishment.  Again  were  all  the 
dark  traits  of  his  character  dragged  forward 
and  exposed  ;  and  this  man  reminded  that 
man,  as  that  man  did  some  other  man,  that 
he  had  said  more  than  once  that  Bartle 
Flanagan  would  be  hanged  for  swearing  away 
an  innocent  yovmg  man's  hfe.  Such,  how- 
ever, without  reference  to  truth  or  justice,  is 
pubhc  opinion  among  a  great  body  of  the 
people,  who  are  swayed  by  their-  feehngs 
only,  instead  of  their  judgment.  The  lower 
pubhc  will,  as  a  matter  of  coiu'se,  feel  at 
random  upon  everything,  and  like  a  fortune- 
teller, it  wiU  for  that  reason,  and  for  that 
only,  sometimes  be  found  on  the  right  side. 
From  the  time  which  elapsed  between  the 
period  of  Bartle's  imi^risonment  and  that  of 
his  trial,  many  strange  circumstances  oc- 
curred in  connection  with  it,  of  which  the 
pubhc  at  large  were  completely  ignorant. 
Bartle  was  now  at  the  mercy  of  a  man  who 
had  been  long  looked  upon  with  a  spirit  of 
detestation  and  vengeance  by  those  illegal 
confederations  with  which  he  had  uniformly 
dechned  to  associate  himself.  Flanagan's 
party,  therefore,  had  now  only  two  methods 
of  serving  liim,  one  was  intimidation,  and  the 
other  a  general  subscription  among  the 
various  lodges  of  the  district,  to  raise  funds 
for  his  defence.  To  both  of  these  means 
they  were  resolved  to  have  recourse. 

Many  private  meetings  they  held  among 
themselves  upon  those  important  matters,  at 
which  Dandy  Dufi'  and  Ned  M'Cormick  at- 
tended, as  was  their  duty  ;  and  weU  was  it 
for  them  the  part  they  took  in  defeating 
Bartle  Flanagan,  and  sei-ving  the  Bodagh  and 
his  family,  was  unknown  to  theii*  confederates. 
To  detail  the  proceedings  of  their  meetings, 
and  recount  the  savage  and  vindictive  ferocity 
of  such  men,  would  be  papng  the  taste  and 
humanity  of  our  readers  a  bad  comphment. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  a  fund  was  raised  for 
Flanagan's  defence,  and  a  threatening  notice 
written  to  be  pasted  on  the  Bodagh  Buie's 
door — of  which  elegant  production  the  fol- 
lowing is  a  literal  copy  : — 

"  Buddha  Bee— You  'ave  wan  iv  our  boys 
in  for  abjection  an'  inibbry — an'  it  seems  is 
resolved  to  parsequte  the  poor  boy  at  the 
nuxt  'Shizers — now  dhis  is  be  way  av  a  dalikit 
hint  to  yew  an'  yoos  that  aff  butt  wan  spudh 
av  his  blud  is  spiled  in  quensequence  av  yewr 
parsequtin'  im  as  the  winther's  comin'  on  an' 
the  wether  gettin'  cowld  an'  the  long  nights 
settin'  in  yew  may  as  well  prapare  yewr 
caughin  an'  not  that  same  remimber  you've 
a  praty  dother  an  may  no  more  about  her 
afore  you  much  shoulder. 

"  Simon  Pether  Starlight." 


This  and  several  others  of  the  same  clas« 
were  served  upon  the  Bodagh,  with  the  in- 
tention of  intimidating  him  fi'om  the  prose- 
cution of  Flanagan.  They  had,  however, 
quite  mistaken  their  man.  The  Bodagh, 
though  peaceable  and  placable,  had  not  one 
atom  of  the  coward  in  his  whole  composition. 
On  the  contraiy,  he  was  not  only  resolute  in 
resisting  what  he  conceived  to  be  oppressive 
or  unjust,  but  he  was  also  immovably  obsti- 
nate in  anything  wherein  he  fancied  he  had 
right  on  his  side.  And  even  had  his  dispo- 
sition been  inclined  to  timidity  or  pliancy, 
his  son  John  would  have  used  all  his  influence 
to  icduce  him  to  resist  a  system  which  is 
equally  opposed  to  the  laws  of  God  and  of 
man,  as  well  as  to  the  temporal  happiness  of 
those  who  are  slaves  to  the  ten'ible  power 
which,  like  a  familiar  de\il,  it  exercises  over 
its  victims  under  the  hollow  promise  of  pro- 
tection. 


PAKT  Vm.  AND  LAST. 

As  the  Bodagh  and  his  son  took  the  usual 
legal  steps  to  forward  the  prosecution,  it  was 
but  nattu'al  that  they  should  calculate  upon 
the  e-\ddence  of  Dandy  Duffy,  Ned  M'Cor- 
mick, and  AUck  Nulty.  John  O'Brien  ac- 
cordingly informed  them,  on  the  very  night 
of  the  outrage,  that  his  father  and  himself 
would  consider  them  as  strong  evidence 
against  Bartle  Flanagan,  and  caU  upon  them 
as  such.  This  information  placed  these 
young  men  in  a  position  of  incredible  diffi- 
culty and  danger.  They  knew  not  exactly 
at  that  moment  how  to  proceed  consistently 
with  the  duty  which  they  owed  to  society  at 
large,  and  that  which  was  expected  from 
them  by  the  dai'k  combination  to  which  they 
were  united.  M'Cormick,  however,  begged 
of  John  O'Brien  not  to  mention  their  names 
imtil  the  day  after  the  next,  and  told  him  if 
he  could  understand  their  reason  for  this 
request,  he  would  not  hesitate  to  comply 
with  it. 

O'Brien,  who  suspected  the  true  cause  of 
their  reluctance,  did  not  on  this  occasion 
press  them  further,  but  consented  to  their 
wishes,  and  promised  not  to  mention  their 
names,  even  as  indirectly  connected  with  the 
outrage,  until  the  time  they  had  specified 
had  elapsed. 

In  the  course  of  the  foUowdng  day  Nogher 
M'C-ormick  presented  himself  to  the  Bodagh 
and  his  son,  neither  of  whom  felt  much 
difficulty  in  divining  the  cause  of  his  visit. 

"WeU,"  said  Nogher,  after  the  first  usual 
civilities  had  passed,  "  glory  be  to  God, 
gintlemen,  this  is  desperate  fine  weather  foi 
the  season — barrin'  the  wet." 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


307 


John  smiled,  but  the  plain  matter-of-fact 
Boda{?h  replied, 

"Why,  how  the  devil  can  you  call  this 
good  weather,  neighbor,  when  it's  raining  for 
the  last  week,  night  and  day  ?  " 

"I  do  call  it  good  weather  for  all  that," 
returned  Nogher,  "  for  you  ought  to  know 
that  every  weather's  good  that  God  sends." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Bodagh,  taken  aback  a 
Httle  by  the  Nogher's  piety,  "  there's  truth 
in  that,  too,  neighbor." 

"  I  am  right,"  said  Nogher,  "  an'  it's  nothin' 
else  than  a  sinful  world  to  say  that  this  is 
bad  weather,  or  that's  bad  weather — bekase 
the  Scrip tur  says,  '  vo  be  to  thee ' " 

"  But,  pray,"  interrupted  John,  "  what's 
your  business  with  my  father  and  me  ?  " 

Nogher  rubbed  dowTi  his  chin  very  gravely 
and  significantly, 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  some  thin'  for  yovu-  own 
good,  gentlemen." 

"  WeU,  what  is  that?"  said  John,  anxious 
to  bring  him  to  the  point  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. 

"  The  truth,  gentlemen,  is  this — I'm  an 
ould  man,  an'  1  hope  that  I  never  was  found 
to  be  anji/hing  else  than  an  honest  one. 
They're  far  away  this  day  that  cotdd  give 
me  a  good  carrechtur — two  o'  them  anyhow 
I'll  never  forget — Connor  an'  his  mother  ; 
but  I'll  never  see  them  agin  ;  an'  the  ould 
man  too,  /  never  could  hate  him,  in  regard 
of  the  love  he  bore  his  son.  Long,  long 
was  the  journey  he  tuck  to  see  that  son,  an', 
as  he  tould  me  the  day  he  wint  into  the  ship, 
to  die  in  his  boy's  arms  ;  for  he  said  heaven 
wouldn't  be  heaven  to  him,  if  he  died  any- 
where else." 

Nogher's  eyes  filled  as  he  spoke,  and  we 
need  scarcely  say  that  neither  the  Bodagh  nor 
his  son  esteemed  him  the  less  for  his  attach- 
ment to  Connor  O'Donovan  and  his  family. 

"The  sooner  I  end  the  business  I  come 
about  to-day,"  said  he,  "the  better.  You 
want  my  son  Ned,  Dandy  Duffy,  an'  Alick 
Nulty,  to  join  in  givin'  evidence  against 
blaggard  Bartle  Flanagan.  Now  the  truth 
is,  gintlemen,  you  don't  know  the  state  o'  the 
country.  If  they  come  into  a  court  of  justice 
against  him,  their  lives  won't  be  worth  a 
traneen.  Its  aginst  their  oath,  I'm  tould,  as 
Ribbonmen,  to  prosecute  one  another  ;  an' 
from  hints  I  resaved,  I'm  afi'aid  they  can't 
do  it,  as  I  said,  barrin'  at  the  risk  o'  their 
Uves." 

" Father,"  said  John,  "as  far  as  I  have 
heard,  he  speaks  nothmg  but  tinith." 

"I  beUeve  he  does  not,"  rejoined  the  Bod- 
agh, "  an',  by  my  sowl,  I'll  be  bound  he's 
an  honest  man— upon  my  credit,  I  think 
you  are,  M'Cormick." 

"  I'm  thankful  to  you,  sir,"  said  Nogher. 


"I'm  inclined  to  think  further,  "said  John, 
"  that  we  have  proof  enough  against  Flana- 
gan  without  them." 

"Thin,  if  you  tliink  so,  John,  God  forbid 
that  we'd  be  the  manes  of  bringin'  the  young 
men  into  thi-ouble.  All  I'm  sorry  for  is, 
that  they  allowed  themselves  to  be  hooked 
into  sicli  a  dark  and  murdherous  piece  of 
villainy." 

"I  know,  sii*,  it's  a  bad  business,"  said 
Nogher,  "  but  it  can't  be  helped  now  ;  no 
man's  safe  that  won't  join  it." 

"Faith,  and  I  won't  for  one,"  replied  the 
Bodagh,  "not  but  that  they  sent  many  a 
threat  to  me.  Anything  against  the  laws  o' 
the  counthry  is  bad,  and  never  ends  but  in 
harm  to  them  that's  consamed  in  it." 

"M'Cormick,"  added  the  son,  "villain  as 
Flanagan  is,  we  shall  let  him  once  more 
loose  upon  society,  sooner  than  bring  the 
hves  of  your  son,  and  the  two  other  young 
men  into  jeopardy.  Such,  unhappily,  is  the 
state  of  the  countr}%  and  we  must  submit 
to  it." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Nogher.  "The 
I  ti-uth  is,  they're  sworn,  it  seems,  not  to  pros- 
ecute one  another,  let  whatever  may  happen  ; 
I  an'  any  one  of  them  that  breaks  that  oath — 
God  knows  I  -svish  they'd  think  of  others  as 
much  as  they  do  of  it — barrin'  a  stag  that's 
taken  up,  an'  kep  safe  by  the  Government, 
is  siire  to  be  knocked  on  the  head." 

"Say  no  more,  M'Cormick,"  said  theBod- 
agh's  inestimable  son,  "  say  no  more.  No 
matter  how  this  may  terminate,  we  shall  not 
call  upon  them  as  eridences.  It  must  be  so, 
father,"  he  added,  "  and  God  help  the  coun- 
try in  which  the  law  is  a  dead  letter,  and  the 
passions  and  bigoted  prejudices  of  disaffect- 
ed or  seditious  men  the  active  principle 
which  impresses  its  vindictive  hoiTors  upon 
society!  Although  not  myself  connected 
with  them,  I  know  their  oath,  and — but  I 
say  no  more.  M'Cormick,  your  friends  are 
safe  ;  we  shall  not,  as  I  told  you,  call  upon 
them,  be  the  result  what  it  may  ;  better  that 
one  guilty  should  escape,  than  that  three 
innocent  persons  should  suffer." 

Nogher  again  thanked  him,  and  having 
taken  up  his  hat,  was  about  to  retire,  when 
he  paused  a  moment,  and,  after  some  consid- 
eration with  himself,  said — 

"You're  a  scholai-,  sir,  an' — but  maybe 
I'm  saA-in'  what  I  oughtn't  to  say — but  sure, 
God  knows,  it's  all  veiy  well  known  long 
ago." 

"  ^Miat  is  it,  M'Cormick  ?  "  asked  John  •, 
"  speak  out  plainlv  ;  we  will  not  feel  offend- 
ed." 

"  'Twas  only  this,  sii*,"  continued  Nogher, 
"  I'm  an  unlai'ned  man  ;  but  he  would  write 
to  you  may  be — I  mane  Connor — an'  if  he 


308 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


did,  I'd  be  glad  to  hear — but  I  hope  I  don't 
offind  you,  sir.  You  wouldn't  think  of  me, 
may  be,  although  many  and  many's  the  time 
I  nursed  him  on  these  knees,  an'  carried 
him  about  in  these  arms,  an  he  cried — 
ay,  as  God  is  my  judge,  he  cried  bitterly 
— when,  as  he  said,  at  the  time — '  Nogher, 
Nogher,  my  affectionate  friend,  I'll  never  see 
you  more.'" 

John  O'Brien  shook  him  cordially  by  the 
hand,  and  replied — "I  will  make  it  a  point 
to  let  you  know  anything  that  our  family 
may  hear  from  him." 

"  An'  if  you  wi'ite  to  him,  sir,  just  in  a 
single  hne,  to  say  that  the  affectionate  ould 
friend  never  foi'got  him." 

"That,  too,  shall  be  done,"  replied  John  ; 
"  you  may  rest  assured  of  it." 

The  Bodagh,  whose  notions  in  matters  of 
dehcacy  and  feehng  were  rough  but  honest, 
now  rang  the  bell  with  an  uncommon,  nay, 
an  angiy  degi'ee  of  violence. 

"  Get  up  some  spirits  here,  an'  don't  be 
asleep.  You  must  take  a  glass  of  whiskey 
before  you  go,"  he  said,  addressing  Nogher. 

"Sir,"  repHed  Nogher,  "I'm  in  a  huriy 
home,  for  I'm  affinj  day's  work." 

"  By but  you   must,"  rejoined  the 

Bodagh  ;  "  and  what's  your  day's  wages  ?  " 

"  Ten  pence," 

"  Thei'e's  half-a-crown  ;  an'  I  tell  you  more, 
you  must  come  an'  take  a  cot-tack  undher 
me,  and  you'll  find  the  change  for  the  befc- 
ther,  never  fear." 

In  point  of  fact  in  was  so  concluded,  and 
Nogher  left  the  Bodagh's  house  with  a  heart 
thankful  to  Pro%idence  that  he  had  ever  en- 
tered it. 

The  day  of  Flanagan's  trial,  however,  now 
approached,  and  our  readers  are  fuUy  aware 
of  the  many  chances  of  escaping  justice 
which  the  state  of  the  country  opened  to 
him,  notwithstanding  his  most  atrocious 
villainy.  As  some  one,  however,  says  in  a 
play — in  that  of  Othello,  we  believe — "  God 
is  above  all,"  so  might  Flanagan  have  said  on 
this  occasion.  The  evidence  of  Biddy  Nulty, 
some  of  the  other  servants,  and  the  Bodagh, 
who  identified  some  of  the  notes,  was  quite 
sufficient  against  him,  with  respect  to  the 
robbery.  Nor  was  any  eridence  adduced  of 
more  circumstantial  weight  than  Kitty  Low- 
r}''s,  who,  on  being  satisfied  of  Flanagan's 
designs  against  Una,  and  that  she  was  con- 
sequently no  more  than  his  dupe,  openly  ac- 
knowledged the  part  she  had  taken  in  the  oc- 
currences of  the  night  on  which  the  outrages 
were  committed.  This  confession  agreed  so 
well  with  Bai-tle's  character  for  caution  and 
skOl  in  everything  he  imdertook,  that  his 
object  in  pei'suading  her  to  leave  the  hall 
4o9r  open  was  not  only  cle^,  but  perfectly 


consistent  with  the  other  parts  of  his  plan. 
It  was  a  capital  crime  ;  and  when  fame  once 
more  had  proclaimed  abroad  that  Bartle 
Flanagan  was  condemned  to  be  hanged  for 
robbing  Bodagh  Buie,  they  insisted  stiQ 
more  strongly  that  the  sentence  was  an  un- 
deniable instance  of  retributive  justice. 
Stiiking,  indeed,  w\as  the  difference  between 
his  deportment  during  the  trial,  and  the 
manly  fortitude  of  Connor  O'Donovan,  when 
standing  under  as  heavy  a  charge  at  the 
same  bar.  The  moment  he  entered  the  dock, 
it  was  obsen^ed  that  his  face  expressed  all 
the  pusillanimous  sj-mptoms  of  the  most  im- 
manly  teiTor.  His  brows  fell,  or  rather  hung 
over  his  eyes,  as  if  all  their  muscular  power 
had  been  lost — giving  to  his  countenance 
not  only  the  vague  sullenness  of  UTesolute 
ferocity,  but  also,  as  was  legible  in  his  dead 
small  eye,  the  cold  calculations  of  deep  and 
cautious  treacheiy  ;  nor  was  his  white,  hag- 
gard cheek  a  less  equivocal  assurance  of  his 
consummate  cowardice.  Many  eyes  were 
now  tuined  ujDon  him  ;  for  we  need  scarcely 
say  that  his  part  of  a  case  which  created  so 
much  romantic  interest  as  the  conviction  of 
Connor  O'Donovan,  and  the  history  it  de- 
veloi^ed  of  the  mutual  affection  which  subsist- 
ed between  him  and  Una,  was  by  no  means 
forgotten.  And  even  if  it  had,  his  present 
aj)pearance  and  position  would,  b}'  the  force 
of  ordinary  association,  have  revived  it  in  the 
minds  of  any  then  present. 

Deprived  of  all  moral  firmness,  as  he  ap- 
peared to  be,  on  entering  the  dock,  yet,  as 
the  trial  advanced,  it  was  erident  that  his 
heari  and  spirits  were  sinking  still  more  and 
more,  until  at  length  his  face,  in  consequence 
of  its  ghasthness,  and  the  involuntary-  hang- 
ing of  his  eyebrows,  indicated  scarcely  any 
other  expression  than  that  of  utter  helpless- 
ness, or  the  feeble  agony  of  a  mind  so  mis- 
erably prostrated,  as  to  be  hardly  conscious 
of  the  circumstances  ai'ound  him.  This  was 
clearly  obvious  when  the  verdict  of  "guilty  ' 
was  uttered  in  the  dead  silence  which  pre- 
vailed through  the  court.  No  sooner  were 
the  words  pronounced  than  he  looked  about 
him  wildlv,  and  exclaimed — 

"^^^lat's  that?  what's  that?  Oh,  God- 
sweet  Jasus  !  sweet  Jasus  !  " 

His  lips  then  moved  for  a  little,  and  he 
was  obsen'ed  to  mark  his  breast  privately 
with  the  sign  of  the  cross ;  but  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  prove  that  the  act  was  dictatetl 
by  the  unsettled  incoherency  of  terror,  and 
not  by  the  promptings  of  jDiety  or  religion. 

The  judge  now  put  on  the  black  cap,  and 
was  about  to  pronounce  the  fatal  sentence, 
when  the  prisoner  shrieked-  out,  "  Oh,  my 
Lord — my  Lord,  spare  me  !  Oh,  spare  me, 
for  I'm  pot  fit  to  die,    I  daren't  meet  God ! " 


FAR  DO  ROUGH  A,    THE  MISER. 


309 


"  Alas ! "  exclaimed  the  juJf^e,  "  unhappy 
man,  it  is  too  often  true,  that  those  who  are 
least  prepared  to  meet  their  Almighty  Judge, 
are  also  the  least  reckless  in  the  perpetra- 
tion of  those  crimes  which  are  cei^tain,  ere 
long,  to  huny  them  into  His  presence.  You 
find  now,  that  whether  as  regards  this  Hfe  or 
the  next,  he  who  obsei-ves  the  laws  of  his  re- 
ligion and  his  country,  is  the  only  man  who 
can  be  considered,  in  the  time  sense  of  the 
word,  his  own  friend  ;  and  there  is  this  ad-* 
vantage  in  his  conduct,  that,  whilst  he  is  the 
best  friend  to  himself,  it  nece^imribi  follows 
that  he  must  be  a  benefactor  in  the  same 
degi'ee  to  society  at  large.  To  such  a  man 
the  laws  are  a  security,  and  not,  as  in  your 
case,  and  in  that  of  those  who  resemble  you, 
a  punishment.  It  is  the  wicked  only  who 
hate  the  laws,  because  they  are  conscious  of 
having  provoked  their  justice.  In  asking  me 
to  spare  your  hfe,  you  are  aware  that  you 
ask  me  for  that  which  I  cannot  grant.  There 
is  nothing  at  all  in  your  case  to  entitle  you 
to  mercy ;  and  if,  by  the  life  you  have  led, 
you  feel  that  you  are  unfit  to  die,  it  is  clear 
upon  your  own  principles,  and  by  the  use 
you  have  made  of  life,  that  you  are  unfit  to 
live. " 

He  then  proceeded  to  exhort  him,  in  the 
usual  terms,  to  sue  for  reconciliation  mth 
an  offended  God,  through  the  merits  and 
sufferings  of  Christ.  After  which  he  sen- 
tenced him  to  be  executed  on  the  fifth  day 
from  the  close  of  the  assizes.  On  hearing 
the  last  words  of  the  judge,  he  clutched  the 
dock  at  which  he  stood  with  a  con\ailsive  ef- 
fort ;  his  hands  and  arms,  however,  became 
the  next  moment  relaxed,  and  he  sank  dowTi 
in  a  state  of  helpless  insensibility.  On  re- 
viving he  found  himself  in  his  cell,  attended 
by  two  of  the  turnkeys,  who  felt  now  more 
alarmed  at  his  screams  and  the  hoiTor  which 
was  painted  on  his  face,  than  by  the  fainting 
fit  from  which  he  had  just  recovered.  It  is 
not  our  design  to  dwell  at  much  length  upon 
the  last  minutes  of  such  a  man  ;  but  we  will 
state  briefly,  that,  as  might  be  expected,  he 
left  nothing  unattempted  to  save  his  own 
life.  On  the  day  after  his  trial,  he  sent  for 
the  sheriff,  and  told  him,  that,  pro\dded  his 
life  were  granted  by  the  government,  he 
could  make  many  important  disclosures,  and 
give  very  valuable  information  concei*ning 
the  state  and  prospects  of  Ribbonism  in  the 
country,  together  vdih.  a  long  list  of  the  per- 
sons who  wei'e  attached  to  it  in  that  parish. 
The  sheriff  told  him  that  this  infonnation, 
which  might  under  other  circumstances  have 
been  deemed  of  much  value  by  the  govern- 
ment, had  already  been  anticipated  by 
another  man  during  the  ver^'  short  period 
that  bad  elapsed  since  hiscou'viction.    There 


was  nothing  which  he  could  now  disclose, 
the  sheriff  added,  that  he  himself  was  not  al- 
ready in  possession  of,  even  to  the  rank  which 
he,  Flanagan,  was  invested  Avith  among  them, 
and  the  very  place  where  he  and  they  had 
held  their  last  meeting.  But,  independently 
of  that,  he  proceeded,  it  is  not  usual  for| 
government  to  pardon  the  principals  in  any 
such  outrage  as  that  for  which  you  have 
been  convicted.  I  shall,  however,  transmit 
your  proposal  to  the  Secretaiw,  who  may  act 
in  the  matter  as  he  thinks  proper. 

In  the  meantime  his   relatives  and   con- 
federates were  not  idle  outside,  each  party 
haring  ah'eady  transmitted  a  petition  to  the 
Castle  in  his  behalf.     That  of  his  relations 
;  contained  only  the  usual  melancholy  senti- 
'  ments,    and    earnest   entreaties   for   mercy, 
I  which  are  to  be  found  in  such  documents. 
The  memorial,  however,  of  his  confederates 
j  was  equally  remarkable  for  its  perverted  in- 
genuity, and  those  unlucky  falsehoods  which 
are  generally  certain  to  defeat  the  objects  of 
those  who  have  recourse  to  them. 
j      It  went  to  say  that  the  jDetitioners  feared 
!  very  much  that  the  covmti-y  was  in  a  dan- 
gerous state,  in  consequence  of  the  progres- 
sive march  of  Eibbonism  in  pai'ts  of  that 
pai'ish,  and  in  many  of  the  surrounding  dis- 
tricts.    That  the  unhappy  piisoner  had  foi 
some  time  past  made  himself  pecuharl}-  ob- 
noxious to  tliis  illegal  class  of  persons  ;  and 
that  he  was  known  in  the  coimtry  as  what  is 
termed  "a  marked  man"  ever  since  he  had 
the  courage  to  prosecute,  about  two  years 
ago,  one  of  their  most  notorious  leaders,  by 
name   Connor   O'Donovan,    of  Lisnamona ; 
who  was,  at  the  period  of  wTiting  that  me- 
morial, a  convict  during  life  in  New  South 
Wales,  for  a  capital  White-boy  offence. 

Tliat  said  Connor  O'Donovan,  haring  se- 
duced the  affections  of  a  young  woman 
named  Una  O'Brien,  daughter  of  a  man  call- 
ed ]\Iichael  O'Brien,  otherwise  Bodagh  Buie, 
or  the  Yellow  Churl,  demanded  her  in  mar- 
riage from  her  father  and  family,  who  unani- 
mously rejected  his  pretensions.  Upon 
which,  instigated  by  the  examjDle  and  prac- 
tice of  the  dark  combination  of  wliich  he 
was  so  distinguished  a  leader,  he  persuaded 
memorialist,  jDartly  by  entreaties,  but  prin- 
cipally by  awful  and  mysterious  threats,  to 
join  him  in  the  commission  of  this  most 
atrocious  crime.  That,  from  the  moment 
he  had  been  forced  into  the  participation  of 
such  an  act,  his  conscience  coiild  not  permit 
him  to  rest  night  or  day  ;  and  he  conse- 
quently came  forward  boldly  and  fearlessly, 
and  did  what  he  considered  his  duty  to  God 
and  his  country. 

That,  in  consequence  of  this  conscientious 
act,  O'Donovan,  the  Ribbon  ringleader,  waf» 


310 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS 


capittolly  con^'ictecl  ;  but  throujj^h  tlie  interest 
of  some  leading  gentlemen  of  the  parish,  who 
were  ignorant  of  his  habits  and  connections, 
tlie  sentence  was,  by  the  mercy  of  govern- 
ment, commuted  to  transportation  for  life. 

That,  upon  his  banishment  from  the 
countrj^  the  girl  whose  ati'ections  he  had 
seduced,  became  deranged  for  some  time  ; 
but,  after  her  recovery,  exjDressed,  on  many 
occasions,  the  most  bitter  determinations  to 
revenge  upon  petitioner  the  banishment  of 
her  lover  ;  and  that  the  principal  e^•ideuce 
upon  which  petitioner  was  con^-icted,  was 
hers  *  and  that  of  a  girl  named  Bridget 
Nulty,  formerly  a  servant  in  his  father's 
house,  and  knoA\Ti  to  have  been  his  paramoiu'. 

That  this  girl,  Bridget  Nulty,  was  taken 
into  O'Brien's  family  at  the  suggestion  of 
his  daughter  Una  ;  and  that,  from  motives 
of  personal  hatred,  she  and  Bridget  Nulty, 
aided  by  another  female  servant  of  O'Brien's 
named  Kitty  Lowry,  formed  the  conspiracy 
of  which  petitioner  is  unhajDpily  the  victim. 

It  then  proceeded  to  detail  how  the  con- 
spiracy of  Una  O'Brien  and  the  two  females 
she  had  taken  in  as  accomplices,  was  carried 
into  effect ;  all  of  which  was  done  with  sin- 
gular tact  and  ingenuity  ;  every  circumstance 
being  made  to  bear  a  character  and  design 
diametrically  opposed  to  tnith.  It  con- 
cluded by  stating  that  gi-eat  exultation  had 
been  manifested  by  the  Ribbon  men  of  that 
parish,  who,  on  the  night  of  petitioner's  con- 
viction, lit  bonfires  in  several  parts  of  the 
neighborhood,  fired  shots,  sounded  horns, 
and  displayed  other  symptoms  of  great  re- 
joicing ;  and  hoped  his  excellency  would, 
therefore,  interpose  his  high  prerogative, 
and  prevent  petitioner  fi'om  falling  a  sacri- 
fice to  a  consi:)iracy  on  one  hand,  and  the 
resentment  of  a  traitorous  confederacy  on 
the  other  ;  and  all  this  only  for  ha-\dng  con- 
scientiously and  firmly  served  the  govern- 
ment of  the  country. 

Our  readers  need  not  be  surprised  at  the 
ingenuity  of  this  j^la^^sible  petition,  for  the 
truth  is  that  before  government  suj^ported 
any  system  of  education  at  all  in  Ireland, 
the  old  hedge  school-masters  were,  almost 
to  a  man,  ofiice-bearers  and  leaders  in  this 
detestable  system.  Such  men,  and  those 
who  were  designed  for  the  priesthood,  with 
here  and  thei'e  an  occasional  poor  scholar, 
were  uniformly  the  petition  wT.*iters,  and,  in- 
deed, the  general  scribes  of  the  little  world 
in  which  they  lived.  In  fact,  we  have  abun- 
dance of  pubHc  evidence  to  satisfy  us,  that 


*  This  was  a  falsehood,  inasmuch  as  Una,  hav- 
ing been  concealed  in  another  room,  could  give, 
and  did  give,  no  evidence  that  any  way  affected 
bis  life. 


'  persons  of  considerable  literary  attainments 
have  been  connected  with  Ribbonisni  in  all 

'  its  stages. 

This  fine  writing,  however,  was  imforlii- 
nately  counteracted  in  consequence  of    the 

■  information  ah-eady  laid  before  the  sheriff 
by  no  less  a  jiersonage  than  Rouser  Red- 
head, who,  fearing  alike  the  treacherj'  and 
enmity  of  his  leader,  resolved  thus  to  neu- 
tralize any  disclosures  he  shovdd  happen  to 
make.  But  lest  this  might  not  have  been 
sufficient  to  exhibit  the  character  of  that 
document,  the  proposal  of  Bartle  himself  to 
make  disclosvu-es  was  transmitted  to  the 
Seeretiuy  of  State,  by  the  same  post ;  so 
that  both  reached  that  gentleman,  pan  pas- 
su, to  his  no  small  astonishment. 

Had  Flanagan's  confederates  consulted  him, 
he  would  of  course  have  dissuaded  them  fi'orn 
sending  any  i^etition  at  all,  or  at  least,  only 
such  as  he  could  aj^prove  of,  but  such  is  the 
hollowness  of  this  bond,  and  so  little  con- 
fidence is  placed  in  its  obligation,  that  when 
any  of  its  rictims  happen  to  find  themselves 
in  a  jDredicament  similar  to  Flanagan's,  his 
companions  without  lead  such  a  life  of  ter- 
ror, and  suspicion,  and  doubt,  as  it  would 
be  difficult  to  describe.  But  when,  as  in 
Bartle's  case,  there  exists  a  strong  distnist 
in  his  fii-mness  and  honesty,  scai'cely  one 
can  be  found  hardy  enough  to  hold  any 
communication  with  him.  This  easily  and 
ti-ul}'  accounts  for  the  fact  of  their  having 
got  this  petition  written  and  sent  to  govern- 
ment in  his  name.  The  consequence  was, 
that,  on  the  day  prerious  to  that  named  for 
his  execution,  his  death  warrant  reached  the 
sheriff,  Avho  lost  no  time  in  apprising  him  of 
his  unhappy  fate. 

This  was  a  tr^•ing  task  to  that  humane 
and  amiable  gentleman,  who  had  already 
heard  of  the  unutterable  tortui-es  which  the 
criminal  suffered  fi'om  the  hoiTor  of  aj> 
proaching  death,  and  the  dread  of  eternity  ; 
for  neither  by  penitence  nor  even  by  re- 
morse, was  he  in  the  slightest  degree  moved. 
"  To  die  !  "  said  he,  staggering  back  ;  "to 
be  in  eternity  to-morrow !  to  have  to  face 
God  before  twelve  o'clock !  tanible  !  tar- 
rible  !  tarrible  !  Can  no  one  save  me  ?  To  die 
to-morrow  ! — tarrible  ! — tarrible  ! — tarrible  ! 
Oh  that  I  could  sink  into  the  eai'th  !  that 
the  gi'ound  'ud  swally  me  ! " 

The  shei-iff  advised  him  to  be  a  man,  and 
told  him  to  turn  to  God,  who,  if  he  repent- 
ed, would  in  no  wise  cast  him  out.  "  Act," 
said  he,  "as  O'Donovan  did,  whom  you 
yourself  prosecuted  and  placed  in  the  very 
cell  in  which  you  now  stand." 

"  Connor  O'Donovan  ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  he 
might  well  beai'  to  die  ;  he  was  innocent ;  it 
was  I  that  burned  Bodagh  Buie's  haggard ; 


FARDOROUGHA,   THE  MISER. 


311 


he  tad  neither  act  nor  part  in  it  no  more 
than  the  child  unboni.  I  swore  away 
his  life  out  of  re^•inge  to  his  father  an' 
jealousy  of  himself  about  Una  O'Brien.  Oh, 
if  I  had  as  little  to  answer  for  now  as  he,  I 
could  die — die  !  Sweet  Jasus,  an'  must  I 
die  to-mon-ow — be  in  the  flames  o'  hell  afore 
twelve  o'clock '?  tarrible  I  tai-rible  !  " 

It  Wtio  absolutely,  to  use  his  own  word, 
"  terrible,"  to  witness  the  almost  super- 
human enerpfy  of  his  weakness.  On  making 
this  last  disclosure  to  the  sheriflf,  the  latter 
stepped  back  from  a  feeling  of  involuntary 
sm-prise  and  aversion,  exclaiming  as  he  did 
it,— 

"  Oh,  God  forgive  you,  unhappy  and  guilty 
man  !  you  have  much,  indeed,  to  answer  for  ; 
and,  as  I  said  before,  I  advise  you  to  make 
the  most  of  the  short  time  that  is  allotted  to 
you,  in  repenting  and  seeking  pardon  from 
God." 

The  culprit  heard  him  not,  however,  for 
his  whole  soul  was  fearfully  absorbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  eternity  and  punishment, 
and  death. 

"Sir,"  said  the  turnkey,  "that's  the  way 
he's  runnin'  about  the  room  almost  since  his 
thi-ial  ;  not,  to  be  sure,  altogether  so  bad  as 
now,  but  clappin'  his  hands,  an'  scramin'  an' 
groanin',  that  it's  frightiid  to  hsten  to  him. 
An'  his  dhrames,  sii',  is  v>'orse.  God,  sir,  if 
you'd  hear  him  asleep,  the  hair  would  stand 
on  your  head  ;  indeed,  one  of  us  is  ordered 
to  be  still  with  him." 

"It  is  right,"  rephed  the  sheiifl",  who, 
after  recommending  him  to  get  a  clergyman, 
left  him,  and,  vsith  his  usual  promptness 
and  decision,  immediately  wrote  to  the  Sec- 
retary' of  State,  acquainting  him  A\-ith  Flana- 
gan's confes.sion  of  his  own  guilt,  and  of 
Connor  O'Donovan's  innocence  of  the  burn- 
ing of  O'Brien's  haggard ;  hoping,  at  the 
same  time,  that  government  would  take  in- 
stant steps  to  restore  O'Donovan  to  his 
country  and  his  fiiends. 

Soon  after  the  sheriff  left  him,  a  Roman 
CathoHc  clergjTQan  arrived,  for  it  a^jpeared 
that  against  the  priest  who  was  chaplain  of 
the  jail  he  had  taken  an  insurmountable 
prejudice,  in  consequence  of  some  fancied 
resemblance  he  supposed  him  to  bear  to  the 
miser's  son.  The  former  gentleman  spent 
that  night  with  him,  and,  after  a  vast  deal 
of  exertion  and  difficulty,  got  him  so  iwc 
composed,  as  that  he  attempted  to  confess  to 
him,  which,  however,  he  did  only  in  a  hur- 
ried and  distracted  manner. 

But  how  shiiU  we  describe  the  scene,  and 
we  have  it  from  more  than '  one  or  two  -wit- 
nesses, wliich  jDresented  itself,  when  the 
hour  of  his  execution  drew  nigh.  His  cries 
and  shi'iekings  were  di.stinctlj'  heard  fi'om  a 


considerable  distance  along  the  dense  multi- 
tudes which  were  assembled  to  witness  his 
death  ;  thus  giving  to  that  dreadful  event  a 
character  of  horror  so  deep  and  gloomy, 
that  many  persons,  finding  themselves  una- 
ble to  bear  it,  withdrew  fi-om  the  crowd,  and 
actuidly  fainted  on  hearing  the  almost  super- 
natui'id  tones  of  his  yells  and  howhngs 
witliin. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  proceedings  in  the 
press-room  were  of  a  still  more  teriific  de- 
scription. He  now  resembled  the  stag  at  bay  ; 
his  strength  became  more  than  human.  On 
attemjiting  to  tie  his  hands,  five  men  were 
found  insufficient  for  the  woeful  task.  He 
yelled,  and  flung  them  aside  hke  children, 
but  made  no  attempt  at  escape,  for,  in  truth, 
he  knew  not  what  he  did.  The  sheriff,  one 
of  the  most  powerful  and  athletic  men  to  be 
found  in  the  province,  was  turned  about  and 
bent  hke  an  osier  in  his  hands.  His  words, 
when  the  furj"  of  despaii*  permitted  his  wild 
and  broken  cries  to  become  inteUigible, 
were  now  for  hfe — only  hfe  upon  any  tenns  ; 
and  again  did  he  howl  out  his  hoxTors  of 
death,  hell,  and  judgment.  Never  was  such 
a  scene,  perhaj^s,  witnessed. 

At  length  his  hands  were  tied,  and  they  at- 
tempted to  get  him  up  to  the  platform  of 
death,  but  to  their  amjizemeut  he  was  once 
more  loose,  and,  flying  to  the  priest,  he 
clasped  him  with  the  giipe  of  Hercules. 

"  Save  me,  save  me  ! "  he  shouted.  "  Let 
me  Hve  !  I  can't  die  !  You're  puttin'  me 
into  hell's  fire  !  How  can  I  face  God  ?  No, 
it's  tanible !  it's  tarrible  !  tanible !  Life, 
life,  hfe — only  life — oh,  only  hfe  !  " 

As  he  spoke  he  pressed  the  reverend 
gentleman  to  his  breast  and  kissed  him,  and 
shouted  vvith  a  wildness  of  entreaty,  which 
far  transcended  in  teiTor  the  most  outrage- 
ous paroxysms  of  insanity. 

"I  v\iU  not  lave  the  j^riest,"  shrieked  he  ; 
"  so  long  as  I  stay  with  him  so  long  I'U  be 
out  of  the  punishments  of  eternity.  I  will 
stick  to  you.  Don't — don't  put  me  away, 
but  have  pity  on  me  !  No — I'll  not  go,  I'll 
not  go ! " 

Again  he.  kissed  his  hps,  cheeks,  and  fore- 
head, and  stiU  clung  to  him  with  ten-ific 
violence,  until  at  last  liis  hands  were  finally 
secured  beyond  the  possibility  of  his  again 
getting  them  loose.  He  then  threw  himself 
upon  the  ground,  and  still  resisted,  with  a 
degree  of  muscular  strength  altogether  \m- 
accountable  in  a  person  even  of  his  compact 
and  rather  athletic  form.  His  appearance 
upon  the  platform  will  long  be  remembered 
by  those  who  had  the  questionable  gratifi- 
cation of  witnessing  it.  It  was  the  struggle 
of  strong  men  di-agging  a  strong  man  to  the 
most    frightful    of    all    precipices — DeatL 


312 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJ^'S  WOBKS- 


'^Tien  he  was  seen  by  the  people  in  the  act 
of  being  forced  AA-ith  such  ^•iolence  to  the 
drop,  they  all  moved,  like  a  forest  agitated 
by  a  sudden  breeze,  and  uttered  that  strange 
murmvu',  composed  of  many  passions,  which 
can  only  be  heard  where  a  ha*ge  number  of 
persons  are  congi-egated  together  under  the 
power  of  something  that  is  deep  and  thiiUing 
in  its  interest.  At  length,  after  a  stiaiggle 
for  hfe,  and  a  horror  of  death  possibly  im- 
precedented  in  the  annals  of  crime,  he  was 
pushed  upon  the  di'op,  the  spring  was 
touched,  and  the  unhappy  man  passed 
shrieking  into  that  eternity  which  he  dreaded 
so  much.  His  death  was  instantaneous,  and, 
after  hanging  the  usual  time,  his  body  was 
removed  to  the  goal ;  the  crowd  began  to 
disperse,  and  in  twenty  mmutes  the  streets 
and  people  presented  nothing  more  than 
their  ordinary  aspect  of  indifference  to  eveiy- 
thing  but  their  ovra  affairs.* 

Such,  and  so  shght,  after  all,  is  the  im- 
pression which  death  makes  upon  life,  when 
the  heart  and  domestic  affections  are  not 
concerned. 

And  now,  gentle  and  patient  reader — for 
well,  indeed,  has  thy  patience  been  tried, 
duiing  the  progress  of  this  tantahzing 
naiTative — we  beg  to  assui'e  thee,  that  unless 
thou  ai-t  so  exquisitely  tender-hearted  as  to 
moiim  over  the  fate  of  Bartle  Flanagan,  the 
shadows  which  darkened  the  morning  and 
noon  of  our  story  have  departed,  and  its  eve 
will  be  dewy,  and  calm,  and  effulgent. 

Flanagan's  execution,  like  any  other  just 
and  necessary  vindication  of  the  law,  was  not 
without  its  usual  good  effect  upon  the  gi'eat 
body  of  the  people  ;  for,  although  we  are 
not  advocates  for  a  sanguinaiy  statute-book, 
neither  ai-e  we  the  eulogists  of  those  who, 
with  sufficient  power  in  their  hands,  sit 
calmly  and  serenely  amidst  scenes  of  outrage 
and  crime,  in  which  the  innocent  suffer  by 
the  impunity  of  the  guilty.  Fame,  who  js 
busy  on  such  occasions,  soon  published  to  a 
far  distance  Flanagan's  confession  of  having 
committed  the  crime  for  which  O'Donovan 
was  j)unished.  John  O'Brien  had  it  himself 
from  the  sheriff's  lips,  as  well  as  fi-om  a  still 
more  authentic  statement  written  by  the 
priest  who  attended  him,  and  signed  by  the 
tinhapi^y  culiDrit's  mark,  in  the  j)resence  of  that 


*  We  have  only  to  say,  that  W — m  C — k.  Esq.,  of 
L — sb— e,  sheriff  of  the  county  of  D— n.  and  those 
who  officially  attended,  about  four  years  ago.  the 
execution  of  a  man  named  M — y — ,  at  the  gaol  of 
D — np — k,  for  a  mcst  heinous  murder,  will,  should 
they  happec  to  see  this  description,  not  hesitate  to 
declare  that  it  falls  far,  far  short  of  what  they 
themselves  witnessed  upon  this  "  terrible  "  occa- 
sion. There  is  nothing  mentioned  here  which  did 
not  then  occur,  but  there  is  much  omitted. 


gentleman,  the  governor  of  the  gaol,  and  two 
turnkeys.  The  sheriff  now  heard,  from 
O'Brien,  for  the  first  time,  that  O'Donovan's 
l^arents,  haring  disjDosed  of  all  their  prop- 
erty, followed  him  to  New  South  Wales,  a 
circumstance  by  which  he  was  so  much 
struck  at  the  moment,  that  he  obsen'ed  to 
O'Brien, — 

"Do  you  not  think  it  the  duty  of  the 
Government,  considering  all  the  young  man 
and  his  parents  have  suffered  by  that  rascal's 
mahce,  to  bring  the  whole  family  back  at  its 
own  expense  ?  For  my  part,  aware  as  I  am 
of  the  excellent  disposition  of  the  Secretary, 
I  think,  if  we  ask  them,  it  will  be  done." 

"  Our  best  plan,  perhaps,"  replied  John, 
"is  to  get  a  memorial  to  that  effect  signed 
by  those  who  subscribed  to  the  former  one  in 
his  behalf.  I  think  it  is  certainly  necessai'y, 
for,  to  tell  joa  the  truth,  I  doubt  whether 
they  are  in  possession  of  funds  sufficient  for 
the  expenses  of  so  long  a  journey." 

"I  know,"  said  the  sheriff,  "that  there  is 

httle  time  to  be  lost,  for  S ,"  naming  the 

governor  of  the  gaol,  "  tells  me  that  the  next 
conrict  shij)  sails  in  a  fortnight.  We  must, 
therefore,  push  forward  the  business  as 
rapidly  as  we  can." 

Well  and  tnily  did  they  keep  their  words, 
for  we  have  the  satisfaction  of  adding,  that 
on  the  seventh  day  fi-om  the  date  of  that 
conversation,  they  received  a  communication 
fi'om  the  Castle,  informing  them  that,  after 
having  taken  the  j)6culiar  hardshijDS  of 
O'Donovan's  singular  case  into  mature  con- 
sideration, they  deemed  the  prayer  of  the 
memorial  such  as  they  felt  pleasure  in  com- 
plying with  ;  and  that  the  Colonial  Secre- 
tary had  been  written  to,  to  take  the  proper 
steps  for  the  return  of  the  young  man  and 
his  parents  to  their  owti  country  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  Government. 

This  was  enough,  and  almost  more  than 
O'Brien  expected.  He  had  now  done  as  much 
as  could  be  done  for  the  present,  and  nothing 
remained  but  to  await  their  arrival  ^rith  hope 
and  patience.  In  truth,  the  prospect  that 
now  presented  itself  to  the  Bodagh's  family 
was  one  in  which,  for  the  sake  of  the  beloved 
Una,  they  felt  a  deep  and  overwhelming  in- 
terest. Ever  since  Connor's  removal  fi'om 
the  country  her  siDU'its  had  gradually  become 
more  and  more  depi-essed.  All  her  mirth 
and  gayety  had  abandoned  her  ;  she  dis- 
relished reading  ;  she  avoided  company  ; 
she  hardly  ever  laughed,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, indulged  in  long  fits  of  bitter  grief 
while  upon  her  solitary  rambles.  Her  chief 
companion  was*Biddy  Nulty,  whom  she  ex- 
empted fi-om  her  usual  employment  when- 
ever she  wished  that  Connor  should  be  the 
topic  of  their  conversation.     IVIany  a  time 


FABDOBOUGIIA,   THE  MISER. 


313 


have  they  strolled  together  through  the  gar- 
den, where  Una  had  often  stood,  and,  point- 
ing to  the  summer-house.  Avhere  the  ac- 
knowledgments of  their  atlection  were  first 
exchanged,  said  to  her  humble  compan- 
ion,— 

"Biddy,  that  is  the  spot  where  he  first 
told  me  that  he  loved  me,  and  where  I  first 
acknowledged  mine  to  him." 

She  would  then  pull  out  from  her  heart 
the  locket  which  contained  his  rich  brown 
hair,  and,  after  kissing  it,  sit  and  weep  on 
the  spot  wliich  was  so  dear  to  her. 

Biddy's  task,  then,  was  to  recount  to  the 
unhappy  girl  such  anecdotes  as  she  remem- 
bered of  him ;  and,  as  these  were  all  to  his 
advantage,  we  need  scarcely  say  that  many 
an  entertainment  of  this  kind  she  was  called 
upon  to  furnish  to  her  whose  melancholy' 
enjoyment  was  now  only  the  remembr.mce 
of  him,  and  what  he  had  once  been  to  her. 

"I  would  have  been  in  a  convent  long  be- 
fore now,  Biddy,"  said  she,  a  few  days  be- 
fore Flanagan's  trial,  "  but  I  cannot  leave  my 
father  and  mother,  because  I  know  they 
could  not  live  without  me.  My  brother 
John  has  declined  Mayuooth  lest  I  should 
feel  melancholy  for  want  of  some  person  to 
amuse  me  and  to  cheer  me  ;  and  now  I  feel 
that  it  would  be  an  ungrateful  return  I 
should  make  if  I  entered  a  convent  and  left 
my  pai'ents  A\ithout  a  daughter  whom  they 
love  so  well,  and  my  brother  TN-ithout  a 
sister  on  whom  he  doits." 

"Well,  :Miss,"  rephed  Biddy,  "don't  be 
cast  down  ;  for  my  part  I'd  always  hope  for 
the  best.  Who  knows.  Miss,  but  a  betther 
lafe  may  be  turned  up  for  you  yet  ?  I'd 
hould  a  naggin'  that  God  nivir  intinded  an 
innocent  creature  like  you  to  spind  the  rest 
of  your  life  in  sadness  and  sorrow,  as  you're 
doin'.     Always  hope  for  the  best." 

"Ah,  Biddy,"  she  replied,  "you  don't 
know  what  you  speak  of.  Hi^  sentence  is 
one  that  can  never  be  changed  ;  and  as  for 
hoping  for  the  best  now  can  I  do  that,  Bid- 
dy, when  I  know  that  I  have  no  '  best '  to 
hope  for.  He  was  my  best  in  this  world  ; 
but  he  is  gone.  Now  go  in,  Biddy,  and 
leave  me  to  myself  for  a  Httle.  You  know 
how  I  love  to  be  alone." 

"May  God  in  heaven  pity  you.  Miss 
Oona,"  exclaimed  the  poor  girl,  whilst  the 
tears  gushed  from  her  eyes,  "  as  I  do  this 
flay  !  Oh,  keep  up  yoiir  heart,  ]\liss,  darlin' ! 
for  where  there's  life  there's  hope." 

Little  did  she  then  di-eam,  however,  that 
hope  would  be  soon  restored  to  her  heart, 
or  that  the  revolution  of  another  year  should 
see  her  waiting  with  trembling  delight  for 
the  fulness  of  her  happiness. 

On  the  evening  previous  to  Bartle  Flana- 


gan's execution,  she  was  pouring  out  tea 
for  her  father  and  mother,  as  was  usual, 
when  her  brother  John  came  home  on  his 
return  fi'om  the  assizes.  Although  the 
smQe  of  affection  with  which  she  always  re- 
ceived him  ht  up  her  dark  glossy  eyes,  yet 
he  observed  that  she  appeared  unusually  de- 
pressed, and  much  more  pale  than  she  had 
been  for  some  time  past. 

"  Una,  are  you  unwell,  dear  ?  "  he  asked, 
as  she  handed  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

She  looked  at  liim  -oath  a  kind  of  affection- 
ate reproof  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  wondered 
that  he  should  b©  ignorant  of  the  sorrow 
which  preyed  upon  her. 

"Not  in  health,  John,"  she  rej^lied  ;  "but 
that  man's  trial,  and  the  many  remembran- 
ces it  has  stirred  uj)  in  my  mind,  have  dis- 
turbed me.  I  am  very  much  cast  do^Ti,  as 
you  may  see.  Indeed,  to  speak  the  truth, 
and  without  disguise,  I  think  that  my  heart 
is  broken.  Every'  one  knows  that  a  break- 
ing heart  is  incurable." 

"  You  take  it  too  much  to  yourself,  a  lanna 
dhas,"  said  her  mother ;  "  but  you  must 
keep  up  your  spirits,  darlin' — time  will  work 
wonders." 

"  With  me,  mother,  it  never  can." 

"  Una,"  said  John,  with  affected  graA'ity, 
"  you  have  just  made  two  assertions  which 
I  can  prove  to  be  false." 

She  looked  at  him  \vith  surprise. 

"False,  dear  John?" 

"  Yes,  false,  dear  Una  ;  and  I  will  prove 
it,  as  I  said.  In  the  first  place,  there  is^  a 
cure  for  a  breaking  heart ;  and,  in  the  next 
place,  time  icill  work  wonders  even  for  you." 

"  Well,"  said  she,  assuming  a  look  of  sick- 
ly cheerfulness,  "  I  should  be  very  ungrate- 
ful, John,  if  I  did  not  smile  for  you,  even 
when  you  don't  smile  yourself,  after  aD  the 
ingenious  plans  j-ou  take  to  keep  up  my 
spirits." 

"  My  dear  gii'l,"  replied  John,  "I  "v\ill  not 
trifle  A\-ith  j'ou  ;  I  ask  you  now  to  be  firm, 
and  say  whether  you  are  capable  of  hearing 
good  news." 

"Good  news  to  me  !   I  hope  I  am,  John." 

"  Well,  then,  I  have  to  inform  you  that 
this  day  Bartle  Flanagan  has  confessed  that 
it  was  not  Connor  O'Donovan  who  burned 
our  haggard,  but  himself.  The  sheriff  has 
wTitten  to  inform  the  Government,  so  that 
we  ^N-ill  have  Connor  back  again  with  a  name 
and  character  unsullied." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  at 
her  pai-ents  ;  and  her  cheek  still  got  paler, 
and  after  a  slight  pause  she  burst  into  a  vehe- 
ment and  irrepressible  paroxysm  of  giief. 

"  John,  is  this  true  ?  "  inquired  his  father. 

"  Vic  na  hoiah!  John — blessed  mother.' 
— thrue  ?— but  is  it,  John  ?  is  it  ?  " 


3U 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


"Indeed,  it  iSj  mother — the  villain,  now,  ' 
that  he  has  no  hope  of  his  Hfe,  confessed  it 
this  day ! " 

"  God  knows,  darlin',"  exclaimed  the 
Bodagh's  warm-hearted  ^\ife,  now  melting 
into  tears  herself,  "it's  no  wondher  you 
should  cr\'  tears  of  joy  for  this.  God 
wouldn't  be  above  us,  a  cushla  oge  machree, 
or  he'd  sind  brighter  days  before  your 
young  and  innocent  heai't." 

Una  could  not  speak,  but  wept  on ;  the 
grief  she  felt,  however,  became  gradually 
milder  in  its  character,  until  at  length  her 
violent  sobbings  were  hushed  ;  and,  although 
the  tears  still  flowed,  they  flowed  in  silence. 

"  We  will  have  him  back,  sartinly,"  said 
the  Bodagh  ;  "don't  cry,  dear,  we'll  have 
him  here  again  with  no  disateful  villain  to 
swear  away  his  life." 

"I  could  die  now,"  said  the  noble-minded 
girl ;  "  I  think  I  could  die  now,  without  even 
seeing  him.  His  name  is  cleared,  and  will 
be  cleared ;  his  character  untainted  ;  and 
that  is  dearer  to  me  even  than  his  love. 
Oh,  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !  "  she  feiwently  ex- 
claimed ;  "  and  when  all  the  world  was 
against  him,  I  was  for  him  ;  I  and  his  own 
mother — for  we  were  the  two  that  knew  his 
heart  best." 

"  Well,"  said  Jolm,  smUing,  "  if  I  brought 
you  gloomy  news  once,  I  beUeve  I  have 
brought  you  pleasant  news  t'n'ice.  You  re- 
member when  I  told  you  he  was  not  to 
die." 

"Indeed,  John,  dear,  you  are  the  best 
brother  that  ever  God  blessed  a  sister  with  ; 
but  I  hope  this  is  not  a  dream.  Oh,  can  it 
be  possible  !  and  when  I  awake  in  the  morn- 
ing, will  it  be  to  the  sorrowful  heart  I  had 
yesterday?  I  am  bewildered.  After  this, 
who  should  ever  despair  of  the  goodness  of 
God,  or  think  that  the  trial  he  sends  but  for 
a  time  is  to  last  always  ?  " 

"  Bridget,"  said  the  gracious  Bodagh,  "  we 
must  have  a  glass  of  punch  ;  an'  upon  my 
reputaytion,  Oona,  we'll  diink  to  his  speedy 
return." 

"  Throth,  an'  Oona  will  take  a  glass,  her- 
self, this  night,"  added  her  mother ;  "an' 
thanks  be  to  Goodness  she'll  be  our  colleen 
dhas  dhun  again — won't  3'ou  have  a  glass, 
asthore  machree  ?  " 

"  I'll  do  anything  that  any  of  you  wishes 
me,  mother,"  replied  Una. 

She  gave,  as  she  uttered  the  words,  a 
slight  sob,  which  tui-ned  their  attention  once 
more  to  her,  but  they  saw  at  once,  by  the 
brilliant  sparkle  of  her  eyes,  that  it  was  oc- 
casioned by  the  unexpected  influx  of  dehght 
and  happiness  which  was  accumulating 
around  her  heai-t. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "will  you  make  the 


pimch  for  them  to-night  ?  I  cannot  rest 
tni  I  let  poor  Biddy  Nulty  know  what  has 
happened.  Cleared  !  "  she  added,  exultingly, 
"  his  name  and  character  cleared  !  " 

The  beautiful  gu*l  then  left  the  room,  and, 
short  as  was  the  space  which  had  elapsed 
since  she  heard  her  brother's  communica- 
tion, they  could  not  help  being  struck  at 
the  hght  elastic  step  with  which  she  tripped 
out  of  it.  Brief,  however,  as  the  period  was, 
she  had  time  to  cast  aside  the  biu-then  of 
care  which  had  pressed  her  do\vn  and 
changed  her  easj'  jaace  to  the  slow  tread  of 

SOITOW. 

"God  help  our  poor  colleen  dhas,"  ex- 
claimed her  mother,  "  but  she's  the  happy 
creatui-e,  this  night !  " 

"  And  happy  will  the  hearth  be  where  her 
light  \\ill  shine,"  replied  her  father,  quoting 
a  beautiful  Iiish  proverb  to  that  effect. 

"The  ways  of  Pro\idence  are  beautiful 
when  seen  aiight  or  understood,"  observed 
her  brother.  "  She  was  too  good  to  be  pun- 
ished, but  not  too  perfect  to  be  tried.  Their 
calamitous  sejDaration  will  enhance  the 
value  of  their  affection  for  each  other  when 
they  meet ;  for  pure  and  exalted  as  her  love 
for  him  is,  yet  I  am  proud  to  say  that  Con- 
nor is  worthy  of  her  and  it." 

That  night  her  mother  observed  that  Una 
spent  a  longer  time  than  usual  at  her  de- 
votions, and,  looking  into  her  room  when 
passing,  she  saw  her  on  her  knees,  and  heard 
her  again  sobbing  with  the  grateful  sense  of 
a  dehghted  heart.  She  did  not  again  ad- 
dress her,  and  they  all  retu'ed  to  happier 
slumbers  than  they  had  enjoyed  for  many  a 
night. 

Our  readers  have  abeady  had  proofs  of 
Una's  consideration,  generosity,  and  com- 
mon delicacy.  Her  conduct  at  the  approach 
of  her  lover's  trial,  and  again  when  he  was 
about  to  leave  her  and  his  countiy  forever, 
they  cannot,  we  are  sure,  have  forgotten. 
When  her  brother  had  shown  the  official 
communication  from  the  Castle,  in  which 
government  expressed  its  intention  of 
biinging  Connor  and  his  parents  home  at 
its  own  expense,  the  Bodagh  and  his  wife, 
knowing  that  the  intended  husband  of  their 
daughter  possessed  no  means  of  supporting 
her,  declared,  in  order  to  remove  any  shadow 
of  anxiety  fi'om  her  mind,  that  O'Douovan, 
after  their  marriage,  should  hve  with  them- 
selves, for  they  did  not  wish,  ihej  said, 
that  Una  should  be  separated  from  them. 
This  was  highly  gi-atifying  to  her,  but  be- 
yond her  lover's  welfare,  whether  fi'om 
want  of  thought  or  otherwise,  it  is  not  easy 
to  say,  she  saw  that  their  sympathy  did  not 
extend.  This  troubled  her,  for  she  knew 
how    Connor    loved  his  parents,   and  how 


fahdorougha,  the  miser. 


315 


much  any  want  of  comfort  they  might  feel 
would  distress  him.  She  accordingly  con- 
sulted with  her  ever  faithful  confidant,  John, 
and  begged  of  liim  to  provide  for  them,  at 
her  own  exj^ense,  a  comfortable  dweUing, 
and  to  fui'nish  it,  as  near  as  might  be  prac- 
ticable in  the  manner  in  which  their  former 
one  had  been  furnished.  She  also  desired 
him  to  say  nothing  to  their  parents  about 
this,  "  for  I  intend,"  she  added,  "  to  have  a 
little  surprise  for  them  all." 

About  the  time,  therefore,  when  the  ves- 
sel in  which  they  were  to  ai'rive  was  expected, 
a  snug,  well-furnished  house,  convenient  to 
the  Bodagh's,  amply  stored  with  provisions, 
and  kept  by  a  daughter  of  Nogher  M'Cor- 
mick,  awaited  them.  Nothing  that  could 
render  them  easy  was  omitted,  and  many 
things  also  w^ere  procured,  in  the  shape  of 
additional  comforts,  to  which  they  had  not 
been  accustomed  before. 

At  length  the  arrival  of  the  much  wished- 
for  vessel  was  announced,  and  John  O'Brien, 
after  ha"ving  agi-eed  to  let  Una  know  by  let- 
ter where  the  Bodagh's  car  should  meet 
them,  moimted  the  day  coach,  and  proceeded 
to  welcome  home  his  futui-e  brother-in-law, 
prepared,  at  the  same  time,  to  render  both 
to  him  and  his  pai-ents  whatever  assistance 
they  stood  in  need  of,  either  pecuniary  or 
otherwise,  after  so  long  and  so  trying  a 
voyage. 

The  meeting  of  two  such  kindred  spuits 
may  be  easily  conceived.  There  were  few 
words  wasted  between  them,  but  they  were 
full  of  tinith  and  sincerity. 

"  My  noble  fellow,"  said  O'Brien,  clasping 
Connor's  hand,  "  she  is  at  home  with  a  beat- 
ing heart  and  a  happy  one,  waiting  for  you." 

" John,"  rephed  the  other  fervently,  "the 
wealth  of  the  universe  is  below  her  price. 
I'm  not  worthy  of  her,  except  in  this,  that  I 
could  shed  my  heart's  dearest  blood  to  do 
her  good." 

"  Little  you  know  of  it  yet,"  said  the  other 
smiling  significantly,  "but  you  will  soon." 

It  appeared  that  Fardorougha's  wiie  had 
borne  the  haixlships  of  both  voyages  better 
than  her  husband,  who,  as  his  son  sensibly 
observed,  had  been  too  much  woni  down  be- 
fore by  the  struggle  between  his  love  for  him 
and  his  attachment  to  his  money. 

"  His  cai-es  are  now  nearly  over,"  said  Con- 
nor, vAi\\  a  sigh.  "  Indeed,  he  is  so  far 
gone  that  I  don't  know  how  to  lave  him 
while  I'm  providin'  a  home  for  him  to  die 
in." 

"  That  is  ah-eady  done,"  rephed  O'Brien. 
"  Una  did  not  forget  it.  They  have  a  house 
near  ours,  fiu'nished  with  everything  that  can 
contribute  to  their  comfort." 

Connor,  on  hearing  this,  paused,  and  his 


cheek  became  pale  and  red  alternately  with 
emotion — his  nerves  thriUed,  and  a  charm  of 
love  and  pleasure  diffused  itself  over  his 
whole  being. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  my  speaking,"  he  ex« 
claimed  ;  "love  her  more  than  I  do  I  can« 
not." 

In  consequence  of  Fardorougha's  illness, 
they  were  forced  to  travel  by  slower  and 
shorter  stages  than  they  intended.  O'Brien, 
however,  never  left  them  ;  for  he  knew  that 
should  the  miser  die  on  the  way,  they  would 
require  the  presence  and  services  of  a  friend. 
In  due  time,  however,  they  reached  the  place 
appointed  by  John  for  the  car  to  meet  them; 
and  ere  many  hours  had  passed,  they  found 
themselves  once  more  in  what  they  could  call 
their  home.  From  the  miser's  mind  the 
power  of  obsendng  external  nature  seemed 
to  have  been  altogether  withdrawn ;  he 
made  no  observation  whatever  upon  the  ap- 
pearance or  novelty  of  the  scene  to  which  he 
was  conveyed,  nor  of  the  countrj'  through 
which  he  passed  ;  but  when  put  to  bed  he 
covered  himself  "VNith  the  bed-clothes,  and 
soon  fell  into  a  slumber. 

"  Connor,"  said  liis  mother,  "  your  father's 
now  asleep,  an'  won't  miss  you  ;  lose  no 
time,  thin,  in  goin'  to  see  her ;  and  may  God 
sti-inthen  3'ou  both  for  sich  a  meetin' !  " 

They  accordingly  went. 

The  Bodagh  was  out,  but  Una  and  her 
mother  were  sitting  in  the  parlor  when  the 
noise  of  a  jaunting-car  was  heard  driving  up 
to  the  door  ;  Una  involuntarily  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and  seeing  two  she  started  up, 
and  putting  her  hands  together,  hysterically 
exclaimed  thrice,  "  Mother,  mother,  mother, 
assist  me,  assist  me — he's  here  !  "  Her  moth- 
er caught  her  in  her  arms  ;  and  at  the  same 
moment  Connor  I'ushed  in.  Una  could  only 
extend  her  arms  to  receive  him  ;  he  clasped 
her  to  his  heari,  and  she  sobbed  aloud  sev- 
eral times  rapidly,  and  then  her  head  sank 
upon  his  bosom. 

Her  mother  and  brother  were  both  weep- 
ing. 

Her  lover  looked  down  upon  her,  and,  as 
he  hung  over  the  beautiful  and  insensible 
gii'l,  the  teai's  which  he  shed  copiously  be- 
dewed her  face.  After  a  few  minutes  she 
recovered,  and  her  brother,  with  his  usual 
delicacy,  beckoned  to  his  mother  to  follow 
him  out  of  the  room,  knowing  that  the  pres- 
ence of  a  third  person  is  always  a  restraint 
upon  the  interchange  of  even  the  tenderest 
and  piu-est  affection.  Both,  therefore,  left 
them  to  themselves ;  and  we,  in  like  mtm- 
ner,  must  allow  that  dehcious  interview  to 
be  sacred  only  to  themselves,  and  unpro- 
faned  by  the  gaze  or  presence  of  a  spectator. 

The   Bodagh   and   his   wife  were   highly 


316 


wijjliam  carleton's  works. 


gratified  at  the  steps  their  children  had  taken 
to  provide  for  the  comfort  of  Fardorougha 
and  his  wife.  The  next  day  the  whole  family 
paid  them  a  ^dsit,  but  on  seeing  the  miser,  it 
was  clear  that  his  days  were  numbered. 
Dui'ing  the  most  vigorous  and  healthy  period 
of  his  hfe,  he  had  always  been  thin  and 
emaciated ;  but  now,  when  age,  illness,  the 
severity  of  a  six  months'  voyage,  and,  last  of 
all,  the  hand  of  death,  left  their  wasting 
traces  upon  his  person,  it  would  indeed  be 
difficult  to  w'itness  an  image  of  penuiy  more 
significant  of  its  spirit.  We  must,  however, 
do  the  old  man  justice.  Since  the  loss  of  his 
money  or  rather  since  the  trial  and  con- 
viction of  his  son,  or  probably  since  the 
operation  of  both  events  upon  his  heart,  he 
had  seldom,  if  ever,  by  a  single  act  or  ex- 
pression, afibrded  any  proof  that  his  avaiice 
survived,  or  was  able  to  maintain  its  hold 
upon  him,  against  the  shock  which  awakened 
the  full  power  of  a  father's  love. 

About  ten  o'clock,  a.  m.,  on  the  foui'th  day 
after  their  arrival,  Connor,  who  had  run  over 
to  the  Bodagh's,  was  huniedly  sent  for  by 
his  mother,  who  desii'ed  Nelly  M'Cormick  to 
say  that  his  father  incessantly  called  for  him, 
and  that  he  must  not  lose  a  moment  in 
coming.  He  retimied  immediately  with 
her,  and  found  the  old  man  reclining  in 
bed,  supported  by  his  wife,  who  sat  behind 
him. 

"  Is  my  boy  comin'  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  thin, 
■wiry,  worn  voice,  but  in  words  which,  to  any 
person  near  him,  were  as  distinct  almost  as 
ever — "  is  my  boy  Connor  comia'  ?  " 

"  I  am  here,  father,"  rephed  Connor,  who 
had  just  entered  the  sick  room  ;  "  sui-e  I  am 
always  with  you." 

"You  are,  you  are,"  said  he,  "you  were 
ever  an'  always  good.  Give  me  your  hand, 
Connor." 

Connor  did  so. 

"  Connor,  darhn',"  he  proceeded,  "  don't 
be  like  me.  I  loved  money  too  much  ;  I  set 
my  heart  on  it,  an'  you  know  how  it  was 
taken  away  from  me.  The  priest  yesterday 
laid  it  upon  me,  out  of  regard  to  my  reignin' 
sin,  as  he  called  it,  to  adrise  you  afort  I  die 
against  lovin'  the  wealth  o'  this  w^orld  too 
much." 

"  I  hope  I  never  wiU,  father,  your  o^^ti  mis- 
fortune ought  to  be  a  wamin'  to  me." 

"  Ay,  you  may  say  that ;  it's  I  indeed  that 
was  misfortunate ;  but  it  was   all   thi'ough 

P an'  that  nest  o'   robbers,  the  Isle  o' 

Man." 

"  Don't  think  of  him  or  it  now,  my  dear 
father — don't  be  discomposin'  your  mind 
about  them." 

Connor  and  his  mother  exchanged  a  melan- 
choly glance  ;  and  the  latter,  who,  on  witness- 


ing his  frame  of  mind,  could  not  help  shed 
ding  bitter  tears,  said  to  him — 

"  Fardorougha  dear,  Fardorougha  asthore 
machree,  won't  j'ou  be  guided  by  me? 
You're  now  on  your  death-bed,  an'  think  of 
God's  marcy — it's  that  you  stand  most  in 
need  of.  Sure,  avourneen,  if  you  had  all  the 
money  you  ever  had,  you  couldn't  bring  a 
penny  of  it  where  you're  goin'." 

"  Well,  but  I'm  givin'  Connor  advice  that'll 
sarve  him.  Sure  I'm  not  biddin'  him  to  set 
his  heart  on  it,  for  I  tould  the  priest  I 
wouldn't ;  but  is  that  any  raison  why  he'd 
not  sat-e  it?  I  didn't  tell  the  priest  that  I 
wouldn't  bid  him  do  tliat." 

"Father,"  said  Connor,  "for  the  love  o' 
God  will  you  put  these  thoughts  out  o'  your 
heart  and  mind  ?  " 

"  So  Connor  dear,"  proceeded  the  old  man, 
not  attending  to  him,  "  in  makin'  any  bar- 
gain, Connor,  be  sure  to  make  as  hard  a  one 
as  you  can ;  but  for  all  that  be  honest,  an' 
never  lind  a  penny  o'  money  widout  interest." 

"  I  think  he's  wandherin',"  whispered  his 
mother.  "Oh  gi'ant  it  may  be  so,  marciful 
Jasus  this  day  !  " 

"Honor  ahagur." 

"  WeU,  darhn',  what  is  it?  " 

"  There's  another  thing  that  throubles  me 
— I  never  knew  what  it  was  to  feel  myself 
far  from  my  own  till  now." 

"  How  is  that,  dear  ?  " 

"  My  bones  w-on't  rest  in  my  own  coun- 
thry  ;  I  won't  sleep  wid  them  that  belong  to 
me.  How  will  I  lie  in  a  strange  grave,  and 
in  a  far  land  ?  Oh,  will  no  one  bring  me 
back  to  my  own  ?  " 

The  untutored  sjTnpathies  of  neither  wife 
nor  son  could  resist  this  beautiful  and  affect- 
ing trait  of  nature,  and  the  undying  love  of 
one's  own  land,  emanating,  as  it  did,  so  un- 
expectedly, fi'om  a  heart  otherwise  insensible 
to  the  ordinary  tendernesses  of  life. 

"  Sure  you  are  at  home,  avourneen,"  said 
Honor  ;  "an'  will  rest  md  your  friends  and 
relations  that  have  gone  before  you." 

"No,"  said  he,  "I'm  not,  I'm  far  away 
from  them,  but  now  I  feel  more  comforted  ; 
I  have  one  wid  me  that's  dearer  to  me  than 
them  all.  Connor  and  I  will  sleep  together, 
won't  we,  Connor  ?  " 

This  affectionate  transition  from  every 
other  earthly  object  to  himself,  so  powerfully 
smote  the  son's  heart  that  he  could  not  reply. 

"What  ails  him,  Connor?  "  said  his  wife. 
"Help  me  to  keep  up  his  head — Saver 
above ! " 

Connor  raised  liis  head,  but  saw  at  a  glance 
that  the  last  struggle  in  the  old  man's  heart 
was  over.     The  miser  was  no  more. 

Little  now  remains  to  be  said.  The  grief 
for  old  age,  though  natural,  is  never  abiding. 


FAEBOROUGEA,   THE  MISER. 


317 


The  miser  did  sleep  viiih.  his  own  ;  and  after 
a  decent  period  allotted  to  his  memory,  need 
we  say  that  our  hero  and  heroine,  if  we  may 
be  permitted  so  to  digiiifs'  them,  were 
crowned  in  the  enjoyment  of  those  affections 
which  were  so  severely  tested,  and  at  the 
same  time  so  worthy  of  theii*  sweet  rewarci. 

Ned  M'Cormick  and  Biddy  Nulty  followed 
their  example,  and  occupied  the  house  for- 
merly allotted  to  Fardorougha  and  his  wife. 
John  O'Brien  afterwards  married,   and   the 


Bodagh,  resening  a  small  but  competent 
fai-m  for  himself,  equaUy  dirided  his  large 
holdings  between  his  son  and  son-in-law.  On 
John's  moiety  he  built  a  suitable  house  ;  but 
Una  and  her  husband,  and  Honor,  all  live 
with  themselves,  and  we  need  scarcely  say, 
for  it  is  not  long  since  we  spent  a  week  with 
them,  that  the  affection  of  the  old  people  for 
their  grandchildren  is  quite  enthusiastic, 
and  that  the  gi-andchildren,  both  boys  and 
girls,  are  worthy  of  it 


The  Black  Baronet; 

OR,  THE   CHRONICLES   OF   BALLTTRAm. 


PREFACE. 

The  incidents  upon  which  this  book  is 
founded  seem  to  be  extraordinary  and  start- 
ling, but  they  are  tine  ;  for,  as  Byron  says, 
and  as  we  all  know,  "Ti-uth  is  strange — 
stranger  than  Fiction."  IVIr.  West,  brother 
to  the  late  member  from  Dublin,  communi- 
cated them  to  me  exactly  as  they  occurred, 
and  precisely  as  he  communicated  them, 
have  I  given  them  to  the  reader,  at  least,  as 
far  as  I  can  depend  upon  my  mem  017.  With 
respect,  however,  to  hvi  facts,  they  related 
only  to  the  family  which  is  shadowed  forth 
under  the  imaginary  name  of  Gourlay  ;  those 
connected  with  the  aristocratic  house  of 
Gullamore,  I  had  fi'om  another  source,  and 
they  are  equally  authentic.  The  Lord  Dun- 
roe,  son  to  the  Earl  of  Cullamore,  is  not 
many  years  dead,  and  there  are  thousands 
still  Uving,  who  can  bear  testimony  to  the 
hfe  of  profligacy  and  extravagance,  which,  to 
the  very  last  day  of  his  existence,  he  per- 
sisted in  leading.  That  his  father  was  ob- 
hged  to  get  an  act  of  ParHament  passed  to 
legitimize  his  children,  is  a  fact  also  pretty 
well  known  to  many. 

At  first,  I  had  some  notion  of  writing  a 
distinct  story  upon  each  class  of  events,  but, 
upon  more  mature  consideration,  I  thought 
it  better  to  construct  such  a  one  as  would 
enable  me  to  work  them  both  up  into  the 
same  narrative  ;  thus  contriving  that  the  in- 
cidents of  the  one  house  should  be  connect- 
ed with  those  of  the  other,  and  the  interest 
of  both  deepened,  not  only  by  their  connec- 
tion, but  their  contrast.  It  is  unncessary  to 
say,  that  the  prototj'pes  of  the  families  who 
appear  upon  the  stage  in  the  novel,  were,  in 
point  of  fact,  personally  unknoA\Ti  to  each 
other,  unless,  probably,  by  name,  inasmuch 
as  they  resided  in  different  and  distant  parts 
of  the  kingdom.  They  were,  however,  con- 
temporaneous. Such  cii'cum  stances,  never- 
theless matter  very  little  to  the  novelist,  who 
can  form  for  his  characters  whatsoever  con- 
nections, whether  matrimonial  or  other^^dse, 
he  may  deem  nxost  proper ;  and  of  this,  he 


must  be  considered  himself  as  the  sole,  though 
probably  not  the  best,  judge.  The  name  of 
Eed  Hall,  the  residence  of  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay,  is  purely  fictitious,  but  not  the 
description  of  it,  which  applies  very  accu- 
rately to  a  magnificent  family  mansion  not  a 
thousand  miles  from  the  thriving  httle  town 
of  Ballygawley.  Since  the  fii'st  appearance, 
however,  of  the  work,  I  have  accidentally  dis- 
covered, from  James  Frazer's  admh*able 
"Hand-book  for  Ii'eland,"  the  best  and  most 
correct  work  of  the  kind  ever  published,  and 
the  only  one  that  can  be  rehed  upon,  that 
there  actually  is  a  residence  named  Eed  Hall 
in  my  own  native  county  of  Tyi'one.  I  men- 
tion this,  lest  the  respectable  family  to  whom 
it  belongs  might  take  offence  at  my  having 
made  it  the  ancestral  property  of  such  a  man 
as  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  or  the  scene  of  his 
crimes  and  outrages.  On  this  pouit,  I  beg 
to  assure  them  that  the  coincidence  of  the 
name  is  purely  accidental,  and  that,  when  I 
wrote  the  novel,  I  had  not  the  sHghtest 
notion  that  such  a  place  actually  existed. 
Some  of  those  coincidences  are  very  odd  and 
curious.  For  instance,  it  so  happens  that 
there  is  at  this  moment  a  man  named  Dun- 
phy  actually  residing  on  Constitution  Hill, 
and  engaged  in  the  very  same  line  of  Hfe 
which  I  have  assigned  to  one  of  my  principal 
characters  of  that  name  in  the  novel,  that  of 
a  huckster  ;  yet  of  this  circumstance  I  knew 
nothing.  The  titles  of  Cullamore  and  Dun- 
roe  are  taken  from  two  hiUs,  one  greater 
than  the  other,  and  not  far  asunder,  in  my 
native  parish  ;  and  I  have  heard  it  said,  by 
the  people  of  tliat  neighborhood,  that  Sir 
Wnham  Richardson,  father  to  the  late  ami- 
able Sir  James  Richardson  Bunbvuy,  when 
expecting  at  the  period  of  the  Union  to  re- 
ceive a  coronet  instead  of  a  baronetcy,  had 
made  his  mind  up  to  select  either  one  or  the 
other  of  them  as  the  designation  of  his 
rank. 

I  think  I  need  scarcely'  assure  my  readers 
that  old  Sam  Roberts,  the  retired  soldier,  is 
drawn  from  life  ;  and  I  may  add,  that  I  have 
scai'cely  done  the  fine  old  fellow  and  his  fine 


320 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJ^'S  WORKS. 


old  wife  sufficient  justice.  They  were  two 
of  the  most  amiable  and  striking  originals  I 
ever  met.  Both  are  now  dead,  but  I  remem- 
ber Sam  to  have  been  for  many  years  en- 
gaged in  teaching  the  sword  exercise  in  some 
of  the  leading  schools  in  and  about  Dublin. 
He  ultimately  gave  this  up,  however,  haA-ing 
been  appointed  to  some  comfortable  situa- 
tion in  the  then  Foundling  Hospital,  where 
his  Beck  died,  and  he,  poor  fellow,  did  not,  I 
have  heard,  long  survive  her. 

0^^ing  to  pamful  and  pecuhar  circum- 
stances, with  which  it  would  be  impertinent 
to  trouble  the  reader,  there  were  originally 
only  five  hundred  copies  of  this  work  pub- 
lished. The  individual  for  whom  it  was  or- 
iginally wi'itten,  but  who  had  no  more  claim 
upon  it  than  the  Shah  of  Persia,  misrepre- 
sented me,  or  rather  calumniated  me,  so 
grossly  to  Messrs.  Saunders  &  Otlej'-,  who 
pubhshed  it,  that  he  prevailed  upon  them  to 
threaten  me  with  criminal  proceedings  for 
having  disposed  of  my  own  work,  and  I  ac- 
"cordingly  received  an  attorney's  letter,  afford- 
ing me  that  very  agreeable  intimation.  Of 
course  they  soon  found  they  had  been  mis- 
led, and  that  it  would  have  been  not  only  an 
unparalleled  outrage,  but  a  matter  attended 
with  too  much  danger,  and  invohing  too  se- 
vere a  penalty  to  proceed  in.  Little  I  knew 
or  suspected  at  the  time,  however,  that  the 
sinister  and  unscrupulous  delusions  which 
occasioned  me  and  my  family  so  much 
trouble,  vexation,  and  embaiTassment,  were 
only  the  foreshadowings  of  that  pitiable  and 
melancholy  malady  which  not  long  afterwards 
occasioned  the  unhappy  man  to  be  placed 
apart  from  society,  which,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
he  is  never  Kkely  to  rejoin.  I  allude  to 
those  matters,  not  only  to  account  for  the 
Hmited  number  of  the  work  that  was  printed, 
but  to  satisfv'  those  London  publishers  to 
whom  the  indi\'idual  in  question  so  foully 
misrepresented  me,  that  my  conduct  in  every 
transaction  I  have  had  with  booksellers 
has  been  straightforward,  just,  and  honor- 
able, and  that  I  can  publicly  make  this  as- 
sertion, without  the  slightest  apprehension 
of  being  contradicted.  That  the  book  was 
cushioned  in  this  countrs',  I  am  fully  aware, 
and  this  is  aU  I  shaU  say  upon  that  part  of 
the  subject.  Lideed  it  was  never  properly 
published  at  aU — never  advertised — never 
reviewed,  and,  until  now,  lay  nearly  in  as 
much  obscurity  as  if  it  had  been  still  in  man- 
uscript. A  few  copies  of  it  got  into  circula- 
ting Ubraries,  but,  in  point  of  fact,  it  was 
never  placeii  before  the  public  at  all.  What 
ever  be  its  merits,  however,  it  is  now  in  the 
hands  of  a  gentleman  who  will  do  it  justice, 
and,  if  it  fails,  the  fault  will  not  at  least  be 
bis. 


My  object  in  writing  the  book  was  to  ex- 
hibit, in  contrast,  three  of  the  most  powerful 
passions  that  can  agitate  the  human  heart — 
I  mean  love,  ambition,  and  revenge.  To 
contrive  the  successive  incidents,  by  which 
the  respective  individuals  on  whose  charac- 
ters they  were  to  operate  should  manifest 
their  influence  with  adequate  motives,  and 
without  departing  fi'om  actual  life  and  nature, 
as  we  observe  them  in  action  about  us,  was 
a  task  which  reqviired  a  veiy  close  study  of 
the  human  mind  when  placed  in  peculiar 
circumstances.  Li  this  case  the  gi-eat  sti-ug- 
gle  was  between  love  and  ambition.  By 
ambition,  I  do  not  mean  the  ambition  of  the 
truly  gi'eat  man,  who  wishes  to  associate  it 
vrith  truth  and  virtue,  and  whose  object  is, 
in  the  first  place,  to  gratify  it  by  elevating 
his  covmtiy  and  bis  kind  ;  no,  but  that  most 
hateful  species  of  it  which  exists  in  the  con- 
trivance and  working  out  of  family  arrange- 
ments and  insane  pi'ojects  for  the  aggrandize- 
ment of  our  offspring,  under  circumstances 
where  we  must  know  that  they  cannot  be 
accomplished  without  wi'ecking  the  happi- 
ness of  those  to  whom  they  are  proposed. 
Such  a  passion,  in  its  darkest  aspect — and  in 
this  I  have  draAvn  it — has  nothing  more  in 
riew  than  the  cruel,  selfish  and  undignified 
object  of  acquiring  some  poor  and  paltiy 
title  or  distinction  for  a  son  or  daughter, 
without  reference  either  to  inclination  or 
will,  and  too  frequently  in  opposition  to 
both.  It  is  like  introducing  a  system  of 
penal  laws  into  domestic  life,  and  estabhsh- 
ing  the  tjTanny  of  a  moral  despot  among 
the  affections  of  the  heari.  Sometimes,  es- 
pecially in  the  case  of  an  only  child,  this  am- 
bition grows  to  a  terrific  size,  and  its  miser- 
able victim  acts  with  all  the  unconscious 
violence  of  a  monomaniac. 

Li  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  the  reader  will 
perceive  that  it  became  the  great  and  en- 
grossing object  of  his  life,  and  that  its  rio- 
lence  was  strong  in  projDortion  to  that  want 
of  aU  moral  restraint,  which  resulted  from 
the  creed  of  an  infidel  and  sceptic.  And  I 
may  say  here,  that  it  was  my  object  to  ex- 
hibit occasionally  the  gloomy  agonies  and  hol- 
low delusions  of  the  latter,  as  the  hard  and 
melancholy  system  on  which  he  based  his 
ciniel  and  vmsparing  ambition.  His  char- 
acter was  by  far  the  most  difficvdt  to  man- 
age. Love  has  an  object ;  and,  in  this  case, 
in  the  person  of  Lucy  Gourlay  it  had  a  rea- 
sonable and  a  noble  one.  Kevenge  has  an 
object ;  and  in  the  person  of  Anthony  Cor- 
bet, or  Dunphy,  it  also  had,  according  to 
the  unchristian  maxims  of  life,  an  unusual- 
ly strong  argument  on  which  to  work  and 
sustain  itself.  But,  as  for  Sir  ThOmas  Gour- 
lay's  mad  ambition,  I  felt  that,    consideiing 


THE  BLACK  BAROJ^ET. 


32^1 


his  siifficiently  elevated  state  of  life,  I  could 
only  compensate  for  its  want  of  all  rational 
design,  by  making  him  scorn  and  reject  the 
laws  both  civil  and  religious  by  which 
human  society  is  regulated,  and  all  this  be- 
cause he  had  blinded  his  eyes  against  the 
traces  of  Providence,  rather  than  take  his 
own  heart  to  task  for  its  ambition.  Had 
he  been  a  Christian,  I  do  not  think  he  could 
have  acted  as  he  did.  He  shaped  his  own 
creed,  however,  and  consequently,  his  own 
destiny.  In  Lady  Edward  Gourla}',  I  have 
endeavored  to  draw  such  a  character  as  only 
the  tnie  and  obedient  Christian  can  present ; 
and  in  that  of  his  daughter,  a  girl  endowed 
with  the  highest  principles,  the  best  heai't, 
and  the  purest  sense  of  honor — a  woman 
who  would  have  been  precisely  such  a  char- 
acter as  Lady  Gourlay  was,  had  she  Hved 
Icmger  and  been  subjected  to  the  same  tri- 
als. Throughout  the  whole  work,  however, 
I  tiiist  that  I  have  succeeded  in  the  purity 
and  loftiness  of  the  monxl,  which  was  to  show 
the  pernicous  ettects  of  infidelity  and  scep- 
ticism, stx'iviug  to  sustain  and  justify  an  in- 
sane ambition  ;   or,  in  a  word,  I  endeavored 

"  To  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man." 

A  Uterary  friend  of  mine  told  me,  a  few 
days  ago,  that  the  poet  Massinger  had  se- 
lected the  same  subject  for  his  play  of  '-'A 
New  Way  to  pay  Old  Debts,"  the  same  in 
which  Sir  Giles  Overreach  is  the  prominent 
character.  I  ought  to  feel  ashamed  to  say, 
as  I  did  say,  in  reply  to  tliis,  that  I  never 
read  the  play  alluded  to,  nor  a  single  line  of 
Massinger's  works  ;  neither  have  I  ever  seen 
Sir  Giles  Overreach  even  upon  the  stage.  If, 
then,  there  should  appear  any  resemblance 
in  the  scojdc  or  conduct  of  the  play  or  novel, 
or  in  the  character  of  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay 
and  Overreach,  I  cannot  be  charged  either 
with  theft  or  imitation,  as  I  am  utterly  igno- 
rant of  the  play  and  of  the  character  of  Sir 
Giles  Overreach  alluded  to. 

I  fear  I  have  dwelt  much  too  long  on  this 
subject,  and  I  shall  therefore  close  it  by  a 
short  anecdote. 

Some  months  ago  I  chanced  to  read  a 
work — I  think  by  an  American  wi-iter — 
called,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect,  "The  Rem- 
iniscences of  a  late  Physician."  I  felt  curi- 
ous to  read  the  book,  simply  because  I 
thought  that  the  man  who  could,  after  "  Tlie 
Diaiy  of  a  late  Physician,"  come  out  with  a 
production  so  named,  must  possess  at  the  least 
either  very  great  genius  or  the  most  astound- 
ing assurance.  Well,  I  went  on  perusing 
the  work,  and  found  almost  at  onc6  that  it 
was  what  is  called  a  catchpenny,  and  de- 
pended altogetlier,  for  its  success,  upon  the 
tame  and  reputation  of  its  predecessor  of 
II 


nearly  the  same  name.  I  saw  the  trick  at 
once,  and  bitterly  regretted  that  I,  in  com- 
mon I  suj^pose  with  others,  had  been  taken 
in  and  bit.  Judge  of  my  astonishment, 
however,  when,  as  I  proceeded  to  read  the 
description  of  an  American  lunatic  asylum. 
I  found  it  to  be  literatim  et  verbatim  taken 
— stolen — pirated — sentence  by  sentence  and 
page  by  page,  from  my  own  description  of 
one  in  the  third  volume  of  the  first  edition 
of  this  book,  and  which  I  myself  took  from 
close  observation,  when,  some  years  ago, 
accompanied  by  Dr.  "White,  I  was  searching 
in  the  Grangegorman  Lunatic  Asylum  and 
in  Swift's  for  a  case  of  madness  arising  from 
disappointment  in  love.  I  was  then  wTiting 
"Jane  Sinclaii*,"  and  to  the  honor  of  the  sex, 
I  have  to  confess  that  in  neither  of  those  es- 
tablishments, nor  any  others  either  in  or  about 
Dubhn,  could  I  find  such  a  case.  Here,  how- 
ever, in  the  Yankee's  book,  there  were 
neither  inverted  commas,  nor  the  shghtest 
acknowledgment  of  the  source  fifom  which 
the  unprincipled  felon  had  stolen  it. 

With  respect  to  mad-houses,  aspeciaUy  as 
they  were  conducted  up  until  within  the  last 
thirty  years,  I  must  say  with  truth,  that  if 
every  fact  originating  in  craft,  avarice,  op- 
pression, and  the  most  unscrupulous  ambi- 
tion for  family  wealth  and  hereditaiy  rank, 
were  known,  such  a  dark  series  of  crime 
and  cruelty  would  come  to  hght  as  the  pub- 
he  mind  could  scarcely  conceive — nay,  as 
would  shock  humanity  itself.  Nor  has  this 
secret  system  altogether  departed  fi-om  us. 
It  is  not  long  since  the  pohce  ofiices  devel- 
oped some  facts  rather  suspicious,  and  pretty 
plainly  impressed  with  the  stamp  of  the  old 
practice.  The  Lunatic  Commission  is  now 
at  work,  and  I  trust  it  will  not  confine  its 
investigations  merely  to  public  institutions 
of  that  kind,  but  will,  if  it  jjossess  authority 
to  do  so,  strictly  and  rigidly  examine  every 
private  asylum  for  lunatics  in  the  kingdom. 

Of  one  other  character,  Ginty  Cooper,  I 
have  a  word  to  say.  Any  person  acquainted 
with  the  brilliant  and  classical  little  capital 
of  Cultra,  l^iug  on  the  confines  of  Monaghan 
and  Cavan,  will  not  fail  to  recognize  the  re- 
mains of  gi-ace  and  beauty,  which  once  char- 
acterized that  celebrated  and  well-known  in- 
diridual. 

With  respect  to  the  watch-house  scene, 
and  that  in  the  police  office,  together  with 
the  dehneation  of  the  "Old  Charhes,"  as  the 
guardians  of  the  night  were  then  called  ;  to 
which  I  may  add  the  portraits  of  the  two 
magistrates  ;  I  can  confidently  refer  to  thou- 
sands now  alive  for  their  truth.  Those  mat- 
ters took  place  long  before  our  present  ad- 
mirable body  of  metropohtan  pohce  were  es- 
tabhshed.     At  that  period,  the  pohce  magis- 


322 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


trades  were  bestowed,  in  most  cases,  from 
principles  hj  no  means  in  opposition  to  the 
public  good,  and  not,  as  now,  upon  gentle- 
men perfectly  fi"ee  fi'om  party  bias,  and  well 
qualified  for  that  difficult  office  by  legal 
knowledge,  honorable  feehug,  and  a  strong 
sense  of  pubhc  duty,  impartial  justice,  and 
humanity. 

William  Carleton. 

(Dublin,  October  36, 18B7.) 


CHAPTER  L 

A  Mail-coach  by  Night,  and  a  Bit  of  MoonsJiine. 

It  has  been  long  observed,  that  every 
season  sent  by  the  Almighty  has  its  own 
pecuHar  beauties  ;  yet,  although  this  is  felt 
to  be  universally  true— just  as  we  know  the 
sun  shines,  or  that  we  cannot  breathe  with- 
out au" — still  we  ai'e  all  cei"tain  that  even  the 
same  seasons  have  brief  jieriods  when  these 
beauties  are  more  sensibly  felt,  and  diffuse 
a  more  "vi-vid  spiiit  of  enjoyment  through  all 
our  faculties.  Who  has  not  experienced  the 
gentle  and  serene  influence  of  a  calm  spring 
evening  ?  and  perhaps  there  is  not  in  the 
whole  circle  of  the  seasons  anything  more 
dehghtful  than  the  exquisite  emotion  with 
which  a  human  hearty  not  hardened  by  vice, 
or  contaminated  by  intercourse  mth  the 
world,  is  softened  into  tenderness  and  a 
general  love  for  the  works  of  God,  by  the 
pui-e  spirit  which  breathes  of  holiness,  at  the 
close  of  a  fine  evening  in  the  month  of  March 
or  April. 

Tlie  season  of  spring  is,  in  fact,  the  resiu*- 
rection  of  nature  to  hfe  and  happiness. 
"WTio  does  not  remember  the  delight  with 
which,  in  early  youth,  when  existence  is  a 
living  poem,  and  all  our  emotions  sanctify 
the  spirit-like  inspiration — the  delight,  we 
say,  with  which  our  eye  rested  upon  a  prim- 
rose or  a  daisy  for  the  first  time  ?  And  how 
many  a  long  and  anxious  look  have  we  our- 
selves given  at  the  jDcak  of  Knockmany, 
morning  after  morning,  that  we  might  be 
able  to  announce,  with  an  exulting  heart, 
the  gratifying  and  glorious  fact,  that  the 
snow  had  disappeared  fi'om  it — because  we 
knew  that  then  spring  must  have  come ! 
And  that  universal  song  of  the  lark,  which 
fills  the  air  with  music  ;  how  can  we  forget 
the  bounding  joy  with  which  our  young 
heart  drank  it  in  as  we  danced  in  ecstacy 
across  the  fields?  Spring,  in  fact,  is  the 
season  dearest  to  the  recollection  of  man, 
inasmuch  as  it  is  associated  with  all  that  is 
pure,  and  innocent,  and  beautiful,  in  the 
transient  annals  of  liis  early  life.     There  is 


always  a  moiuTiful  and  pathetic  spirit  min- 
gled Math  our  remembrances  of  it,  which  re- 
sembles the  sorrow  that  we  feel  for  some 
beloved  individual  whom  death  -withdrew 
fi'om  our  affections  at  that  pei'iod  of  exist- 
ence when  youth  had  nearly  comjileted  its 
allotted  limits,  and  the  promising  manifesta- 
tions of  all  that  was  virtuous  and  good  were 
filling  the  parental  hearts  with  the  happy 
hopes  which  futurity  held  out  to  them.  As 
the  heart,  we  repeat,  of  such  a  parent  goes 
back  to  brood  over  the  beloved  memory  of 
the  early  lost,  so  do  our  recollections  go 
back,  with  mingled  love  and  sorrow,  to  the 
tender  associations  of  spring,  which  may, 
indeed,  be  said  to  perish  and  pass  away  in 
its  youth. 

These  reflections  have  been  occasioned, 
first,  by  the  fact  that  its  memory  and  asso- 
ciations are  inexpressibly  deai'  to  oui'selves ; 
and,  secondly,  because  it  is  toward  the  close 
of  this  brief  but  beautitul  period  of  the  year 
that  our  chronicles  date  their  commencement. 

One  evening,  in  the  last  week  of  April,  a 
coach  called  the  "Fly"  stopped  to  change 
horses  at  a  small  \411age  in  a  certain  part  of 
Ireland,  which,  for  the  present,  shall  be 
nameless.  The  sun  had  just  sunk  behind 
the  western  hills  ;  but  those  mild  gleams 
which  characteiize  his  setting  at  the  close  of 
April,  had  communicated  to  the  clouds  that 
jDCCuharly  soft  and  golden  tint,  on  which 
th©  eye  loves  to  rest,  but  from  which  its 
hght  was  now  gi-adually  fading.  When  fresh 
horses  had  been  put  to,  a  stranger,  who  had 
previously  seen  two  large  trunks  secured  on 
the  top,  in  a  few  minutes  took  his  place  be- 
side the  guard,  and  the  coach  proceeded. 

"  Guard,"  he  inquired,  after  they  had  gone 
a  coujjle  of  miles  fi'om  the  village,  "  I  am 
quite  ignorant  of  the  age  of  the  moon. 
Wlien  shall  we  have  moonhght  ?  " 

"  Not  till  it's  far  in  the  night,  sir." 

"  The  coach  jDasses  through  the  town  of 
Ballytrain,  does  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  does,  sir." 

"  At  what  hour  do  we  arrive  there  ?  " 

"About  half-past  thi-ee  in  the  morning 
sir." 

The  stranger  made  no  reply,  but  cast  liis 
eyes  over  the  aspect  of  the  sui-rounding 
country. 

The  night  was  calm,  warm,  and  balmy. 
In  the  west,  where  the  sun  had  gone  down, 
there  could  still  be  noticed  the  faint  traces 
of  that  subdued  splendor  with  which  he  seta 
in  spring.  The  stars  were  up,  and  the  whole 
character  of  the  sky  and  atmosphere  was 
fuU  of  warmth,  and  softness,  and  hope.  As 
the  eye  stretched  across  a  country  that 
seemed  to  be  rich  and  weU  cultivated,  it  felt 
that  dream-like  charm    of    dim    romance. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


323 


wliich  visible  darkness  throws  over  the  face 
of  nature,  and  which  invests  her  gi'oves,  her 
lordly  mansions,  her  rich  campaigns,  and 
her  white  farm-houses,  with  a  beauty  that 
resembles  the  imagery  of  some  delicious 
dream,  more  than  the  reahties  of  natural 
scener}'. 

On  passing  along,  they  could  obsen'e  the 
careless-looking  farmer  dri\ing  liome  his 
cows  to  be  milked  and  put  up  for  the  night ; 
whilst,  fiu'ther  on,  the}'  passed  half-a-dozen 
cars  retui'ning  home,  some  empty  and  some 
loaded,  from  a  neighboring  fau'  or  market, 
their  drivers  in  high  conversation — a  portion 
of  them  in  fiiendship,  some  in  enmity,  and 
in  general  all  equally  disposed,  in  conse- 
quence of  their  pre\'ious  hbations,  to  either 
one  or  the  other.  Here  they  meet  a  solitai-y 
traveler,  fatigued  and  careworn,  cari\>T.ng  a 
bundle  slung  over  liis  shoulder  on  the  point 
of  a  stick,  plodding  his  weary  way  to  the 
next  village.  Anon  they  were  passed  by  a 
couple  of  gentlemen-farmers  or  country' 
squires,  proceeding  at  a  brisk  trot  upon 
their  stout  cobs  or  bits  of  half-blood,  as  the 
case  might  be  ;  and,  by  and  by,  a  spanking 
gig  shoots  rapidly  ahead  of  them,  driven  by 
a  smart-looking  servant  in  murrey-colored 
livery,  who  looks  back  with  a  sneer  of  con- 
tempt as  he  wheels  round  a  comer,  and 
leaves  the  plebeian  vehicle  far  behind  him. 

As  for  the  stranger,  he  took  httle  notice  of 
those  whom  they  met,  be  their  rank  of  posi- 
tion in  life  what  it  might ;  his  eye  was  sel- 
dom off  the  country  on  each  side  of  him  as 
they  went  along.  It  is  tnie,  when  they  passed 
a  \illage  or  small  market-town,  he  glanced 
into  the  houses  as  if  anxious  to  ascertain  the 
habits  and  comforts  of  the  humbler  classes. 
Sometimes  he  could  catch  a  ghmpse  of  them 
sitting  around  a  basket  of  potatoes  and  salt, 

^    their  miserable-looking  faces  lit  by  the  dim 

i  light  of  a  rush-candle  into  the  ghastly  pale- 
ness of  spectres.  Again,  he  could  catch 
ghmpses  of  gi'eater  happiness  ;  and   if,  on 

'  the  one  hand,  the  s}Tnptoms  of  poverty  and 
distress  were  \'isible,  on  the  other  there  was 
the  jorial  comfort  of  the  wealthy  farmer's 

■  house,  with  the  loud  laughter  of  its  content- 
ed inmates.  Nor  must  we  omit  the  songs 
which  streamed  across  the  fields,  in  the  calm 
stillness  of  the  hour,  intimating  that  they 
who  sang  them  were  in  possession,  at  all 
events,  of  hght,  if  not  of  happj'  hearts. 

As  the  night  advanced,  however,  all  these 
sounds  began  gradually  to  die  away.  Nature 
and  labor  required  the  refreshment  of  rest, 
and,  as  the  coach  proceeded  at  its  steady 
pace,  the  varied  evidences  of  waking  Hfe 
became  few  and  far  between.  One  after 
another  the  hghts,  both  near  and  at  a  dis- 
tance, disappeared.    The  roads  became  silent 


and  solitary,  and  the  villages,  as  they  passed 
through  them,  were  sunk  in  repose,  unless, 
perhaps,  where  some  sorrowing  family  were 
kept  awake  by  the  watehings  that  were 
necessary  at  the  bed  of  sickness  or  death,  as 
was  erident  by  the  melancholy  steadiness  of 
the  lights,  or  the  slow,  cautious  motion  by 
which  they  ghded  from  one  apartment  to  an- 
other. 

The  moon  had  now  been  for  some  time  up, 
and  the  coach  had  just  crossed  a  bridge  that 
was  known  to  be  exactly  sixteen  miles  from 
the  town  of  which  the  stranger  had  made  in- 
quiries. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  latter,  addressing  the 
guard,  "  we  are  about  sixteen  miles  from 
Ballytrain." 

"  You  appeal'  to  know  the  neighborhood, 
sir  ?  "  rej)lied  the  guard. 

"I  have  asked  you  a  question,  sir,"  re- 
pUed  the  other,  somewhat  sternly,  "  and, 
instead  of  answering  it,  you  ask  me  an- 
other." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  su-,"  rephed  the 
guard,  smiling,  "  it's  tl^e^custom  of  the 
country.  Yes,  air,  we're  exactly  sixteen  miles 
from  Ballytrain — that  bridge  is  the  mark. 
It's  a  fine  country,  sir,  fi'om  this  to  that " 

"Now,  my  good  fellow,"  rephed  the 
stranger,  "  I  ask  it  as  a  particular  favor  that 
you  will  not  open  youi'  hps  to  me  until  we 
reach  the  town,  unless  I  ask  you  a  question. 
On  that  condition  I  will  give  you  a  half-a- 
crown  when  we  get  there." 

The  fellow  put  his  hand  to  his  lips,  to  hint 
that  he  was  mute,  and  nodded,  but  spoke 
not  a  word,  and  the  coach  proceeded  in  si- 
lence. 

To  those  who  have  a  temperament  fraught 
with  poetiy  or  feehng,  there  can  be  httle 
doubt  that  to  pass,  of  a  calm,  delightful 
spring  night,  under  a  clear,  starry  sky,  and 
a  bright  moon,  through  a  country  eminently 
pictui-esque  and  beautiful,  must  be  one  of 
those  enjoyments  which  fiU  the  heart  with  a 
memory  that  lasts  forever.  But  when  we 
suppose  that  a  person,  whose  soul  is  tend- 
erly aHve  to  the  influence  of  locjd  affections, 
and  who,  when  absent,  has  brooded  in  sor- 
row over  the  memory  of  his  native  hills  and 
vaUeys,  his  lakes  and  mountains — the  rivers, 
where  he  hunted  the  otter  and  snared  the 
trout,  and  who  has  never  rerisited  them,  even 
in  his  di'eams,  ■vrithout  such  strong  emotions 
as  caused  him  to  wake  with  his  eyelashes 
steeped  in  tears — when  such  a  person,  full  of 
enthusiastic  affection  and  a  strong  imagina- 
tion, returns  to  his  native  place  after  a  long 
absence,  under  the  peculiar  circumstances 
which  we  are  describing,  we  need  not  feel 
surprised  that  the  heart  of  the  stnmger  was 
filled  with  such  a  conflicting  tumult  of  feel- 


824 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


ings  and  recollections  as  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible to  portray. 

From  the  moment  the  coach  passed  the 
bridge  we  have  alluded  to,  evei-y  hill,  and 
residence,  and  river,  and  lake,  and  meadow, 
was  familiar  to  him,  and  he  felt  such  an  in- 
dividual love  and  aflfection  for  them,  as  if 
they  had  been  capable  of  welcoming  and  feel- 
ing the  presence  of  the  Hght-hearted  boy, 
whom  they  had  so  often  made  happy. 

In  the  gaii'ish  eye  of  day,  the  contemplation 
of  this  exquisite  landscape  would  have  been 
neither  so  affecting  to  the  heart,  nor  so 
beautiful  to  the  eye.  He,  the  stranger,  had 
not  seen  it  for  years,  except  in  his  di'eams, 
and  now  he  saw  it  in  reality,  invested  with 
that  ideal  beauty  in  which  fancy  had  adorned 
it  in  those  visions  of  the  night.  The  river, 
as  it  gleamed  dimly,  according  as  it  was  Ht 
by  the  hght  of  the  moon,  and  the  lake,  as  it 
shone  with  pale  but  visionary  beauty,  pos- 
sessed an  interest  which  the  hght  of  day 
would  never  have  given  them.  The  light, 
too,  which  lay  on  the  sleeping  groves,  and 
made  the  sohtary  church  spires,  as  they  went 
along,  ^isible,  in  dim,  but  distant  beauty,  and 
the  clear  outlines  of  his  oxen  mountains,  un- 
changed and  unchangeable — all,  all  crowded 
from  the  force  of  the  recollections  -with 
"which  they  were  associated,  upon  his  heart, 
and  he  laid  himself  back,  and,  for  some  min- 
utes, wept  tears  that  were  at  once  both 
sweet  and  bitter. 

In  proportion  as  they  advanced  toward 
the  town  of  Ballytrain,  the  stx-anger  imagined 
that  the  moon  shed  a  di-sdner  radiance  over 
the  surrounding  countiy  ;  but  this  impres- 
sion was  occasioned  by  the  fact  that  its  aspect 
was  becoming,  every  mile  they  proceeded, 
better  and  better  known  to  him.  At  length 
they  came  to  a  long  but  gradual  elevation  in 
the  road,  and  the  stranger  knew  that,  on 
reaching  its  eminence,  he  could  command  a 
distinct  view  of  the  magnificent  valley  on 
which  his  native  parish  lay.  He  begged  of 
the  coachman  to  stop  for  half  a  minute,  and 
the  latter  did  so.  The  scene  was  indeed 
unrivalled.  All  that  constitutes  a  rich  and 
cultivated  country,  with  bold  mountain 
scenery^  in  the  distance,  lay  stretched  before 
him.  To  the  right  wound,  in  dim  but 
silver-hke  beauty,  a  fine  river,  which  was 
lost  to  the  eye  for  a  considerable  distance 
in  the  wood  of  Gallagh.  To  the  eye  of 
the  stranger,  every  scene  and  locality  was 
distinct  beyond  belief,  simply  because  they 
were  lit  up,  not  only  by  the  pale  light  of 
the  moon,  but  by  the  purer  and  stronger 
light  of  his  own  early  affections  and  mem- 
ory. 

Now  it  was,  indeed,  that  his  eye  caught  in, 
ftt  a  glance,  all  those  places  and  objects  that 


had  held  their  groimd  so  strongly  and  firmlj 
in  his  heart.  The  moon,  though  sinking,  was 
briUiant,  and  the  cloudless  expanse  of  heaven 
seemed  to  reflect  her  hght,  whilst,  at  the 
same  time,  the  shadows  that  projected  from 
the  trees,  houses,  and  other  elevated  objects, 
were  dark  and  distinct  in  proportion  to  the 
flood  of  mild  effulgence  which  jDoured  down 
upon  them  from  the  firmament.  Let  not 
our  readers  hesitate  to  beheve  us  when  we 
say,  that  the  heart  of  the  stranger  felt 
touched  with  a  kind  of  melancholy  happiness 
as  he  passed  through  their  ver^^  shadows — 
proceeding,  as  they  did,  fi*om  objects  that 
he  had  looked  upon  as  the  friends  of  his. 
youth,  before  Hfe  had  opened  to  him  the 
dark  and  blotted  pages  of  suffering  and  sor- 
row. There,  dimly  shining  to  the  right 
below  him,  was  the  transparent  river  in 
which  he  had  taken  many  a  truant  plunge, 
and  a  little  further  on  he  could  see  without 
difficulty  the  white  cascade  tumbhng  dovni 
the  precipice,  and  mark  its  dim  scintilla- 
tions, that  looked,  under  the  hght  of  the 
moon,  like  masses  of  shivered  ice,  were  it 
not  that  such  a  notion  was  contradicted  by 
the  soft  dash  and  continuous  murmiu*  of  its 
waters. 

But  where  was  the  gray  mill,  and  the 
large  white  dwelling  of  the  miller  ?  and  that 
new-looking  mansion  on  the  elevation — it 
was  not  there  in  his  time,  nor  several  others 
that  he  saw  around  him  ;  and,  hold — what 
saciilege  is  this  ?  The  coach  is  not  upon  the 
OLD  road — not  on  that  with  every  turn  and 
winding  of  which  the  light  foot  of  his  boy- 
hood was  so  famihar !  What,  too !  the 
school-house  down — its  very  foundations 
razed — its  light-hearted  pupils,  some  dead 
others  dispersed,  its  master  in  the  dust,  and 
its  din,  bustle,  and  monotonous  murmur- 
all  banished  and  gone,  like  the  pageantiy  of 
a  di-eam.  Such,  however,  is  hfe  ;  and  he 
who,  on  returning  to  his  birthplace  after  an 
absence  of  many  years,  exjDects  to  find  either 
the  country  or  its  inhabitants  as  he  left 
them,  wiU  experience,  in  its  most  painful 
sense,  the  bitterness  of  disappointment. 
Let  eveiy  such  individual  prepare  himself 
for  the  consequences  of  death,  change,  and 
desolation. 

At  length  the  coach  drove  into  Ballytrain, 
and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  passengers  found 
themselves  opposite  to  the  sign  of  the  IVIitre, 
which  swung  over  the  door  of  the  principal 
inn  of  that  remarkable  town. 

"  Su-,"  said  the  guard,  addressing  the 
stranger,  "  I  think  I  have  kept  my  word." 

The  latter,  without  making  any  reply, 
dropped  five  shillings  into  his  hand  ;  but,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  minutes — for  the  coach 
changed  horses  there — he  desired  him  to 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


325 


call  the  waiter  or  landlord,  or  any  one  to 
whom  he  could  intrust  his  trunks  until 
morning. 

"You  are  going  to  stop  in  the  '^lithre,' 
sir,  of  course  ?  "  said  the  guard,  inquiringly. 

The  traveler  nodded  assent,  and,  having 
seen  his  luggage  taken  into  the  inn,  and 
looking,  for  a  moment,  at  the  towTi,  proceed- 
ed along  the  shadowj-  side  of  the  main 
street,  and,  instead  of  seeking  his  bed,  had, 
in  a  short  time,  altogether  vanished,  and  in 
a  manner  that  was  certainly  mysterious,  nor 
did  he  make  his  appeai'ance  again  imtil  noon 
on  the  following  day. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  state  here  that  he 
was  a  man  of  about  thii'ty,  somewhat  above 
the  middle  size,  and,  although  not  clumsy, 
yet,  on  being  closely  scanned,  he  appeared 
beyond  question  to  be  very  compact,  closely 
knit,  weU-proportioned,  and  muscular.  Of 
his  dress,  however,  we  must  sa}-,  that  it  was 
somewhat  difficult  to  define,  or  rather  to 
infer  fi'om  it  whether  he  was  a  gentleman  or 
not,  or  to  what  rank  or  station  of  life  he  be- 
longed. His  hair  was  black  and  curled ;  his 
features  regular  ;  and  his  mouth  and  nose 
particularly  aristocratic ;  but  that  which 
constituted  the  most  striking  feature  of  his 
face  was  a  pair  of  black  ej'es,  which  kindled 
or  became  mellow  according  to  the  emotions 
by  which  he  happened  to  be  influenced. 

"  My  good  lad,"  said  he  to  "  Boots,"  after 
his  return,  "will  you  send  me  the  land- 
lord ?  " 

"  I  can't,  sir,"  replied  the  other,  "  he's  not 
at  home." 

"  Well,  then,  have  the  goodness  to  send 
me  the  waiter." 

"I  ^vill,  sir,"  rephed  the  monkey,  leaving 
the  room  with  an  evident  feeling  of  confi- 
dent alacrity. 

Almost  immediately  a  good-looking  girl, 
with  Lush  features,  brown  haii",  and  pretty 
blue  eyes,  presented  herself. 

"Well,  sir?"  she  said,  in  an  interrogative 
tone. 

"  WTiy,"  said  the  stranger,  "I  beheve  it  is 
impossiljle  to  come  at  any  member  of  this 
establishment ;  I  wish  to  see  the  waiter." 

"  I'm  the  waiter,  sir,"  she  rephed,  with  an 
unconscious  face. 

"  The  deuce  you  are  !  "  he  exclaimed  ; 
"  however,"  he  added,  recovering  himself, 
"  I  cannot  possibly  wish  for  a  better.  It  is 
vei-y  hkely  that  I  may  stop  with  you  for 
some  time — perhaps  a  few  months.  WiU 
you  see  now  that  a  room  and  bed  are  pre- 
pared for  me,  and  that  my  trunks  are  jjut 
into  my  o\mi  apartment?  Get  a  fire  into  my 
sitting-room  and  bedchamber.  Let  my  bed 
be  well  aired  ;  and  see  that  ever^-thiug  is 
done  cleanly  and  comfortably,  will  you  ?  " 


"  Sartinly,  sir,  an'  I  hope  we  won't  lave 
you  much  to  complain  of.  As  for  the  sheets, 
wait  till  you  ixy  them.  The  wild  mjTtles  of 
Dinimgau,  bey  ant  the  demesne  'ishout,  is 
foulded  in  them  ;  an'  if  the  smell  of  them 
won't  make  you  think  yourself  in  Paradise, 
'tisn't  my  fault." 

The  stranger,  on  looking  at  her  somewhat 
more  closely,  saw  that  she  was  an  exceeding- 
ly neat,  tight,  clean-looking  young  woman, 
fair  and  youthful. 

"  Have  you  been  long  in  the  capacity  of 
waiter,  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  sir,"  she  rephed  ;  "  about  six 
months." 

"  Do  you  never  keep  male  waiters  in  this 
estabhshment  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  ;  Paudeen  Grair  and  I  gen- 
erally act  week  about.  This  is  my  week,  sir, 
an'  he's  at  the  plough." 

"  And  where  have  you  been  a<-  service  be- 
fore you  came  here,  my  good    trl  ?  " 

"  In  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's    .ir." 

The  stranger  could  not  .^  /event  himself 
from  starting. 

"  In  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay'': !  "  he  exclaim- 
ed. "And  pray  in  wha^  caj^acity  were  you 
there  ?  " 

"  I  was  own  maid  t/   Miss  Gourlay,  sir." 

"  To  Miss  Gourlay  !  and  how  did  you 
come  to  leave  your  situation  "s\ith  her  ?  " 

"  When  I  find  you  have  a  right  to  ask,  sir," 
she  rephed,  "  I  will  tell  you ;  but  not  tiU 
then." 

"  I  stand  1  -proved,  my  good  girl,"  he 
said  ;  "I  hav  indeed  no  right  to  enter  into 
such  inquiiT  s  ;  but  I  tinist  I  have  for  those 
that  are  mote  to  the  pui-pose.  "VMiat  have 
you  for  dinner  ?  " 

"  Fish,  flesh,  and  fowl,  sir,"  she  replied, 
with  a  peculiar  smile,  "  and  a  fine  fat  buck 
from  the  deer-park." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  he,  "  that  really  prom- 
ises well — mdeed  it  is  more  than  I  expected 
— you  had  no  quaiTel,  I  hope,  at  parting  ?  I 
beg  your  pardon — a  fat  buck,  you  say. 
Come,  I  will  have  a  shce  of  that." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  she  rephed  ;  " what  else 
would  you  wish  ?  " 

"  To  know,  my  dear,  whether  Sir  Thomas 
is  as  severe  upon  her  as — ahem  I — anything 
at  aU  you  like — I'm  not  particular — only 
don't  forget  a  shce  of  the  buck,  out  of  the 
haunch,  my  dear  ;  and,  whisper,  as  you  and 
I  ai-e  hkely  to  become  better  acquainted — aU 
in  a  civil  way,  of  course — here  is  a  trifle  o\ 
earnest,  as  a  proof  that,  if  you  be  attentive,  I 
shall  not  be  ungenerous." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  rephed,  shaking  her 
head,  and  hesitiiting ;  "  you're  a  sly -looking 
gentleman — and,  if  I  thought  that  you  had 
any " 


326 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOEKS. 


"  Design,  you  would  say,"  he  replied  ;  "  no 
— none,  at  any  rate,  that  is  improper  ;  it  is 
offered  in  a  spirit  of  good-will  and  honor, 
and  in  such  you  may  fairly  accept  of  it.  So," 
he  added,  as  he  dropped  the  money  into  her 
hand,  "  Sir  Thomas  insisted  that  you  should 
go  ?     Hem  ! — hem  !  " 

The  girl  sttu'ted  in  her  turn,  and  exclaim- 
ed, with  a  good  deal  of  suiiDiise  : 

"  Sir  Thomas  insisted !  How  did  you 
come  to  know  that,  sii*  ?  /  tovdd  you  no  such 
thing." 

"Certainly,  my  dear-,  you — a — a — hem — 
did  you  not  say  something  to  that  effect  ?  Per- 
haps, however,"  he  added,  apprehensive  lest 
he  might  have  alarmed,  or  rather  excited  her 
suspicions — "perhaps  I  was  mistaken.  I 
only  imagined,  I  supjjose,  that  ^-ou  said  some- 
thing to  that  effect ;  but  it  does  not  matter 
— I  have  no  intimacy  with  the  Gourlays,  I 
assui'e  you — I  think  that  is  what  you  call 
them — and  none  at  all  with  Sir  Thomas — is 
not  that  his  name  ?  Goodby  now  ;  I  shall 
take  a  walk  through  the  town — how  is  this 
you  name  it  ?  Ball}i;rain,  I  think — and  re- 
tiu'n  at  five,  when  I  trust  you  will  have  din- 
ner ready." 

He  then  put  on  his  hat,  and  sauntered  out, 
apparently  to  view  the  town  and  its  en\ii-ons, 
fully  satisfied  that,  in  consequence  of  his  hav- 
ing left  it  when  a  boy,  and  of  the  changes 
which  time  and  travel  had  wrought  in  his  ap- 
pearance, no  living  individual  there  could 
possibly  recognize  him. 


CHAPTEK  n. 

The  Town  and  its  Inhabitants. 

The  town  itself  contained  about  six  thou- 
sand inhabitants,  had  a,  church,  a  chapel,  a 
meeting-house,  and  also  a  place  of  worship 
for  those  who  belonged  to  the  Methodist 
connection.  It  was  nearly  half  a  mile  long, 
lay  nearly  due  north  and  south,  and  ran  up 
an  elevation  or  shght  hill,  and  down  again 
on  the  other  side,  where  it  tapered  away  into 
a  string  of  cabins.  It  is  scarcely  necessary 
to  say  that  it  contained  a  main  street,  thi*ee 
or  four  with  less  pretensions,  together  with 
a  tribe  of  those  vile  alleys  Avhich  consist  of  a 
double  row  of  beggaiiy  cabins,  or  huts,  fac- 
ing each  other,  and  lying  so  closely,  that  a 
tall  man  might  almost  stand  Avith  a  foot  on 
the  threshold  of  each,  or  if  in  the  middle, 
that  is  half-way  between  them,  he  might, 
were  he  so  inclined,  and  without  moving  to 
either  side,  shake  hands  with  the  inhabitants 
on  his  right  and  left.  To  the  left,  as  you 
went  up  from  the  north,  and  nearly  adjoin- 


ing the  cathedral  church,  which  faced  you, 
stood  a  bishop's  palace,  behind  which  lay  a 
magnificent  demesne.  At  that  time,  it  is  but 
just  to  say  that  the  chimneys  of  this  princely 
residence  were  never  smokeless,  nor  its  sa- 
loons silent  and  deserted  as  they  are  now, 
and  have  been  for  yeai's.  No,  the  din  of  in- 
dustiy  was  then  incessant  in  and  about  the 
offices  of  that  palace,  and  the  song  of  many 
a  hght  heart  and  happy  spirit  rang  sweetly 
in  the  valleys,  on  the  plains  and  hills,  and 
over  the  meadows  of  that  beautiful  demesne, 
with  its  noble  deer-pai-k  stretching  up  to  the 
heathy  hills  behind  it.  Many  a  time,  w^hen 
a  school-bo}-,  have  we  mounted  the  demesne 
wall  in  question,  and  contemjDlated  its  mead- 
ows, waving  under  the  sunny  breeze,  togeth- 
er with  the  long  strings  of  happy  mowers, 
the  harmonious  swing  of  whose  scythes,  as- 
sociated with  the  cheei-ful  noise  of  their  whet- 
ting, caused  the  very  heart  within  us  to 
kindle  with  such  a  sense  of  pure  and  early 
enjoyment  as  does  yet,  and  ever  will,  consti- 
tute a  portion  of  our  best  and  happiest  re- 
collections. 

At  the  period  of  which  we  wTite  it  mattered 
httle  whether  the  prelate  who  jDossessed  it 
resided  at  home  or  not.  If  he  did  not,  his 
family  generally  did  ;  but,  at  aU  events,  dur- 
ing their  absence,  or  during  theu-  i-esidence, 
constant  employment  was  given,  every  work- 
ing-day in  the  year,  to  at  least  one  hundred 
happy  and  contented  poor  fi'om  a  neighbor- 
ing and  dependent  village,  eveiy  one  of  whom 
was  of  the  Roman  Catholic  creed. 

I  have  stood,  not  long  ago,  upon  a  beautiul 
elevation  in  that  demesne,  and,  on  looking 
around  me,  I  saw  nothing  but  a  desei'ted  and 
gloomy  countrj\  The  hapjDy  village  was  gone 
— razed  to  the  veiy  foundations — the  de- 
mesne was  a  soHtude — the  songs  of  the 
reapers  and  mowers  had  vanished,  as  it  were, 
into  the  recesses  of  memoiy,  and  the  magnifi- 
cent palace,  dull  and  lonely,  lay  as  if  it  were 
situated  in  some  land  of  the  dead,  where 
human  voice  or  footstep  had  not  been  heai'd 
for  years. 

The  stranger,  who  had  gone  out  to  view 
the  town,  foimd,  during  that  survey,  httle  of 
this  absence  of  employment,  and  its  conse- 
quent destitution,  to  disturb  him.  Many 
things,  it  is  tiiie,  both  in  the  town  and  sub- 
urbs, were  liable  to  objection. 

Abundance  there  was  ;  but,  in  too  many 
instances,  he  could  see,  at  a  glance,  that  it 
was  accompanied  by  unclean  and  slovenly 
habits,  and  that  the  processes  of  husbandi-y  * 
and  tillage  were  disfigured  by  old  usages, 
that  were  not  only  painful  to  contemplate, 
but  disgraceful  to  civihzation. 

The  stranger  was  proceeding  down  the 
town,  when  he  came  in  contact  with  a  ragged, 


\ 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


327 


dissipated-looking  young  man,  who  bad,  how- 
ever, about  him  the  evidences  of  ha\'ing  seen 
better  days.  The  latter  touched  his  hat  to 
him,  and  observed,  "  You  seem  to  be  exam- 
ining our  town,  sir  ?  " 

"  Pray,  what  is  your  name  :  "  inquired  the 
stranger,  without  seeming  to  notice  the 
question. 

"WTiy,  for  the  present,  sir,"  he  rephed,  "I 
beg  to  insinuate  that  I  am  rather  under  a 
cloud  ;  and,  if  you  have  no  objection,  would 
prefer  to  remain  anonymous,  or  to  presence  my 
incognito,  as  they  say,  for  some  time  longer." 

"  Have  you  no  a/w.s-,  by  which  you  may  be 
known  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably,  an  alias  I  have,"  replied 
the  other  ;  "  for  as  to  passing  thi'ough  life,  in 
the  broad,  anonymous  sense,  Avithout  some 
token  to  distinguish  you  by,  the  thing,  to  a 
man  hke  me,  is  impossible.  I  am  conse- 
quently known  as  Frank  Feuton,  a  name  I 
borrowed  from  a  fonner  fi'iend  of  mine,  an 
old  school-fellow,  who,  while  he  hved,  was, 
like  myself,  a  bit  of  an  original  in  his  way. 
How  do  you  like  our  town,  sir  ?  "  he  added, 
changing  the  subject. 

"I  have  seen  too  httle  of  it,"  rej^lied  the 
stranger,  "to  judge.  Is  this  your  native 
to^vn,  'Six.  Fenton  ?  "  he  added. 

"  No,  sir  ;  not  my  native  town."  rephed 
Fenton  ;  "  but  I  have  resided  here  from  hand 
to  mouth  long  enough  to  know  almost  every 
indi\-idual  in  the  barony  at  large." 

During  this  dialogue,  the  stranger  eyed 
Fenton,  as  he  called  himself,  veiy  closely ;  in 
fact,  he  watched  every  featui'e  of  his  with  a 
degree  of  curiosity  and  doubt  that  was  ex- 
ceedingly singular. 

Have  you,  sii*,  been  here  before  ?  "  asked 
Fenton  ;  "  or  is  this  your  first  visit  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  my  first  \isit,"  replied  the  other  ; 
"  but  it  is  hkely  I  shaU  reside  here  for  some 
months." 

"For  the  benefit  of  your  health,  I  pre- 
sume ?  "  asked  modest  Frank. 

"My  good  fi-iend,"  rephed  the  stranger, 
"I  wish  to  make  an  obseiwation.  It  is  pos- 
sible, I  say,  that  I  may  remain  here  for  some 
months  ;  now,  pray,  attend,  and  mark  me — 
whenever  you  and  I  chance,  on  any  future 
occasion,  to  meet,  it  is  to  be  understood 
between  us  that  you  are  to  answer  me  in  anj'- 
thing  I  ask,  which  you  know,  and  I  to  answer 
you  in  nothing,  unless  I  wish  it." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  he  replied,  with  a  low 
and  not  ungraceful  bow;  " that's  a  compli- 
ment all  to  the  one  side,  like  Clogher."  * 

"Very  well,"   retiu-ned  the  stranger;  "I 


*  The  proverb  is  pretty  general  throughout  Ty- 
rone. The  town  of  (Jlogher  consists  of  only  a  single 
string  of  houses. 


have  something   to   add,  in  order  to  make 
this  aiTangement  more  palatable  to  you." 

"Hold,  sir,"  rephed  the  other;  "before 
you  jjroceed  further,  you  must  understand 
me.  I  shall  pledge  myself  under  no  terms — 
and  I  care  not  what  they  may  be — to  answer 
any  question  that  may  throw  hght  upon  my 
own  personal  identity,  or  past  histoiy." 

"  That  will  not  be  necessary,"  replied  the 
stranger. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  "  asked  Fenton, 
starting  ;  "do  you  mean  to  hint  that  you 
know  me  ?  " 

"Nonsense,"  said  the  other;  "how  could 
I  know  a  man  whom  I  never  saw  before? 
No  ;  it  is  merely  concerning  the  local  history 
of  Ballytrain  and  its  inhabitants  that  I  am 
speaking." 

There  was  a  slight  degree  of  dry  irony, 
however,  on  his  face,  as  he  spoke. 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  in  the  mean  time, 
I  don't  see  why  1  am  to  comply  with  a  con- 
dition so  dictatorially  laid  do\\ii  by  a  person 
of  whom  I  know  nothing." 

"  ^\Tiy,  the  truth  is,"  said  our  strange 
friend,  "  that  you  are  e^'idently  a  lively  and 
intelligent  fellow,  not  badly  educated.  I 
think — and,  as  it  is  hkely  that  you  have  no 
ver\'  direct  connection  ^dth  the  inhabitants 
of  the  town  and  surrounding  coimtiy,  I  take 
it  for  gi-anted  that,  m  the  way  of  mere  amuse- 
ment, you  may  be  able  to " 

"  Hem  !  I  see — to  give  you  all  the  scandal 
of  the  place  for  miles  about ;  that  is  what 
you  would  say  ?  and  so  I  can.  But  suppose 
a  spai'k  of  the  gentleman  should — should — 
but  come,  hang  it,  that  is  gone,  hopelessly 
gone.     What  is  your  wish  ?  " 

"In  the  first  place,  to  see  you  better 
clothed.  Excuse  me — and,  if  I  offend  you, 
say  so — but  it  is  not  my  wish  to  say  anything 
that  might  occasion  you  pain.  Ai"e  you  given 
to  Hquor  ?  " 

"  Much  oftener  than  hquor  is  given  to  me, 
I  assure  you  ;  it  is  my  meat,  diink,  washing, 
and  lodging — without  it  I  must  die.  And, 
harkee,  now  ;  when  I  meet  a  man  I  hke,  and 
who,  after  all,  has  a  touch  of  humanity  and 
truth  about  him,  to  such  a  man,  I  say,  1 
myself  am  all  truth,  at  whatever  cost  ;  but  to 
eveiy  other — to  your  knave,  your  hypocrite, 
or  your  trimmer,  for  inst4mce,  all  falsehood — 
deep,  downright,  wanton  falsehood.  In  fact, 
I  would  scorn  to  throw  away  truth  upon  them. 

"You  ai*e  badly  dressed." 

"  Ah  !  after  all,  how  little  is  known  of  the 
human  heart  and  ch;U"acter ! "  exclaimed 
Fenton.  "The  subject  of  di*ess  and  the  as- 
sociations connected  with  it  have  all  been 
effaced  from  my  mind  and  feelings  for  years. 
So  long  as  Ave  are  capable  of  looking  to  oui 
dress,  there  is  always  a  sense  of  honor  and 


328 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


self-respect  left.  Dress  I  never  think  of, 
unless  as  a  me-xft  animal  protection  against 
tne  elements." 

"  "Well,  tbtr.,"  observed  the  other,  survey- 
hag  this  ur.fortunate  wi-etch  A\ith  compassion, 
"  whether  ail  perception  of  honor  and  self- 
respect  i'i  lost  in  you  I  care  not.  Here  are 
Ave  povjids  for  you  ;  that  is  to  say — and 
^ray  vjiderstand  me — I  commit  them  abso- 
'iuteiy  to  your  own  keeping — your  own  hon- 
■yr..  your  self-respect,  or  by  whatever  name 
<j<yi  ai-e  pleased  to  call  it.  Purchase  plain 
•jlothes,  get  better  linen,  a  hat  and  shoes : 
when  this  is  done,  if  you  have  strength  of 
mind  and  resolution  of  character  to  do  it, 
come  to  me  at  the  head  inn,  where  I  stop, 
and  I  will  only  ask  you,  in  return,  to  tell  me 
anything  you  know  or  have  heard  about  such 
subjects  as  may  chance  to  occur  to  me  at 
the  moment." 

On  receiving  the  money,  the  poor  fellow 
fastened  his  eyes  on  it  with  such  an  expres- 
sion of  amazement  as  defies  description.  His 
physical  strength  and  constitution,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  Hfe  he  led,  were  nearly 
gone — a  circumstance  which  did  not  escape 
the  keen  eye  of  the  stranger,  on  whose 
face  there  was  an  e\'ident  expression  of 
deep  compassion.  The  unfortunate  Frank 
Fenton  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  his  face 
became  deadly  pale,  and  after  surveying  the 
notes  for  a  time,  he  held  them  out  to  the 
other,  exclaiming,  as  he  extended  his  hand — 

"No,  no  !  have  it,  no  !  You  are  a  decent 
fellow,  and  I  will  not  impose  upon  you. 
Take  back  your  money  ;  I  know  myself  too 
well  to  accept  of  it.  I  never  could  keep 
money,  and  I  wouldn't  have  a  shilling  of  this 
in  m}'  possession  at  the  expiration  of  forty- 
eight  hours." 

"  Even'  so,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  it  comes 
not  back  to  me  again.  Drink  it — eat  it — 
spend  it  is  you  may  ;  but  I  rely  on  your 
own  honor,  notwithstanding  what  you  say, 
to  apply  it  to  a  better  jourpose." 

"Well,  now,  let  me  see,"  said  Fenton, 
musing,  and  as  if  in  a  kind  of  soliloquy ; 
"  you  are  a  good  fellow,  no  doubt  of  it — that 
is,  if  you  have  no  lurking,  dishonest  design 
in  all  this.  Let  me  see.  Why,  now,  it  is  a 
long  time  since  I  have  had  the  enormous 
Bum  of  five  shiUings  in  my  possession,  much 
less  the  amount  of  the  national  debt,  which 
I  presume  must  be  pi-etty  close  upon  five 
pounds ;  and  in  honest  bank  notes,  too. 
One,  two,  three — ha  ! — eh !  eh ! — oh  yes," 
he  proceeded,  evidently  stinick  with  some 
discovery  that  astonished  him.  "  Ay  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  looking  keenly  at  a  certain  name 
that  happened  to  be  written  upon  one  of  the 
notes  ;  "  Avell.  it  is  all  right !  Thank  you,  sir  ; 
i  will  keep  the  money." 


CHAPTER  m. 

Pauden  Gnir^s  Receipt  how  to  make  a  Bad  Dinnei 
a  Oood  One — the  Stranger  finds  Fenton  as  mys- 
terious as  Himself. 

The  stranger,  on  reaching  the  inn,  had 
not  long  to  wait  for  dinner,  which,  to  his 
disappointment,  was  anything  but  what 
he  had  been  taught  to  exiDect.  The  fair 
"waiter"  had  led  liis  imagination  a  very 
ludicrous  dance,  indeed,  having,  as  Shak- 
speare  says,  kept  the  word  of  promise  to  his 
ear,  but  broken  it  to  his  hope,  and,  what 
was  stni  worse,  to  his  apjDetite.  On  sitting 
down,  he  found  before  him  two  excellent 
salt  herrings  to  begin  with  ;  and  on  ringing 
the  bell  to  inquire  why  he  was  provided  with 
such  a  dainty,  the  male  waiter  himself,  who 
had  finished  the  field  he  had  been  isloughing, 
made  his  appearance,  after  a  delay  of  about 
five  minutes,  very  coolly  wiping  his  mouth, 
for  he  had  been  at  dinner. 

"  Are  you  the  waiter  ?  "  asked  the  stran- 
ger, sharply. 

"No,  sir,  I'm  not  the  waiter,  myself  ;  but 
I  and  Peggy  Moylan  is." 

"  And  why  didn't  you  come  when  I  rang 
for  you  at  first  ?  " 

"  I  was  just  finishin'  my  dinner,  sir,"  re- 
phed  the  other,  pulling  a  bone  of  a  herring 
from  between  his  teeth,  then  going  over  and 
dehberately  thi'owiug  it  into  the  fire. 

The  stranger  was  silent  wiLh  astonish- 
ment, and,  in  truth,  felt  a  stronger  incUna- 
tion  to  laugh  than  to  scold  him.  This  fel- 
loAv,  thought  he,  is  clearly  an  original ;  I 
must  draw  him  out  a  Httle. 

"  Why,  sir,"  he  proceeded,  "  was  I  served 
mth  a  pair  of  d — d  salt  herrings,  as  a  part 
of  my  dinner  ?  " 

"Whist,  sir,"  replied  the  fellow,  "don't 
curse  anything  that  God — blessed  be  his 
name — has  made  ;  it's  not  right,  it's  sinful." 

"  But  why  was  I  sei-ved  with  two  salt  her- 
rings, I  ask  again  ?  " 

"  \Vhy  wor  you  sarved  with  them? — Why, 
wasn't  it  what  we  had  ourselves  ?  " 

"  Was  I  not  promised  venison  ?" 

"  Who  promised  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  That  female  waiter  of  yours." 

"  Peggy  Moylan  ?  Well,  then,  I  tell  you 
the  fau't  wasn't  hers.  We  had  a  party  o' 
gintlemen  out  here  last  week,  and  the  sorru 
drop  of  it  they  left  behind  them.  Devil  a 
drop  of  venison  there  is  in  the  house  now. 
You're  an  Englishman,  at  any  rate,  sir,  I 
think  b}"^  yoiu-  discourse  ?  " 

"  Was  I  not  promised  part  of  a  fat  buck 
from  the  demesne  adjoining,  and  where  is 
it  ?  I  thought  I  was  to  have  fish,  flesh,  and 
fowl" 


THE  BLACK  BATtONET. 


3^9 


"  Well,  and  haven't  you  fish  ?  "  replied  the 
fellow.  "  What  do  you  call  them !  "  he  added, 
pomting  to  the  herrings ;  "an'  as  to  a  fat 
buck,  faith,  it  isn't  part  of  one,  but  a  whole 
one  you  have.  What  do  you  call  thai  ? " 
He  lifted  an  old  battered  tin  cover,  and  dis- 
covered a  rabbit,  gathered  up  as  if  it  were 
in  the  act  of  starting  for  its  burrow.  "  You 
see,  Peggy,  sir,  always  keeps  her  word  ;  for 
it  was  a  buck  rabbit  she  meant.  Well,  now, 
there's  the  fish  and  the  flesh  ;  and  here,"  he 
proceeded,  uncovering  another  dish,  "  is  the 
fowl." 

On  lifting  the  cover,  a  pair  of  enormous 
legs,  with  spurs  on  them  an  inch  and  a  half 
long,  were  jjrojected  at  full  length  toward 
the  guest,  as  if  the  old  cock — for  such  it  was 
— were  determined  to  defend  himself  to  the 
last. 

"  Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "  all  I  can  say 
is,  that  I  have  got  a  very  bad  dinner." 

"Well,  an'  what  suppose?  Sure  it  has 
been  many  a  betther  man's  case.  However, 
you  have  one  remedy  ;  always  ait  the  more 
of  it — that's  the  sure  card  ;  ever  and  always 
when  you  have  a  bad  dinnex',  ait,  I  say,  the 
more  of  it.  I  don't  think,  sir,  beggin'  your 
pai'don,  that  you've  seen  much  of  the  world 
yet." 

"  Wliy  do  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  the  other, 
who  could  with  difficulty  restrain  his  mirth 
at  the  fellow's  cool  self-sufficiency  and  as- 
surance. 

"Because,  sir,  no  man  that  has  seen  the 
world,  and  knows  its  taps  and  doAvns,  would 
complain  of  sich  a  dinner  as  that.  Do  you 
wish  for  any  liquor  ?  But  maybe  you  don't. 
It's  not  every  one  cari'ies  a  full  purse  these 
times  ;  so,  at  any  rate,  have  the  sense  not  to 
go  beyant  your  manes,  or  whatsomever  ?J,- 
lowance  you  get." 

"  Allowance  !  what  do  you  mean  by  allow- 
ance ?  " 

"I  mane,"  he  rephed,  "that  there's  not 
such  a  crew  of  barefaced  liars  on  the  airth  as 
you  English  travellers,  as  they  call  you. 
What  do  you  think,  but  on%  of  them  had  the 
imperance  to  tell  me  that  he  \vas  allowed  a 
guinea  a-day  to  live  on  !  Troth,  I  crossed 
myself,  and  bid  him  go  about  his  business, 
an'  that  I  didn't  think  the  house  or  place  was 
safe  while  he  was  in  it — for  it's  I  that  has  the 
mortal  hati-ed  of  a  liar." 

"  What  liquor  have  you  got  in  the  house  ?  " 

**  No — if  there's  one  thing  on  airth  that  I 
hate  worse  than  another,  it's  a  man  that 
shuffles — that  won't  tell  the  truth,  or  give 
you  a  straight  answer.  We  have  jDlenty  o' 
Uquor  in  the  house — more  than  you'll  use, 
at  any  rate." 

"But  what  descriptions?  How  many 
kinds '?  for  instance " 


"  Kinds  enough,  for  that  matther — all  sorta 
and  sizes  of  liquor." 

"  Have  you  tmy  wine  ?  " 

"  Wine  !  Well,  now,  let  me  speak  to  you 
as  a  fi-iend  ;  sure,  't  is  n't  wine  you'd  be 
thinking  of  ?  " 

"  But,  if  I  pay  for  it  ?  " 

"Pay  for  it — ay,  and  break  yourself — gc 
beyant  your  manes,  as  I  said.  No,  no — I'll 
give  you  no  wine — it  would  be  only  aidin' 
you  in  extravagance,  an'  I  wouldn't  have  the 
sin  of  it  to  answer  for.  We  have  all  enough, 
and  too  much  to  answer  for,  God  knows." 

The  last  observation  was  made  sotto  voc  ^ 
and  with  the  serious  manner  of  a  man  w'no 
uttered  it  under  a  deep  sense  of  rehgious 
truth. 

"  Well,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  since  you 
won't  allow  me  wine,  have  you  no  cheaper 
Uquor?  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  d^aing  with- 
out something  stronger  than  w.*ter." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  yourself.  We 
have  good  portlier." 

"Brmg  me  a  bottle  (/  .,,  then." 

"  It's  beautiful  on  (^  ^mght." 

"  But  I  prefer  it  ij,  bottle." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it.  Lord  help  us  !  how 
few  is  it  that  kno^  ,s  what's  good  for  them  1 
Will  you  give  up  your  own  will  for  wanst, 
and  be  guided  by  a  wiser  man  ?  for  health 
— an'  sxu'e  t^alth's  before  everything — for 
health,  ever  and  always  prefer  draught 
porther." 

"  Well,  then,  since  it  must  be  draught,  I 
shall  prefer  draught  ale." 

"  Rank  poison.  Troth,  somehow  I  feel  a 
Hking  for  you,  an'  for  that  xerj  reason,  devil 
a  drop  of  draught  ale  I'll  allow  to  cross  your 
lips.  Jist  be  guided  by  me,  an'  you'll  find 
that  your  health  an'  pocket  will  both  be  the 
betther  for  it.  Troth,  it's  fat  and  rosy  I'll 
have  you  in  no  time,  all  out,  if  you  stop  with 
us.  Now  ait  your  good  dinner,  and  I'll  bring 
jon  the  porther  immediately." 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  asked  the  stranger, 
"  before  you  go." 

"I'U  tell  you  when  I  come  back — wait  till 
I  bring  you  the  porther,  first." 

In  the  course  of  about  fifteen  mortal 
minutes,  he  retimied  with  a  quart  of  porter 
in  his  hand,  exclaiming — 

"  Bad  luck  to  them  for  pigs,  they  got  into 
the  garden,  and  I  had  to  drive  them  out,  and 
cut  a  lump  of  a  bush  to  stop  tlie  gap  vdd  ; 
however,  I  think  they  won't  go  back  that  way 
again.  My  name  you  want?  AMiy,  then, 
my  name  is  Paudeen  Gair — that  is,  Sliarpe, 
sir  ;  but,  in  troth,  it  is  n't  Shaipe  by  name 
and  Shai-pe  by  nature  wid  me,  although  you'd 
get  them  that  'ud  say  otherwise." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  "  asked 
the  other. 


^{30 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Fve  been  laborin'  for  the  master  goin'  on 
fourteen  years ;  but  I'm  only  about  twelve 
months  attendin'  table." 

"  Hjdw  long  has  yoiu-  fellow-sei*vant — Peg- 
^,  I  think,  you  call  her — been  here  ?  " 

"  Not  long." 

"Where  had  she  been  before,  do  you 
know." 

'    "Do  I  know,  is  it?    Maybe  'tis  you  may 
say  that." 

"  WTiat  do  you  mean  ?  I  don't  understand 

you." 

"  I  know  that  well  enough,  and  it  is  n't 
my  intention  you  should." 

"In  what  family  was  she  at  service." 

"Whisper;  in  a  bad  family,  wid  one  ex- 
ception. God  protect  her,  the  darhn' !  Amin ! 
A  wurra  yeehh  ! — an'  may  the  cui-se  that's 
hanging  over  him  never  fall  ujjon  her  this 
day  !  " 

A  kind  and  complacent  spirit  beamed  in 
the  fine  eyes  of  the  stranger,  as  the  waiter 
uttered  these  benevolent  invocations ;  and, 
putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  he  said, 

"My  good  friend  Paudeen,  I  am  richer 
than  you  are  disposed  to  give  me  credit  for ; 
I  see  you  are  a  good-heai'ted  fellow,  and 
here's  a  crown  for  you." 

"  No  !  consumin'  to  the  farden,  tiU  I  know 
whether  you're  able  to  afford  it  or  not.  It's 
always  them  that  has  least  of  it,  unfortu- 
nately, that's  readiest  to  give  it.  I  have  knovm 
many  a  foohsh  creature  to  do  what  you  are 
doing,  when,  if  the  truth  was  known,  they 
could  badly  spare  it ;  but,  at  any  rate,  wait 
till  I  deserve  it ;  for,  upon  my  reputaytion, 
I  won't  finger  a  testher  of  it  sooner." 

He  then  withdrew,  and  left  the  other  to 
finish  his  dinner  as  best  he  might. 

For  the  next  thi'ee  or  foui-  days  the  stran- 
ger confined  liimself  mostly  to  his  room, 
unless  about  dusk,  when  he  gUded  out  veiy 
quietly,  and  disappeared  rather  like  a  spii-it 
than  an\'tliing  else  ;  for,  in  point  of  fact,  no 
one  could  tell  what  had  become  of  him,  or 
where  he  could  have  concealed  liimself,  dur- 
ing these  brief  but  mysterious  absences. 
Paudeen  GaAi'  and  Peggy  observed  that  he 
^\Tote  at  least  tlu-ee  or  four  letters  eveiy  day, 
and  knew  that  he  must  have  put  them*  into 
the  post-ofiice  with  his  owti  hands,  inasmuch 
as  no  person  connected  with  the  inn  had 
been  employed  for  that  purpose. 

On  the  foui'th  day,  after  breakfast,  and  as 
Pat  Sharpe — by  which  version  of  his  name 
he  was  sometimes  addressed — was  about  to 
take  away  the  things,  his  guest  entered  into 
conversation  with  him  as  follows  : 

"Paudeen,  my  good  friend,  can  you  tell 
me  where  the  wild,  ragged  fellow,  called 
Feiiton,  could  be  fovmd  ?  " 

^  I  can,    sir.      Fenton  ?    Begorra,   you'd 


hardly  know  him  if  you  seen  him  ;  he's  as 
smooth  as  a  new  pin — has  a  plain,  daicent 
suit  o'  clothes  on  him.  It's  whispered  about 
among  us  this  long  time,  that,  if  he  had  his 
rights,  he'd  be  entitled  to  a  great  property; 
and  some  people  say  now  that  he  has  come 
into  a  part  of  it." 

"And  pray,  what  else  do  they  say  ol 
him  ?  " 

"Why,  then,  I  heard  Father  M'Mahon 
himself  sa^^  that  he  had  great  Ifeai-nin',  an' 
must  a'  had  fine  broughten-up,  an'  could  act 
the  real  gintleman  whenever  he  wished." 

"  Is  it  known  who  he  is,  or  whether  he  is 
a  native  of  this  neighborhood  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  he  doesn't  belong  to  this  neigh- 
borhood ;  an'  the  truth  is,  that  nobody  here 
that  ever  I  heard  of  knows  anjiihing  at  aU, 
barrin'  guesswork,  about  the  imfortimate 
poor  creature.  If  ever  he  was  a  gintleman," 
exclaimed  the  kind-hearted  waiter,  "he's 
siu'ely  to  be  jDitied,  when  one  sees  the  state 
he's  brought  to." 

"WeU,  Paudeen,  will  you  fetch  him  to 
me,  if  you  know  where  he  is  ?  Say  I  wish 
to  see  him." 

"What  name,  if  you  plaise?"  asked  the 
waiter,  with  assumed  indifference  ;  for  the 
truth  was,  that  the  whole  estabhshment  felt 
a  very  natural  cuiiosity  to  know  who  the 
stranger  was. 

"  Never  mind  the  name,  Paudeen,  bnt  say 
as  I  desLre  you." 

Paudeen  had  no  sooner  disappeared  than 
the  anonymous  gentleman  went  to  one  of  his 
trvmks,  and,  puUiug  out  a  very  small  minia- 
ture, sui-veyed  it  for  nearly  half  a  minute  ; 
he  then  looked  into  the  fire,  and  seemed  ab- 
sorbed in  long  and  deep  reflection.  At 
length,  after  once  more  gazing  closely  and 
earnestly  at  it,  he  broke  involuntai'ily  into 
the  followuig  soliloquy : 

"I  know,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  resem- 
blances are  often  deceitful,  and  not  to  be  de- 
pended upon.  In  this  case,  however,  there  is 
scarcely  a  trace  that  could  constitute  any 
particiilar  pecuharity— a  peculiarity  which, 
if  it  existed,  would  strengthen — I  know  not 
whether  to  say — my  suspicions  or  my  hojjes. 
The  early  disappearance  of  that  poor  boy, 
without  the  existence  of  a  single  vestige  by 
which  he  could  be  traced,  resembles  one  of 
those  mysteries  that  are  found  only  in  ro- 
mances. The  general  opinion  is,  that  he  has 
been  made  away  with,  and  is  long  dead  ;  yet 
of  late,  a  different  impression  has  gone 
abroad,  althougli  we  know  not  exactly  how 
it  has  originated." 

He  then  jDaced,  with  a  countenance  of 
gloom,  uncertainty,  and  deep  anxiety, 
through  the  room,  and  after  a  Httle  time, 
proceeded : 


THE  BLACK  BAROl-JET. 


331 


"  I  shall,  at  all  events,  enter  into  conversa- 
tion with  this  person,  after  which  I  wiU  make 
inquiries  conceraiuj?  the  gentry  and  nobility 
of  the  neighborhood,  when  I  tliink  I  shall  be 
able  to  observe  whether  he  will  pass  the 
Gourlaj'  family  over,  or  betray  any  conscious- 
ness of  a  particular  knowledge  of  their  past 
or  present  circumstances.  Tis  true,  he  may 
overreach  me  ;  but  if  he  does,  I  cannot  help 
it.  Yet,  after  all,"  he  proceeded,  "if  he 
should  jjrove  to  be  the  jDerson  I  seek,  every- 
thing may  go  well ;  I  certainly  obsen'ed 
faint  traces  of  an  honorable  feeling  about 
him  when  I  gave  him  the  money,  which, 
notwithstanding  his  indigence  and  dissipa- 
tion, he  for  a  time  refused  to  take." 

He  then  resumed  his  seat,  and  seemed 
once  more  buried  in  thought  and  abstrac- 
tion. 

Our  friend  Paudeen  was  not  long  in  find- 
ing the  uufoiiunate  object  of  the  sti-anger's 
contemplation  and  interest.  On  meetmg 
him,  he  perceived  that  he  was  shghtly  affect- 
ed with  hquor,  as  indeed  was  the  case  gen- 
erally whenever  he  could  procvu*e  it. 

"^Slisther  Fenton,"  said  Paudeen,  "there's 
a  daicent  person  in  oui*  house  that  wishes  to 
see  you." 

"  Wlio  do  you  call  a  decent  person,  you 
bog-trotting  jjaciymede  ?  "  rephed  the  other. 

"  "SMiy,  a  daicent  tradesman,  I  think,  fi-om 
— thin  sorra  one  of  me  knows  whether  I 
ought  to  say  from  Dublin  or  London." 

"  "What  trade,  Gan^-mede  ?  " 

"  Troth,  that's  more  than  I  can  tell ;  but  I 
know  that  he  wants  you,  for  he  sent  me  to 
bring  you  to  him." 

"  WeD,  Ganymede,  I  shall  see  your  ti-ades- 
'  man,"  he  rej^lied.  "  Come,  I  shall  go  to 
him." 

On  reaching  the  inn,  Paudeen,  in  order  to 
discharge  the  commission  intrusted  to  him 
fully,  ushered  Fenton  upstairs,  and  into  the 
stranger's  sitting-room.  "^^^Iat's  this?" 
exclaimed  Fenton.  "  ^Miy,  you  have  brought 
me  to  the  wTong  room,  you  blundering  ^il- 
iain.  I  thought  you  were  conducting  me  to 
some  worthy  tradesman.  You  have  mistaken 
the  room,  you  blockhead  ;  this  is  a  gentle- 
man. How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  I  hope  you 
will  excuse  this  intrusion  ;  it  is  quite  unin- 
tentional on  my  part ;  yet  I  am  glad  to  See 
you."^ 

"  There  is  no  mistake  at  all  in  it,"  replied 
the  other,  laughing.  "That  ^vill  do,  Pau- 
deen," he  added — "  thank  you." 

"Faix,"  said  Paudeen  to  himself,  when  de- 
scending the  stairs,  "  I'm  afeard  that's  no 
tradesman — whatever  he  is.  He  took  on 
him  a  look  like  a  lord  when  that  unfortunate 
Jbeutou  went  into  the  room.  Troth,  I'm 
foirlv  puzzled,  at  any  rate !  " 


"Take  a  eeat,  Mr.  Fenton,"  said  the 
stranger,  handinc;  him  a  chair,  and  address- 
ing him  in  terms  of  respect. 

"  Thank,  you,  sk, '  rephed  the  other,  put- 
ting, at  the  same  time,  a  certain  degree  of 
restraint  upon  his  manner,  for  he  felt  con- 
scious of  being  slightly  influenced  by  Uquor. 

"  Well,"  continued  the  stranger,  "  I  am 
glad  to  see  that  you  have  improved  your  ap- 
pearance." 

"  Ay,  certainly,  sir,  as  far  as  four  pounds 
— or,  I  should  rather  say,  three  pounds  went, 
I  did  something  for  the  outer  man." 

"  ^\^ly  not  the  five  ?  "  a.sked  the  other.  "I 
wished  you  to  make  youi'self  as  comfortable 
as  possible,  and  did  not  imagine  you  could 
have  done  it  for  less." 

"No,  sir,  not  properly,  according  to  the 
standard  of  a  gentleman  ;  but  I  assure  you, 
that,  if  I  were  in  a  state  of  utter  and  absolute 
starvation,  I  would  not  part  with  one  of  the 
notes  you  so  generously  gave  me,  scarcely 
to  save  my  life." 

"  No  ! "  exclaimed  the  stranger,  with  a  good 
deal  of  surprise.  "  And  prav,  why  not,  may 
I  ask  ?  " 

" Simply,"  said  Fenton,  "because  I  have 
taken  a  fancy  for  it  beyond  its  value.  I  shall 
retain  it  as  pocket-money.  Like  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield's  daughters,  I  shall  always  keep 
it  about  me  ;  and  then,  hke  them  also,  I  will 
never  want  money." 

"  That  is  a  strange  whim,"  observed  the 
other,  "and  rather  an  unaccountable  one, 
besides." 

"  Not  in  the  sHghtest  degree,"  replied 
Fenton,  "if  you  knew  as  much  as  I  do  ;  but, 
at  all  events,  just  imagine  that  I  am  both 
capricious  and  eccentric  ;  so  don't  be  sur- 
prised at  anything  I  say  or  do." 

"  Neither  shall  I,"  rephed  "  the  anony- 
mous." "However,  to  come  to  other  mat- 
ters, prav  what  kind  of  a  town  is  this  of 
BaU^-train  ?  " 

"It  is  by  no  means  a  bad  town,"  replied 
Fenton,  "  as  towns  and  times  go.  It  has  a 
,  market-house,  a  gaol,  a  chiu'ch.  as  you  have 
\  seen — a  Roman  Catholic  chapel,  and  a  place 
of  worship  for  the  Presbyterian  and  Metho- 
dist. It  has,  besides,  that  characteristic 
locality,  either  of  EngUsh  legislation  or  Iri.sh 
crimes — or,  perhaps,  of  both — a  gallows- 
gi-een.  It  has  a  pubhc  pumjj,  that  has  been 
peiTnitted  to  run  di*y,  and  pubhc  stocks  for 
limbs  like  those  of  your  humble  servant,  that 
are  permitted  to  stand  (the  stocks  I  mean) 
as  a  hbel  upon  the  inoflfensive  morals  of  the 
to-R-n." 

"  How  are  commerci:d  matters  in  it  ?  " 

"  Tolerable.  Our  shoj^keepers  are  all  very 
fair  as  shopkeepers.  But,  t^ilking  of  that, 
perhaps  you   are   not  awai'e   of  a  singulni 


432 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


custom  which  even  I — for  I  am  not  a  native 
of  this  place — have  seen  in  it  ?  " 

""\Miat  may  it  have  been?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

"  \\Tiy,  it  was  this  :  Of  a  fair  or  market- 
day,"  he  proceeded,  "  there  hved  a  certain 
shopkeeper  here,  who  is  some  time  dead — 
and  I  mention  this  to  show  you  hoAV  the  laws 
were  respected  in  this  country  ;  this  shop- 
keeper, sir,  of  a  fail'  or  market-day  had  a  post 
that  ran  from  liis  counter  to  the  ceiling  ;  to 
this  post  was  attached  a  single  handcuff,  and 
it  always  happened  that,  when  any  person 
was  caught  in  the  act  of  committing  a  theft 
in  his  shop,  one  arm  of  the  offender  was 
stretched  up  to  this  handcuff",  into  which  the 
wi'ist  was  locked  ;  and,  as  the  handcuff  was 
movable,  so  that  it  might  be  raised  up  or 
dowTi,  according  to  the  height  of  the  culprit, 
it  was  generally  fastened  so  that  the  latter  was 
forced  to  stand  upon  the  top  of  his  toes  so 
long  as  was  agreeable  to  the  shopkeeper  of 
whom  I  speak." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say,"  replied  his 
companion,  who,  by  the  way,  had  "s\dtnessed 
the  circumstances  ten  times  for  Fenton's 
once,  "  that  such  an  outrage  upon  the  right 
of  the  subject,  and  such  a  contempt  for  the 
administration  of  law  and  justice,  could  act- 
ually occur  in  a  Christian  and  civilized  coun- 
try?" 

"  I  state  to  you  a  fact,  sir,"  replied  Fen- 
ton,  "which  I  have  ■s\atnessed  with  my  own 
eyes  ;  but  we  have  still  stranger  and  worse 
usages  in  this  locaHty." 

"  What  description  of  gentry  and  landed 
proprietors  have  you  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ?  " 

"  Hum  !  as  to  that,  there  are  some  good, 
more  bad,  and  many  indifferent,  among 
them.  Their  gi-eat  fault  in  general  is,  that 
'hey  are  incapable  of  sympathizing,  as  they 
lught,  mth  their  dependents.  The  pride  of 
^lass,  and  the  influence  of  creed  besides,  are 
too  frequently  impediments,  not  only  to  the 
progress  of  their  own  indejDenden  ce,  but  to  the 
improvement  of  their  tenantry.  Then,  many 
of  them  employ  servile,  f)lausible,  and  un- 
principled agents,  who,  provided  they  ^Ting 
the  rent,  by  everj'  species  of  severity  and 
oppression,  out  of  the  people,  are  considered 
by  their  employers  valuable  and  honest  ser- 
vants, faithfully  devoted  to  their  interests  ; 
whilst  the  fact  on  the  other  side  is,  that  the 
unfortunate  tenantry  are  every  day  so  rapidly 
retrograding  from  prosperity,  that  most  of 
the  neglected  and  oppressed  who  possess 
means  to  leave  the  country  emigrate  to 
America." 

"^Vhy,  Fenton,  I  did  not  think  that  you 
looked  so  deeply  into  the  state  and  condition 
pf  the  country.    Have  you  no  good  speci- 


mens of  character  in  or  about  the  own  it- 
self?" 

"  Unquestionably,  sir.  Look  out  ^ow  from 
this  window,"  he  proceeded,  and  he  went  to 
it  as  he  spoke,  accompanied  by  the  sti-anger  ; 
"do  you  see,"  he  added,  "that  unostenta- 
tious shop,  vaih.  the  name  of  James  Trimble 
over  the  door  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  replied  the  other,  "I  see  it 
most  distinctly." 

"  Well,  sir,  in  that  shop  Hves  a  man  who  is 
ten  times  a  gTeater  benefactor  to  this  town 
and  neighborhood  than  is  the  honorable  and 
right  reverend  the  lordly  prelate,  whose 
silent  and  untenanted  palace  stands  immedi- 
ately behind  us.  In  every  position  in  which 
you  find  him,  this  admirable  but  unassum- 
ing man  is  always  the  friend  of  the  poor. 
When  an  industrious  family,  who  find  that 
they  cannot  wiing  independence,  by  hard 
and  honest  labor,  out  of  the  farms  or  other 
little  tenements  which  they  hold,  have  re- 
solved to  seek  it  in  a  more  prosperous 
country,  America,  the  first  man  to  whom 
they  apply,  if  deficient  in  means  to  accom- 
plish their  pm-pose,  is  James  Trimble.  In 
him  they  find  a  fr-iend,  if  he  knows,  as  he 
usually  does,  that  they  have  passed  through 
Hfe  with  a  character  of  worth  and  hereditary 
integrity.  If  they  want  a  portion  of  theii* 
outfit,  and  possess  not  means  to  procure  it, 
in  kind-hearted  James  Trimble  they  are  cer- 
tain to  find  a  fr'iend,  who  will  supply  their 
necessities  upon  the  strength  of  theii'  bare 
promise  to  repay  him.  Honor,  then — honor, 
sii',  I  say  again,  to  the  imexampled  faith, 
truth,  and  high  principle  of  the  industrious 
Irish  peasant,  who,  in  no  instance,  even  at- 
though  the  broad  Atlantic  has  been  placed 
between  them,  has  been  known  to  defraud 
James  Trimble  of  a  single  shilling.  In  aU 
parochial  and  public  meetings — ^in  eveiy 
position  where  his  influence  can  be  used — he 
is  uniformly  the  friend  of  the  poor,  whilst 
his  high  but  unassuming  sense  of  honor,  his 
successful  industry,  and  his  firm,  Tinsln-ink- 
ing  independence,  make  him  equally  apj)re- 
ciated  and  respected  by  the  rich  and  jDOor.  In 
fact,  it  is  such  men  as  this  who  are  the  most 
unostentatious  but  practical  benefactors  to 
the  lower  and  middle  classes." 

He  had  proceeded  thus  far,  when  a  car- 
riage-and-four  came  dashing  up  the  street, 
and  stopped  at  the  veiy  shoj)  which  be- 
longed to  the  subject  of  Fenton's  eulogium. 
Both  went  to  the  window  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, and  looked  out. 

"  Pray,  whose  carriage  is  that  ?  "  asked 
the  stranger,  fastening  his  eyes,  with  a  look 
of  intense  scrutiny,  upon  Fenton's  face. 

"That,  sir,"  he  reiilied,  "is  the  carriage 
of  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


333 


As  he  spoke,  the  door  of  it  was  opened, 
ind  a  lady  of  surpassing  elegance  and 
'beauty  stepped  out  of  it,  and  entered  the 
shop  of  the  benevolent  James  Trimble. 

"  Pray,  who  is  that  charming  girl  ?  "  asked 
the  stranger  again. 

To  this  interrogatory,  however,  he  re- 
ceived no  reply.  Poor  Fenton  tottered  over 
k)  a  chair,  became  pale  as  death,  and  trem- 
bled •with  such  violence  that  he  was  incapa- 
ble, for  the  time,  of  uttering  a  single  word. 

"  Do  you  know,  or  have  you  ever  known, 
%is  family  ?  "  asked  the  other. 

After  a  pause  of  more  than  a  minute, 
Aiu'ing  which  the  emotion  subsided,  he 
replied : 

"  I  have  already  said  that  I  could  not — " 
he  paused.  "  I  am  not  well,"  said  he  ;  "I 
am  quite  feeble — in  fact,  not  in  a  condition 
to  answer  anything.  Do  not,  therefore, 
ask  me — for  the  present,  at  least." 

Fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  had  elapsed 
before  he  succeeded  in  mastering  this  sm- 
gular  attack.  At  length  he  rose,  and  pla- 
cing his  chair  somewhat  further  back  fi'ora 
the  window,  continued  to  look  out  in  silence, 
not  so  much  from  love  of  silence,  as  ap- 
parently from  inability  to  speak.  The  stran- 
ger, in  the  mean  time,  eyed  him  keenly  ; 
and  as  he  examined  his  features  from  time 
to  time,  it  might  be  observed  that  an  ex- 
pression of  satisfaction,  if  not  almost  of 
certainty,  settled  upon  his  own  countenance. 
In  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  sound  of  the 
carriage-wheels  was  heard  on  its  return,  and 
Fenton,  who  seemed  to  dread  also  a  return  of 
his  illness,  said  : 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  sir,  be  good  enough 
to  raise  the  window  and  let  in  air.  Thank 
you,  sir." 

The  carriage,  on  this  occasion,  was  pro- 
ceeding more  slowly  than  before — in  fact, 
owing  to  a  slight  accHvity  in  that  part  of 
the  street,  the  horses  were  leisurely  walking- 
past  the  inn  -n-indow  at  the  moment  the 
stranger  raised  it.  The  noise  of  the  ascending 
sash  reached  Miss  Gourlay  (for  it  was  she), 
who,  on  looking  up,  crimsoned  deeply,  and, 
with  one  long  taper  finger  on  her  lijDS,  as  if 
to  intimate  caution  and  silence,  bowed  to 
the  stranger.  The  latter,  who  had  j^resence 
of  mind  enough  to  obseiwe  the  hint,  did 
not  bow  in  return,  and  consequently  declined 
to  appropriate  the  comphment  to  himself. 
Fenton  now  surveyed  his  companion  with 
an  appearance  of  as  much  interest  and  curi- 
osity as  the  other  had  bestowed  on  him. 
He  felt,  however,  as  if  his  .physical  powers 
were  wholly  prostrated. 

" I  am  very  weak,"  said  he,  bitterly,  "and 
near  the  close  of  my  brief  and  unhappy  day. 
I  have,  however,  one  cui-e — get  me  di'ink — 


drink,  I  say ;  that  is  what  will  revive  ma 
Sir,  my  Ufe,  for  the  last  fourteen  years,  hag 
been  a  battle  against  thought ;  and  without 
drink  I  should  be  a  madman — a  madman ! 
oh,  God  ! " 

The  other  remonstrated  with  him  in  vain  ; 
but  he  was  inexorable,  and  began  to  get  fierce 
and  frantic.  At  length,  it  occurred  to  him, 
that  perhaps  the  influence  of  liquor  might 
render  this  strange  indiridual  more  com- 
municative, and  that  by  this  means  he  might 
succeed  in  relieving  himself  of  his  doubts — 
for  he  still  had  doubts  touching  Fenton's 
identity.  Li  this,  however,  he  was  disap- 
pointed, as  a  circumstance  occurred  which 
prevented  him  from  then  gratifying  Fenton's 
wish,  or  winning  him  into  confidence. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

An  Anonymous  Letter — Lucy  Gourlay  avows  a -pre- 
vious  Attachment. 

Whilst  Fenton  was  thus  sketching  for  the 
stranger  a  few  of  the  jDublic  characters  of 
Ballytrain,  a  scene,  which  we  must  interrupt 
them  to  describe,  was  taking  place  in  the 
coffee-room  of  the  "Mitre."  As  eveiything, 
however,  has  an  origin,  it  is  necessary,  be- 
fore we  raise  the  curtain,  which,  for  the 
present,  excludes  us  fi'om  that  scene,  to  en- 
able the  reader  to  become  acquainted  with 
the  cause  of  it.  That  morning,  after  bi'eak- 
fast.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  went  to  his  study, 
where,  as  usual,  he  began  to  read  his  letters 
and  endorse  them — for  he  hapi^ened  to  be 
one  of  those  orderly  and  exact  men  who 
cannot  bear  to  see  even  a  trifle  out  of  its 
place.  Having  despatched  three  or  foiu",  he 
took  up  one — the  last — and  on  opening  it 
read,  much  to  hia  astonishment  aiad  dismay, 
as  follows ; 

"Sir  Thomas  Gourl.\y, — There  is  an  ad- 
venturer in  disguise  near  you.  Bewai-e  of 
your  daughter,  and  watch  her  well,  other- 
wise she  may  give  you  the  slip.  I  wTite 
this,  that  you  may  prevent  her  fi'om  throw- 
ing herself  away  ujDon  an  impostor  and 
profligate.  I  am  a  friend  to  her,  but  none  to 
you;  and  it  is  on  her  accoimt,  as  weU  as  for 
the  sake  of  another,  that  you  are  now 
warned." 

On  perusing  this  uncomfortable  docu- 
ment, his  whole  fi-ame  became  moved  with 
a  most  vehement  fit  of  indignation.  He 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  began  to  traverse 
the  floor  with  lengthy  and  solemn  strides, 
as  a  man  usually  does  who  knows  not  exactly 
on  whom  to  vent  his  rage.     There  hxmg  i\ 


d34 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


large  miiTor  befoiv  him,  and,  as  he  ap- 
proached it  from  time  to  time,  he  could  not 
help  being  struck  by  the  repulsive  expres- 
sion of  his  own  features.  He  was  a  tall, 
weighty  man,  of  large  bones  and  muscles  ; 
his  complexion  was  saUow,  on  a  black 
gi'ound  ;  his  face  firm,  but  angular  ;  and  his 
forehead,  which  was  low,  projected  a  good  ' 
deal  over  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  in  one  of 
which  there  was  a  fearful  squint.  His  eye- 
brows, which  met,  were  black,  fierce-looking, 
and  bushy,  and,  when  agitated,  as  now, 
with  passion,  they  presented,  taken  in  con- 
nection with  his  hard,  irascible  hps,  short 
irregular  teeth  and  whole  complexion,  an 
expression  singularly  stem  and  mahgnant. 

On  looking  at  his  own  image,  he  could 
not  helj)  feehng  the  con^•iction,  that  the  vis- 
age which  presented  itself  to  him  was  not 
such  a  one  as  was  calculated  to  diminish  the 
unpopularity  which  accompanied  him  wher- 
ever he  went,  and  the  obloquy  which  himg 
over  his  name. 

Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  however,  although 
an  exceedingly  forbidding  and  ugly  man, 
was  neither  a  fool  nor  novice  in  the  ways  of 
the  world.  No  man  could  look  upon  his 
plotting  forehead,  and  svmken  eyes  closely 
placed,  withoiit  feeling  at  once  that  he  was 
naturally  cunning  and  cii'cumventive.  Nor 
was  this  all ;  along  with  being  deep  and 
designing,  he  was  also  subject  to  sudden 
bursts  of  passion,  which,  although  usual  in 
such  a  temperament,  did  not  suddenly  pass 
away.  On  the  contraiy,  they  were  some- 
times at  once  so  tempestuous  and  abiding, 
that  he  had  been  rendered  ill  by  their  fury, 
and  forced  to  take  to  his  bed  for  days  to- 
gether. On  the  present  occasion,  a  consid- 
erable portion  of  his  indignation  was  caused 
by  the  fact,  that  he  knew  not  the  individual 
against  whom  to  du-ect  it.  His  daughter, 
as  a  daughter,  had  been  to  him  an  object  of 
perfect  indifference,  from  the  day  of  her 
birth  up  to  that  moment ;  that  is  to  say,  he 
was  utterly  devoid  of  all  personal  love  and 
tenderness  for  her,  whilst,  at  the  same  time, 
he  experienced,  in  its  full  force,  a  cold,  con- 
ventional ambition,  which,  although  vdthout 
honor,  principle,  or  affection,  yet  occasioned 
him  to  devote  all  his  efforts  and  energies  to 
her  proper  establishment  in  the  world.  In 
her  early  youth,  for  instance,  she  had  suf- 
fered much  from  dehcate  health,  so  much, 
indeed,  that  she  was  more  than  once  on  the 
vei"y  verge  of  death  ;  yet,  on  no  occasion, 
was  he  ever  known  to  manifest  the  slightest 
parental  soitow  for  her  iUness.  Society, 
however,  is  filled  \d\h.  such  fathers,  and  with 
too  many  mothers  of  a  hke  stamp.  So  fai-, 
however,  as  Lucy  Gouiiay  was  concerned, 
this  proud,  unprincipled  spirit  of  the  world 


supphed  to  her,  to  a  certain  extent  at  least, 
the  jDossession  of  that  which  affection  ought 
to  have  given.  Her  education  was  attended 
to  vnXh.  the  most  sohcitous  anxiety — not  in 
order  to  furnish  her  mind  with  that  healthy 
description  of  knowledge  which  strengthens 
principle  and  elevates  the  heart,  but  that 
she  might  become  a  perfect  mistress  of  all 
the  necessary  and  fashionable  accompHsh- 
ments,  and  shine,  at  a  futiu'e  day,  an  object 
of  attraction  on  that  account.  A  long  and 
expensive  array  of  masters,  mistresses,  and 
finishers,  from  almost  every  climate  and 
country  of  Europe,  were  engaged  in  her 
education,  and  the  consequence  was,  that 
few  young  persons  of  her  age  and  sex  were 
more  highly  accomplished.  If  his  daughter's 
head  ached,  her  father  never  suffered  that 
cu'cumstance  to  distiu'b  the  cold,  stern  tenor 
of  his  ambitious  way  ;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
two  or  three  of  the  most  eminent  physicians 
were  sent  for,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
then  there  were  nothing  but  consulta- 
tions until  she  recovered.  Had  she  died. 
Sir  Thomas  Govuiay  would  not  have  shed 
one  tear,  but  he  would  have  had  all  the 
pomp  and  ceremony  due  to  her  station  in 
life  solemnly  paraded  at  her  funeral,  and  it 
is  very  likely  that  one  or  other  of  our  emi- 
nent countiymen,  Hogan  or  MDowall,  had 
they  then  existed,  would  have  been  engaged 
to  erect  her  a  monument. 

And  yet  the  feeling  which  he  experienced, 
and  which  regulated  his  hfe,  was,  after  all, 
but  a  poor  pitiful  parody  upon  time  ambi- 
tion. The  latter  is  a  great  and  glorious 
princijDle,  because,  where  it  exists,  it  never 
fails  to  expand  the  heart,  and  to  prompt  it 
to  the  performance  of  all  those  actions  that 
elevate  our  condition  and  dignifA'  owe  nature. 
Had  he  exjjerienced  an}i;hing  like  such  a 
feehng  as  this,  or  even  the  beautiful  instincts 
of  parental  affection,  he  would  not  have  neg- 
lected, as  he  did,  the  inculcation  of  all  those 
virtues  and  principles  which  render  educa- 
tion valuable,  and  prevent  it  from  degen- 
erating into  an  empty  parade  of  mere  accom- 
jDlishments. 

It  is  true,  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  enjoyed 
the  reputation  of  being  an  admirable  father, 
and,  indeed,  fi-om  mere  worldly  principle  he 
was  so,  and  we  presume  gave  himself  credit 
for  being  so.  In  the  mean  time,  our  readers 
are  to  leani  that  earth  scarcety  contained  a 
man  who  possessed  a  gi-eedier  or  more  ra- 
pacious spirit  ;  and,  if  ever  the  demon  of 
enyj',  especially  \ri.ih.  respect  to  the  posses- 
sibii  of  wealth  and  property,  tortured  the 
soul  of  a  human  being,  it  did  that  of  our 
baronet.  His  whole  spirit,  in  fact,  was  dark, 
mean,  and  intensely  selfish ;  and  for  this 
reason,  it  was  a  feai-ful  thing  for  any  one  to 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


385 


stand  in  his  way  when  in  the  execution  of 
his  sordid  projects,  much  less  to  attempt  his 
defeat  in  their  attainment.  Reckless  and 
unscrupulous,  he  left  no  means  unattempted, 
however  odious  and  wicked,  to  cmsh  those 
who  ofifended  him,  or  such  as  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  love  of  wealth  and  ambition. 

For  some  minutes  after  the  perusal  of  the 
anon}-mous  letter,  one  would  have  imagined 
that  the  image  which  met  his  gaze,  from 
time  to  time,  in  the  looking-glass,  was  that 
of  his  worst  and  deadhest  enemy,  so  fierce 
and  menacing  were  the  glances  which  he 
cast  on  it  as  he  paced  the  floor.  At  length 
he  took  up  the  document,  and,  ha^'ing  read 
it  again,  exclaimed  : 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  I'm  angrj'  to  no  pur- 
pose ;  certainly  to  no  purpose,  in  one  sense, 
I  am,  inasmuch  as  I  know  not  who  this 
anonjTnous  person  is.  But  stay,  let  me  be 
cautious — U  there  such  a  person '?  May  this 
communication  not  be  a  false  one — wi'itten 
to  mislead  or  provoke  me?  Lucy  knows 
that  I  am  detei'mined  she  shall  marr}-  Lord 
Dimroe,  and  I  am  not  aware  that  she  enter- 
tains any  peculiar  objection  to  him.  In  the 
mean  time,  I  will  have  some  conversation 
with  her,  in  order  to  ascertain  what  her 
present  and  immediate  feeling  on  the  sub- 
ject is.  It  is  right  that  I  should  see  my 
way  in  this." 

He  accordingly  rang  the  bell,  when  a 
well-powdered  footman,  in  rich  liverj^  en- 
tered. 

"Let  ]Miss  Gom-lay  understand  that  I 
wish  to  see  her." 

This  he  uttered  in  a  loud,  shai'p  tone  of 
voice,  for  it  was  in  such  he  uniformly  ad- 
dressed his  dependents. 

The  lackey  bowed  and  withdi*ew,  and,  in 
the  course  oi  a  few  minutes,  his  daughter 
entered  the  study,  and  stood  before  him. 
At  the  first  glance,  she  saw  that  something 
had  discomposed  him,  and  felt  a  kind  of  in- 
stinctive impression  that  it  was  more  or  less 
connected  -vWth  herself. 

Seldom,  indeed,  was  such  a  contrast  be- 
tween man  and  woman  ever  witnessed,  as 
that  which  presented  itself  on  this  occasion. 
There  stood  the  large,  ungainly,  almost  mis- 
shapen father,  with  a  countenance  distorted, 
by  the  consequences  of  ill-suppressed  pas- 
sion, into  a  deeper  deformity — a  deformity 
that  was  rendered  ludicrously  hideous,  by  a 
squint  that  gave,  as  we  have  said,  to  one  of 
liis  eyes,  as  he  looked  at  her,  the  almost  ht- 
ei'al  expression  of  a  dagger.  Before  him, 
on  the  other  hand,  stood  a  gu-1,  whose  stat- 
ure was  above  the  middle  height,  ■«"ith  a 
form  that  breathed  of  elegance,  ease,  and 
that  exquisite  gi-ace  which  mai'ks  every  look, 
and  word,  and  motion  of  the  high-minded 


and  accomphshed  lady.  Indeed,  one  would 
imagine  that  her  appearance  would  have 
soothed  and  tranquillized  the  anger  of  any 
parent  capable  of  feeling  that  glowing  and 
prideful  tenderness,  with  which  such  an  ex- 
quisitely beautiful  creature  was  calculated 
to  fill  a  pai-ent's  heart.  Lucy  Gourlay  was  a 
dark  beauty — a  brunette  so  richly  tinted, 
that  the  glow  of  her  cheek  was  only  sur- 
passed b}'  the  flashing  brilliancy  of  her 
large,  dai-k  eyes,  that  seemed,  in  those 
glorious  manifestations,  to  kindle  with  in- 
spiration. Her  forehead  was  eminently  in- 
tellectual, and  her  general  temperament — 
Celtic  by  the  mother's  side — was  remarkable 
for  those  fascinating  transitions  of  spirit 
which  passed  over  her  countenance  like  the 
gloom  and  sunshine  of  the  early  summer. 
Nothing  could  be  more  delightful,  nor,  at 
the  same  time,  more  dangerous,  than  to 
watch  that  countenance  whilst  moring  under 
the  influence  of  melanchoh',  and  to  observe 
how  quickly  the  depths  of  feeling,  or  the 
impulses  of  tenderness,  threw  their  deU- 
cious  shadows  into  its  expression — unless, 
indeed,  to  watch  the  same  face  when  Ht  up 
by  humor,  and  animated  into  radiance  by 
mirth.  Such  is  a  faint  outline  of  Lucy 
Gourlay,  who,  whether  in  shadow  or  whether 
in  hght,  was  equaUy  caj^tivating  and  irre- 
sistible. 

On  entering  the  room,  her  father,  incapa- 
ble of  appreciating  even  the  natural  graces 
and  beauty  of  her  person,  looked  at  her 
with  a  gaze  of  sternness  and  inquiry  for 
some  moments,  but  seemed  at  a  loss  in  what 
terms  to  address  her.  She,  however,  spoke 
first,  simply  saying : 

"  Has  anything  discomposed  you,  papa  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  discomposed,  ]Miss  Gourlay  " 
— for  he  seldom  addressed  her  as  Lucy — 
"  and  I  wish  to  have  some  serious  conversa- 
tion with  you.     Pray  be  seated." 

Lucy  sat. 

"  I  trust.  Miss  Gourlay,"  he  proceeded,  in  a 
style  partly  interrogatory  and  partly  didactic 
— "I  trust  you  are  perfectly  sensible  that  a 
child  like  you  owes  fvdl  and  unlimited  obedi- 
ence to  her  parents." 

"So  long,  at  least,  sir,  as  her  parents  ex- 
act no  duties  fi-om  her  that  are  either  un- 
reasonable or  imjust,  or  calculated  to  de- 
sti'oy  her  own  happiness.  With  these  limi- 
tations, I  reply  in  the  affinnative." 

"  A  girl  like  you,  Miss  Gourlay,  has  no 
right  to  make  exceptions.  Your  want  of 
experience,  which  is  only  another  name  for 
your  ignorance  of  hfe,  rendei-s  you  incom- 
petent to  form  an  estimate  of  what  consti- 
tutes, or  may  constitute,  your  happiness." 

"  Happiness  ! — in  what  sense,  sir  ?  " 

"In  any  sense,  madam." 


336 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Madam  !  "  she  replied,  "with  much  feel- 
ing. "  Dear  papa — if  you  will  allow  me  to 
call  you  so — why  address  me  in  a  tone  of 
such  coldness,  if  not  of  severity  ?  All  I  ask 
of  you  is,  that,  when  you  do  honor  me  by  an 
interview,  you  ^^■ill  remember  that  I  am  your 
daughter,  and  not  speak  to  me  as  you  Avould 
to  an  utter  stranger."  ^ 

"  The  tone  which  I  may  assume  toward 
you,  INIiss  Gourlay,  must  be  regulated  by 
your  own  obedience/' 

"  But  in  what  have  I  ever  failed  in  obedi- 
ence to  you,  my  dear  papa  ?  " 

"Perhaps  j'ou  compHment your  obedience 
prematurely,  Lucy — it  has  never  yet  been 
seriously  tested." 

Her  beautiful  face  crimsoned  at  this  as- 
sertion ;  for  she  well  knew  that  many  a 
severe  impowtion  had  been  placed  upon  her 
dui'ing  girlliood,  and  that,  had  she  been  any 
other  girl  than  she  was,  her  very  youth 
would  have  been  forced  into  opposition  to 
commands  that  originated  in  whim,  caprice, 
and  selfishness.  Even  when  countenanced, 
however,  by  the  authority  of  her  other 
parent,  and  absolutely  urged  against  com- 
pliance with  injunctions  that  were  often 
cruel  and  oiDpressive,  she  preferred,  at  any 
risk,  to  accommodate  herself  to  them  rather 
than  become  the  cause  of  estrangement  or 
ill-feeling  between  him  and  her  mother,  or 
her  mother's  friends.  Such  a  charge  as  this, 
then,  was  not  only  ungenerous,  but,  as  he 
must  have  well  known,  utterly  unfounded. 

"  I  do  not  wish,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  to  make 
any  allusion  to  the  past,  unless  simply  to 
say,  that,  if  severe  and  trying  instances  of 
obedience  have  been  exacted  fi'om  me,  under 
very  peculiar  circumstances,  I  trust  I  have 
not  been  foimd  wanting  in  my  duty  to  you." 

"  That  obedience.  Miss  Gourlay,  which  is 
reluctantly  given,  had  better  been  forgot- 
ten." 

"  You  have  forced  me  to  remember  it  in 
iny  own  defence,  jDapa  ;  but  I  am  not  con- 
scious that  it  was  reluctant." 

"You  contradict  me,  madam." 

"No,  sir  ;  I  only  take  the  liberty  of  set- 
ting you  right.  My  obedience,  if  you  recol- 
lect, was  cheerful  ;  for  I  did  not  wish  to 
occasion  ill-will  between  you  and  mamma — 
my  dear  mamma." 

"I  believe  you  considered  that  you, had 
only  07?e  parent,  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"That  loved  me,  sir,  you  would  add. 
But,  papa,  why  should  there  be  such  a  dia- 
logue as  this  between  you  and  your  daugh- 
ter— joxn-  orplian  daughter,  and  your  only 
child  ?  It  is  not  natural.  Something,  I  see, 
has  discomposed  your  temper  ;  I  am  igno- 
rant of  it." 

"  I  made  you  aware,  some  time  ago,  that 


the  Earl  of  Cullamore  and  I  had  entered 
into  a  matrimonial  arrangement  between  you 
and  his  son.  Lord  Dunroe." 

A  deadly  paleness  settled  upon  her  coun« 
tenance  at  these  words — a  paleness  the  more 
obvious,  as  it  contrasted  so  strongly  with 
the  previous  rich  hue  of  her  complexion, 
which  had  been  already  heightened  by  the 
wanton  harshness  of  her  father's  manner. 
The  baronet's  eyes,  or  rather  his  eje,  was 
fixed  upon  her  with  a  severity  which  this 
incident  rapidly  increased. 

"  You  grow  pale.  Miss  Gourlay ;  and 
there  seems  to  be  something  in  this  allusion 
to  Lord  Dunroe  that  is  painful  to  you.  How 
is  this,  madam  ?  I  do  not  understand  it." 

"  I  am,  indeed,  pale,  and  I  feel  that  I  am ; 
for  what  is  there  that  could  drive  the  hue  ol 
modesty  fi-om  the  cheek  of  a  daughter, 
sooner  than  the  fact  of  her  own  father  pur. 
posing  to  unite  her  to  a  profligate  ?  You  sel- 
dom jest,  papa ;  but  I  hope  you  do  so  now." 

"  I  am  not  disposed  to  make  a  jest  of  your 
happiness.  Miss  Gourlay." 

"  Nor  of  my  misery,  papa.  You  surely 
cannot  but  know — nay,  j^ou  cannot  but  feel — 
that  a  marriage  between  me  and  Lord  Dun- 
roe is  impossible.  His  profligacy  is  so  gross, 
that  his  ver}'  name  is  inclehcate  in  the 
mouth  of  a  modest  woman.  And  is  this  the 
man  to  whom  you  would  unite  your  only 
child  and  daughter  ?  But  I  trust  you  still 
jest,  sir.  As  a  man,  and  a  gentleman,  much 
less  as  a  parent,  you  would  not  think  seri« 
ously  of  making  such  a  proposal  to  vie  ?  " 

"  All  very  fine  sentiment — very  fine  stuff 
and  nonsense,  madam  ;  the  young  man  is  fi 
little  wHd — somewhat  la\ash  in  expendi-> 
ture — and  for  the  present  not  very  select  iii 
the  company  he  keeps  ;  but  he  is  no  fool,  a& 
they  say,  and  we  all  know  how  marriage  re- 
forms a  man,  and  thoi-oughly  sobers  him 
down." 

"  Often  at  the  expense,  papa,"  she  replied 
with  tears,  "of  many  a  broken  heart.  That 
surely,  is  not  a  happy  argument ;  for,  per- 
haps, after  all,  I  should,  like  others,  become 
but  a  victim  to  my  ineffectual  efforts  at  his 
reformation." 

"There  is  one  thing.  Miss  Gourlay,  you 
are  certain  to  become,  and  that  is.  Countess 
of  Cullamore,  at  his  father's  death.  Remem- 
ber this  ;  and  remember  also,  that,  victim  or 
no  victim,  I  am  determined  you  shall  marry 
him.  Yes,  you  shall  marry  him,"  he  added, 
stamping  with  vehemence,  "  or  be  turned  a 
beggar  upon  the  world.  Become  a  victim, 
indeed !  Begone,  madam,  to  your  room, 
and  prepare  for  that  obedience  which  your 
mother  never  taught  you." 

She  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  with  a  gracefuJ 
inchnation  of  her  head,  silently  withdi'ew. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


ZZ\ 


This  dialof^e  caused  both  father  and 
daughter  much  pain.  Certain  portions  of 
it,  especially  near  the  close,  were  calculated 
to  force  upon  the  memory  of  each,  analogies 
that  were  as  distressing  to  tlie  warm-hearted 
girl,  as  the}'  were  embarrassing  to  her  parent. 
ITie  truth  was,  that  her  mother,  then  a  year 
dead,  had  indeed  become  a  victim  to  the 
moral  profligacy  of  a  man  in  whose  charac- 
ter there  existed  nothing  whatsoever  to  com- 
pensate her  for  the  utter  absence  of  do- 
mestic aflection  in  all  its  phases.  His 
principal  vices,  so  far  as  they  affe(^ted  the 
peace  of  his  family,  were  a  brutal  temper, 
and  a  most  scandalous  dishonesty  in  pecu- 
niar}' transactions,  especially  in  his  inter- 
course with  his  own  tenantry  and  tradesmen. 
Of  moral  obligation  he  seemed  to  possess  no 
sense  or  impression  whatever.  A  single  day 
never  occurred  in  which  he  was  not  guilty 
of  some  most  dishonorable  violation  of  his 
word  to  the  poor,  and  those  who  were  de- 
pendent on  him.  Ill-temiDer  therefore 
toward  herself,  and  the  necessity  of  con- 
stantly witnessing  a  series  of  vile  and  un- 
manly frauds  ujDon  a  miserable  scale,  to- 
gether with  her  incessant  efforts  to  instil 
into  his  mind  some  sHght  principle  of  com- 
mon integrity,  had,  dm-ing  an  unhappy  life, 
so  completely  harrassed  a  mind  naturally 
jjure  and  gentle,  and  a  constitution  never 
strong,  that,  as  her  daughter  hinted,  and  as 
evei'y  one  intimate  with  the  family  knew, 
she  literally  fell  a  victim  to  the  Tices  we  have 
named,  and  the  incessant  anxiety  they  occa- 
sioned her.  These  analogies,  then,  when 
unconsciously  alluded  to  by  his  daughter, 
brought  tears  to  her  eyes,  and  he  felt  that 
the  very  gi'ief  she  evinced  was  an  indirect 
reproach  to  himself. 

"Now,"  he  exclaimed,  after  she  had  gone, 
"it  is  clear,  I  think,  that  the  girl  entertains 
something  more  than  a  mere  moi-al  objec- 
tion to  this  match.  I  would  have  taxed  her 
with  some  previous  engagement,  but  that  I 
fear  it  would  be  prematui'e  to  do  so  at  pres- 
ent. Dunroe  is  wild,  no  doubt  of  it ;  but  I 
cannot  believe  that  women,  who  are  natur- 
ally vain  and  fond  of  display,  feel  so  much 
alai'm  at  this  as  they  pretend.  I  never  did 
myself  care  much  about  the  sex,  and  seldom 
had  an  opportunity  of  studying  their  gene- 
ral chai'acter,  or  testing  their  principles ; 
l)ut  still  I  incline  to  the  opinion,  that,  where 
there  is  not  a  previous  engagement,  rank 
and  wealth  will,  for  the  most  part,  outweigh 
every'  other  consideration.  In  the  meantime 
I  will  ride  into  Ballytrain,  and  reconnoitre  a 
Httle.  Perhaps  the  contents  of  this  commu- 
nication are  true — perhaps  not ;  but,  at  all 
events,  it  can  be  no  harm  to  look  about  me 
in  a  quiet  way." 


He  then  read  the  letter  a  third  time — ex- 
amined the  handwriting  closely — locked  it 
in  a  private  drawer — rang  the  bell — ordered 
his  horse — and  in  a  few  minutes  was  about 
to  proceed  to  the  "  Mitre  "  inn,  in  order  to 
make  secret  inquiries  after  such  persons  as 
he  might  find  located  in  that  or  the  othei 
establishments  of  the  to^-n.  At  this  mo- 
ment, his  daughter  once  more  entered  the 
apartment,  her  face  glowing  with  deep  agita- 
tion, and  her  large,  mellow  eyes  lit  up  with 
a  fixed,  and,  if  one  could  judge,  a  lofty  pur- 
pose. Her  reception,  we  need  hardly  say, 
was  severe  and  harsh. 

"  How,  madam,"  he  exclaimed,  "  did  I  not 
order  you  to  your  room  ?  Do  you  return  to 
bandy  undutiful  hints  and  arguments  with 
me?" 

"Father,"  said  she,  "I  am  not  ignorant, 
alas  !  of  your  stern  and  indomitable  charac- 
ter ;  but,  upon  the  subject  of  forced  and  un- 
suitable matches,  I  may  and  I  do  appeal 
directly  to  the  experience  of  your  own  mar- 
ried hfe,  and  of  that  of  my  beloved  mother. 
She  was,  unhajjpily  for  herself — " 

"And  for  me,  ]\liss  Gourlay." 

"  Well,  perhaps  ^o  ;  but  if  ever  woman 
was  quahfied  to  make  a  man  happy,  she  was. 
At  all  events,  sir,  unhappil}'  she  was  forced 
into  marriage  with  you,  and  you  deliberately 
took  to  your  bosom  a  reluctant  bride.  She 
possessed  extraordinary  beauty,  and  a  large 
fortune.  I,  however,  am  not  about  to  enter 
into  your  heart,  or  analyze  its  motives  ;  it  is 
enough  to  say  that,  although  she  had  no 
prerious  engagement  or  affection  for  any 
other,  she  was  literally  dragged  by  the  force 
of  parental  authority  into  a  union  with  you. 
The  consequence  was,  that  her  whole  hfe, 
owing  to — to— the  unsuitableness  of  your 
tempers,  and  the  strongly-contrasted  mate- 
rials which  formed  your  characters,  was  one 
of  almost  unexampled  suffering  and  sorrow 
With  this  example  before  my  eyes,  and  with 
the  memory  of  it  brooding  over  and  darken- 
ing your  own  heart — yes,  papa — my  dear 
papa,  let  me  call  you  with  the  full  and  most 
distressing  recollections  connected  with  it 
strong  upon  both  of  us,  let  me  entreat  and 
implore  that  you  ^vill  not  urge  nor  force  me 
into  a  union  \s\\X\  this  hateful  and  repulsive 
profligate.  I  go  upon  my  knees  to  you,  and 
entreat,  as  you  regard  m}'  happiness,  my 
honor,  and  my  future  peace  of  mind,  that 
you  -n-ill  not  attempt  to  unite  me  to  this 
most  unprincipled  and  dishonorable  young 
man." 

Her  father's  brow  grew  black  as  a  thun- 
der-cloud ;  the  veins  of  his  temples  swelled 
up,  as  if  they  had  been  filled  with  ink. 
and,  after  a  few  hasty  strides  through 
the   study,   he   turned    upon    her    such   a 


sss 


WILLI  A  Al   CAULETON'S  WORKS. 


look  of  fury   as  we   need   not   attempt  to 
describe. 

"IVIiss  Goui-lay,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  dread- 
fully deep  and  stern,  "  there  is  not  an  allu- 
sion made  in  that  undutiful  harangue — for  so 
I  must  call  it — that  does  not  determine  me  ; 
to  accomplish  my  purpose  in  effecting  this 
union.     If  yovu-  mother  was  unhappy,   the 
fault  lay  in  her  o^vn  weak  and  morbid  tem-  i 
per.     As  for  me,  I  now  tell  3'ou,  once  for  all,  ' 
that  yovir  destiny  is  either  beggary  or  a  cor- 
onet ;  on  that  I  am  resolved  !  " 

She  stood  before  him  like  one  who  had 
drawn  strength  fi'om  the  full  knowledge  of 
her  fate.  Her  face,  it  is  true,  had  become 
pale,  but  it  was  the  paleness  of  a  calm  but 
lofty  spirit,  and  she  repHed,  with  a  full  and 
clear  voice : 

"  I  said,  sir — for  I  had  her  own  sacred  as- 
surance for  it — that  my  mother,  when  she 
married  you,  had  no  previous  engagement ; 
it  is  not  so  with  yovu*  daughter — my  affec- 
tions are  fixed  upon  another." 

There  are  some  natures  so  essentially 
tyrannical,  and  to  whom  resistance  is  a  mat- 
ter of  such  extraordinaiy  novelty,  that  its 
manifestation  absolutely  sm-jDrises  them  out 
of  their  natm-al  character.  In  this  manner 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  was  affected.  Instead 
of  flying  into  a  fresh  hurricane  of  rage,  he 
felt  so  completely  astounded,  that  he  was 
only  capable  of  turning  round  to  her,  and 
asking,  in  a  voice  unusually  calm  : 

"Pray  name  him.  Miss  Goui'lay." 

"  In  that,  sir,  you  will  excuse  me — for  the 
present.  The  day  may  come,  and  I  tnist 
soon  will,  when  I  can  do  so  with  honor. 
And  now,  sir,  having  considered  it  my  duty 
not  to  conceal  this  fact  from  your  knowledge, 
I  will,  \rith  your  permission,  withdraw  to 
my  own  apartment." 

She  paid  him,  with  her  own  peculiar 
grace,  the  usual  obeisance,  and  left  the  room. 
The  stem  and  overbearing  Sii'  Thomas  Gom-- 
lay  now  felt  himself  so  completely  taken 
aback  by  her  extraordinary  candor  and  fii'm- 
ness,  that  he  was  only  able  to  stand  and  look 
after  her  in  silent  amazement. 

"Well !  "  he  exclaimed,  "I  have  reason  to 
thank  her  for  this  important  piece  of  infor- 
mation. She  has  herself  admitted  a  previous 
attachment.  So  far  my  doubts  are  cleared 
up,  and  I  feel  jierfectly  certain  that  the  an- 
onymous information  is  correct.  It  now  re- 
mains for  me  to  find  out  who  the  object  of 
this  attachment  is.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he 
is  in  the  neighborhood  ;  and,  if  so,  I  shall 
know  how  to  manage  him." 

He  then  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  into 
BaUytrain,  with  what  pui-jiose  it  is  now  un- 
necessaiy,  we  trust,  to  trouble  the  reader  at 
further  lenerth. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Sir  Tlwmas  Gourlay  fails  in  Umnasking  the  Strmngtf 
— Mysteiious  Conduct  of  Fenton. 

When  Sir  Thomas  Gomiay,  after  the  delay 
of  better  than  an  hour  in  town,  entered  the 
coffee-room  of  the  "Mitre,"  he  was  immedi* 
ately  attended  by  the  landlord  himself. 

"  Who  is  this  new  guest  you  have  got, 
landloi'd  ?  "  inquired  the  bai'onet.  "  They 
tell  me  he  is  a  very  mysterious  gentleman, 
and  that  no  one  can  discover  his  name.  Do 
you  know  anything  about  him  ?  " 

"  De'il  a  syllable.  Sir  Tammas,"  replied  the 
landlord,  who  was  a  northern.  "  How  ir  you. 
Counsellor  Crackenfudge  ?  "  he  added,  speak- 
ing to  a  person  who  passed  upstairs.  "  There 
he  goes,"  proceeded  Jack  the  landlord — "  a 
nice  boy.  But  do  you  know,  Sir  Tammas, 
why  he  changed  his  name  to  Cracken- 
fudge ?  " 

Sir  Thomas's  face  at  this  moment  had 
grown  frightful.  While  the  landlord  was 
sjDeaking,  the  baronet,  attracted  by  the  noise 
of  a  carriage  passing,  turned  to  observe  it, 
just  at  the  moment  when  his  daughter  was 
bowing  so  significantly  to  the  stranger  in  the 
I  window  over  them,  as  we  have  before  stated. 
Here  was  a  new  hght  thrown  upon  the  mys- 
teiy  or  mysteries  by  which  he  felt  himsell 
surrounded  on  all  hands.  The  strange  guest 
in  the  Mitre  inn,  was  then,  beyond  question, 
the  very  indi\idual  alluded  to  in  the  anony- 
mous letter.  The  baronet's  face  had,  in  the 
scowl  of  wi'ath,  got  black,  as  mine  host  was 
speaking.  This  expression,  however,  gradu- 
ally diminished  in  the  dai'kness  of  that  wTath- 
ful  shadow  which  lay  over  it.  After  a  severe 
internal  struggle  with  his  tremendous  pas- 
sions, he  at  length  seemed  to  cool  down. 
His  face  became  totally  changed  ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  of  silence  and  struggle,  it  pass- 
ed fi'om  the  blackness  of  almost  ungovern- 
able rage  to  a  pallid  hue,  that  might  not  un- 
aptly be  comjjai-ed  to  the  summit  of  a  volca- 
no covered  with  snow,  when  about  to  i^roject 
its  most  awful  and  formidable  enij^tions. 

The  landlord,  while  putting  the  question 
to  the  baronet,  turned  his  sharji,  piercing 
eyes  upon  him,  and,  at  a  single  glance,  per- 
ceived that  something  had  unusually  moved 
him. 

"Sir  Tammas,"  said  he,  "there  is  no  use 
in  denyin'  it,  now — the  blood's  disturbed  in 
you." 

"Give  your  guest  my  compliments — Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay's  compliments  —  and  I 
should  feel  obliged  by  a  short  interview." 

On  going  up.  Jack  found  the  stranger  and 
Fenton  as  we  have  already  described  them. 

"  Sir,"   said  he,   addressing  the   former, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


339 


"  there's  a  gentleman  below  who  wishes  to  ' 
know  who  you  ir."  j 

"  WTio  I  am  J  "  retm-ned  the  other,  quite«j 
unmoved  ;  "  and,  pray  who  may  he  be  ?  " 

"  Sir  Tammas  Gourlay  ;  an'  a'll  tell  you 
what,  if  you  don't  wish  to  see  him,  why  don't 
see  him.  All  take  him  the  message,  an'  if 
there's  amihing  about  you  that  you  don't 
wish  to  be  known  or  heard,  make  him  keep 
his  distance.  He's  this  minute  in  a  de'il  of 
a  passion  about  something,  an'  was  comin'  up 
as  if  he'd  ait  you  without  salt,  but  a'  would 
n't  allow  it ;  so,  if  you  don't  wish  to  see  him,  I 
a'm  the  boy  won't  be  afeiu-d  to  say  so.  He's 
not  coming  as  a  fiiend,  a'  can  tell  you."  j 

"Sir  Thomas  Govu'lay's  in  the  house, 
then  ?  "  said  the  stranger,  ■vs'ith  a  good  deal 
of  siu-prise.  He  then  paused  for  some  time,  | 
and,  during  this  pause,  he  veiy  naturally  con- 
cluded that  the  baronet  hatl  witnessed  his 
daughter's  bow,  so  cautiously  and  significant- 
ly made  to  himself  as  she  passed.  Whilst  he 
turned  over  these  matters  in  his  mind,  the 
landlord  addressed  Fenton  as  follows  : 

"  You  can  go  to  another  room,  Fenton. 
A'm  glad  to  see  you  in  a  decent  suit  of 
clothes,  any  way — a'  hope  you'll  take  your- 
self up,  and  avoid  drink  and  low  company  ; 
for  de'il  a  haet  good  ever  the  same  two 
brought  anybody  ;  but,  before  you  go,  all 
give  you  a  gless  o'  grog  to  diink  the  Glorious 
Memorv.  Come,  now,  tramp,  like  a  good 
feUow."' 

"  I  have  a  particular  wish,"  said  the  stran- 
ger, "that  ]\Ir.  Fenton  should  remain  ;  and 
say  to  Sir  Thomas  Goxirlay  that  I  am  ready  to 
see  him." 

"A'  say,  then,"  said  Jack,  in  a  friendly 
whisper,  "be  on  your  edge  with  him,  for,  if 
he  fiiids  you  saft,  the  very  de'U  won't  stand 
him." 

"  The  gentleman,  Sii*  Tammas,"  said  Jack, 
on  going  do-wn  stairs,  "  will  be  glad  to  see 
you.     He's  overhead." 

Fenton,  himself,  on  hearing  that  Sir  Thom- 
as was  about  to  come  up,  prepared  to  de- 
part ;  but  the  other  besought  him  so  earaest- 
ly  to  stay,  that  he  consented,  although  vASh 
evident  reluctance.  He  brought  his  chair 
over  to  a  coraer  of  the  room,  as  if  be  wished 
to  be  as  much  out  of  the  way  as  possible,  or, 
it  may  be,  as  far  from  Sir  Thomas's  eye,  as 
the  size  of  the  apartment  would  permit.  Be 
this  as  it  may.  Sir  Thomas  entered,  and 
brought  his  ungainly  person  nearly  to  the 
centre  of  the  room  before  he  spoke.  At 
length  he  did  so,  but  took  care  not  to  ac- 
company his  words  with  that  covu-tesy  of 
manner,  or  those  rules  of  good-breeding, 
which  ever  prevail  among  gentlemen,  wheth- 
er as  friends  or  foes.  After  standing  for  a 
moment,  he  glanced  from  the  one  to  the  other, 


his  face  stOl  hideously  pale  ;  and  ultimately, 
fixing  his  ej'e  upon  the  stranger,  he  viewed 
him  from  head  to  foot,  and  again  from  foot 
to  head,  with  a  look  of  such  contemptuous 
curiosity,  as  certainly  was  strongly  calculated 
to  excite  the  stranger's  indignation.  Find- 
ing the  baronet  spoke  n»^t,  the  other  did. 

"  To  what  am  I  to  attribute  the  honor  oi 
this  visit,  sir  ?  " 

Sir  Tliomas  even  then  did  not  speak,  but 
still  kept  looking  at  him  with  the  expression 
we  have  described.    At  length  he  did  speak : 

"  You  have  been  residing  for  some  time  in 
our  neighborhood,  sir  ?  "  The  stranger  sim- 
ply bowed. 

"  May  I  ask  how  long  ?  " 

"  I  have  the  honor,  I  beheve,  of  addressing 
Sir  Thomas  Goiu'lay  ?  " 

"Yes,  you  ha\:e  that  honor." 

"  And  may  I  beg  to  know  his  object  in 
paying  me  this  unceremonious  visit,  in  which 
he  does  not  condescend  either  to  announce 
himself,  or  to  observe  the  usual  rules  of  good- 
breeding  ?  " 

"From  my  rank  and  knowTi  position  in 
this  pai*t  of  the  covmtry,  and  in  my  capacity 
also  as  a  magistrate,  sir,"  replied  the  baronet, 
"I'm  entitled  to  make  such  inquiries  as  I 
may  deem  necessary  fi*om  those  who  appear 
here  vmder  suspicious  circumstances." 

"Perhaps you  may  think  so,  but  I  am  ol 
opinion,  sir,  that  you  would  consult  the 
honor  of  the  rank  and  position  you  allude  tc 
much  more  efi'ectually,  by  letting  such  in- 
quiiies  fall  within  the  proper  pro^'ince  of  the 
executive  officers  of  law,  whenever  you  think 
there  is  a  necessity  for  it." 

"  Excuse  me,  but,  in  that  manner,  I  shall 
follow  my  o\^■n  judgrnent,  not  yours." 

"And  under  what  circumstances  of  sus. 
picion  do  you  deem  me  to  stand  at  pres- 
ent?" 

"Very  strong  cu'cumstances.  You  have 
been  now  living  here  nearly  a  week,  in  a 
privacy  which  no  gentleman  would  ever  think 
of  observing.  •  You  have  hemmed  j'ourself  in 
by  a  mysterv',  sir  ;  you  have  studiously  con- 
cealed yom'  name — yovu*  connections — and 
defaced  every  mai-k  by  which  you  could  be 
known  or  traced.  This,  sir,  is  not  the  con- 
duct of  a  gentleman  ;  and  ai'gues  either  actual 
or  premeditated  guilt." 

"  You  seem  heated,  sir,  and  you  also  rea- 
son in  resentment,  whatever  may  have  oc- 
casioned it.  And  so  a  gentleman  is  not  to 
make  an  excursion  to  a  countr}-  town  in  a 
quiet  way — perhaps  to  reciniit  his  health, 
perhaps  to  relax  his  mind,  perhaps  to  gratify 
a  whim — but  he  must  be  ix)unced  upon  by 
some  outrageous  dispenser  of  magisterifil 
justice,  who  thinks,  that,  because  he  wishes 
to  live  quietly  and  unknowHj  he  must  be  ^\<x% 


340 


WILLIAM  CARLETOS'S  WORKS. 


cutthroat  or  raw-head-and-bloody-bones  com- 
ing to  eat  half  the  country  ?  " 

"  I  dai-e  say,  sir,  that  is  all  very  fine,  and" 
very  humorous  ;  but  when  these  mysterious 
vagabonds — " 

The  eye  of  the  stranger  blazed  ;  lightning 
itself,  in  fact,  was  not  quicker  than  the  fire 
which  gleamed  from  it,  as  the  baronet  ut- 
tered the  last  words.  He  walked  over  de- 
liberately, but  with  a  step  replete  with  energy 
and  determination  : 

"  How,  sir,"  said  he,  "  do  you  dare  to  ap- 
ply such  an  expression  to  me  ?  " 

The  baronet's  eye  quailed.  He  paused  a 
moment,  during  which  he  could  perceive 
that  the  stranger  had  a  spirit  not  to  be  tam- 
pered with. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  replied,  "  not  exactly  to  you, 
but  when  persons  such  as  you  come  in  this 
skulking  way,  probably  for  the  purpose  of 
insinuating  themselves  into  families  of 
rank — " 

"  Have  I,  sir,  attempted  to  insinuate  my- 
self into  yours  ? "  asked  the  stranger,  inter- 
rupting him. 

"  When  such  persons  come  under  circum- 
stances of  strong  suspicion,"  said  the  other, 
\sdthout  replying  to  him,  "  it  is  the  business 
of  every  gentleman  in  the  country  to  keep  a 
vigilant  eye  upon  them." 

"I  shall  hold  myseK  accountable  to  no 
such  gentleman," replied  the  stranger  ;  "but 
will  consider  every  man,  no  matter  what  his 
rank  or  character  may  be,  as  unwaiTantably 
impertinent,  who  ai-rogantly  attempts  to  in- 
trude himself  in  affairs  that  don't — "  he  was 
about  to  add,  "that  don't  concern  him," 
when  he  paused,  and  added,  "  into  any  man's 
affairs.  Every  man  has  a  right  to  travel  in- 
cognito, and  to  live  incognito,  if  he  chooses  ; 
and,  on  that  account,  sir,  so  long  as  I  wish 
to  maintain  mine,  I  shall  allow  no  man  to  as- 
sume the  right  of  penetrating  it.  If  this  has 
been  the  object  of  your  visit,  you  will  much 
oblige  me  by  relinquishing  the  one,  and 
putting  an  end  to  the  other,  as  soon  as  may 
be." 

"  As  a  magistrate,  sir,  I  demand  to  know 
your  name,"  said  the  baronet,  who  thought 
that,  in  the  stranger's  momentary  hesitation, 
he  had  observed  symptoms  of  jn  elding. 

"As  an  independent  man,  sir,  and  a  gen- 
tleman, I  shall  not  answer  such  a  question." 

"You  brave  me,  sir — you  defy  me?"  con- 
tinued the  other,  his  face  still  pale,  but  bale- 
ful in  its  expression. 

"  Yes,  sii-,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  brave  you 
— I  defy  you." 

"  Veiy  well,  sir,"  returned  the  baronet — 
"remember  these  words." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  forgetting  any- 
thing that  a  man  of  spirit  ought  to  remem- 


ber," said  the  other.  "I  have  the  honor  ol 
wishing  you  a  good-morning." 

The  baronet  withdrew  in  a  passion  that 
had  risen  to  red  heat,  and  was  proceeding  to 
mount  his  horse  at  the  door,  when  Counsel- 
lor Crackenfudge,  who  had  followed  him 
downstairs,  thus  addressed  him  : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Thomas  ;  I  hap- 
pened to  be  sitting  in  the  back-room  wlule 
you  were  speaking  to  that  strange  fellow 
above  ;  I  pledge  you  my  honor  I  did  not  lis- 
ten ;  but  I  could  not  help  overheai-ing,  you 
know.  Well,  Sir  Thomas,  I  can  tell  you 
something  about  him." 

"  How ! "  said  the  baronet,  whose  eye 
gleamed  with  delight.  "  Can  you,  in  truth, 
tell  me  anything  about  him,  INIi*.  Cracken- 
fudge? You  will  oblige  me  very  much  if 
you  do." 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  about  him,  Sir 
Thomas,"  replied  the  worthy  counsellor ; 
"  and  that  is,  that  I  know  he  has  paid  many 
secret  visits  to  Mr.  Bimey  the  attorney." 

"  To  Birney !  "  exclaimed  the  other  ;  and, 
as  he  spoke,  he  seemed  actually  to  stagger 
back  a  step  or  two,  whilst  the  paleness  of  his 
complexion  increased  to  a  hue  that  was 
ghastly — "  to  Bimey  ! — to  my  blackest  and 
bitterest  enemy — to  the  man  who,  I  suspect, 
has  important  family  documents  of  mine  ir 
his  possession.  Thanks,  even  for  this,  Crac- 
kenfudge— you  are  looking  to  become  of  the 
peace.  Hearken  now  ;  aid  me  in  ferreting 
out  this  lurking  scoundrel,  and  I  shall  not 
forget  your  wishes."  He  then  rode  home- 
wards. 

The  stranger,  dming  this  stormy  dialogue 
with  Sir  Thomas  Goiulay,  tiu-ned  his  eye, 
from  time  to  time,  towai-d  Fenton,  who  ap- 
peared to  have  lost  consciousness  itself  so 
long  as  the  baronet  was  in  the  room.  On  the 
depai-ture,  however,  of  that  gentleman,  he 
went  over  to  him,  and  said  : 

"  Why,  Fenton,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

Fenton  looked  at  him  with  a  face  of  great 
distress,  from  which  the  perspiration  was 
pouring,  but  seemed  utterly  unable  to  speak. 


CHAPTER  VL 

Extraordinary    Scene    between    Fenton    and   the 
Stranger. 

The  character  of  Fenton  was  one  that  pre- 
sented an  extraordinary  variety  of  phases. 
With  the  exception  of  the  firmness  and  perti- 
nacity with  which  he  kept  the  mysterious 
secret  o*  his  origin  and  identity — that  is,  if 
he  himself  knew  them,  he  was  never  known 
to  maintain  the  same  moral  temperament  foj 


TEE  BLACK  B ABO NET 


341 


a  week  together.  Never  did  there  exist  a 
being  60  capricious  and  unstable.  At  one 
time,  you  found  him  all  ingenuousness  and 
candor  ;  at  another,  no  earthly  power  could 
extort  a  syllable  of  ti-uth  from  his  lips.  For 
whole  days,  if  not  for  weeks  together,  he 
dealt  in  nothing  but  the  wildest  fiction,  and 
the  most  extraordinaiy  and  grotesque  rodo- 
montade. The  consequence  was,  that  no 
reliance  covild  be  placed  on  anything  he  said 
or  asserted.  And  yet — which  appeared  to 
be  rather  unaccountable  in  such  a  character 
— it  coiild  be  frequently-  observed  that  he 
was  subject  to  occasional  periods  of  the 
deepest  dejection.  During  those  painful 
and  gloomy  visitations,  he  avoided  all  inter- 
course with  his  fellow-men,  took  to  wander- 
ing through  the  country — rarely  spoke  to 
anybody,  whether  sti-anger  or  acquaintance, 
but  maintained  the  strictest  and  most  extra- 
ordinarj'  silence.  If  he  passed  a  house  at 
meal-time  he  entered,  and,  without  either 
preface  or  apolog}',  quietly  sat  dowm  and 
joined  them.  To  this  fi-eedom  on  his  part, 
in  a  covmtr^'  so  hospitable  as  Ireland  in  the 
days  of  her  prosperity  was,  and  could  afford 
to  be,  no  one  ever  thought  of  objecting. 

"It  was,"  obsei-ved  the  people,  "  only  the 
poor  young  gentleman  who  is  not  right  in  the 
head." 

So  that  the  verj'  malady  which  they  im- 
puted to  him  was  only  a  passport  to  their 
kindness  and  compassion.  Fenton  had  no 
fixed  residence,  nor  any  available  means  of 
support,  save  the  compassionate  and  generous 
interest  which  the  inhabitants  of  Ballytraiu 
took  in  him,  in  consequence  of  those  gentle- 
manly manners  which  he  could  assume 
whenever  he  wished,  and  the  desolate  position 
in  which  some  unknown  train  of  circum- 
stances had  unfortunately  placed  him. 

When  laboring  under  these  depressing 
moods  to  which  we  have  alluded,  his  memory 
seemed  filled  with  recollections  that,  so  far  as 
appearances  went,  absolutely  stupefied  his 
heart  by  the  heaviness  of  the  suffering  they 
occasioned  it ;  and,  when  that  heart,  there- 
fore, sank  as  far  as  its  powers  of  endurance 
could  withstand  this  depression,  he  uniformly 
had  recourse  to  the  dangerous  reuef  afforded 
by  indulgence  in  the  fiery  stimulant  of  Uquor, 
to  which  he  was  at  all  times  addicted. 

Such  is  a  sHghtly  detailed  sketch  of  an 
individual  whose  fate  is  deeply  involved  in 
the  incidents  and  progress  of  our  uiUTative. 

The  hoiTor  which  we  have  described  as 
having  fallen  upon  this  unfortunate  young 
man,  duiipg  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  stormy 
interview  -ftith  the  stranger,  so  far  fi-om  sub- 
siding, as  might  be  supposed,  after  his  de- 
parture, assumed  the  shape  of  something 
bordering  on  insanity.     On  looking  at  his 


companion,  the  wild  but  deep  expression  of 
his  eyes  began  to  change  into  one  of  absolute 
frenzy,  a  circum.stance  which  could  not  escape 
the  stranger's  observation,  and  which,  placed 
as  he  was  in  the  pursuit  of  an  important 
secret,  awoke  a  still  deeper  interest,  whilst  at 
the  same  time  it  occasioned  him  much  pain., 

"  ^Ir.  Fenton,"  said  he,  "  I  certainly  have 
no  wish,  by  any  proceeding  incompatible 
with  an  ungentlemanly  feeling  of  impertinent 
curiosity,  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
cause  of  this  unusual  excitement,  which  the 
appeai-ance  of  IMiss  Gourlaj'  and  her  father 
seems  to  produce  upon  you,  vmless  in  so  far 
as  its  disclostu-e,  in  honorable  confidence, 
might  enable  me,  as  a  person  sincerely  your 
friend,  to  allay  or  remove  it." 

"  Suppose,  sir,  you  are  mistaken  ?  "  rephed 
the  other.  "  Do  you  not  know  that  there 
are  memories  arising  from  association,  that 
are  touched  and  kindled  into  great  pain,  by 
objects  that  are  by  no  means  the  direct  cause 
of  them,  or  the  cause  of  them  in  any  sense  ?  " 

"  I  admit  the  truth  of  wliat  you  say,  Mr. 
Fenton  ;  but  we  can  only  draw  our  first  in- 
ferences fi'om  appearances.  It  is  not  from 
any  idle  or  prurient  desu*e  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  cause  of  your  emotion  that 
I  speak,  but  simply  from  a  wish  to  serve  you, 
if  you  wiD  permit  me.  It  is  distressing  to 
witness  what  you  suffer." 

"I  have  exj^erienced,"  said  Fenton,  whose 
excitement  seemed  not  only  to  rise  as  he 
proceeded,  but  in  a  considerable  degi'ee  to 
give  that  fenor  and  elevation  to  his  language, 
which  excitement  often  gives  ;  "  yes,  sir,"  he 
proceeded,  his  eyes  kindling  almost  into  fury, 
"  I  have  experienced  much  treacherous  and 
malignant  symj^athy,  under  the  guise  of  pre- 
tended fi'iendship — sympathy  !  why  do  I  say 
sympathy  ?  Persecution — vengeance.  Yes, 
sir,  till  I  have  become  mad — or — or  nearly 
so.  No,"  he  added,  "  I  am  not  mad — I  neuer 
•v\\is  mad — but  I  understand  your  object — 
avaiuit,  sir — begone — or  I  shall  throw  you 
out  of  the  window." 

"  Be  calm,  !Mr.  Fenton — be  calm,"  replied 
the  stranger,  "  and  collect  yourself.  I  am, 
indeed,  sincerely  your  friend." 

"Who  told  you,  sir,  that  I  was  mad  ?" 

"I  never  said  so,  ^\x.  Fenton." 

"  It  matters  not,  sir — you  are  a  traitor — 
and  as  such  I  denounce  you.  This  room  is 
mine,  sir,  and  I  shall  forthwith  expel  you 
from  it — "  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  started  up, 
and  sprung  at  the  stranger,  who,  on  seeing 
him  rise  for  the  purpose,  instantly  rang  the 
bell.  The  waiter  immediately  entered,  and 
found  the  latter  holding  poor  Fenton  by  the 
two  wrists,  and  with  such  a  tremendous 
grasp  as  made  him  feel  like  an  infant,  in 
point  of  strength,  in  his  handa 


342 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"This  is  iinmeaning  violence,  sir,"  ex- 
claimed the  latter,  calmly  but  firmly,  *'  unless 
you  explain  3'ourself,  and  give  a  reason  for 
it.  If  you  are  moved  by  any  peculiar  cause 
of  hoiTor,  or  apprehension,  or  danger,  why 
not  enable  me  to  understand  it,  in  order 
that  you  may  feel  assured  of  my  anxious  dis- 
position to  assist  you  ?  " 

"Gintlemen,"  exclaimed  Paudeen,  "what 
in  the  name  of  Pether  \\Tiite  and  Billy 
Neehns  is  the  reason  of  this  ?  But  I  needn't 
ax — it's  one  of  IVIi'.  Fenton's  tantrams — an' 
the  occasion  of  it  was,  lying  snug  and  warm 
this  mornin',  in  one  of  Andy  Trimble's  whis- 
key barrels.  For  shame,  Mr.  Fenton,  you 
they  say  a  gintleman  born,  and  to  thrate  one 
of  youi-  own  rank — a  gintleman  that  be- 
fi'iended  you  as  he  did,  and  put  a  daicint 
shoot  of  clo'es  on  j^our  miserable  carcase ; 
when  you  know  that  before  he  did  it,  if  the 
wind  was  blowing  fi-om  the  thirty-two  points 
of  the  compass,  you  had  an  openin'  for 
every  point,  if  they  wor  double  the  number. 
Troth,  now,  you're  ongrateful,  an'  if  God 
hasn't  said  it,  you'll  thravel  from  an  onpeni- 
tent  death-bed  yet.  Be  quiet,  will  you,  or 
my  sinful  sowl  to  glory,  but  I'll  bundle  you 
downstairs  ?  " 

"  He  will  be  quiet,  Pat,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  In  truth,  after  all,  this  is  a  mere  physical 
malady,  IVIr.  Fenton,  and  will  pass  away  im- 
mediately, if  you  will  only  sit  down  and  col- 
lect yourseK  a  httle." 

Fenton,  however,  made  another  unavail- 
able attempt  at  stniggle,  and  found  that  he 
was  only  exhausting  himself  to  no  purpose. 
All  at  once,  or  rather  following  up  his  pre- 
vious suspicions,  he  seemed  to  look  upon  the 
powei'ful  individual  who  held  him,  as  a  per- 
son who  had  become  suddenly  invested  with 
a  new  character  that  increased  his  terrors  ; 
and  yet,  if  we  may  say  so,  almost  forced  him 
into  an  anxiety  to  suppress  their  manifes- 
tation. His  limbs,  however,  began  to  trem- 
ble excessively  ;  his  eyes  absolutely  dilated, 
and  became  fiUed  by  a  sense  of  terror, 
nearly  as  wild  as  despair  itself.  The  tran- 
sitions of  his  temper,  however,  hke  those  of 
his  general  conduct,  supervened  upon  each 
other  with  remarkable  rapidity,  and,  as  it 
were,  the  result  of  quick,  warm,  and  incon- 
siderate impulses. 

"  "Well,"  he  exclaimed  at  length,  "  I  will 
be  quiet,  I  am,  I  assure  you,  perfectly  harm- 
less ;  but,  at  the  same  time,"  he  added, 
sitting  down,  "I  know  that  the  whole  dia- 
logue between  you  and  that  awful-looking 
man,  was  a  plot  laid  for  me.  "Wliy  else 
did  you  insist  on  my  being  present  at  it  ? 
This  accounts  for  your  giving  me  a  paltry  sum 
of  money,  too — it  does,  sir — and  for  your 
spurious  and  dishonest  buraanity  in  wishing 


to  see  me  well  clothed.  Yes,  I  perceive  it  all ; 
but,  let  what  may  happen,  I  will  not  wear 
these  clothes  any  longer.  They  are  not  the 
offering  of  a  generous  heart,  but  the  fraudu- 
lent pretext  for  insinuating  yoiu'self  into  my 
confidence,  in  order  to — to — yes,  but  I  shall 
not  say  it^it  is  enough  that  I  know  you,  sir 
— that  I  see  through,  and  penetrate  your 
designs." 

He  was  about  to  j)ut  his  threat  with  re- 
spect to  the  clothes  into  instant  execution, 
when  the  stranger,  once  more  seizing  him, 
exclaimed  :  "  You  must  promise,  Mr.  Fenton, 
before  you  leave  my  grasp,  that  you  \vill 
make  no  further  attempt  to  tear  off  your 
dress.  I  insist  on  this  ; "  and  as  he  spoke 
he  fixed  his  eye  sternly  and  commandingly 
on  that  of  Fenton. 

"  I  wiU  not  attempt  it,"  replied  the  latter  ; 
"I  jDromise  it,  on  the  word  of  a  gentle- 
man." 

"There,  then,"  said  the  stranger.  "Keep 
yourself  quiet,  and,  mark  me,  I  shall  expect 
that  you  will  not  \iolate  that  word,  nor 
jdeld  to  these  weak  and  silly  paroxysms." 

Fenton  merely  nodded  submissively,  and 
the  other  j)roceeded,  still  with  a  view  of 
soiuiding  him  :  "  You  say  you  know  me  ; 
if  so,  who  and  what  am  I  ?  " 

"Do  not  ask  me  to  speak  at  further 
length,"  replied  Fenton;  "lam  quite  ex- 
hausted, and  I  know  not  what  I  said." 

He  appeared  now  somewhat  calmer,  or, 
at  least,  affected  to  be  so.  By  his  manner, 
however,  it  would  appear  that  some  peculiar 
opinion  or  apprehension,  with  reference  ei- 
ther to  the  baronet  or  the  stranger,  seemed  as 
if  confirmed,  whilst,  at  the  same  time,  acting 
under  one  of  his  rapid  transitions,  he  spoke 
and  looked  Hke  a  man  who  was  influenced 
by  new  motives.  He  then  withdrew  in  a 
mood  somewhat  between  sullenness  and 
regret. 

When  the  stranger  was  left  to  himself,  he 
paced  the  room  some  time  in  a  state  of  much 
anxietj^  if  not  distress.  At  length  he  sat 
down,  and,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
exclaimed  unconsciously  aloud : 

"  Alas !  I  fear  this  search  is  vain.  The 
faint  traces  of  imaginary  resemblance,  which 
I  thought  I  had  discovered  in  this  young 
man's  features,  are  visible  no  longer.  It  is 
time,  this  portrait,"  looking  once  more  at 
the  miniature,  "  was  taken  when  the  origi- 
nal was  only  a  child  of  five  years  ;  but  stiU  it 
was  remarked  that  the  family  resemblances 
were,  fi-om  childhood  up,  both  strong  and 
striking.  Then,  this  unfortunate  person  is 
perfectly  inscrutable,  and  not  to  be  managed 
by  any  ordinary  procedure  at  present  in- 
telligible to  me.  Yet,  after  all,  as  far  as  I 
have  been  able  to  conjecture,   tliere  is  a 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


343 


stron^^  similarity  in  the  cases.  The  feeling 
among  the  people  here  is,  that  he  is  a  gen- 
tleman by  birth  :  but  this  may  proceed  from 
the  air  and  manners  which  he  can  assume 
when  he  pleases.  I  would  mention  my 
whole  design  and  object  at  hazard,  but 
this  would  be  running  an  unnecessary 
risk  by  intrusting  my  secret  to  him  ;  and, 
although  it  is  evident  that  he  can  preserve 
his  owai,  it  does  not  necessaiily  foUow  that 
he  would  keep  mine.  However,  I  must  only 
persevere  and  bide  my  time,  as  the  Scotch 
Bay." 

He  again  rose,  and,  pacing  the  apartment 
once  more,  his  features  assumed  a  still  deep- 
er expression  of  inward  agitation. 

"  And,  again,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  unfor- 
tunate rencounter  !  Great  Heavens,  what  if 
I  stand  here  a  murderer,  A\-ith  the  blood  of  a 
fellow-creature,  hurried,  I  fear,  in  the  very 
midst  of  his  profligacy,  into  eternity  !  The 
thought  is  insupportable  ;  and  I  know  not, 
imless  I  can  strictly  preserve  my  incognito, 
whether  I  am  at  this  moment  liable,  if  appre- 
hended, to  pay  the  jjeualty  which  the  law  ex- 
acts. The  only  consolation  that  remains  for 
me  is,  that  the  act  was  not  of  my  seeking,  but 
arrogantly  and  imperiously  forced  upon  me." 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

The    Baronet   attempts   by  Falsehood  to  -urge  his 
Daughter  into  an  Avowal  of  her  Lover's  Name. 

Sm  Thosias  Gouhlay,  after  his  unpleas- 
ant interview  with  the  stranger,  rode  easily 
home,  meditating  upon  some  feasible  plan 
by  which  he  hoped  to  succeed  in  entrapping 
his  daughter  into  the  avowal  of  her  lover's 
name,  for  he  had  no  doubt  whatsoever  that 
the  gentleman  at  the  inn  and  he  were  one 
and  the  same  individual.  For  this  purpose, 
he  determined  to  put  on  a  cheerful  face,  and 
assume,  as  far  as  in  him  lay,  an  air  of  un- 
common satisfaction.  Now  this  was  a  task  [ 
of  no  ordinary  difficulty  for  Sir  Thomas  to  ; 
encounter.  The  expression  of  all  the  fiercer  | 
and  darker  passions  was  naturiil  to  such  a  | 
countenance  as  his  ;  but  even  to  imagine  | 
such  a  one  lit  up  with  mu-th,  was  to  conceive 
an  image  so  grotesque  and  ridiculous,  that 
the  fii-mest  gi-avity  must  give  way  before  it. 
His  fro^\^l  was  a  thing  perfectly  intelligible, 
but  to  witness  his  smile,  or  rather  his  effort 
at  one,  was  to  witness  an  unnatm'al  pheno- 
menon of  the  most  a^vful  kind,  and  little 
short  of  a  prodig}'.  If  one  could  suppose  the 
sun  giving  a  melancholy  and  lugubrious  grin 
inrough  the  darkness  of  a  total  eclipse,  they 
might  form  some  conception  of  the  jocular 


solemnity  which  threw  its  deep  but  comio 
shadow  over  his  visage.  One  might  expect 
the  whole  machinery  of  the  face,  with  as 
much  probabihty  as  that  of  a  mill,  to  change 
its  habitual  motions,  and  turn  in  an  opposite 
direction.  It  seemed,  in  fact,  as  if  a  general 
breaking  up  of  the  countenance  was  about 
to  take  place,  and  that  the  several  features, 
like  a  crew  of  thieves  and  vagabonds  flying 
from  the  officers  of  justice,  were  all  determin- 
ed to  provide  for  themselves.  # 

Lucy  saw  at  a  glance  that  her  father  was 
about  to  get  into  one  of  those  tender  and 
complacent  moods  which  were  few  and  far 
between,  and,  made  wise  by  experience,  she 
very  properly  conjectured,  from  his  appear- 
ance, that  some  deep  design  was  concealed 
under  it.  Anxious,  therefore,  to  avoid  a 
prolonged  ditxlogue,  and  feeling,  besides,  her 
natural  candor  and  invincible  love  of  truth  to 
a  certain  extent  outraged  by  this  treacherous 
assumption  of  cordiahty,  she  resolved  to 
commence  the  conversation. 

"  Has  an}-thing  agi'eeable  happened, 
papa  ?  " 

"Agi-eeable,  Lucy,  ahem! — why,  yes — 
something  agreeable  has  happened.  Now, 
Lucy,  poor  fooUsh  girl,  would  it  not  have 
been  better  to  have  placed  confidence  in  me 
with  respect  to  this  lover  of  yours  ?  "\\1io  can 
feel  the  same  interest  in  your  happiness  that 
I  do?" 

"  None,  certainly,  sir ;  unless  some  ont 
whose  happiness  may  probably  depend  on 
mine." 

"  Yes,  your  lover — well,  that  now  is  a 
natural  enough  distinction  ;  but  still,  you 
foolish,  naughty  girl,  don't  you  know  that 
you  are  to  inherit  my  wealth  and  property, 
and  that  they  will  make  you  happy  ?  You 
silly  thing,  there's  a  tinith  for  you." 

"  Were  3'ou  yom-self  happy,  pajm,  when 
we  sepai-ated  this  morning  ?  Are  you  happy 
this  moment?  Are  you  generaUy  happy? 
Is  there  no  rankling  anxiety — no  project  of 
ambition — no  bitter  recollection  corroding 
your  heart  ?  Does  the  untimely  loss  of  my 
young  brother,  who  would  have  represented 
and  sustained  your  name,  never  press 
heavily  upon  it  ?  I  ask  again,  papa,  are  you 
generally  happy  ?  Yet  you  are  in  possession 
of  aU  the  wealth  and  property  you  speak 
of." 

"Tut,  nonsense,  silly  child!  Nothing  ia 
more  ridiculous  than  to  hear  a  girl  like  you, 
that  ought  to  have  no  will  but  mine,  reason- 
ing Uke  a  philosojiher." 

"But,  dear  papa,"  proceeded  Lucy,  "if 
you  should  persist  in  maiT^dng  me  to  a  prof- 
hgate,  merely  because  he  is  a  nobleman — 
oh,  how  often  is  that  honorable  name  pros- 
tituted ! — and  could  give  me  a  title,  don't 


344 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


yon  see  how  -m-etched  I  should  be,  and  how 
complete!}'  your  wealth  and  property  would 
fail  to  secure  my  happiness  ?  " 

"  Very  well  argued.  Lucj',  only  that  you 
go  upon  wrong  principles.  To  be  sui-e,  I 
know  that  young  ladies — that  is,  very  young 
and  inexperienced  ladies,  somewhat  like 
yoiu'self,  Lucy— have,  or  pretend  to  have — 
poor  fools — a  horror  of  marrying  those  they 
don't  love  ;  and  I  am  aware,  besides,  that  a 
m^  might  as  well  attempt  to  make  a  stream 
run  up  hill  as  combat  them  upon  this  topic. 
As  for  me,  in  spite  of  all  my  wealth  and 
property — I  say  this  in  deference  to  you — I 
am  really  very  happy  this  moment." 

"  I  am  dehghted  to  hear  it,  papa.  May  I 
ask,  what  has  contributed  to  make  you  so  ?  " 

"  I  shall  mention  that  presently  ;  but,  in 
the  mean  time,  my  theory  on  this  subject  is, 
that,  instead  of  marrsing  for  love,  I  woidd 
recommend  only  such  persons  to  contract 
matrimony  as  entertain  a  kind  of  lurking 
aversion  for  each  other.  Let  the  parties 
commence  with,  say,  a  tolerably  strong  stock 
of  honest  hatred  on  both  sides.  Veiy  well ; 
they  ai-e  united.  At  first,  there  is  a  gi-eat 
deal  of  heroic  grief,  and  much  exquisite 
martyrdom  on  the  part  of  the  lady,  whilst 
the  gentleman  is  at  once,  if  I  may  say  so,  in- 
different and  indignant.  By  and  by,  however, 
they  become  tu'ed  of  this.  The  husband, 
who,  as  well  as  the  wife,  we  shall  suppose, 
has  a  strong  spice  of  the  devil  in  him,  begins 
to  entertain  a  kind  of  diabolical  sympathy  for 
the  fire  and  temper  she  displays  ;  while  she, 
on  the  other  hand,  comes  by  degrees  to 
admire  in  him  that  wliich  she  is  conscious  of 
possessing  herself,  that  is  to  say,  a  sharp 
tongue  and  an  energetic  temperament.  In 
this  way,  Lucy,  thej'  go  on,  until  habit  has 
become  a  second  nature  to  them.  The 
appetite  for  strife  has  been  happily  created. 
At  length,  they  find  themselves  so  completely 
captivated  by  it  that  it  becomes  the  charm 
of  their  existence.  Thenceforth  a  bewitch- 
ing and  discordant  harmony  prevails  between 
them,  and  they  entertain  a  kind  of  hostile 
affection  for  each  other  that  is  desjjerately 
dehghtful." 

"  ^\Tiy,  you  are  quite  a  painter,  papa ; 
your  picture  is  admirable  ;  all  it  wants  is 
tinith  and  nature." 

"Thank  3-ou,  Lucy;  you  are  quite  com- 
phmentary,  and  have  made  an  artist  of  me, 
as  artists  now  go.  But  is  not  this  much 
more  agreeable  and  animated  than  the  sweet 
dalliance  of  a  sugar-plum  life,  or  the  dull, 
monotonous  existence  resembling  a  Dutch 
eanal,  which  we  term  connubial  happi- 
ness V  " 

"Well,  now,  papa,  suppose  you  were  to 
hear  me  through  ?  " 


"  Veiy  well,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  will." 

"I  do  not  beheve,  sir,  that  life  canpresenl 
us  with  anything  more  beautiful  and  delight- 
ful than  the  imion  of  two  hearts,  two  minds, 
two  souls,  in  pure  and  mutual  affection, 
when  that  affection  is  founded  upon  some- 
thing more  durable  than  mere  beauty  or 
personal  attraction — that  is,  when  it  is  based 
upon  esteem,  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  object  we  love." 

"  Yes,  Lucy ;  but  remember  there  are 
such  things  as  deceit,  dissimulation,  and 
hypocrisy  in  the  world." 

"Yes,  and  goodness,  and  candor,  and 
honor,  and  tinith,  and  fidehty,  papa  ;  do  you 
remember  that?  When  two  beings,  con- 
scious, I  say,  of  each  other's  virtues— each 
other's  failings,  if  you  will — are  united  in 
the  bonds  of  true  and  pure  affection,  how 
could  it  happen  that  marriage,  which  is  only 
the  baptism  of  love  ujDon  the  altar  of  the 
heart,  should  take  away  any  of  the  tender- 
ness of  this  attachment,  especially  when  we 
reflect  that  its  veiy  emotions  are  happiness  ? 
Granting  that  love,  in  its  romantic  and  ideal 
sense,  may  disappear  after  marriage,  I  have 
heard,  and  I  beheve,  that  it  assumes  a  holier 
and  still  more  tender  sj)irit,  and  reappears 
under  the  sweeter  and  more  beautiful  form 
of  domestic  affection.  The  very  conscious- 
ness, I  should  suppose,  that  our  destinies, 
our  hopes,  our  objects,  our  cares — in  short, 
oui'  joys  and  sorrows,  are  identical  and  mu- 
tual, to  be  shared  with  and  by  each"  other, 
and  that  all  those  delightful  interchanges  of 
a  thousand  nameless  ofiices  of  tenderness 
that  spring  up  from  the  on-going  business 
of  our  own  peculiar  Hfe — these  alone,  I  can 
very  well  imagine,  would  constitute  an  en- 
joyment far  higher,  j^urer,  holier,  than  mere 
romantic  love.  Then,  papa,  surely  we  are 
not  to  live  solely  for  oiu-selves.  There  are 
the  miseries  and  wants  of  others  to  be  les- 
sened or  relieved,  calamity  to  be  mitigated, 
the  pale  and  throbbing  brow  of  sickness  to 
be  cooled,  the  heart  of  the  poor  and  neglect- 
ed to  be  sustained  and  cheered,  and  the 
limbs  of  the  wearj'  to  be  clothed  and  rested. 
Why,  i^ajDa,"  she  proceeded,  her  dai-k  eye 
kindling  at  the  noble  picture  of  human  duty 
she  had  drawn,  "when  we  take  into  contem- 
plation the  delightful  impression  of  two  per- 
sons going  thus,  hand  in  hand,  through  hfe, 
joining  in  the  discharge  of  their  necessaiy 
duties,  assisting  their  fellow-creatures,  and 
difliising  good  wherever  they  go — each 
strengthening  and  reflecting  the  virtues  of 
the  other,  may  we  not  well  ask  how  they 
could  look  upon  each  other  without  feeling 
the  highest  and  noblest  spirit  of  tenderness, 
affection,  and  esteem  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  I  was  right,  Lucy  ;  all  romance. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


345 


all  imagination,  all  honeypot,  with  a  streak 
of  treacle  here  and  there  for  the  shading," 
and,  as  he  sj^oke,  he  committed  another  fel- 
ony in  the  clisguise  of  a  horse-laugh,  which, 
however,  came  only  from  the  jaws  out. 

"But,  papa,"  she  proceeded,  anxious  to 
change  the  subject  and  cui-tail  the  inteniew, 
"  as  I  said,  I  trust  something  agreeable  has 
happened ;  you  seem  in  unusually  good 
spirits." 

"  ^^^ly,  yes,  Lucy,"  he  rephed,  setting  his 
eyes  upon  her  with  an  expression  of  good- 
humor  that  made  her  tremble — "yes,  I  was 
in  Ballytrain,  and  had  an  interview  with  a 
friend  of  yours,  who  is  stopping  in  the 
'Mitre.'  But,  my  dear,  surely  that  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  all  at  once  gi'ow  so 
pale  !  I  almost  think  that  you  have  con- 
tracted a  habit  of  becoming  i^ale.  I  obsei-ved 
it  this  morning — I  observe  it  now  ;  but,  after 
all,  perhaps  it  is  only  a  new  method  of 
blushing — the  blush  reversed — that  is  to 
say,  blushing  backwards.  Come,  you  foohsh 
girl,  don't  be  alarmed  ;  your  lover  had  more 
sense  than  you  have,  and  knew  when  and 
where  to  place  confidence." 

He  rose  up  now,  and  having  taken  a  turn 
or  two  across  the  room,  approached  her,  and 
in  deep,  earnest,  and  what  he  intended  to 
be,  and  was,  an  impressive  and  starthng 
voice,  added  : 

"Yes,  ]Miss  Goui'lay,  he  has  told  me  aD." 

Lucy  looked  at  him,  vmmoved  as  to  the 
information,  for  she  knew  it  was  false  ;  but 
she  left  him  nothing  to  complain  of  with  re- 
gard to  her  paleness  now.  In  fact,  she 
blushed  deeply  at  the  falsehood  he  attempted 
to  impose  upon  her.  The  whole  tenor  and 
spirit  of  the  conversation  was  instantly 
changed,  and  assumed  for  a  moment  a  pain- 
ful and  disagreeable  formahty. 

"To  whom  do  you  allude,  su*?"  she 
asked. 

"To  the  gentleman,  madam,  to  whom  you 
bowed  so  graciously,  and,  let  me  add,  signi- 
ficantly, to-day." 

"  And  may  I  beg  to  know,  sir,  what  he  has 
told  you  ?  " 

"  Have  I  not  already  said  that  he  has  told 
me  allf  Yes,  madam,  I  have  said  so,  I 
think.  But  come,  Lucy,"  he  added,  affecting 
'  >  relax,  "be  a  good  girl ;  as  you  said,  your- 
•  If ,  it  shovdd  not  be  sir  and  madam  between 
\ou  and  me.  You  are  all  I  have  in  the  world 
— my  only  child,  and  if  I  appear  harsh  to 
you,  it  is  only  because  I  love  and  am  anxious 
to  make  you  happy.  Come,  my  dear  child, 
put  confidence  in  me,  and  rely  upon  my  af- 
fection and  generosity." 

Lucy  was  staggered  for  a  moment,  but 
only  for  a  moment,  for  she  thoroughly  im- 
derstood  him. 


"  But,  papa,  if  the  gentleman  you  allude 
to  ha.-i  told  you  all,  what  is  there  left  for  me 
to  confide  to  j'ou  ?  " 

"  WTiy,  the  truth  is,  Lucy,  I  was  anxious 
to  test  his  sincerity,  and  to  have  your  ver- 
sion as  well  as  his.  He  appears,  certainly, 
to  be  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor." 

"And  if  he  be  a  man  of  honor,  papa,  how 
can  you  require  such  a  test  ?  " 

"I  said,  observe,  that  he  appears  to  be 
such ;  but,  you  know,  a  man  may  be  mis- 
taken in  the  estimate  he  forms  of  another  in 
a  first  interview.  Come,  Lucy,  do  something 
to  make  me  your  friend." 

"  My  friend  !  "  she  replied,  whilst  the  tears 
rose  to  her  eyes.  "  Alas,  papa,  must  I  hear 
such  language  as  this  fi'om  a  father's  hps  ? 
Should  anything  be  necessaiy  to  make  that 
father  the  friend  of  his  only  child  ?  I  know 
not  how  to  reply  to  you,  sir ;  you  have 
placed  me  in  a  position  of  almost  unexampled 
distress  and  pain.  I  cannot,  without  an  ap- 
parent want  of  respect  and  duty,  give  expres- 
sion to  what  I  know  and  feel." 

"Why  not,  you  foohsh  girl,  especially 
when  you  see  me  in  such  good-humor? 
Take  courage.  You  -n-ill  find  me  more  in- 
dulgent .than  you  imagine.  Imitate  your 
lover  yonder." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes  sparkled 
through  her  tears  with  shame,  but  not 
merely  -n-ith  shame,  for  her  heaii;  was  filled 
Avith  such  an  indignant  and  oppressive  sense 
of  his  falsehood  as  caused  her  to  weep  and 
sob  aloud  for  two  or  three  minutes. 

"  Come,  my  dear  child,  I  i-epeat — imitate 
your  lover  yonder.  Confess  ;  but  don't  weep 
thus.     Surely  I  am  not  harsh  to  you  now  ?  " 

"Papa,"  she  replied,  wiping  her  eyes, 
"  the  confidence  which  you  soUcit,  it  is  not 
in  my  power  to  bestow.  Do  not,  therefore, 
press  me  on  this  subject.  It  is  enough  that 
I  have  ah'eady  confessed  to  you  that  my  af- 
fections are  engaged.  I  will  now  add  what 
perhaps  I  ought  to  have  added  before,  that 
this  was  with  the  sanction  of  my  dear 
mamma;  Indeed,  I  would  have  said  so,  but 
that  I  was  reluctant  to  occasioti  reflections 
fi-om  you  incompatible  with  my  affection  for 
her  memory." 

"  Your  mother,  madam,"  he  added,  his  face 
blackening  into  the  hue  of  his  natural  tem- 
per, "was  always  a  poor,  weak-minded  wo- 
man. She  was  foolish,  madam,  and  indis- 
creet, and  has  made  you  ^^"icked — trained 
you  up  to  hypocrisy,  falsehood,  and  dis- 
obedience. Yes,  madam,  and  in  every  in- 
stance where  you  go  contrary  to  my  will, 
you  act  upon  her  principles.  WTiy  do  you 
not  respect  truth,  ^liss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"  Alas,  sir  !  "  she  rephed,  stung  and  shock- 
ed   by  his   unmanly  reflections  upon   the 


346 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


memory'  of  her  mother,  whilst  her  tears 
burst  out  afresh,  "I  am  this  moment  weep- 
ing for  my  father's  disregai'd  of  it." 

"  How,  madam  !  I  am  a  Har,  am  I?  Oh, 
dutiful  daughter !  " 

"Mamma,  sir,  was  all  truth,  all  goodness, 
all  affection.  She  was  at  once  an  angel  and 
a  mai-tjT,  and  I  will  not  hear  her  blessed 
memory  insulted  by  the  very  man  who, 
above  all  others,  ought  to  protect  and  revere 
it.  I  am  not,  papa,  to  be  intimidated  by 
looks.  If  it  be  our  duty  to  defend  the  ab- 
sent, is  it  not  ten  thousand  times  more  so 
to  defend  the  dead  ?  Shall  a  daughter  hear 
with  acquiescence  the  memoiy  of  a  mother, 
who  would  have  died  for  her,  loaded  with 
obloquy  and  falsehood  ?  No,  sir !  Menace 
and  abuse  myself  as  much  as  you  wish,  but 
I  tell  you,  that  while  I  have  life  and  the 
power  of  speech,  I  will  fling  back,  even  into 
a  father's  face,  the  falsehoods — the  gross 
and  unmanly  falsehoods — with  which  he  in- 
sults her  tomb,  and  calumniates  her  memoiy 
and  her  virtues.  Do  not  blame  me,  sir,  for 
this  language  ;  I  would  be  glad  to  honor  you 
if  I  could  ;  I  beseech  you,  my  father,  enable 
me  to  do  so." 

"  I  see  you  take  a  pecuHar — a  wanton 
pleasui'e  in  calling  me  a  liar." 

"  No,  sir,  I  do  not  call  you  a  liar  ;  but  I 
know  you  regard  truth  no  farther  than  it 
serves  youi"  own  purposes.  Have  you  not 
told  me  just  now,  that  the  gentleman  in  the 
Mitre  Inn  has  made  certain  disclosui'es  to 
you  conceraing  himself  and  me  ?  And  now, 
father,  I  ask  you,  is  there  one  word  of  truth 
in  this  assertion  ?  You  know  there  is  not. 
Have  you  not  sought  my  confidence  by  a 
series  of  false  pretences,  and  a  relation  of 
circumstances  that  were  utterly  without 
foundation  ?  All  this,  however,  though  in- 
expressibly painful  to  me  as  youi'  daughter, 
I  could  overlook  without  one  word  of  reply  ; 
but  I  never  will  allow  you  to  cast  foul  and 
cowardly  reproach  upon  the  memory  of  the 
best  of  mothers — upon  the  memory  of  a  wife 
of  whom,  father,  you  were  unworthy,  and 
whom,  to  my  own  knowledge,  your  harsh- 
ness and  severity  hurried  into  a  premature 
grave.  Oh,  never  did  woman  pay  so  di-ead- 
ful  a  penalty  for  sufiering  herself  to  be 
forced  into  mamage  with  a  man  she  could 
not  love,  and  who  was  unworthy  of  her  affec- 
tion !  That,  sir,  was  the  only  action  of  her 
life  in  which  her  daughter  cannot,  xoill  not, 
imitate  her." 

She  rose  to  retire,  but  her  father,  now 
having  relapsed  into  aU  his  dark  vehemence 
of  temper,  exclaimed — 

"Now  mark  me,  madam,  before  you  go. 
I  say  you  shall  sleep  under  lock  and  key  this 
night.     I  tell  you  that  I  shall  use  the  most 


rigorous  measures  with  you,  the  severest, 
the  harshest,  that  I  can  devise,  or  I  shall 
break  that  stubborn  will  of  yours.  Do  not 
imagine  for  one  moment  that  you  shall  over- 
come me,  or  triumph  in  yotu*  disobedience. 
No,  sooner  than  you  should,  I  would  break 
your  spirit — I  would  break  your  heart." 

"Be  it  so,  sir.  I  am  ready  to  suffer  any- 
thing, provided  only  you  will  forbear  to  in- 
sult the  memory  of  my  mother." 

With  these  words  she  sought  her  own 
room,  where  she  indulged  in  a  long  fit  o/ 
bitter  grief. 

Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  in  these  painful  con 
tests  of  temper  with  his  candid  and  high- 
minded  daughter,  was  by  no  means  so  cool 
and  able  as  when  engaged  in  similar  exerci- 
tations  with  strangers.  The  disadvantage 
against  hira  in  his  broils  with  Lucj^  arose 
fi'om  the  fact  that  he  had  nothing  in  this 
respect  to  conceal  from  her.  He  felt  that 
his  natiu-al  temj^er  and  disposition  were 
known,  and  that  the  assumption  of  any  and 
every^  false  asi:)ect  of  character,  must  neces- 
^lily  be  seen  through  by  her,  and  his  hy- 
pocrisy detected  and  imderstood.  Not  so, 
however,  with  strangers.  When  manoeuvring 
with  them,  he  could  play,  if  not  a  deeper,  at 
least  a  safer  game ;  and  of  this  he  himself 
was  jDcrfectly  conscious.  Had  his  heart  been 
capable  of  any  noble  or  dignified  emotion, 
he  must  necessaiily  have  admired  the  great- 
ness of  his  daughter's  mind,  her  indomitable 
love  of  tinith,  and  the  beautiful  and  undoing 
tenderness  "with  which  her  affection  brooded 
over  the  memory  of  her  mother.  Selfish- 
ness, however,  and  that  low  ambition  which 
places  human  hapj)iness  in  the  enjoyment 
of  wealth,  and  honors,  and  empty  titles,  had 
so  completely  blinded  him  to  the  virtues  of 
his  daughter,  and  to  the  sacred  character  of 
his  own  duties  as  a  father,  bound  by  the 
first  princij)les  of  nature  to  promote  her 
happiness,  without  corrupting  her  virtues, 
or  weakening  her  moral  impressions — we 
say  these  things  had  so  blinded  liim,  and 
hardened  his  heart  against  all  'the  pui'er 
duties  and  responsibihties  of  life,  that  he 
looked  upon  his  daughter  as  a  hardened, 
disobedient  girl,  dead  to  the  influence  of  his 
own  good — the  ambition  of  the  world — and 
insensible  to  the  dignified  position  which 
awaited  her  among  the  votaries  of  rank  and 
fashion.  But,  alas,  poor  man  !  how  little 
did  he  know  of  the  healthy  and  substantial 
vii'tues  which  confer  upon  those  whose 
station  lies  in  middle  and  in  humble  life,  a 
benevolent  and  hearty  consciousness  of  pure 
enjoyment,  immeasui-ably  superior  to  the 
hollow  forms  of  life  and  conduct  in  aristo- 
cratic circles,  which,  like  the  tempting  fniit 
of  the  Dead  Sea,  seem  beautiful  to  the  eye, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


J47 


but  axe  nothing  more,  when  tested  by  the 
common  process  of  hvmianity,  than  ashes 
and  bitterness  to  the  taste.  We  do  not  now 
speak  of  a  whole  class,  for  wherever  human 
nature  is,  it  \\'ill  have  its  \'iiiues  as  well  as 
its  vices  ;  but  we  talk  of  the  system,  which 
cannot  be  one  of  much  happiness  or  gen- 
erous feehng,  so  long  as  it  separates  itself 
from  the  general  sympathies  of  mankind. 


CHL\PTER  \TrL 

The  Fortune-Teller — An  Equivocal  Prediction. 

The  stranger's  appearance  at  the  "^litre," 
and  the  incident  which  occurred  there,  were 
in  a  pecuhar  degi-ee  mortif^j-ing  to  the  Black 
Baronet,  for  so  he  was  generally  called.  At 
this  precise  period  he  had  projected  the 
close  of  the  negotiation  -with  respect  to  the 
contemplated  m-u-riage  between  Lucy  and 
Lord  Dunroe.  Lord  Cullamore,  whose  resi- 
dence was  only  a  few  miles  from  Red  Hall, 
had  been  for  some  time  in  dehcate  health, 
but  he  was  now  sufficiently  recovered  to 
enter  upon  the  negotiation  proposed,  to 
which,  were  it  not  for  certain  reasons  that 
will  subsequently  appear,  he  had,  in  truth, 
no  gi-eat  relish  ;  and  this,  principally  on 
Lucy  Gourlay's  account,  and  with  a  ^'iew  to 
her  future  happiness,  which  he  did  not  think 
had  any  gi-eat  chance  of  being  promoted  by 
a  matrimonial  aUiance  with  his  son. 

Not  many  minutes  after  the  interview  be- 
tween Lucy  and  her  father,  a  hveried  ser- 
vant arrived,  beai-ing  a  letter  in  reply  to  one 
from  Sir  Thomas,  to  the  following  effect : 

"My  De.vr  Gourl.\y, — I  have  got  much 
stronger  within  the  last  fortnight ;  that  is, 
so  far  as  my  mere  bodily  health  is  concerned. 
As  I  shall  proceed  to  London  in  a  day  or 
two,  it  is  perhaps  better  that  I  should  see 
you  upon  the  subject  of  this  union,  between 
jom-  daughter  and  my  son,  especially  as  you 
seem  to  wish  it  so  anxiously.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  feai-  very  much  that  you  are, 
contraiy  to  remonstrance,  and  with  your 
eyes  open  to  the  consequences,  precipitating 
your  chiuTuing  and  admu'able  Lucy  upon 
wretchedness  and  discousolation  for  the  re- 
mainder of  her  Hfe  ;  and  I  can  tell  her,  and 
would  if  I  were  allowed,  that  the  coronet  of 
a  countess,  however  highly  either  she  or  you 
may  appreciate  it,  will  be  foimd  but  a  poor 
substitute  for  the  want  of  that  affection  imd 
esteem,  upon  which  only  can  be  founde<l 
domestic  happiness  and  contentment. 
'*  Ever,  my  dear  Gourlay,  faithfully  yours, 

"  Cullamore." 


The  baronet's  face,  after  having  perused 
this  epistle,  brightened  up  as  much  as  any 
face  of  such  sombre  and  repulsive  expres- 
sion could  be  supposed  to  do  ;  but,  again, 
Uf)on  taking  into  consideration  what  he 
looked  upon  as  the  unjustitia]:)le  obstinacy'  of 
his  daughter,  it  became  once  more  stem  and 
overshadowed.  He  gi-ouud  his  teeth  with 
vexation  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  the  room,  as 
was  his  custom  when  in  a  state  of  agitation 
or  anger.  After  some  minutes,  dming 
which  his  passion  seemed  only  to  increase, 
he  went  to  her  apaiiment,  and,  thrusting  in 
hLs  head  to  ascerbun  that  she  was  safe,  he 
deliberately  locked  the  door,  and,  putting 
the  key  in  his  pocket,  once  more  ordered 
his  horse,  and  proceeded  to  Glenshee  Castle, 
the  pi-incely  residence  of  his  fiiend.  Lord 
Cullamore. 

None  of  our  readers,  we  presume,  would 
feel  disposed  to  charge  our  hardened  baro- 
net with  any  tendency'  to  superstition.  That 
he  felt  its  influence,  however,  was  a  fact ; 
for  it  may  have  been  observ'ed  that  there  is 
a  class  of  minds  which,  whilst  they  reject 
all  moral  control  when  any  legitimate  bar- 
rier stands  between  them  and  the  gratifica- 
tion of  their  evil  passions  or  designs,  are 
yet  susceptible  of  the  effects  which  are  said 
to  proceed  from  such  shght  and  trivial  inci- 
dents as  are  supposed  to  be  invested  with  a 
mysterious  and  significant  influence  upon 
the  actions  of  iudiriduals.  It  is  not,  how- 
ever, those  who  possess  the  strongest  pas- 
sions that  are  endowed  "with  the  strongest 
principles,  unless  when  it  happens  that  these 
passions  are  k^pt  in  subjection  by  rehgion 
or  reason.  Li  fact,  the  veiy  reverse  of  the 
proposition  in  generd  holds  true  ;  and,  in- 
deed. Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  was  a  strong  and 
starthng  proof  of  this.  In  his  case,  how- 
ever, it  might  be  accounted  for  by  the  in- 
fluence over  his  mind,  when  young,  of  a 
superstitious  nurse  named  Jennie  Corbet, 
who  was  a  stout  believer  in  all  the  super- 
stitious lore  Avhich  at  that  time  constituted 
a  kind  of  sociiil  and  populai'  creed  thi'ough- 
out  the  country-.  It  was  not  that  the  rea- 
son of  Sir  Thomas  was  at  all  convinced  by,  or 
Welded  any  assent  to,  such  legends,  but 
a  habit  of  belief  in  them,  which  he  was 
never  able  properly  to  throw  off,  had  been 
created,  which  left  behind  it  a  hngering 
impression  resulting  from  their  exhibition, 
which,  in  spite  of  aU  his  efforts,  clung  to 
him  through  life. 

Another  peculiarity  of  his  we  may  as  weU 
mention  here,  which  related  to  his  beai-ing 
while  on  horseback.  It  had  been  shrewdly 
obseiwed  In"  the  people,  that,  whilst  in  the 
act  of  concocting  any  plan,  or  projecting  any 
scheme,  he  uniformly  rode  at  an  easy,  slow, 


348 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


and  thoughtful  pace  ;  but,  when  under  the 
influence  of  his  angry  passions,  he  dashed 
along  \vith  a  fury  and  vehemence  of  speed 
that  startled  those  whom  he  met,  and 
caused  them  to  pause  and  look  after  him 
with  wonder. 

The  distance  between  Red  Hall  and  Glen- 
shee  Castle  was  not  more  than  foiu*  miles  ; 
the  estates  of  both  projDrietors  lying,  in  fact, 
together.  The  day  was  calm,  mild,  and 
breathed  of  the  fragi-ant  and  opening  odors 
of  spring.  Sir  Thomas  had  nearly  measui-ed 
half  the  distance  at  a  very  slow  pace,  for,  in 
truth,  he  was  then  sUently  rehearsing  his 
part  in  the  interview  which  was  about  to  take 
place  between  him  and  his  noble  friend.  The 
day,  though  calm,  as  we  said,  was  neverthe- 
less without  sunshine,  and,  consequently,  that 
joyous  and  exhilai'ating  spirit  of  warmth  and 
hght  which  the  vernal  sun  floods  down  upon 
all  nature,  rendering  earth  and  air  choral 
with  music,  was  not  felt  so  powerfully.  On 
the  contraiy,  the  silence  and  gloom  were 
somewhat  unusual,  considering  the  mildness 
which  prevailed.  Every  one,  however,  has 
experienced  the  influence  of  such  days — an 
influence  which,  notwithstanding  the  calm 
and  genial  character  of  the  day  itself,  is  felt 
to  be  depressing,  and  at  variance  with  cheer- 
fulness and  good  spirits. 

Be  this  as  it  may.  Sir  Thomas  was  proceed- 
ing leisurely  along,  when  a  turn  of  the  road 
brought  him  at  once  upon  the  brow  of  the 
small  valley  from  which  the  residence  of  the 
Cullamore  family  had  its  name — Glenshee, 
or,  in  Enghsh,  the  Glen  of  the  Fairies.  Its 
sides  were  -n-ild,  abrupt,  and  precijiitous,  and 
partially  covered  with  copse-wood,  as  was  the 
little  brawling  stream  which  ran  through  it, 
and  of  which  the  eye  of  the  spectator  could 
only  catch  occasional  glimpses  from  among 
the  hazel,  dogbeiTy,  and  white  thorn,  with 
which  it  was  here  and  there  covered.  In  the 
bottom,  there  was  a  small,  but  beautiful 
green  carpet,  nearly,  if  not  altogether  circular, 
about  a  hundred  yards  in  diameter,  in  the 
centre  of  which  stood  one  of  those  fairy  rings 
that  gave  its  name  and  character  to  the  glen. 
The  place  was,  at  aU  times,  wild,  and  so  soli- 
tarj^  that,  after  dusk,  few  persons  in  the 
neighborhood  wished  to  pass  it  alone.  On 
the  day  in  question,  its  appearance  was  still 
and-  impi'essive,  and,  owing  to  the  gloom 
which  prevailed,  it  presented  a  lonely  and 
desolate  asjject,  calculated,  certainly,  in  some 
degree,  to  inspire  a  weak  mind  with  some- 
thing of  that  superstitious  feeling  which  was 
occasioned  by  its  sujDernatural  reputation. 
We  said  that  the  baronet  came  to  a  winding 
part  of  the  road  which  brought  this  wild  and 
startling  spot  before  him,  and  just  at  the 
game  moment  he  was  confi'onted  by  an  object 


quite  as  wild  and  as  startling.  This  was  no 
other  than  a  celebrated  fortime-teller  of  that 
day,  named  GiniU'^_^ooper,  a  middle-aged 
sibyl,  who  enjoyed  a  veiy  wide  reputation  for 
her  extraordinaiy  insight  into  futurity,  as 
well  as  for  performing  a  variety  of  cures  upon 
both  men  and  cattle,  bj'  her  acquaintance,  it 
was  supposed,  with  fairy  lore,  the  influence 
of  charms,  and  the  secret  properties  of  certain 
herbs  with  which,  if  you  beheved  her,  she 
had  been  made  acquainted  by  the  Dainhe 
Shee,  or  good  people  themselves. 

The  baronet's  first  feehng  was  one  of  an- 
noyance and  vexation,  and  for  what  cause, 
the  reader  will  soon  understand. 

"Curse  this  ill-looking  wretch,"  he  ex- 
claimed mentally  ;  she  is  the  first  individual 
I  have  met  since  I  left  home.  It  is  not  that 
I  regard  the  matter  a  feather,  but,  somehow, 
I  don't  wish  that  a  woman — especially  such  a 
blasted  looking  sibyl  as  this — should  be  the 
first  person  I  meet  when  going  on  any  busi 
ness  of  importance."  Indeed,  it  is  to  be  ob- 
served hei-e,  that  some  of  Ginty's  predictions 
and  cures  were  such  as,  among  an  ignorant 
and  credulous  people,  strongly  impressed  by 
the  superstitions  of  the  day,  and  who  placed 
impHcit  reliance  upon  her  prophetic  and  sana- 
tive faculties,  were  certainly  calculated  to  add 
very  much  to  her  peculiar  influence  over 
them,  originating,  as  they  beheved,  in  her 
communion  with  supernatui'al  powers.  Her 
appearance,  too,  was  strikingly  calculated  to 
sustain  the  extraordinary  rejDutation  which 
she  bore,  yet  it  was  such  as  we  feel  it  to  be 
almost  impossible  to  describe.  Her  face  was 
thin,  and  supernatui'ally  pale,  and  her  features 
had  a  death-like  composure,  an  almost  awlfvd 
rigidity,  that  induced  the  spectator  to 
imagine  that  she  had  just  risen  from  the 
grave.  Her  thin  hj^s  were  repulsively  white, 
and  her  teeth  so  much  whiter  that  they 
almost  fiUed  you  with  fear  ;  but  it  was  in  her 
eye  that  the  symbol  of  her  prophetic  power 
might  be  said  to  lie.  It  was  wild,  gi'ay,  and 
almost  transparent,  and  whenever  she  was, 
or  ajDpeai'ed  to  be,  in  a  thoughtful  mood,  or 
engaged  in  the  contemplation  of  futurity,  it 
kept  perpetually  scintillating,  or  shifting,  as 
it  were,  between  two  proximate  objects,  to 
which  she  seemed  to  look  as  if  they  had 
been  in  the  far  distance  of  space — that  is,  it 
turned  from  one  to  another  with  a  quivering 
rapidity  which  the  eye  of  the  spectator  waa 
unable  to  follow.  And  yet  it  was  e\-ident  on 
reflection,  that  in  her  youth  she  must  have 
been  not  only  good-looking,  but  handsome. 
This  quick  and  unnatural  motion  of  the  eye 
was  extremely  wald  and  stai-tling,  and  when 
contrasted  Avith  the  white  and  death-like 
character  of  her  teeth,  and  the  moveless  ex- 
pression of  her  countenance,  was  in  admira- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


349 


ble  keeping  with  the  supernatural  qualities 
attributed  to  her.  She  wore  no  bonnet,  but 
her  white  death-bed  like  cap  was  tied  round 
her  head  bv  a  band  of  clean  linen,  and  came 
imder  her  chin,  as  in  the  case  of  a  corpse, 
thus  making  her  appear  as  if  she  pvu-posely 
assumed  the  stai'thng  habiliments  of  the 
grave.  As  for  the  outhnes  of  her  general 
person,  they  afforded  evident  proof — thin 
and  emaciated  as  she  then  was — that  her 
figure  in  early  hfe  must  have  been  remark- 
able for  great  neatness  and  symmetry.  She 
inhabited  a  solitaiy  cottage  in  the  glen,  a 
fact  which,  in  the  opinion  of  the  people,  com- 
pleted the  wild  predige  of  her  character. 

"  You  accursed  hag,"  said  the  baronet, 
whose  vexation  at  meeting  her  was  for  the 
moment  beyond  any  superstitious  impression 
which  he  felt,  "what  bi'ought  you  here? 
What  de\'il  sent  you  across  my  jjath  now  ? 
Wlao  are  you,  or  what  are  you,  for  you  look 
like  a  libel  on  humanity  ?  " 

"  If  I  don't,"  she  replied,  bitterly,  "  I  know 
who  does.  There  is  not  much  beauty  between 
us,  Thomas  Gomiay." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  Thomas  Gourlay, 
you  sorceress  ? " 

"You'll  come  to  know  that  some  day 
before  you  die,  Thomas  ;  perhaps  sooner 
than  you  can  think  or  dream  of." 

"  How  can  you  tell  that,  you  irreverent 
old  \'iiDer  ? " 

"I  could  tell  you  much  more  than  that, 
Thomas,"  she  reiDlied  shoAving  her  coi-pse- 
like  teeth  with  a  ghastly  smile  of  mocking 
bitterness  that  was  feai'ful. 

The  Bkick  Baronet,  in  spite  of  himself, 
began  to  feel  somewhat  uneasy,  for,  in  fact, 
there  api:)eared  such  a  wild  but  confident 
significance  in  her  manner  and  language  that 
he  deemed  it  wiser  to  change  his  tactics  with 
the  woman,  and  soothe  her  a  little  if  he 
could.  In  truth,  her  words  agitated  him  so 
much  that  he  unconsciously  pulled  out  of  his 
waistcoat  pocket  the  key  of  Lucy's  room, 
and  began  to  dangle  Avith  it  as  he  contem- 
plated her  with  something  like  alarm. 

"  My  poor  woman,  you  must  be  raving," 
he  replied.  ' '  What  could  a  destitute  creatvu-e 
like  you  know  about  my  aftau's?  I  don't 
remember  that  I  ever  saw  you  before." 

"  That's  not  the  question,  Thomas  Gourlay, 
Imt  the  question  is,  what  have  you  done  with 
the  child  of  your  eldest  brother,  the  lawful 
heii-  of  the  property  and  title  that  you  now 
bear,  and  bear  unjustly." 

He  was  much  startled  by  this  allusion,  for 
although  aware  that  the  disappearance  of  the 
child  in  question  had  been  for  many  long 
years  well  known,  yet,  involved,  as  it  was,  in 
imaccouutable  mystery,  still  the  circumstance 
had  never  been  forgotten. 


"  Tliat's  an  old  stoi-y,  my  good  woman," 
he  replied.  "  You  don't  charge  me,  I  hope, 
as  some  have  done,  with  making  away  with 
him  ?  You  might  as  well  charge  me  with 
kidnapping  my  o\\-n  son,  you  foohsh  woman, 
who,  you  know,  I  suppose,  disappeared  very 
soon  after  the  other." 

"I  know  he  did,"  she  replied;  "bui 
neither  I  nor  any  one  else  ever  charged  you 
wth  that  act ;  and  I  know  there  ai'e  a  great 
many  of  opinion  that  both  acts  were  com- 
mitted by  some  common  enemy  to  your 
house,  who  wished,  for  some  unlcnown  cause 
of  hatred,  to  extinguish  your  whole  family. 
That  is,  indeed,  the  best  defence  you  have 
for  the  disapi^earance  of  your  brother's  son  ; 
but,  mark  me,  Thomas  Gourlay — that  defence 
wiU  not  pass  with  God,  with  me,  nor  with 
your  own  heart.  I  have  my  own  opinion 
upon  that  subject,  as  well  as  upon  many 
others.  You  may  ask  your  o\va  conscience, 
Thomas  Gourlay,  but  he'll  be  a  close  fi'iend 
of  yours  that  will  ever  hear  its  answer." 

"  And  is  this  all  you  had  to  sa}'  to  me,  you 
iU-thinking  old  vermin  ? "  he  repUed,  again 
losing  his  temper. 

"  No,"  she  answei-ed,  "I  wish  to  tell  your 
fortune  ;  and  you  will  do  well  to  listen  to  me." 

"  WeU,"  said  he,  in  a  milder  tone,  putting 
at  the  same  time  the  key  of  Lucy's  door 
again  into  his  iJocket,  Asdthout  being  in  the 
slightest  decree  conscious  of  it,  "  if  you  are, 
I  suppose  I  riust  cross  your  hand  with  silver 
as  usual  ;  take  this." 

"l\o."  she  replied,  drawing  back  with 
another  ghastly  smile,  the  meaning  of  which 
was  to  him  utterly  undefinable,  "  from  your 
hand  nothing  ia  the  shape  of  money  '^vill  ever 
pass  mto  mine ;  but  listen  " — she  looked  at 
him  for  some  moments,  diu-ing  which  she 
paused,  and  then  added — "  I  will  not  do  it, 
I  am  not  able  to  render  good  for  eA-il,  yet ; 
I  will  sutler  you  to  run  your  course.  I  am 
well  aware  that  neither  warning  nor  truth 
would  have  any  effect  upon  you,  vmless  to 
enable  you  to  prepare  and  sharjDen  your 
plans  with  more  ingenious  villany.  But  you 
have  a  daughter  ;  I  will  speak  to  you  about 
her." 

"Do,"  said  the  baronet;  "but  why  not 
take  the  silver  ?  " 

"  You  will  know  that  one  day  before  you 
die,  too,"  said  she,  "  and  I  don't  think  it  will 
smooth  your  death-bed  pillow." 

"^Vhy,  you  are  a  very  mysterious  old 
lady." 

"I'U  now  give  you  a  proof  of  that.  You 
locked  in  your  daughter  before  you  left 
home." 

Sir  Thomas  could  not  for  his  life  prevent 
himself  from  stixrting  so  visibly  that  she 
observed  it  at  once. 


350 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"No  such  thing,"  he  repHed,  affecting  a 
composure  which  he  certainly  did  not  feel ; 
"you  are  an  impostor,  and  I  now  see  that 
you  know  nothing." 

"  ^\Tiat  I  say  is  true,"  she  rephed,  solemn- 
ly, "  and  you  have  stated,  Thomas  Grourlay^ 
what  you  know  to  be  a  falsehood  ;  I  would 
be  glad  to  discover  you  uttering  truth  unless 
with  some  evil  intention.  But  now  for  your 
daughter  ;  you  wish  to  hear  her  fate  ?  " 

"Certainly  I  do;  but  then  you  know 
nothing.  You  chai-ge  me  with  falsehood, 
but  it  is  yourseK  that  are  the  Uar." 

She  waved  her  hand  indignantly. 

"  WiU  my  daughter's  husband  be  a  man  of 
title?"  he  asked,  his  mind  j^assing  to  the 
great  and  engrossing  object  of  his  ambition. 

"  He  will  be  a  man  of  title,"  she  replied, 
"and  he  will  make  her  a  countess." 

"  You  must  take  money,"  said  he,  thrust- 
ing his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  once  more 
pulling  out  his  purse — "  that  is  worth  some- 
thing, surely." 

She  waved  her  hand  again,  with  a  gesture 
of  repulse  still  more  indignant  and  fiightful 
than  before,  and  the  bitter  smile  she  gave 
while  doing  it  again  displayed  her  corpse- 
like teeth  in  a  manner  that  was  calculated  to 
excite  horror  itseK. 

"Very  well,"  repHed  the  baronet  ;  "I wiU 
not  press  you,  only  don't  make  such  cursed 
fxightful  grimaces.  But  with  respect  to  my 
daughter,  will  the  maniage  be  with  her  own 
consent  ? " 

"With  her  own  consent — it  will  be  the 
dearest  wish  of  her  heart." 

"  Could  you  name  her  husband  ?  " 

"  I  covdd  and  will.  Lord  Dimroe  will  be 
the  man,  and  he  will  make  her  Countess  of 
Cullamore." 

"  "Well,  now,"  rephed  the  other,  "I  beUeve 
you  can  speak  tinith,  and  are  somewhat  ac- 
quainted with  the  futiu-e.  The  girl  certainly 
is  attached  to  him,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
the  union  wiU  be,  as  you  say,  a  happy  one." 

"You  know  in  your  soul,"  she  rephed, 
"  that  she  detests  him  ;  and  you  know  she 
would  saciifice  her  hfe  this  moment  sooner 
than  mai'r}'  him." 

"  T^Tiat,  then,  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked, 
"  and  w^hy  do  you  thus  contradict  yourself  ?  " 

"Good-by,  Thomas  Gourlay,"  she  rephed. 
"  So  far  as  regards  either  the  past  or  the 
future,  you  will  hear  nothing  further  from 
me  to-day ;  but,  mark  me,  we  shall  meet 
again — and  we  have  met  before." 

"That,  certainly,  is  not  ti-ue,"  he  said, 
"  unless  it  might  be  accidentally  on  the  high- 
■Vfay;  but,  until  this  moment,  my  good 
woman,  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen  your 
face  in  my  life." 

She  looked  toward  the  sky,   and   pointing 


her  long,  skinny  finger  upwards,  said,  "How 
will  you  be  prepared  to  render  an  account 
of  aU  your  deeds  and  iniquities  before  Him 
who  will  judge  you  there  !  " 

There  was  a  terrible  calmness,  a  dreadful 
solemnity  on  her  white,  ghastly  features  at 
she  spoke,  and  pointed  to  the  sky,  after 
which  she  passed  on  in  silence  and  took  no 
fui'ther  notice  of  the  Black  Baronet. 

It  is  veiy  difficvdt  to  describe  the  singular 
variety  of  sensations  which  her  conversation, 
extraordinary,  wild,  and  mysterious  as  it  was, 
caused  this  remarkable  man  to  experience. 
He  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it.  One  thing 
was  certain,  however,  and  he  could  not  help 
admitting  it  to  himself,  that,  during  their 
short  and  singular  dialogue,  she  had,  he 
knew  not  how,  obtained  and  exercised  an 
extraordinary  ascendency  over  him.  He 
looked  after  her,  but  she  was  proceeding 
calmly  along,  precisely  as  if  they  had  not 
spoken. 

"  She  is  certainly  the  greatest  mysteiy  ia 
the  shape  of  woman,"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
he  proceeded,  "  that  I  have  ever  yet  met — 
that  is,  if  she  be  a  thing  of  flesh  and  blood — 
for  to  me  she  seems  to  belong  more  to 
death  and  its  awful  accessories,  than  to  hfe 
and  its  natural  reahty.  How  in  the  devil's 
name  could  she  have  known  that  I  locked 
that  obstinate  and  undutiful  giii  up?" 
This  is  altogether  inexphcable,  upon  princi- 
ples affecting  only  the  ordinary  powers  of 
common  humanity.  Then  she  afi&rmed, 
prophesied,  or  what  you  will,  that  Lucy  and 
Dunroe  will  be  married — willingly  and  hap- 
pUy !  That  certainly  is  strange,  and  as 
agreeable  as  strange  ;  but  I  will  doubt  noth- 
ing after  the  incident  of  the  locking  up,  so 
strangely  revealed  to  me  too,  at  a  moment 
when,  perhaps,  no  human  being  knew  it  but 
Lucy  and  myself.  And,  what  is  strangei 
stm,  she  knows  the  state  of  the  girl's  af- 
fections, and  that  she  at  present  detests  Dun- 
roe.  Yet,  stay,  have  I  not  seen  her  some- 
where before  ?  She  said  so  herself.  There 
is  a  faint  impression  on  me  that  her  face  ia 
not  altogether  unfamihar  to  me,  but  I  can- 
not recall  either  time  or  place,  and  perhaps 
the  impression  is  a  wTong  one." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Candor  and  Dissimulation. 

Glenshee  Castle  was  built  by  the  father 
of  the  then  Lord  Cullamore,  at  a  cost  of 
upwards  of  one  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
Its  general  effect  and  situation  were  beau- 
tiful,   imposing,    and    picturesque    in    the 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


351 


extreme.  Its  north  and  east  sides,  being 
the  principal  fronts,  contained  the  state 
apartments,  while  the  other  sides,  for  the 
bviilding  was  a  pai-allelogi-am,  contained  the 
offices,  and  were  overshadowed,  or  nearly 
altogether  concealed,  by  trees  of  a  most 
luxuriant  gi'owth.  In  the  east  front  stood  a 
magnificent  circular  tower,  in  tine  propor- 
tion with  it ;  whilst  an  octagon  one,  of  pro- 
portions somewhat  inferior,  terminated  the 
northern  angle.  The  fi-ont,  again,  on  the 
north,  extending  fi-om  the  last  mentioned 
tower,  was  connected  •ndth  a  fine  Gothic 
chapel,  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  its 
stained  ■s\'indows,  supervening  buttresses,  and 
a  belfrj'  at  its  western  extremity.  On  the 
north  front,  which  was  the  entrance,  rose  a 
porch  leading  into  a  vestibule,  and  fi-om 
thence  into  the  magnificent  hall.  From  this 
sprung  a  noble  stone  staircase,  with  two  in- 
ferior flights  that  led  to  a  corridor,  which 
communicated  with  a  gorgeous  suit  of  bed- 
chambers. The  grand  hall  communicated 
on  the  western  side  A\-ith  those  rooms  that 
were  appropriated  to  the  servants,  and  those 
on  the  opposite,  with  the  state  apartments, 
which  were  of  magnificent  size  and  propor- 
tions, having  all  the  wood-work  of  Irish  oak, 
exquisitely  polished.  The  gardens  were  in 
equal  taste,  and  admii-ably  kept.  The  plea- 
sure grounds  were  ornamented  with  some  of 
the  rarest  exotics.  On  each  side  of  the  av- 
enue, as  you  api^roached  the  castle,  stood  a 
range  of  noble  elms,  beeches,  and  oaks  in- 
termingled ;  and,  as  you  reached  the  gi'and 
entrance,  you  caught  a  view  of  the  demesne 
and  deer-park,  which  were,  and  are,  among 
the  finest  in  the  kingdom.  There  was  also 
visible,  from  the  steps  of  the  hall  and  front 
window,  the  bends  of  a  sweet,  and  winding 
river  near  the  centre  of  the  demesne, 
spanned  by  three  or  four  Ught  and  elegfmt 
arches,  that  connected  the  latter  and  the 
deer-park  with  each  other.  Nothing,  how- 
ever, was  so  striking  in  the  whole  landscape 
as  the  gigantic  size  and  venerable  appear- 
ance of  the  wood,  which  covered  a  large 
portion  of  the  demesne,  and  the  patriarchal 
majesty  of  those  immense  trees,  which  stood 
separated  from  the  mass  of  forest,  singly  or 
in  groups,  in  different  parts  of  it.  The 
evening  summer's  dee})  hght,  something  be- 
tween gold  and  pm-ple,  as  it  poured  its  mellow 
radiance  upon  the  green  openings  between 
these  noble  trees,  or  the  evening  smoke,  as 
it  arose  at  the  same  hour  from  the  chimneys 
of  the  keepers'  houses  among  theii'  branches, 
were  sights  worth  a  whole  gaflerj'  of  modem 
art. 

As  the  baronet  approached  the  castle,  he 
thought  again  of  the  woman  and  her  prophe- 
cies, and  yielded  to  their  influence,  in  so  far 


as  they  assured  him  that  his  daughter  was 
destined  to  become  the  proud  mistress  of  all 
the  magnificence  by  which  he  was  surround- 
ed. The  sun  had  now  shone  forth,  and  as 
its  clear  light  fell  upon  the  house,  its  beauti- 
ful pleasure-gi-ounds,  its  ornamented  lavms, 
and  its  stately  avenues,  he  felt  that  there  waa 
something  worth  making  a  struggle  for,  even 
at  the  expense  of  conscience,  when  he  con- 
templated, with  the  crarings  of  an  ambitious 
heart,  the  spirit  of  rich  and  deep  repose  in 
which  the  whole  gorgeous  spectacle  lay. 

On  reaching  the  hall  he  rang,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  was  admitted  to  his  friend.  Lord 
Cullamore. 

Lord  Cullamore  was  remarkable  for  that 
venerable  dignity  and  graceful  ease,  which, 
after  all,  can  only  result  from  early  and  con- 
stant intercourse  with  polished  and  aristo- 
cratic society.  This  person  was  somewhat 
above  the  middle  size,  his  eye  clear  and  sig- 
nificant, his  features  expressive,  and  singu- 
larly indicative  of  what  he  felt  or  said.  In 
fact,  he  appeared  to  be  an  intelligent,  candid 
man,  who,  in  addition  to  that  air  bestowed 
upon  him  by  his  rank  and  position,  and 
which  could  never  for  a  moment  be  mistak- 
en, was  altogether  one  of  the  best  specimens 
of  his  class.  He  had  neither  those  assump- 
tions of  hateful  condescension,  nor  that  eter- 
nal consciousness  of  his  high  bu-th,  which 
too  frequently  degi-ade  and  disgrace  the  com- 
monplace and  vulgar  nobleman  ;  especially 
when  he  makes  the  pri^ileges  of  his  class  an 
offence  and  an  oppression  to  his  inferiors,  or 
considers  it  a  crime  to  feel  or  express  those 
noble  sympathies,  which,  as  a  first  principle, 
ought  to  bind  liim  to  that  class  by  whom  he 
hves,  and  who  constitute  the  great  mass  of 
humanity,  from  whose  toil  and  labor  originate 
I  the  happiness  of  his  order.  WTien  in  con- 
;  versation,  the  natural  animation  of  his  lord- 
\  ship's  countenance  was  checked,  not  only  by 
a  pohte  and  complacent  sense  of  what  was 
due  to  those  with  whom  he  spoke',  and  a  sin- 
cere anxiety  to  put  them  at  their  ease,  but 
eridently  by  an  expression  that  seemed  the 
exponent  of  some  imdi\Tilged  and  corroding 
sorrow.  We  may  add,  that  he  was  affection- 
I  ate,  generous,  indolent ;  not  difficult  to  be 
!  managed  when  he  had  no  strong  purpose  to 
'  stimulate  him  ;  keen  of  observation,  but  not 
prone  to  suspicion  ;  consequently  often  cre- 
'•  dulous,  and  easily  imposed  upon  ;  but,  hav- 
\  ing  once  detected  fraud  or  want  of  candor, 
the  discovery  was  certain  forever  to  deprive 
the  offending  party  of  his  esteem — no  mat- 
ter what  their  rank  or  condition  in  life  might 
be. 

We  need  scarcely  say,  therefore,  that  this 
amiable  nobleman,  possessing  as  he  did  all 
the  high  honor  and  integrity  by  which  his 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJ^'S  WORKS. 


whole  life  was  regulated,  (wdth  one  solitary 
exception,  for  which  his  heart  paid  a  severe 
penalty,)  carried  Jilong  ^\-ith  him,  in  his  old 
age,  that  respect,  reverence,  and  affection,  to 
which  the  dignified  simplicity  of  his  life  en- 
titled him.  He  was,  indeed,  one  of  those  few 
noblemen  whose  ^'irtues  gave  to  the  aristo- 
cratic spirit,  true  grace  and  appropriate  dig- 
nity, instead  of  degrading  it,  as  too  many  of 
his  caste  do,  by  pride,  arrogance,  and  selfish- 
ness. 

Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  on  entering  the  mag- 
nificent library  to  which  he  was  conducted, 
fovmd  his  lordship  in  the  act  of  attaching  his 
signature  to  some  papers.  The  latter  receiv- 
ed him  kindly  and  graciously,  and  shook 
hands  with  him,  but  without  rising,  for  which 
he  apologized. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  strong,  Sir  Thomas,"  he 
added  ;  "  for  although  this  last  attack  has  left 
me,  yet  I  feel  that  it  has  taken  a  considerable 
portion  of  my  strength  along  with  it.  I  am, 
however,  fi'ee  fi'ora  pain  and  complaint,  and 
toy  health  is  gradually  improving." 

"  But,  my  lord,  do  you  think  you  will  be 
able  to  encovmter  the  fatigue  and  difficulties 
of  a  journey  to  London  ?  "  repUed  the  other. 
"  Will  you  have  strength  for  it  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so  ;  travelling  by  sea  always  agreed 
with  and  in\Tigorated  my  constitution.  The 
weather,  too,  is  fine,  and  I  wiU  take  the  long 
voyage.  Besides,  it  is  indispensable  that  I 
should  go.  This  wild  son  of  mine  has  had  a 
duel  with  some  one  in  a  shooting  gaUery — has 
been  severely  hit — and  is  very  iU  ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  out  of  danger." 

"A  duel !  Good  heavens  !  My  lord,  how 
did  it  happen  ?  "  asked  the  baronet. 

"I  am  not  exactly  aware  of  aU  the  particu- 
lars ;  but  I  think  they  cannot  be  creditable 
to  the  pai'ties,  or  to  Dunroe,  at  least  ;  for 
one  of  his  friends  has  so  far  overshot  the 
mark  as  to  write  to  me,  for  my  satisfaction, 
that  they  have  succeeded  in  keeping  the  af- 
fair out  of  the  papers.  Now,  there  must  be 
something  wi'ong  when  my  son's  fiiends  are 
anxious  to  avoid  publicity  in  the  matter. 
The  conduct  of  that  young  man,  my  dear  Sir 
Thomas,  is  a  soui'ce  of  great  aJfiiction  to  me; 
and  I  tremble  for  the  happiness  of  your 
daughter,  should  they  be  united." 

"  You  are  too  severe  on  Dunroe,  my  lord," 
rephed  the  baronet.  "It  is  better  for  a  man 
to  sow  his  wild  oats  in  season  than  out  oi  sea- 
son. Besides,  you  know  the  proverb,  *A 
reformed  rake,'  etc." 

"The  popularity  of  a  proverb,  my  good 
friend,  is  no  proof  of  its  truth  ;  and,  besides, 
I  should  wish  to  place  a  hope  of  my  son's  re- 
formation upon  something  firmer  and  more 
sohd  than  the  strength  of  an  old  adage." 

"But  you  know,  my   lord,"   replied  the 


other,  "that  the  instances  of  post-matrimo- 
nial reformation,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  from 
youthful  folly,  are  sufficient  to  justify  the  pro- 
verb. I  am  quite  certain,  that,  if  Lord  Dun- 
roe were  united  to  a  virtuous  and  sensible 
wife,  he  would  settle  down  into  the  character 
of  a  steady,  honorable,  and  independent 
man.  I  could  prove  this  by  many  instances, 
even  within  your  knowledge  and  mine.  Why, 
then,  exclude  his  lordship  from  the  benefit 
of  a  contingency,  to  speak  the  least;  which 
we  know  falls  out  hapj)ily  in  so  many  in- 
stances ?  " 

"  You  mean  you  could  prove  the  proba- 
bility of  it,  my  dear  baronet ;  for,  at  present, 
the  case  is  not  susceptible  of  proof.  What 
you  say  may  be  true  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  may  not ;  and,  in  the  event  of  his 
marrying  without  the  post-matrimonial  re- 
formation you  speak  of,  what  becomes  of  yorir 
daughter's  happiness  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  know  generous  Dunroe  so  well, 
my  lord,  that  I  would  not,  even  as  Lucy's 
father,  hesitate  a  moment  to  rvm  the  risk." 

"  But  what  says  Lucy  herself?  And  how 
does  she  stand  affected  toward  him  ?  For 
that  is  the  main  point.  This  matter,  you 
know,  was  spoken  over  some  few  years  ago, 
and  conditionally  approved  of  by  us  both ; 
but  my  son  was  then  very  young,  and  had 
not  plunged  into  that  course  of  unjustifiable 
extravagance  and  profligacy  which,  to  my 
cost,  has  disgraced  his  latter  years.  I  scorn 
to  veil  his  conduct,  baronet,  for  it  would  be 
dishonorable  under  the  circumstances  be- 
tween us,  and  I  trust  you  will  be  equally 
candid  in  detailing  to  me  the  sentiments  of 
your  daughter  on  the  subject." 

"  My  lord,  I  shall  unquestionably  do  so  ; 
but  Lucy,  you  must  know,  is  a  gM  of  a  very 
peculiar  disposition.  She  possesses,  in  fact,  a 
good  deal  of  her  unworthy  father's  determi- 
nation and  obstinacy.  Urge  her  with  too 
much  vehemence,  and  she  "will  resist ;  tiy  to 
accelerate  her  pace,  and  she  ^ill  stand  stiU  ; 
but  leave  her  to  herseK,  to  the  natural  and 
reasonable  suggestions  of  her  excellent 
sense,  and  you  will  get  her  to  do  any- 
thing." 

"That  is  but  a  very  indifferent  character 
you  bestow  upon  your  daughter.  Sir  Tho- 
mas," rephed  his  loi'dship.  "I  trust  she 
deseiwes  a  better  one  at  your  hands." 

"  Why,  my  lord,"  rephed  the  baronet, 
smihng  after  his  own  pecuhar  fashion,  that 
is  to  say,  with  a  kind  of  bitter  sarcasm,  "  I 
have  as  good  a  right,  I  think,  to  exaggerate 
the  failings  of  my  daughter  as  you  have  to 
magnify  those  of  your  son.  But  a  truce  to 
this,  and  to  be  serious  :  I  know  the  girl ; 
you  know,  besides,  something  about  women 
yourself,  my  lord,  and  I  need  not  say  that 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


353 


it  is  unwise  to  rely  upon  the  moods  and  med- 
itations of  a  young  lady  before  marriage. 
Upon  the  prospect  of  such  an  important 
change  in  theii*  position,  the  best  of  them 
will  assume  a  great  deal.  The  period  con- 
stitutes the  last  limited  portion  of  their 
freedom  ;  and,  of  coui'se,  all  the  caprices  of 
the  heari,  and  all  the  giddy  ebuUitions  of 
gratified  vanity,  manifest  themselves  so 
strangely,  that  it  is  extremely  difficult  to 
und^stand  them,  or  know  their  ANishes. 
Under  such  circumstances,  my  lord,  they 
will,  in  the  very  levity  of  delight,  frequently 
say  '  no,'  when  they  mean  '  yes,'  and  xfice 
versa." 

"  Sir  Tlaomas,"  replied  his  lordship,  grave- 
ly, "marriage,  instead  of  being  the  close, 
should  be  the  commencement,  of  their  hap- 
piness. No  womfm,  however,  of  sense, 
whether  before  mai'riage  or  after  it,  is  diffi- 
cult to  be  understood.  Upon  a  subject  of 
such  importance — one  that  involves  the 
happiness  of  her  future  life — no  female  pos- 
sessing tinith  and  principle  would,  for  one 
moment,  suffer  a  misconception  to  exist. 
Now  your  daughter,  my  favorite  Lucy,  is  a 
girl  of  fine  sense  and  high  feeling,  and  I  am 
at  a  loss.  Sir  Thomas,  I  assure  you,  to  recon- 
cile either  one  or  the  other  with  your  meta- 
physics. If  Miss  Gourlay  sat  for  the  dis- 
agreeable pictiu'e  you  have  just  drawn,  she 
must  be  a  gi-eat  hj^DOcrite,  or  you  have 
grossly  misrepresented  her,  which  I  conceive 
it  is  not  now  yoxxx  interest  or  your  wish  to 
do." 

"  But,  my  lord,  I  was  speaking  of  the  sex 
in  general." 

"  But,  sir,"  rephed  his  lordship  with  dig- 
nity, "  we  are  here  to  speak  of  your  daugh- 
ter." 

Our  readers  may  perceive  that  the  wily 
baronet  was  beating  about  the  bush,  and 
attempting  to  impose  ujdou  his  lordship  by 
vague  disquisitions.  He  was  perfectly  aware 
of  Lord  Cullamore's  indomitable  love  of 
truth,  and  he  consequently  feared  to  treat 
him  with  a  direct  impo.sition,  taking  it  for 
granted  that,  if  he  had,  an  interriew  of  ten 
minutes  between  Lucy  and  his  lordship  ; 
might  lead  to  an  exposure  of  his  dupHcity 
and  falsehood.  He  felt  himself  in  a  j^ainful 
and  distressing  dilemma.  Aware  that,  if  the 
excellent  peer  had  the  slightest  knowledge 
of  Lucy's  loathing  horror  of  his  son,  he 
would  never  lend  his  sanction  to  the  mar- 
riage, the  bai'onet  knew  not  whether  to  turn 
to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  or,  in  other 
words,  whether  to  rely  on  truth  or  falsehood. 
At  length,  he  began  to  calculate  upon  the 
possibility  of  his  daughter's  ultimate  acqui- 
escence, upon  the  force  of  his  own  unbend- 
ing character,  her  isolated  position,  without 
\2 


any  one  to  encourage  or  abet  her  in  what 
he  looked  upon  as  her  disobedience,  conse- 
quently his  complete  control  over  her  ;  hav- 
ing summoned  up  all  tho.se  points  together, 
he  resolved  to  beat  about  a  httle  longer, 
but,  at  all  events,  to  keep  the  peer  in  the 
dark,  and,  if  pressed,  to  hazai-d  the  false- 
hood. He  rephed,  however,  to  his  lord- 
ship's last  observation  : 

"  I  assure  you,  my  lord,  I  thought  not  of 
my  daughter  while  I  drew  the  picture." 

"Well,  then,"  replied  his  lordship,  smil- 
ing, "  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  you  are  very 
eloquent  in  generahties — generalities,  too, 
my  friend,  that  do  not  bear  upon  the  ques- 
tion. Li  one  word,  is  !Mass  Gourlay  inclined 
to  this  marriage  ?  and  I  beseech  you,  my 
dear  baronet,  no  more  of  these  generali- 
ties." 

"  She  is  as  much  so,  my  lord,"  rephed  the 
other,  "  as  nineteen  women  out  of  every 
twenty  are  in  general.  But  it  is  not  to  be. 
expected,  I  repeat,  that  a  delicately-minded 
and  modest  young  creatiire  will  at  once  step 
forward  unabashed  and  exclaim,  '  Yes,  papa,  • 
I  will  many  him.'  I  protest,  my  lord,  it 
would  require  the  desperate  heroism  of  an 
old  maid  on  the  last  legs  of  hope,  or  the  har- 
dihood of  a  widow  of  three  husbands,  to  go 
through  such  an  ordeal.  We  consequently 
must  make  allowance  for  those  dehcate  and 
blushing  evasions  which,  after  all,  only  mask 
compliance." 

By  this  reply  the  baronet  hoped  to  be 
able  to  satisfy  his  fi-iend,  without  i^lunging 
into  the  open  falsehood.  The  old  nobleman, 
however,  looked  keenly  at  him,  and  asked  a 
question  which  penetrated  like  a  dagger  into 
the  Ijing  soul  vrithin  him. 

"  She  consents,  then,  in  the  ordinary 
way  ?  " 

"  She  does,  my  lord." 

"Well,"  rephed  the  peer,  "that,  as  the 
world  goes,  is,  perhaps,  as  much  as  can  be 
expected  at  present.  You  have  not,  I  dare 
say,  attempted  to  force  her  very  much  on 
the  subject,  and  the  poor  girl  has  no  mother. 
Under  such  circumstances,  the  dehcacy  of  a 
young  lady  is  certainly  entitled  to  a  manly 
forbeai'ance.  Have  you  alluded  to  Dunroe's 
want  of  morals  ?  " 

"  Your  opinion  of  his  lordship  and  mine 
differ  on  this  point  considerably,  my  lord," 
rephed  the  bai'onet.  "  You  judge  him  with 
the  severity  of  a  father,  I  with  the  modera- 
tion of  a  friend.  I  have  certainly  made  no 
allusion  to  his  morals." 

"  Of  course,  then,  you  are  aware,  that  it  is 
your  duty  to  do  so  ;  as  a  father,  that  it  is  a 
most  solemn  and  indispensable  duty  ?  " 

The  soul  of  Sir  Thomas  Goiu'lay  writhed 
within  him  like  a  wounded  serpent,  at  the 


354 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


calm  but  noble  truth  contained  in  this 
apophthegm.  He  was  not,  however,  to  be 
caught ;  the  subtlety  of  his  invention  enabled 
him  to  escape  on  that  occasion  at  least. 

"It  has  this  moment  occui-red  to  me,  my 
lord,  with  reference  to  this  very  point,  that 
it  may  be  possible,  and  by  no  means  improb- 
able— at  least  I  for  one  anxiously  hope  it — 
that  the  recent  illness  of  my  Lord  Dimroe 
may  have  given  him  time  to  reflect  upon  his 
escapades  and  foUies,  and  that  he  will  rejoin 
society  a  wiser  and  a  better  man.  Under 
these  expectations,  I  appeal  to  your  own 
good  sense,  my  lord,  whether  it  would  be 
wise  or  prudent  by  at  present  alluding — es- 
pecially if  it  be  rendered  unnecessary  by  his 
reformation— to  his  want  of  morals,  in  any 
conversation  I  may  hold  with  my  daughter, 
and  thereby  deprive  him  of  her  personal  re- 
spect and  esteem,  the  only  basis  upon  which 
true  affection  and  domestic  hajopiness  can 
safely  rest.  Let  us  therefore  wait,  my  lord. 
Perhaps  the  loss  of  some  of  his  hot  blood 
may  have  cooled  him.  Perhaps,  after  all,"  he 
added,  smiling,  "we  may  have  reason  to 
thank  his  phlebotomist." 

The  peer  saw  Sir  Thomas's  play,  and, 
giving  him  another  keen  glance,  replied : 

"I  never  depended  much  upon  a  dramatic 
repentance,  my  dear  baronet.  Many  a  reso- 
lution of  amendment  has  been  made  on  the 
sick  bed  ;  but  we  know  in  general  how  they 
are  kept,  especially  by  the  young.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  our  discussion  has  been  long 
enough,  and  sufficiently  ineffectual.  My  im- 
pression is,  that  IMiss  Gourlay  is  disinclined 
to  the  alHance.  In  truth,  I  dare  say  she  is 
as  well  acquainted  T\ath  his  moral  reputation 
as  we  are — perhaps  better,  Dunroe's  con- 
duct has  been  too  often  discussed  in  fashion- 
able hfe  to  be  a  secret  to  her,  or  any  one  else 
who  has  access  to  it.  If  she  reject  him  from 
a  principle  of  virtuous  delicacy  and  honor, 
she  deserves  a  better  fate  than  ever  to  call 
him  husband.  But  perhaps  she  may  have 
some  other  attachment  ?  " 

"My  lord,"  rei^lied  Sir  Thomas,  rising,  "I 
think  I  can  perceive  on  which  side  the  disin- 
clination lies.  You  have — and  pray  excuse 
me  for  saying  so — studiously  thrown,  during 
the  present  conference,  every  {possible  ob- 
struction in  the  way  of  an  arrangement  ot 
this  subject.  If  your  lordship  is  determined 
that  the  alliance  between  our  families  shall 
not  take  place,  I  pray  you  to  say  so.  Upjn 
your  own  showing,  my  daughter  will  kdve 
little  that  she  ought  to  regret  in  esc^.ping 
Dunroe." 

"And  Dunroe  would  have  much  to  be 
thankful  to  God  for  in  securing  yorr  c'.augh- 
ter.  But,  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  1  will  be 
candid  and   open  with  you.     Pmj  observe, 


sir,  that,  during  this  whole  discussion,  con^ 
ference,  or  what  you  will,  I  did  not  get  out 
of  you  a  single  direct  answer,  and  that  upon 
a  subject  invohing  the  life-long  happiness  of 
your  only  child.  I  tell  you,  baronet,  that 
your  indirectness  of  purjDose,  and — you  AviU 
excuse  me,  too,  for  what  I  am  about  to  say, 
the  importance  of  the  subject  justifies  me — 
youi"  evasions  have  excited  my  suspicions, 
and  my  ^iresent  impression  is,  that  Miss 
Gourlay  is  averse  to  a  matrimonial  union 
■with  my  son  ;  that  she  has  heard  reports  of 
his  character  which  have  justly  alarmed  her 
high-minded  sense  of  delicacy  and  honor  ; 
and  that  you,  her  parent,  are  forcing  her  into 
a  marriage  which  she  detests.  Look  into 
youi'  own  heart,  Sir  Thomas,  and  see  whether 
you  are  not  willing  to  risk  her  peace  of  mind 
for  the  miserable  ambition  of  seeing  her  one 
day  a  countess.  Alas  !  my  friend,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  there  is  no  talisman  in  the  coronet 
of  a  countess  to  stay  the  progress  of  sorrow, 
or  check  the  decline  of  a  breaking  heart.  If 
Miss  Gourlay  be,  as  I  fear  she  is,  averse  to 
this  union,  do  not  sacrifice  her  to  ambition 
and  a  jDrofligate.  She  is  too  precious  a  trea- 
sure to  be  thrown  away  upon  two  objects  so 
utterly  worthless.  Her  soul  is  too  pure  to 
I  be  allied  to  contamination — her  heart  too 
noble,  too  good,  too  generous,  to  be  broken 
j  by  imavaiUng  grief  and  a  repentance  that 
I  will  probably  come  too  late." 
[  "If  I  assure  you,  my  lord,  that  she  is  not 
I  averse  to  the  match — nay  " — and  here  this 
false  man  consoled  his  con!;,cifence  by  faUing 
back  upon  the  prophecy  of  Ginty  Cooper — 
"  if  I  assure  you  that  she  xmll  marry  Dunroe 
willingly — nay,  yath  deUght,  will  your  lord- 
ship then  rest  satisfied  ?  " 

"I  must  d impend  upon  your  word,  Sir 
Thomas ;  p..ir,  I  not  in  conversation  with  a 
gentlem?,n  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  my  lord,  I  assure  you  that  it 
is  so  Your  lordship  will  find,  when  the 
time  ^omes,  that  my  daughter  is  not  only 
not  indisposed  to  this  union,  but  absolutely 
ar,xious  to  become  your  daughter-in-law  " — 
liad  as  he  was,  he  could  not  force  himself  to 
aay,  in  so  many  plain  words,  "the  ^^^fe  of 
your  son."  "  But,  my  lord,"  he  proceeded, 
"  if  you  will  permit  me  to  make  a  single  ob- 
sei-vation,  I  will  thank  you,  and  I  trust  you 
will  excuse  me  besides." 

"Unquestionably,  Sir  Thomas." 

"Well,  then,  niy  lord,  what  I  haye  ob- 
served during  our  conversation,  with  gi-eat 
pain,  is,  that  you  seem  to  entertain — pardon 
me,  I  speak  in  good  feeling,  I  assm-e  your 
Jox-dship — that  you  seem,  I  say,  to  entei-tain 
a  very  unkind  and  anything  but  a  parental 
feeling  for  your  son.  What,  after  all,  do  his 
wild  eccentricities  amoimt  to  more  than  the 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


355 


freedom  and  indulfrence  iu  those  easy  habits 
of  Ufa  which  his  wealth  and  station  hold  out 
to  him  with  greater  temptation  than  they  do 
to  others?  I  cannot,  my  lord,  in  fact,  see 
anything  so  monstrous  in  the  conduct  of  a 
young  nobleman  like  him,  to  justif}',  on  the 
pai't  of  your  lordshij),  language  so  severe, 
and,  pai'don  me,  so  jii-ejudiciiil  to  his  char- 
acter. Excuse  me,  m}'  lord,  if  I  have  taken 
a  hberty  to  which  I  am  in  nowise  entitled." 

Socrates  himself  could  scarcely  have  as- 
sumed a  tone  more  moral,  or  a  look  of  greater 
sincerity,  or  more  anxious  interest,  than  did 
the  Black  Baronet  whilst  he  uttered  these 
words. 

The  peer  rose  \x\i,  and  his  eye  and  whole 
person  were  marked  by  an  expression  and  an 
air  of  the  highest  dignity,  not  unmingled 
with  deep  and  obvious  feeling. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  said  he,  "  j'ou 
seem  to  forget  the  object  of  our  conference, 
and  our  respective  positions." 

"  M}'  Lord,"  exclaimed  the  other,  in  a  de- 
precating tone,  "I  meant  no  offence,  upon 
my  honor." 

"I  have  taken  noue,"rephed  his  lordship  ; 
"  but  I  must  teach  you  to  understand  me. 
Whatever  my  son's  conduct  may  be,  one 
thing  is  e\'ident,  that  you  are  his  apologist ; 
now,  as  a  moral  man,  anxious  for  the  happi- 
ness of  your  child,  I  tell  you  that  you  ought 
to  have  exchanged  positions  with  me  ;  it  is 
you  who,  when  about  to  intrust  your  daugh- 
ter to  him  for  life,  ought  to  have  investigated 
his  moral  chai-acter  and  habits,  and  mani- 
fested an  anxiety  to  satisfy  yourself  whether 
they  were  such  as  would  reflect  honor  upon 
her,  and  secure  her  peace  of  mind  and  tran- 
quillity in  the  married  state.  You  say,  too, 
that  I  do  not  speak  of  my  son  in  a  kind  or 
parental  feehng ;  but  do  yoii  imagine,  sir, 
that,  engaged  as  I  am  hex-e,  in  a  confidential 
and  important  conference,  the  result  of  which 
may  involve  the  happiness  or  misery  of  two 
persons  so  dear  to  us  both,  I  would  be  justi- 
fied in  A\ithholding  the  ti-uth,  or  lending 
myself  to  a  coiu'se  of  dishonorable  de- 
ception ?  " 

He  sat  down  again,  and  seemed  deeply 
affected. 

"  God  knows,"  he  said,  "  that  I  love  that 
wild  and  unthinking  young  man,  perhaps 
more  than  I  ought ;  but  do  you  imagine,  sir, 
that,  because  I  have  spoken  of  him  ^^•ith  the 
freedom  necessary  and  due  to  the  impor- 
tance tind  solemnity  of  our  object  in  meeting, 
I  could  or  would  utter  such  sentiments  to  the 
world  at  large?  I  pray  you,  sir,  then,  to 
make  and  observe  the  distinction  ;  and,  in- 
stead of  assailing  me  for  w^ant  of  affection  as 
a  pai-ent,  to  thank  me  for  the  candor  with 
which  I  have  spoken." 


The  baronet  felt  subdued  ;  it  is  evident 
that  his  mind  was  too  coarse  and  selfish  to 
understand  the  delicacy,  the  truth,  and  high, 
conscientious  feeling  with  which  Lord  Culla- 
more  conducted  his  part  of  this  negotiation. 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  baronet,  who  thought 
of  another  point  on  which  to  fall  back,  "  there 
is  one  circumstance,  one  important  fact, 
which  we  have  both  unaccountably  over- 
looked, and  which,  after  all,  holds  out  a 
greater  promise  of  domestic  happiness  be- 
tween these  young  persons  than  imj-thing  we 
have  thought  of.  His  lordship  is  attached  to 
my  daughter.  Now,  where  there  is  love,  my 
lord,  there  is  every  chance  and  prospect  of 
happiness  in  the  married  hfe." 

"  Yes,  if  it  be  mutual,  Sir  Thomas ;  everj'- 
thing  depends  on  that.  I  am  glad,  however, 
you  mentioned  it.  There  is  some  hope  left 
still ;  but  alas,  alas  !  what  is  even  love  when 
opposed  to  selfishness  and  ambition?  I  could 

— I   myself  could "  he   seemed   deeply 

moved,  and  paused  for  some  time,  as  if  im- 
willinf]^  to  trust  himself  with  speech.  "  Yes, 
I  am  glad  you  mentioned  it,  and  I  thank  you, 
Sir  Thomas,  I  thank  you.  I  should  wish  to 
see  these  two  young  people  hapi^y.  I  beheve 
he  is  attached  to  your  daughter,  and  I  will 
now  mention  a  fact  which  certainly  proves  it. 
The  gentleman  with  w'hom  he  fought  that 
unfortunate  duel  was  forced  into  it  by  Dim- 
roe,  in  consequence  of  his  having  jmid  some 
marked  attentions  to  ]\liss  Gourlay,  when  she 
and  her  mother  Avere  in  Paris,  some  few 
mouths  before  Lady  Gourlay's  decease.  I 
did  not  wish  to  mention  this  before,  out  of 
respect  for  your  daughter  ;  but  I  do  so  now, 
confidentially,  of  course,  in  consequence  of 
the  turn  our  conversation  has  taken." 

Something  on  the  moment  seemed  to  strike 
the  baronet,  wlio  started,  for  he  was  im- 
questionably  an  able  hand  at  putting  scat- 
tered facts  and  circumstances  together,  and 
weaving  a  significant  conclusion  from  them. 

"  That,  my  lord,  at  all  events,"  said  the 
coarse-minded  man,  after  having  recovered 
himself,  "that  is  gratif\-iug." 

"  ^\Tiat !  "  exclaimed  Lord  Cullamore,  "to 
make  your  daughter  the  cause  and  subject  of 
a  duel,  an  intemperate  brawl  in  a  shooting 
galleiy.  The  only  ho^De  I  have  is,  that  I  trust 
she  was  not  named." 

"But,  my  lord,  it  is,  after  all,  a  proof  of 
his  affection  for  her." 

His  lordshij)  smiled  sarcastically,  and 
looked  at  him  -with  something  like  amaze- 
ment, if  not  with  contempt ;  but  did  not  deign 
to  reply. 

"And  now,  my  lord,"  continued  the  baro- 
net, "what  is  to  be  the  result  of  our  confer- 
ence ?  3Iy  daughter  will  have  all  my  landed 
property  at  my  death,  and  a  large  marriage- 


356 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


poi-tion  besides,  now  in  tlie  funds.  I  am  ap- 
parently the  last  of  my  race.  The  disappear- 
ance and  death — I  take  it  for  granted,  as 
they  have  never  since  been  heard  of — of  my 
brother  Sir  Edward's  heu',  and  very  soon 
after  of  my  own,  have  left  me  without  a  hope 
of  perpetuating  my  name  ;  I  shall  settle  my 
estates  upon  Lucy." 

His  lordship  appeared  abstracted  for  a  few 
moments.  "  Yom- brother  and  you,"  he  ob- 
served, "  were  on  terms  of  bitter  hostility,  in 
consequence  of  what  you  considered  an  un- 
equal maniage  on  his  pai't,  and  I  candidly 
assure  you,  Sir  Thomas,  that,  were  it  not  for 
the  mysterious  disappearance  of  yoiu*  o^ti 
son,  so  soon  after  the  disappearance  of  his, 
it  would  have  been  difficult  to  relieve  you 
fi'om  dark  and  terrible  suspicions  on  the 
subject.  As  it  is,  the  people,  I  beheve, 
criminate  you  still ;  but  that  is  nothing  ;  my 
opinion  is,  that  the  same  enemy  perjDetrated 
the  double  crime.  Alas  !  the  worst  and  bit- 
terest of  all  private  feuds  are  the  domestic. 
There  is  my  owti  brother  ;  in  a  monjent  of 
passion  and  jealousy  he  challenged  me  to 
single  combat ;  I  had  sense  to  resist  his  im- 
petuosity. He  got  a  foreign  appointment, 
and  there  has  been  a  gulf  like  that  of  the 
grave  between  him  and  his,  and  me  and  mine, 
ever  since." 

•Nothing,  my  lord,"  rephed  Sir  Thomas, 
his  countenance,  as  he  spoke,  becoming 
black  with  suppressed  rage,  "will  ever  re- 
move the  impression  from  my  mind,  that  the 
disappearance  or  mui'der  of  my  son  was  not 
a  diaboHcal  act  of  retaliation  committed  un- 
der the  suspicion  that  I  was  privy  to  the  re- 
moval or  death,  as  the  case  may  be,  of  my 
brother's  heir ;  and  while  I  have  Hfe  I  will 
persist  in  charging  Lady  Gourlay,  as  I  must 
call  her  so,  with  the  crime." 

"Li  that  impression,"  replied  his  lordship, 
"  you  stand  alone.  Lady  Govurlay,  that  ami- 
able, mild,  affectionate,  and  heart-broken 
woman,  is  utterly  incapable  of  that,  or  any 
act  of  cruelty  whatsoever.  A  woman  who  is 
the  source  of  happiness,  kindness,  reUef,  and 
support,  to  so  many  ©f  her  humble  and  dis- 
tressed feUow-creatures,  is  not  hkely  to  com- 
mit or  become  accessory  in  any  way  to  such 
a  detestable  and  unnat\iral  crime.  Her  whole 
hfe  and  conduct  render  such  a  supposition 
monstrous  and  incredible." 

Both,  after  he  had  closed  his  observations, 
mused  for  some  time,  when  the  baronet, 
rising  and  pacing  to  and  fro,  as  was  his  cus- 
tom, at  length  asked — "  WeU,  my  lord,  what 
say  you  ?  Are  we  never  to  come  to  a  con- 
clusion ?  " 

"  My  determination  is  simply  this,  my 
dear  baronet, — that,  if  you  and  IVIiss  Gour- 
lay are  satisfied  to  take  Lord  Dimroe,  with 


aU  his  imperfections  on  his  head,  I  shall 
give  no  opposition.  She  will,  unless  he 
amends  and  reforms,  take  him,  I  gi-ant  you, 
at  her  peril ;  but  be  it  so.  If  the  union,  as 
you  say,  will  be  the  restdt  of  mutual  attach- 
ment, in  God's  name  let  them  marry.  It  is 
possible,  we  are  assured,  that  the  'unbe- 
lieving husband  may  be  saved  by  the  be- 
Heving  wife.'" 

"  I  am  quite  satisfied,  my  lord,  with  this 
arrangement ;  it  is  fau',  and  just,  and  honor- 
able, and  I  am  j^erfectly  willing  to  abide  by 
it.  "WTien  does  your  lordship  proj^ose  to  re- 
turn to  us  ?  " 

"I  am  tii'ed  of  pubhc  hfe,  my  dear 
baronet.  My  daughter.  Lady  Emily,  who, 
you  know,  has  chiefly  resided  with  her 
maiden  aunt,  hopes  to  succeed  in  prevailing 
on  her  to  accompany  us  to  Glenshee  Castle, 
to  spend  the  summer  and  autumn,  and  visit 
some  of  the  beautiful  sceneiy  of  this  un- 
known land  of  ours.  Something,  as  to  time, 
depends  upon  Dunroe's  convalescence.  My 
stay  in  England,  however,  will  be  as  short 
as  I  can  make  it.  I  am  getting  too  old  for 
the  exhausting  din  and  bustle  of  society  ;  and 
what  I  want  now,  is  quiet  rejDOse,  time  to 
reflect  upon  my  past  life,  and  to  prepare 
myself,  as  well  as  I  can,  for  a  new  change. 
Of  course,  we  will  be  both  qualified  to  re- 
sume the  subject  of  this  marriage  after  my 
return,  and,  until  then,  farewell,  my  dear 
baronet.  But  mark  me — no  force,  no  vio- 
lence." 

Sir  Thomas,  as  he  shook  hands  with  him, 
laughed — "None  vdll  be  necessaiy,  my  lord, 
I  assure  you — I  pledge  you  my  honor  for 
that." 

The  worthy  baronet,  on  mounting  his 
horse,  paced  him  slowly  out  of  the  groimds, 
as  was  his  custom  when  in  deej)  meditation. 

"If  I  don't  mistake,"  thought  he,  "I  have 
a  clew  to  this  same  mysterious  gentleman  in 
the  inn.  He  has  seen  and  become  ac- 
quainted vritli  Lucy  in  Paris,  under  sanction 
of  her  weak-minded  and  foolish  mother. 
The  girl  herself  admitted  that  her  engage- 
ment to  him  was  ^dth  her  consent.  Dimroe, 
already  aware  of  his  attentions  to  her,  be- 
comes jealous,  and  on  meeting  him  in  Lon- 
don quarrels  \rith  him,  that  is  to  say,  forces 
him,  I  should  think,  into  one  ; — not  that  the 
fellow  seems  at  all  to  be  a  coward  either, — but 
why  the  devil  did  not  the  hot-headed  young 
scoundrel  take  steadier  aim,  and  send  the 
buUet  through  his  heari  or  brain  ?  Had  he 
pinked  him,  it  would  have  saved  me  much 
vexation  and  trouble." 

He  then  passed  to  another  train  of  thought. 
"Thomas  Gourlay, — plain  Thomas  Gourlay 
— what  the  devil  could  the  corpse-hke  hag 
mean  by  that?    Is  it  possible  that  this  in* 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


357 


sane  scoundrel  will  come  to  light  in  spite  of 
me  ?  Would  to  Heaven  that  I  could  ascer- 
tain his  whereabouts,  and  get  him  into  my 
power  once  more.  I  would  take  care  to 
put  him  in  a  place  of  safety."  He  then 
touched  his  horse  with  the  spurs,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  Red  Hall  at  a  quicker  pace. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  Family  Dialogue — and  a  Secret  nearly  Discovered. 

Our  scene  must  necessarily  change  to  a 
kind  of  inn  or  low  tavern,  or,  as  they  are 
usually  denominated,  eating-houses,  in  Little 
Mary  street,  on  the  north  side  of  the  good 
city  of  Dublin.  These  eating-houses  were 
remax'kable  for  the  extreme  neatness  and 
cleanliness  with  which  they  were  kept,  and 
the  wondei*ful  order  and  regulaiity  with 
which  they  were  conducted.  For  instance, 
a  lap  of  beef  is  hung  fi'om  an  ii'ou  hook  on 
the  door-post,  wliich,  if  it  be  in  the  glorious 
heat  of  summer,  is  half  black  with  flies,  but 
that  -will  not  prevent  it  fi'om  leaving  upon 
your  coat  a  deep  and  healthy  streak  of  some- 
thing between  grease  and  tallow  as  you 
necessarily  bmsh  against  it — first,  on  your 
going  in,  and  secondly,  on  your  coming  out. 

The  evening  was  tolerably  advanced,  and 
the  hour  of  dinner  long  past  ;  but,  notwith- 
standing this,  there  were  several  persons  en- 
gaged in  dispatching  the  beef  and  cabbage 
we  have  described.  Two  or  three  lai'ge 
county  ]\Ieath  farmers,  clad  in  immense 
frieze  jackets,  cordui'oy  knee-breeche.s,  thick 
woollen  stockings,  and  heavj'  soled  shoes, 
were  not  so  much  eating  as  devouring  the 
viands  that  were  before  them  ;  whilst  in  an- 
other part  of  the  rooms  sat  two  or  three 
meagre-looking  scriveners'  clerks,  rather  out 
at  elbows,  and  remarkable  for  an  appearance 
of  something  that  might,  without  much  diffi- 
culty, be  interpreted  into  habits  that  could 
not  be  reconciled  with  sobriety. 

As  there  is  not  much,  however,  that  is 
either  picturesque  or  agreeable  in  the  de- 
scription of  such  an  estabhshment,  we  shall 
pass  into  an  inner  room,  where  those  who 
^vished  for  privacy  and  additional  comfort 
might  be  entertained  on  terms  somewhat 
more  expensive.  We  accordingly  beg  our 
readers  to  accompany  us  up  a  creaking  pair 
of  stairs  to  a  small  backroom  on  the  first 
floor,  furnished  with  an  old,  round  oak  table, 
with  turned  legs,  four  or  five  old-fashioned 
chairs,  a  few  wood-cuts,  daubed  with  green 
and  yellow,  representing  the  four  seasons,  a 
Christmas  carol,  together  with  that  mir^le 


of  ingenuity,  a  reed  m  a  bottle,  which  stood 
on  the  chimney-piece. 

In  this  room,  with  liquor  before  them, 
which  was  procured  from  a  neighboring 
public  house — for,  in  establishments  of  this 
kind,  they  are  not  permitted  to  keep  hquor 
for  sale — sat  three  persons,  two  men  and  a 
woman.  One  of  the  men  seemed,  at  first 
glance,  rather  good-looking,  was  near  or 
about  fifty,  stout,  big-boned,  and  apparently 
verj-  powerful  as  regarded  personal  strength. 
He  was  respectably  enough  dressed,  and,  as 
we  said,  unless  when  it  happened  that  he  fell 
into  a  mood  of  thoughtfulness,  wliich  he  did 
repeatedly,  had  an  appearance  of  frankness 
and  simphcity  which  at  once  secured  instant 
and  Tinhesitating  good  will.  Wlien,  however, 
after  putting  the  tumbler  to  his  hps,  and 
gulping  down  a  jiortion  of  it,  and  then  re- 
placing the  liquor  on  the  table,  he  folded 
his  arms  and  knitted  his  brows,  in  an  instant 
the  expression  of  oi^enness  and  good  humor 
changed  into  one  of  deep  and  deadly  malig- 
nitj'. 

The  features  of  the  elder  pei'son  exhibited 
a  comic  contrast  between  nature  and  habit 
— between  an  expression  of  good  humor, 
broad  and  legible,  which  no  one  could  mis- 
take for  a  moment,  and  an  aflectation  of 
consequence,  self-importance,  and  mock  he- 
roic dignity  that  were  iiTesistible.  He  was 
a  pedagogue. 

The  woman  who  accompanied  them  we 
need  not  describe,  having  ah-eady  made  the 
reader  acquainted  with  her  in  the  person  of 
the  female  fortime-teller,  who  held  the  mys- 
tei-ious  dialogue  with  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay 
on  his  way  to  Lord  Cullamore's. 

"  This  liquor,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
"would  be  nothing  the  worse  of  a  httle 
daicent  mellowness  and  flavor ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  we  must  admit  that,  though 
sadly  deficient  in  a  spirit  of  exhilaration,  it 
bears  a  harmonious  reference  to  the  beauti- 
ful beef  and  cabbage  which  we  got  for  dinner. 
The  whole  of  them  are  what  I  designate  as 
sorry  specimens  of  meti-opohtan  luxmy.  !^Lay 
I  never  translate  a  classic,  but  I  fear  I  shall 
soon  wax  segrotat — I  feel  something  like  a 
I  telegraphic  despatch  commencing  between 
my  head  and  my  stomach  ;  and  how  the 
communication  may  terminate,  whether 
peaceably  or  otherwise,  would  require,  O 
divine  Jacinta !  your  tripodial  powers  or 
prophecy  to  predict.  The  whiskey,  in  what- 
ever shape  or  under  whatever  disguise  you 
take  it,  is  richly  woiihy  of  all  condemna- 
tion." 

"I  will  drink  no  more  of  it,  uncle,"  re^ 
phed  the  other  man  ;  "  it  would  soon  sickei? 
me,  too.  This  shan't  pass  ;  it's  gross  im- 
position— and  that  is  a  bad  thing  to  practise 


S5S 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOLiJTS. 


in  this  world.  Ginty,  touch  the  bell,  will 
you  ? — we  will  make  them  get  us  better." 

A  smile  of  a  peculiar  nature  passed  over 
the  woman's  ghastly  features  as  she  looked 
with  significant  caution  at  her  brother,  for 
such  he  was. 

i'  "  Yes,  do  get  better  whiskey,"  she  said  ; 
"  it's  too  bad  that  we  should  make  my  imcle 
sick  from  mere  kindness." 

"  I  cannot  exactly  say  that  I  am  much  out 
of  order  as  yet,"  replied  the  schoolmaster, 
"but,  as  they  say,  if  the  weather  has  not 
broken,  the  sky  is  getting  troubled  ;  I  hope 
it  is  only  a  false  alarm,  and  may  pass  away 
without  infliction.  If  there  is  any  of  the 
minor  miseries  of  life  more  tryirig  than 
another,  it  is  to  drink  Hquor  that  fires  the 
blood,  splits  the  head,  but  basely  declines  to 
elevate  and  rejoice  the  heart.  O,  divine 
poteen  !  immortal  essence  of  the  Jiordeum 
beatum! — which  is  translated  holy  barley — 
what  drink,  hquor,  or  refi'eshment  can  be 
placed,  ■without  the  commission  of  some- 
thing like  small  saciilege,  in  parallel  with 
thee !  "When  I  think  of  thy  soothing  and 
gradually  exhilarating  influence,  of  the  genial 
spirit  of  love  and  friendship  which,  owing 
to  thee,  warms  the  heart  of  man,  and  not 
unfrequently  of  the  softer  sex  also  ;  when  I 
reflect  upon  the  cheerful  light  which  thou 
diflfiisest  by  gentle  degrees  throughout  the 
soul,  fining  it  with  generosity,  kindness,  and 
courage,  enabling  it  to  forget  care  and  cal- 
amity, and  all  the  various  ills  that  flesh  is 
heir  to ;  when  I  remember  too  that  thou 
dost  so  frequently  aid  the  inspiration  of  the 
bard,  the  eloquence  of  the  orator,  and  chang- 
est  the  modesty  of  the  difiident  lover  into 
that  easy  and  becoming  assurance  which  is 
so  grateful  to  women,  is  it  any  wonder  I 
should  feel  how  utterly  incapable  I  am,  with- 
out thy  own  assistance,  to  expound  thy  eulo- 
giura  as  I  ought !  Hand  that  tumbler  here, 
Charley, — bad  as  it  is,  there  is  no  use,  as 
the  proverb  says,  in  laving  one's  liquor  be- 
hind them.  We  -ndll  presently  correct  it 
with  better  drink." 

Charley  Corbet,  for  such  was  the  name 
of  the  worthy  schoolmaster's  nephew,  laugh- 
ed heai'tily  at  the  eloquence  of  his  imcle, 
who,  he  could  perceive,  had  been  tampering 
a  httle  with  something  stronger  than  water 
in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

"  What  can  keep  this  boy  ?  "  exclaimed 
Ginty  ;  "he  knew  we  were  waiting  for  him, 
and  he  ought  to  be  here  now." 

"The  youth  iclll  come,"  said  the  school- 
master, "  and  a  hospitable  youth  he  is — me 
ipso  teste,  as  I  myself  can  bear  witness.  I 
was  in  his  apartments  in  the  Collegium 
Sandw  Tt^initalis,  as  they  say,  which  means 
the  blessed  union  of  dulness,  laziness,  and 


wealth,  for  which  the  same  divine  estabhsh. 
ment  has  gained  an  appropriate  and  just 
celebrity — I  say  I  was  in  his  apartments, 
where  I  found  himself  and  a  few  of  his 
brother  students  engaged  in  the  agreeable 
relaxation  of  taking  a  hair  of  the  same  dog 
that  bit  them,  after  a  Uberal  compotation  on 
the  preceding  night.  Third  place,  as  a 
scholar !  Well !  who  may  he  thank  for  that, 
I  interrogate.  Not  one  Denis  O'Donegan ! 
— O  no  ;  the  said  Denis  is  an  ignoramus, 
and  knows  nothing  of  the  classics.  Well, 
be  it  so.  All  I  say  is,  that  I  wish  I  had  one 
classical  lick  at  their  provost,  I  would  let 
him  know  what  the  master  of  a  jjlantation 
seminai^y*  could  do  when  brought  to  tht 
lamed  scratch  ?  " 

"How  does  Tom  look,  uncle?"  asked 
Corbet ;  "we  can't  say  that  he  has  shoAvn 
much  afi"ection  for  his  friends  since  he  went 
to  college." 

"How  could  you  expect  it,  Charley,  my 
worthy  nejws  f "  said  the  schoolmaster. 
"  These  sprigs  of  classicality,  when  once 
they  get  under  the  wing  of  the  collegium 
aforesaid,  which,  lilve  a  comforiable,  well- 
feathered  old  bird  of  the  stubble,  warms 
them  into  what  is  ten  times  better  than 
celebrity — videlicet,  snug  and  independent 
dulness — these  sj^rigs,  I  say,  especially,  when 
their  parents  or  instructors  hapj^en  to  be 
poor,  fight  shy  of  the  frieze  and  caubeen  at 
home,  and  avoid  the  risk  of  resuscitating 
old  associations.  Tom,  Charley  looks — at 
least  he  did  when  I  saw  him  to-daj' — very 
Hke  a  lad  who  is  more  studious  of  the  bottle 
than  the  book  ;  but  I  will  not  prejudge  the 
youth,  for  I  remember  what  he  was  while 
under  my  tuition.  If  he  be  as  cunning  now 
and  assiduous  in  the  prosecution  of  letters 
as  I  found  him — if  he  be  as  cunning,  as  ripe 
at  fiction,  and  of  as  unembarrassed  brow  as 
he  was  in  his  schoolbo}'  career,  he  will  either 
hang,  on  the  one  side,  or  rise  to  become 
lord  chancellor  or  a  bishoj)  on  the  other." 

"  He  will  be  neither  the  one  nor  the  other 
then,"  said  the  jDrophetess,  "but  something 
better  both  for  himself  and  his  friends." 

"Is  this  by  way  of  the  oracular,  Ginty?" 

"  You  may  take  it  so  if  you  Hke,"  replied 
the  female. 

"And  does  the  learned  page  of  futurity 
present  nothing  in  the  shape  of  a  certain 
wooden  engine,  to  Avhich  is  attached  a  dang- 
ling  rope,  in  association  with  the  youth  ?  fof 
in  my  mind  his  merits  are  as  likely  to  elevate 
him  to  the  one  as  to  the  other.  However, 
don't  look  like  the  pythoness  in  her  fui-y, 
Ginty  ;  a  joke  is  a  joke  ;  and  here's  that  L4 

*  Plantation  seminarj — a  periphrasis  for  hedg«» 
sctiooL 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


359 


may  be  whatever  you  wish  him  I  Ay,  by  the 
bones  of  Maro,  this  liquor  is  pleasiint  dis- 
cussion !  "  We  may  observe  here  that  they 
had  been  already  furnished  with  a  better 
description  of  drink.  "  But  with  regard  to 
the  youth  in  question,  there  is  one  thing 
puzzles  me,  oh,  most  prophetical  niece,  and 
that  is,  that  you  should  take  it  into  your  head 
to  eflect  an  impossibility,  in  other  words,  to 
make  a  gentleman  of  him  ;  ex  qxiomA  ligno 
nonfil  Mercuriiu%  is  a  good  ould  proverb." 

"  That  is  but  natural  in  her,  imcle,"  replied 
Corbet,  "  if  you  knew  everything  ;  but  for 
the  present  you  can't ;  nobody  knows  who 
he  is,  and  that  is  a  secret  that  must  be 
kept." 

"  Why,"  replied  the  pedagogue,  "is  he 
not  a  sHp  from  the  Black  Baronet,  and  are 
not  you,  Ginty ?•' 

"Whether  the  child  >/ou  speak  of,"  she  re- 
pUed,  "  is  living  or  dead  is  what  nobody 
knows." 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  know,"  said  Corbet, 
"  and  that  is,  that  I  could  scald  the  heart  and 
soul  in  the  Black  Baronet's  body  by  one 
word's  speaking,  if  I  wished  ;  only  the  time 
is  not  yet  come  ;  but  it  wiU  come,  and  that 
soon,  I  hope." 

"Take  care,  Charley,"  repHed  the  master  ; 
"  no  violation  of  sacred  ties.  Is  not  the  said 
Baronet  your  foster-brother  ?  " 

"He  remembered  no  such  ties  when  he 
brought  shame  and  disgrace  on  oui-  family," 
replied  Corbet,  with  a  look  of  such  hatred 
and  mahguity  as  could  rarely  be  seen  on  a 
human  countenance. 

"Then  why  did  you  live  vdth  him,  and  re- 
main in  his  confidence  so  long  ?  "  asked  his 
uncle. 

"  I  had  my  own  reasons  for  that — may  be 
they  Avill  be  known  soon,  and  may  be  they 
will  never  be  known,"  replied  his  nephew. 
"  Whisht !  there's  a  foot  on  the  stairs,"  he 
added  ;  "  it's  this  youth,  I'm  thinking." 

Almost  immediately  a  young  man,  in  a 
college-gown  and  cap,  entered  the  room, 
apparently  the  worse  for  liquor,  and  ap- 
proaching the  schoolmaster,  who  s:it  next 
him,  slapped  his  shoulder,  exclaiming  : 

"  Well,  my  jolly  old  pedagogue,  I  hope  you 
have  enjoyed  yourself  since  I  saw  you  last  ? 
Mr.  Corbet,  how  do  you  do  ?  And  Cassandra, 
my  darling  death-like  old  prophetess,  what 
have  you  to  predict  for  Ambrose  Gray  ?  "  for 
such  was  the  name  b}'  which  he  went. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Gray,"  said  Corbet,  "and 
join  us  in  one  glass  of  punch." 

"I  will,  in  half-a-dozen,"  replied  the 
student  ;  "  for  I  am  always  glad  to  see  my 
friends." 

"But  not  to  come  to  see  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Cooper.     "  However,  it  doesn't  matter  ;  we 


are  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Ambrose.  I  hope 
you  are  getting  on  well  at  college  ?  " 

"  Third  i^lace,  eh,  my  old  grinder :  are 
you  not  proud  <^  me  ?  "  said  Axnbrose,  ad- 
dressing the  schoolmaster. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Gray,  tlie  pride  ought  to  be 
on  the  other  side,"  rejilied  O'Donegan,  with 
■  an  affectation  of  dignity  :  "  but  it  was  well, 
i  and  I  trust  you  are  not  insensible  of  the 
early  indoctrination  you  received  at — whose 
hands  I  will  not  say  ;  but  I  think  it  might 
be  guessed  notwithsttuiding." 

During  this  conversation,  the  eyes  of  the 
prophetess  wex'e  fixed  upon  the  student,  mth 
an  expression  of  the  deejjest  and  most  in- 
tense interest.  His  per.sonal  appearance  was 
indeed  peculiar  and  remarkable.  He  was 
about  the  middle  size,  somewhat  sti'agghng 
and  bony  in  his  figure  ;  his  forehead  was 
neither  good  nor  bad,  but  the  general  con- 
tour of  his  face  contained  not  within  it  a 
single  feature  with  the  expression  of  wliich 
the  heart  of  the  spectator  could  harmonize. 
He  was  beetle-browed,  his  mouth  diabolically 
sensual,  and  his  eyes,  which  were  scarcely  an 
inch  asunder,  were  sharp  and  piercing,  and 
reminded  one  that  the  deep-seated  cunning 
which  lurked  in  them  was  a  thing  to  be 
guarded  against  and  avoided.  His  hands 
and  feet  Avere  large  and  coarse,  his  whole 
figure  disagreeable  and  vmgainly,  and  his 
voice  harsh  and  deep. 

The  fortune-teller,  as  we  have  said,  kepi 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  features,  Avith  a  look 
which  seemed  to  betray  no  iudividu:xl  feel- 
ing beyond  that  of  some  extraordinary'  and 
profound  interest.  She  appeai-ed  like  one 
who  was  studWng  his  character,  and  attempt- 
ing to  read  his  natural  disposition  in  his 
countenance,  manner,  and  conversation. 
Sometimes  her  eye  brightened  a  little,  and 
again  her  death-like  face  became  over- 
shadowed with  gloom,  reminding  one  of  that 
strange  darkness  which,  when  the  earth  is 
covered  with  snow,  falls  with  such  dismal 
effect  before  an  ai)proaching  storm. 

"I  gi-ant  you,  my  worthy  old  gi-inder,  that 
you  did  indoctrinate  me,  as  you  say,  to  some 
purpose  ;  but,  my  worthy  old  grinder,  again 
I  say  to  you,  that,  by  all  the  gerunds,  par- 
ticiples, and  roots  you  ever  ground  in  your 
life,  it  was  my  o^vn  grinding  that  got  me  the 
thu'd  place  in  the  scholarship." 

"Well,  Mr.  Ambrose,"  rejoined  the  peda- 
gogue, who  felt  disposed  to  draw  in  his 
horns  a  Uttle,  "  one  thing  is  clear,  that, 
between  us  both,  we  did  it.  AMiat  bait, 
what  line,  what  Ciilling,  or  profession  in  life, 
do  you  propose  to  yourself,  Mr.  Ambrose  ? 
Your  course  in  college  has  been  brilUant  so 
far,  thanks  to — ahem— no  matter — you  have 
distinguished  y oui'self, " 


S60 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"I  have  carried  everything  before  me,"  re- 
phed  Ambrose — "  but  what  then  ?  Suppose, 
my  woi-thy  old  magister,  that  I  miss  a 
fellowship — why,  what  remains,  but  to  sink 
down  into  a  resident  mastership,  and  gi'iud 
blockheads  for  the  remainder  of  my  life  ? 
But  what  though  I  fail  in  science,  still,  most 
revered  and  leai'ned  ODonegan,  I  have  am- 
bition— ambition — and,  come  how  it  may,  I 
will  siu'ge  up  out  of  obsciu'ity,  my  old  buck. 
I  forgot  to  teU  you,  that  I  got  the  first  classi- 
cal premium  yesterday,  and  that  I  am  con- 
sequently— no,  I  chdn't  forget  to  tell  you, 
because  I  didn't  know  it  myseK  when  I  saw 
you  to-day.     Hip,  hip — hxu'ra  ! " 

His  two  male  companions  fiUed  their 
glasses,  and  joined  him  heartily.  O'Donegan 
shook  him  by  the  hand,  so  did  Corbet,  and 
the}'  now  could  understand  the  cause  of  his 
very  natural  elevation  of  spu-its. 

"  So  you  have  all  got  legacies,"  proceeded 
IMr.  Ambrose  ;  "  fifty  jDounds  aj^iece,  I  hear, 
by  the  death  of  your  brother,  Mx.  Corbet, 
who  was  steward  to  Lady  Gouiiay — I  am 
dehghted  to  hear  it — hip,  hip,  hm-ra,  again." 

"It's  time  enough,"' observed  the  prophet- 
ess, "  a  good,  kind-hearted  man  was  my  poor 
brother  Edward." 

"How  is  that  old  scoundrel  of  a  Black 
Baronet  in  youi-  neighborhood — Sii'  Thomas 
— he  who  murdered  his  brother's  heii*  ?  " 

"For  God's  sake,  jVIr.  Ambrose,  don't  say 
so.  Don't  you  know  that  he  got  heavy 
damages  against  Captain  Fuiiong  for  using 
the  same  words  ?  " 

"He  be  hanged,"  said  the  tij)sy  student ; 
"  he  miu'dered  him  as  sure  as  I  sit  at  this 
table  ;  and  God  bless  the  worthy,  be  the 
same  man  or  woman,  who  left  himseK,  as  he 
left  his  brother's  widow,  without  an  heir  to 
his  ni-gotten  title  and  property." 

The  fortune-teller  rose  up,  and  entreated 
him  not  to  speak  hai'shly  against  Sii'  Thomas 
Gourla}',  adding,  "  That,  perhaps,  he  was 
not  so  bad  as  the  jDeople  sujDjiosed  ;  but," 
she  added,  "  as  they — that  is,  she  and  her 
brother — happened  to  be  in  towTi,  they  were 
anxious  to  see  him  (the  student)  ;  and,  in- 
deed, they  would  feel  obliged  if  he  came  with 
them  into  the  fi'ont  room  for  ten  minutes  or 
so,  as  they  wished  to  have  a  httle  private  con- 
versation with  liim." 

The  change  in  his  features 'at  this  intima- 
tion was  indeed  surprising.  A  keen,  shai-p 
sense  of  self-possession,  an  instant  recollec- 
tion of  his  position  and  circumstances, 
banished  fi'om  them,  almost  in  an  instant, 
the  somewhat  careless  and  tijDsy  expression 
which  they  possessed  on  his  entrance.         « 

"  Certaiidy,"  said  he.  "Mr.  O'Donegan, 
will  you  take  care  of  yourself  until  we 
retur»  ? " 


"  No  doubt  of  it,"  replied  the  pedagogue, 
as  they  left  the  room,  "I  shall  not  forget 
myself,  no  more  than  that  the  image  and 
sujoerscription  of  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  the 
Black  Baronet,  is  upon  jour  diabolical  visage." 

Instead  of  ten  minutes,  the  conference 
between  the  parties  in  the  next  room  lasted 
for  more  than  an  hour,  during  which  period 
O'Donegan  did  not  omit  to  take  cai-e  of  him- 
self, as  he  said.  The  woi-thy  pedagogue  was 
one  of  those  men,  who,  fi'om  long  habit,  can 
never  become  tipsy  beyond  a  certain  degi'ee 
of  elevation,  after  which,  no  matter  what  may 
be  the  extent  of  theu'  indidgence,  nothing  in 
the  shape  of  hquor  can  affect  them.  When 
Gray  and  his  two  fiiends  retirmed,  they 
found  consequent^  nothing  but  empty 
bottles  before  them,  whilst  the  schgohnaster 
viewed  them  with  a  ki^d  of  indescribable 
steadiness  of  countenance,  which  could  not 
be  exactly  classed  with  either  di-unkenness  or 
sobriety,  but  was  something  between  both. 
More  liquor,  however,  was  ordered  in,  but, 
in  the  meantime,  O'Donegan's  eyes  were 
fastened  upon  Mr.  Gray  with  a  degi'ee  of 
surprise,  which,  considering  the  change  in 
the  3'oimg  man's  appearance,  was  by  no 
means  extraordinaiy.  "Whatever  the  topic  of 
theii'  conversation  may  have  been,  it  is  not 
our  pm-pose  at  present  to  disclose  ;  but  one 
thing  is  certain,  that  the  transition  which 
took  place  in  Gray's  features,  as  well  as  in 
his  whole  manner,  was  remarkable  almost 
beyond  belief.  This,  as  we  have  said,  mani- 
fested itself  in  some  degree,  on  hearing  that 
Corbet  and  his  sister  had  something  to  say 
to  him  in  the  next  room.  Now,  however, 
the  change  w'as  decided  and  striking.  All 
symptoms  of  tijDsy  triumph,  aiising  from  his 
success  in  college,  had  completely  dis- 
appeared, and  were  rejjlaced  by  an  expres- 
sion of  seriousness  and  mingled  cvmning, 
which  could  not  possibly  escape  obsei'vation. 
There  was  a  coolness,  a  force  of  reflection,  a 
keen,  calm,  but  agitated  lustre  in  his  small 
eyes,  that  was  felt  by  the  schoolmaster  to  be 
exceedingly  disagreeable  to  contemplate.  In 
fact,  the  face  of  the  young  man  was,  in  a 
surprising  degi'ee,  calculating  and  sinister. 
A  great  portion  of  its  -sTilgaiity  was  gone,  and 
there  remained  something  behind  that 
seemed  to  partake  of  a  cajjacity  for  little  else . 
than  intrigue,  dishonesty,  and  villany.  It 
was  one  of  those  countenances  on  wliich, 
when  moved  by  the  meditations  of  the  mind 
within,  nature  fi-equently  expresses  herseK  as 
clearly  as  if  she  had  <vv'ritten  on  it,  in  legible 
characters,  "  Beware  of  this  man." 

After  a  httle  time,  now  that  the  object  of 
this  mysterious  meeting  had  been  accom- 
plished, the  party  separated. 

We  mentioned  that  Corbet  apd  Sir  Thomas 


TBE  BLACK  BARONET. 


361 


\ 


Goui'lay  were  foster-brothers — a  relation 
which,  in  L-eland  and  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land, formed  the  basis  of  an  attachment,  on 
the  part  of  the  latter,  stronger,  in  many  in- 
stances, than  that  of  nature  itself.  Corbet's 
brother  stood  also  to  him  in  the  same  relation 
as  he  did  to  the  late  Sir  Edward  Gourlay, 
under  whom,  and  subsequently  under  his 
widow,  he  held  the  situation  of  house-stewai'd 
until  his  death.  Edwjp:d.  Corbet,  for  his 
Christian  name  had  been  given  him  after 
that  of  his  master — his  mother  having  nursed 
both  brothers — was  apparently  a  mild, 
honest,  afl'ectionate  man,  trustworthy  and 
respectful,  as  far,  at  least,  as  ever  could  be 
discovered  to  the  contrary-,  and,  consequently, 
never  veiy  deep  in  the  confidence  of  his 
brother  Chai-les,  who  was  a  gi*eat  favorite 
with  Sir  Thomas,  was  supposed  to  be  very 
deeply  in  his  secrets,  and  held  a  similar  situa- 
tion in  his  establishment.  It  was  known,  or 
at  least  supposed,  that  his  brother  Edward, 
having  hved  since  his  youth  up  \vith  a  Hberal 
and  aifectionate  master,  must  have  saved  a 
good  deal  of  m^jney  ;  and,  as  he  had  never 
married,  of  course  his  brother,  and  also  his 
sister — the  fortune-teller — took  it  for  granted 
that,  being  his  nearest  relations,  whatever 
savings  he  had  put  together,  must,  after  his 
death,  necessaiily  pass  into  their  hands.  He 
was  many  years  older  than  either,  and  as 
they  maiutamed  a  constant  and  deferential 
intercourse  with  him — studied  all  his  habits 
and  peculiarities — and  sent  him,  from  time 
to  time,  such  little  presents  as  they  thought 
might  be  agreeable  to  liim,  the  consequence 
was,  that  they  maintained  their  place  in  his 
good  ojiinion,  so  f:u*  at  least  as  to  prevent 
him  fi'om  leaving  the  fiiiits  of  his  honest  and 
industi-ious  life  to  absolute  strangers.  Not 
that  they  inherited  by  any  means  his  whole 
property,  such  as  it  was,  several  others  of  his 
relatives  received  more  or  less,  but  his  bro- 
ther, sister,  and  maternal  imcle — the  school- 
master— were  the  largest  inheritors. 

The  illness  of  Edward  Corbet  was  long 
and  tedious ;  but  Lady  Goiu'lay  allowed 
nothing  to  be  wanting  that  could  render  his 
bed  of  sickness  or  death  eas}'  and  tranquil, 
so  far  as  kindness,  attention,  and  the  minis- 
try of  mere  human  comforts  could  effect  it. 
During  his  iUness,  his  brother  Charles  ris- 
ited  him  several  times,  and  had  many  pri- 
vate conversations  with  him.  And  it  may  be 
necessary  to  state  here,  that,  although  these 
two  relatives  had  never  hved  upon  cold  or 
unfi-iendly  terms,  yet  the  fact  was  that  Ed- 
ward felt  it  impossible  to  love  Charles  with 
the  fulness  of  a  brother's  affection.  The 
natui-al  disposition  of  the  latter,  under  the 
guise  of  an  apparently  good-humored  and 
frank  demeanor,  was  in  reahty  inscrutable. 


Though  capable,  as  we  said,  of  assuming  a 
veiy  different  character  whenever  it  suited 
his  puii)ose,  he  was  nevertheless  a  man 
whose  full  confidence  was  scai'cely  ever  be- 
stowed upon  a  human  being.  Such  an  in- 
diridual  neither  is  nor  can  be  rehshed  in 
society  ;  but  it  is  precisely  pei*sons  of  his 
stamp  who  are  calculated  to  win  their  way 
with  men  of  higher  and  moi'e  influential  posi- 
tion in  life,  who,  when  moved  by  ambition, 
avarice,  or  any  other  of  the  darker  and  more 
dangerous  passions  of  our  nature,  feel  an 
inchnation,  almost  instinctive,  to  t<die  such 
men  into  their  intrigues  and  dehberations. 
The  tp*ant  and  oppressor  discovers  the  dis- 
position and  chtu'acter  of  his  slave  and  in- 
strument ^^-ith  as  much  sagacity  as  is  dis- 
pkiyed  by  the  highly  bred  dog  that  scents 
out  the  game  of  which  the  sportsman  is  in 
piu-suit.  In  this  respect,  however,  it  not 
unfi-equently  happens,  that  even  those  who 
are  most  confident  in  the  penetraticn  with 
which  they  make  such  selections,  are  woe- 
fully mistaken  in  the  result. 

We  allude  particulai-ly  to  the  death  ol 
Edward  Corbet,  at  this  stage  of  our  nan-a- 
tive,  because,  fi'om  that  event,  the  train  of 
circumstances  which  principally  constitute 
the  body  of  oui'  narrative  originated. 

His  brother  had  been  vs-ith  him  in  the 
early  pai't  of  the  day  on  which  he  breathed 
his  last.  On  al•ri^ing  at  the  mansion  in 
Memon  square,  he  met  Lady  Gourlay  on  the 
steps  of  the  hall  door,  about  to  enter  her 
caii-iage. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  come,  Corbet,"  she 
said.  "  Your  poor  brother  has  been  calling 
for  you — see  him  instantly — for  his  sands 
are  numbered.  The  doctor  thinks  he  can- 
not pass  the  tiuTi  of  the  day." 

"  God  bless  your  ladyship,"  repHed  Cor- 
bet, "  for  your  uncommon  kindness  and  at- 
tention to  him  duiing  his  long  and  severe 
illness.  AU  that  could  be  done  for  a  person 
in  his  circumstances,  your  Ladyship  did ; 
and  I  know  he  is  deeply  sensible  of  it,  my 
lady." 

"  It  was  only  my  duty,  Corbet,"  she  re- 
phed,  "to  a  true-heai-ted  and  faithful  ser- 
vant, for  such  he  was  to  our  family.  I  could 
not  forget  the  esteem  in  which  his  master, 
my  deal'  husband,  held  him,  nor  the  confi- 
dence which  he  never  failed,  and  justly,  to 
repose  in  him.  Go  immediately  to  him,  for 
he  has  expressed  much  anxiety  to  see  you." 

His  brother,  indeed,  found  him  hovering 
on  the  ver}'  brink  of  the  grave.  "NMiat  their 
conversation  was,  we  know  not,  unless  in  so 
far  as  a  portion  of  it  at  least  may  be  inferred 
from  the  subsequent  circumstances  of  our 
story.  After  having  spent  about  an  hour 
with  him,  his  brother,  who,  it  seems,  hat' 


362 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


some  pressing  commissions  to  execute  for 
Sir  Thomas,  -was  obliged  to  leave  him  for  a 
time,  but  promised  to  retiu'n  as  soon  as  he 
could  get  them  discharged.  In  the  mean- 
time, poor  Corbet  sank  rajDidly  after  Charles's 
departxu'e,  and  begged,  with  a  degree  of 
anguish  that  was  pitiable,  to  see  Lady  Gour- 
lay,  as  he  had  something,  he  said,  of  the  ut- 
most importance  to  commimicate  to  her. 
Lady  Gourlay,  however,  had  gone  out,  and 
none  of  the  family  coidd  give  any  opinion 
as  to  the  period  of  her  return  ;  whilst  the 
dying  man  seemed  to  experience  a  feehng 
that  amounted  almost  to  agony  at  her  ab- 
sence. Li  this  state  he  remained  for  about 
thi'ee  hours,  when  at  length  she  returned, 
and  found  him  with  the  mild  and  ghastly 
impress  of  immediate  death  visible  in  his 
languid,  djing  eyes,  and  hollow  counte- 
nance. 

"  They  tell  me  you  -v^-ish  to  see  me,  Cor- 
bet," she  said.  "If  there  is  anything  that 
can  be  done  to  soothe  your  mind,  or  afford 
you  ease  and  comfort  in  your  departing 
hour,  mention  it,  and,  if  it  be  within  owx 
power,  it  i^liall  be  done." 

He  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  his  voice 
was  all  but  gone.  At  length,  after  several 
efforts,  he  was  able  to  make  her  understand 
that  he  wished  her  to  bend  down  her  head 
to  him  ;  she  did  so  ;  and  in  accents  that 
were  barely,  and  not  without  one  or  two 
repetitions,  intelligible,  he  was  able  to  say, 
"  Your  son  is  living,  and  Sir  Thomas 
knows " 

Lady  Goui-lay  was  of  a  feminine,  gentle, 
and  qiiiet  disposition,  in  fact,  a  woman  from 
whose  character  one  might  expect,  upon  re- 
ceiving such  a  communication,  rather  an 
exhibition  of  that  wild  and  hysteric  ex- 
citement which  might  be  most  likely  to 
end  in  a  scream  or  a  fainting  fit.  Here, 
however,  the  instincts  of  the  defi'auded 
heart  of  the  bereaved  and  sorrowing  mother 
were  called  into  instant  and  energetic  life. 
The  physical  system,  instead  of  becoming  re- 
laxed or  feeble,  gi-ew  firm  and  vigorous,  and 
her  mind  collected  and  active.  She  saw, 
from  the  death-throes  of  the  man,  that  a 
single  moment  was  not  to  be  lost,  and  in- 
stantly, for  her  mouth  was  still  at  his  eai-, 
asked,  in  a  distinct  and  eager  voice,  ""Where, 
Corbet,  where?  for  God's  mercy,  where? 
and  what  does  Sir  Thomas  know  ?  " 

The  light  and  animation  of  life  were  fast 
fading  from  his  face  ;  he  attempted  to  speak 
again,  but  voice  and  tongue  refused  to  dis- 
charge their  office — he  had  become  speech- 
less. Feeling  conscious,  howevei-,  that  he 
could  not  any  longer  make  himself  under- 
stood by  words,  he  raised  his  feeble  hand, 
and  attempted  to   point  as  if  in  a  certain 


direction,  but  the  arm  fell  powerlessly  down 
— he  gave  a  deep  sigh  and  expii'ed. 

Thus  far  only  can  we  proceed  at  present. 
How  and  why  the  stranger  makes  his  ap- 
jjearance  at  Ballytrain,  and  whether  in  con- 
nection with  this  incident  or  not,  are  cir- 
cumstances which  we  will  know  in  due  time. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  Stranger's  Visit  to  Father  MacMahon. 

The  stranger,  after  Fen  ton  had  gone,  be- 
gan to  feel  that  it  was  impossible  either  to 
wheedle  or  extort  any  information  whatso- 
ever, wLether  of  importance  or  otherwise, 
from  that  extraordinaiy  and  not  vei-y  sane 
individual.  That,  however,  there  was  a 
deep  mysterj"  about  him,  be  it  what  it 
might,  he  could  not,  for  a  moment,  doubt ; 
and,  for  this  reason,  he  resolved  by  no  means 
to  relax  his  exertions,  or  suffer  Fenton,  if  he 
could  fauiy  prevent  it,  to^  slip  through  his 
fingers.  His  unaccountable  conduct  and 
terroi',  during,  as  well  as  after,  his  ovm 
angrj-  altercation  with  the  baronet,  went,  in 
his  opinion,  strongly  to  connect  him,  in  some 
manner,  with  that  unscrujDulous  man.  But 
how  to  develop  the  nature  of  this  connection 
constituted  the  very  difficulty  which  not  only 
disappointed  but  mortified  him. 

"I  will  call  upon  Birney,"  thought  he; 
"he  is  acute  and  sensible,  and  probably, 
fi'om  his  greater  exjierience  of  life,  will  be 
able  to  throw  out  some  hint  that  may  be 
valuable,  and  enable  me  to  proceed  with 
more  effect." 

We  have  'ah-eady  said,  that  it  was  some- 
what difficult  to  commonplace  obsei^ers  to 
determine  his  (the  stranger's)  exact  position 
in  society  by  a  first  glance  at  his  dress.  This 
ambiguity  of  aj)pearance,  if,  after  all,  it  could 
proiDerl}'  be  called  so,  was  assumed  for  the 
express  purpose  of  avoiding  observation  as 
much  as  possible.  The  fact,  however,  of 
finding  that  his  desire  to  remain  unnoticed 
had  been  not  merely  obsen-ed  and  commented 
on,  but  imputed  to  him  almost  as  a  crime, 
determined  him  no  longer  to  he  perdu  in  his 
inn,  but  to  go  abroad,  and  apjDear  in  pubhc 
like  another  ;  whilst,  at  the  same  time,  his 
resolution  remained  fixed  as  ever,  for  vai'ious 
reasons,  to  conceal  his  name.  The  moment, 
therefore,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  this 
course,  that  assumed  restramt  of  manner 
and  consciousness  of  not  being  what  we  ap- 
pear to  be  were  completely  thrown  aside, 
and  the  transition  which  ensued  was  indeed 
extraordinary.  His  general  deportment  be- 
came at  once  that  of  a  perfect  gentleman, 


J 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


363 


easy,  elegant,  if  not  absolutely  aristocratic  ; 
but  without  the  slightest  evidence  of  any- 
thing that  could  be  considered  supercilious 
or  offensive.  His  dress  was  tastefully  ■\\'ithin 
the  fashion,  but  not  in  its  extreme,  and  his 
admirable  figure  thus  displaj'ed  to  the  best 
advantage  ;  whilst  his  whole  person  was  ut- 
terly free  from  every  symptom  of  affectation 
or  foppery.  Nor  was  the  change  in  the  tone 
of  his  features  less  striking.  Their  style  of 
beauty  was  at  once  manly  and  intellectual, 
combining,  as  they  did,  an  exjDression  of 
great  sweetness,  obvious  good  sense,  and 
remarkable  determination.  He  bore,  in  fact, 
the  aspect  of  a  man  who  could  play  with  a 
child  on  the  gi-een,  or  beard  a  hon  in  his 
lair. 

The  sagacity  of  the  Irish  people,  in  the  es- 
timate they  form  of  personal  ajjpearance  and 
character,  is,  indeed,  veiy  extraordinaiw. 
Our  friend,  the  sti-anger,  when  casting  his 
eye  over  the  town  of  Ballv'train,  on  his  way 
to  have  an  interview  with  Birney,  who,  we 
may  as  well  obsen-e,  was  in  his  confidence, 
perceived  that  it  was  mai'ket-day.  As  he 
went  out  upon  the  street,  a  crowd  of  persons 
were  standing  opposite  the  inn  door,  where 
an  extensive  yarn  market,  in  these  good  old 
times,  was  always  held  ;  and  we  need  scarcely 
say  that  his  gentlemanly  and  noble  figure, 
and  the  striking  elegance  of  his  manner,  at 
once  attracted  therr  attention. 

"Well,"  said  one  of  them,  "there  goes  a 
real  gintleman,  begad,  at  any  rate." 

"  Divil  a  he  in  that,"  added  another ; 
"there's  no  mistakin'  the  true  blood." 

"  "NMio  is  he  ?  "  asked  a  thiixl.  "  Does  no- 
body know  him  ?  " 

"Troth,"  said  the  other,  " it  doesn't  sig- 
nify a  traneen  who  or  what  he  is  ;  whether 
he's  gentle  or  simple,  I  say  that  the  whole 
cotmtrv  ought  to  put  their  heads  vmder  his 
feet."  " 

"  AMiy  so.  Jemmy  Trailcudgel  ?  "  asked  a 
fourth ;  "  what  did  he  do  for  the  coun- 
thrj-  ?  " 

"111  tell  you  that,  ^lick}-,"  repUed  the 
other.  "The  Black  Baronet,  bad  luck  to 
him,  came  to  the  inn  where  he  stops,  and  in- 
sisted, right  or  VNTong,  on  knowing  who  and 
what  he  was."    * 

"  I  wouldn't  put  it  past  him,  the  turk  o' 
blazes !     Well,  an'  what  happened  ?  " 

"  AMiy,  the  gintleman  got  up,  and  tuck  a 
hoult  o'  the  black  rillaiu  by  the  nose,  led 
him  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  then  turned 
him  down  before  him,  and  made  his  feet 
right  and  left  play  against  the  barrow  knight, 
like  the  tucks  of  a  cloth  mill,  until  he  thrun- 
dled  him  dane — I'm  not  so  sui'e  of  thai, 
though — out  o'  the  hall  door." 

"  An'  for  that  same,  God  prosper  him  ! 


Begad,  he's  a  bully  gentleman,"  observed  a 
stout,  fiieze-coated  fellow,  with  a  lai'ge 
bunch  of  green  linen  yarn  on  his  lusty  arm, 
"he  is,  and  it's  in  him,  and  upon  him,  as 
even*  one  that  has  eyes  to  see  may  know." 

The  object  of  their  praise,  on  entering  the 
office  of  his  friend  Biniey,  found  him  at  his 
desk,  with  professional  papers  and  docu- 
ments before  him.  After  the  ordinary 
greetings  of  the  day,  and  an  accxirate  ac- 
count of  the  baronet's  inteniew  vvith  him, 
the  stranger  introduced  the  topic  in  which 
he  felt  so  deep  an  interest. 

"I  am  unfortunate,  Mr.  Bimey,"  said  he  ; 
"  Fenton,  notwithstanding  his  eccentricity, 
insanity,  or  whatever  it  may  be  termed, 
seems  to  suspect  my  design,  and  evades, 
with  singulai'  addi-ess,  every  attempt,  on  my 
part,  to  get  anything  out  of  him.  Is  he  ab- 
solutely deranged,  think  you  ?  For,  I  assure 
you,  I  have  just  now  had  a  scene  with  him, 
in  which  his  conduct  and  language  could 
proceed  from  nothing  short  of  actual  insan- 
ity. A  little  affected  with  hquor  he  imques- 
tionably  was,  when  he  ciune  in  first.  The 
appearance,  however,  of  Sir  Thomas  not  only 
reduced  him  to  a  state  of  sobi;iety,  but 
seemed  to  strike  him  with  a  degree  of  terror 
altogether  inexj^licable. "' 

"  How  was  that  ?  "  a.sked  Bimey. 

The  stranger  accordingly  described  the 
scene  between  himself  and  Fenton,  with 
which  the  reader  is  acquainted. 

"He  is  not  a  madman,  certainly,  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word,"  rephed  Bimey, 
after  a  pause  ;  "  but,  I  think,  he  may  be  call- 
ed a  kind  of  lunatic,  certainly.  !My  own  opin- 
ion is,  that,  whatever  insanitj-  he  may  be  oc- 
casionally afflicted  with  results  more  fi'om  an 
excessive  indulgence  in  liquor  than  from  any 
other  cause.  Be  that,  however,  as  it  may, 
there  is  no  question  but  that  he  is  occasion- 
ally seized  with  fits  of  mental  aberration. 
Fi'om  what  you  tell  me,  and  his  exaggerated 
suspicions  of  a  plot  between  you  and  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay,  I  think  it  most  probable 
that  he  is  youi*  man  still." 

"I,  too,  think  it  probable,"  repUed  the 
stranger  ;  "  but,  alas,  I  think  it  possible  he 
may  not.  On  comparing  his  featiires  with 
the  miniature,  I  confess  I  cannot  now  trace 
the  resemblance  which  my  sanguine  imagi- 
nation— and  that  only,  I  feai* — first  discov- 
ered." 

"But,  consider,  sir,  that  that  miniatiire 
was  taken  when  the  original  of  it  was  only 
five  or  six  years  of  age  ;  and  you  wiU  also 
recollect  tliat  gi-owth,  age,  education,  and 
pecuUar  habits  of  life,  effect  the  most  extra- 
ordinaiw  changes  in  the  features  of  the  same 
individual.  No,  sir,  I  would  not  advise  yov 
to  feel  disheai-tened  by  this." 


36^ 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  But,  can  you  fall  upon  no  hint  or  princi- 
ple, ]\Ir.  Bimej',  by  which  I  might  succeed  in 
unlocking  the  secret  which  this  young  man 
evideutlj'  possesses  ?  " 

"All  I  can  recommend  to  you,  sh',  is  com- 
prised within  one  word — patience.  Mark  him 
well ;  ingratiate  yourself  ■vs'ith  him  ;  treat 
him  \vith  kindness  ;  supply  his  wants  ;  and 
I  have  no  doubt  but  you  may  ultimately  win 
upon  his  confidence." 

"  Is  there  no  sagacious  old  person  in  the 
neighborhood,  no  senachie  or  genealogist,  to 
whom  you  could  refer  me,  and  from  whose 
memory  of  past  events  in  this  part  of  the 
country  I  might  be  able  to  gain  something 
to  guide  me  ?  " 

"There  is  one  woman,"  rephed  Birney, 
"  who,  were  she  tractable  as  to  the  past  as 
she  is  communicative  of  the  future,  could  fur- 
nish you  more  details  of  family  histoiy  and 
hereditary  scandal  than  any  one  else  I  can 
think  of  just  now.  Some  of  her  predictions 
— for  she  is  a  fortune-teller — have  certainly 
been  amazing." 

"  The  result,  I  have  no  doubt,"  replied  the 
other,  "  of  personal  acquaintance  with  pri- 
vate occurj'ences,  rendered  incredible  under 
ordinary  circumstances,  in  consequence  of 
her  rapid  transitions  fi'om  place  to  place.  I 
shall  certainly  not  put  myself  under  the  guid- 
ance of  an  impostor,  Mr.  Birney." 

"  In  this  case,  sir,  I  think  you  are  right ; 
for  it  has  been  generally  obsei'ved  that,  in  no 
instance,  has  she  ever  been  known  to  make 
any  reference  to  the  past  in  her  character  of 
fortune-teller.  She  affects  to  hold  inter- 
course with  the  fairies,  or  good  people,  as 
we  term  them,  and  insists  that  it  is  from 
them  that  she  derives  the  faculty  of  a  proph- 
etess. She  also  works  extraordinary  cures 
by  similar  aid,  as  she  asserts.  The  common 
impression  is,  that  her  mind  is  burdened 
with  some  secret  guilt,  and  that  it  reheves 
her  to  contemplate  the  future,  as  it  regards 
temporal  fate,  but  that  she  dares  not  look 
back  into  the  past.  I  know  there  is  nothing 
more  certain  than  that,  when  asked  to  do  so, 
in  peculiar  moods  of  mind,  she  manifests 
quite  as  much  of  the  maniac  as  poor  Fen- 
ton." 

"  Away  with  the  old  impostress  ! "  exclaim- 
ed the  stranger  ;  "  I  will  have  none  of  her ! 
Can  you  tliink  of  no  one  else  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  you  have  not  had  time  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  our  parish  priest  ?  " 
replied  Birney.  "Since  'Aroint  thee,  mtch,' 
is  your  creed,  I  think  you  had  better  try 
him." 

"  Not  an  unnatural  transition,"  replied  the 
stranger,  smiling  ;  "  but  what  is  he  like  ? 
Give  me  an  outline." 

"He  IS  named  the  Jlev.  Peter  M'Mahon, 


and  I  forewarn  you,  that  you  are  as  likely,  il 
he  be  not  in  the  mood,  to  get  such  a  recep- 
tion as  you  may  not  rehsh.  He  is  somewhat 
eccentric  and  original,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
his  secret  piety  and  stolen  benevolence  are 
beyond  all  question.  With  his  hmited 
means,  the  good  he  does  is  incalculable.  He 
is,  in  fact,  simple,  kind-hearted,  and  truly  re- 
Hgious.  In  addition  to  all,  he  is  a  consider- 
able bit  of  a  humorist ;  when  the  good  man's 
mind  is  easy,  his  humor  is  kindly,  rich,  and 
mellow ;  but,  when  any  way  in  dudgeon,  it  is 
comically  sarcastic." 

"  I  must  see  this  man,"  said  the  stranger ; 
"  you  have  excited  my  curiosity.  By  all  ac- 
counts he  is  worth  a  visit." 

"He  is  more  hkely  to  sei-ve  you  in  this 
matter  than  any  one  I  know,"  said  the  at- 
torney ;  "or,  if  he  can't  himself,  perhaps  he 
may  find  out  those  that  can.  Very  httle  has 
hapjDened  in  the  parish  within  the  last  thirty- 
five  years  with  which  he  is  not  acquainted." 

"  I  like  the  man,"  rephed  the  other,  "  from 
your  description  of  him." 

"At  all  events,  you  would  if  you  knew 
him,"  rephed  Birney.  "  He  is  both  a  good 
priest  and  a  good  man." 

He  then  directed  him  to  the  worthy  clergy- 
man's residence,  which  was  not  more  than  a 
mile  and  a  half  fi'om  the  town,  and  the  stran- 
ger lost  httle  time  in  reaching  it. 

On  approaching  the  house,  he  was  much 
struck  with  the  extraordinary  air  of  neatness, 
cleanliness,  and  comfort,  which  characterized 
not  only  the  house  itself,  but  eveiything 
about  it.  A  beautiful  garden  facing  the  south, 
stretched  down  to  the  left,  as  you  approach- 
ed the  elegant  httle  whitewashed  dwelling, 
which,  placed  on  a  green  knoll,  literally 
shone  for  miles  over  the  beautiful  and  se- 
rene country  by  which  it  was  suiTOunded. 
Below  it,  to  the  south,  between  firm  green 
banks  and  meadows,  wound  a  beautiful  river, 
and  to  the  north  rose  one  of  the  most  pic- 
tui'esque  hiUs,  jirobably,  in  the  kingdom  ;  at 
the  hip  of  which  was  a  gloomy,  precipitous 
glen,  which,  for  wildness  and  solitary  gran- 
deur, is  unrivalled  by  anything  of  the  kind  we 
have  seen.  On  the  top  of  the  hill  is  a  cave, 
supjDosed  to  be  Druidical,  over  which  an  an- 
tiquarian would  dream  half  a  life  ;  and,  in- 
deed, this  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  inas- 
much as  he  would  find  there  some  of  the 
most  distinctly  traced  Ogham  characters  to 
be  met  with  in  any  part  of  the  kingdom. 

On  entering  the  house,  our  nameless 
friend  foiuid  the  good  priest  in  what  a  stran- 
ger might  be  apt  to  consider  a  towering 
passion. 

"You  lazy  bosthoon,"  said  he,  to  a  large, 
in  fact  to  a  huge  young  fellow,  a  servant, 
"was  it  to  aUow  the  pigs,  the  destructive 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


365 


vagabonds,  to  turn  up  my  beautiful  bit  of 
lawn  that  I  undertook  to  give  you  house- 
room,  wages,  and  feeding — eh  ?  and  a  bit- 
ther  business  to  me  the  same  feeding  ie.  If 
you  were  a  fellow  that  knew  when  he  had 
enough,  I  could  bear  the  calamity  of  keeping 
you  at  all.  But  that's  a  subject,  God  help  you, 
and  God  help  me  too  that  has  to  suffer  for 
it,  on  which  your  ignorance  is  wonderful. 
To  know  when  to  stop  so  long  as  the  bles- 
sed victuals  is  before  you  is  a  point  of  pohte 
knowledge  you  wall  never  reach,  you  immac- 
ulate savage.  Not  a  limb  about  you  but 
you'd  give  six  holidays  to  out  of  the  seven, 
barrin'  your  walrus  teeth,  and,  if  God  or 
man  would  allow  you  the  fodder,  you'd  give 
us  an  elucidation  of  the  pei-petual  motion.  Be 
off,  and  get  the  strongest  set  of  rings  that 
Jemmy  M'Quade  can  make  for  those  dirty, 
grubbing  bastes  of  pigs.  The  Lord  knows 
I  don't  wondher  that  the  Jews  hated  the 
thieves,  for  sin-e  they  are  the  only  black- 
guard animals  that  ever  committed  suicide, 
and  set  the  other  bastes  of  the  earth  such  an 
unchristian  example.  Not  that  a  slice  of 
ham  is  so  bad  a  thing  in  itself,  especially 
when  it  is  followed  by  a  single  tiunbler  of 
poteen  punch." 

"  Troth,  masther,  I  didn't  see  the  pigs,  or 
they'd  not  have  my  sanction  to  go  into  the 
lawn." 

"  Not  a  thing  ever  you  see,  or  wish  to  see, 
ban-ing  yovir  dirty  victuals." 

"I  hope,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  much 
amused  in  the  meantime,  but  with  every 
courtesy  of  manner,  "  that  my  request  for  a 
short  inter\dew  does  not  come  at  an  unsea- 
sonable hour  ?  " 

"And,  do  you  hear  me,  you  bosthoon," 
proceeded  his  reverence — this,  however,  he 
uttered  iiotlo  voce,  fi*om  an  apprehension  lest 
the  stranger  should  hear  his  benevolent  pur- 
poses— "did  you  give  the  half  crown  to 
Widow  Magowran,  whose  childi-en,  poor 
creatures,  are  Ij'ing  ill  of  fever  ?  " 

Not  a  word  to  the  stranger,  who,  however, 
overheard  him. 

"  I  did,  plaise  your  reverence,"  repHed  the 
huge  servant. 

"^\^lat  did  she  say,"  asked  the  other, 
"  when  you  sUpped  it  to  her  ?  " 

"  She  said  nothing,  sir,  for  a  minute  or 
flo,  but  dropped  on  her  knees,  and  the  tears 
came  from  her  eyes  in  such  a  way  that  I 
couldn't  help  letting  down  one  or  two  my- 
self. '  Gt)d  spare  him,'  she  then  said,  '  for 
his  piety  and  charity  makes  him  a  blessln'  to 
the  parish.'  Throth,  I  couldn't  help  lettin' 
down  a  tear  or  two  myself." 

"  You  couldn't  now  ?  "  exclaimed  the  sim- 
ple-hearted priest ;  "why,  then,  I  forgive  you 
the  pigs,  you  great,  good-natured  bosthoon." 


The  stranger  now  thought  that  he  mighi 
claim  some  notice  from  his  reverence. 

"I  fear,  sir,"  said  he 

"And  whisper,  Mat,"  proceeded  the 
priest — paying  not  the  shghtest  attention  to 
him,  "  did  you  bring  the  creel  of  turf  to 
poor  Barney  Farrell  and  his  family,  as  I  de- 
sired you  ?  " 

"  I  did,  your  reverence,  and  put  a  good 
heap  on  it  for  the  creatures." 

"  Well,  I  forgive  you  the  pigs ! "  exclaimed 
the  benevolent  priest,  satisfied  that  his  pious 
injunctions  had  been  duly  observed,  and  ex- 
tending a  portion  of  his  good  feeling  to  the 
instrument ;  "  and  as  for  the  appetite  I 
spoke  of,  sui-e,  you  good-natiired  giant  you, 
haven't  you  health,  exercise,  and  a  most  de- 
structive set  of  grinders  ?  and,  indeed,  the 
wonder  would  be  if  you  didn't  make  the  sor- 
row's havoc  at  a  square  of  bacon  ;  so  for 
heaping  the  creel  I  forgive  you  the  digestion 
and  the  pigs  both." 

"Will  you  permit  me?"  interposed  the 
stranger,  a  third  time. 

"  But  hsten  again,"  proceeded  his  rever- 
ence, "  did  you  bring  the  bread  and  bi'oth 
to  the  poor  Caseys,  the  creatures  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  rephed  Mat,  hcking  his  hps,  as 
the  stranger  thought,  "  it  was  Kitty  Kava- 
nagh  brought  that ;  you  know  you  never 
trust  me  wid  the  vittles — ever  since " 

"  Yes,  I  ought  to  have  remembered  that 
notorious  fact.  There's  where  your  weak- 
ness is  strongest,  but,  indeed,  it  is  only  one 
of  them  ;  for  he  that  would  tinist  you  with 
the  carriage  of  a  bottle  of  whiskey  might  be 
said  to  commit  a  gi-eat  oversight  of  judg- 
ment. With  regard  to  the  victuals,  I  once 
put  my  trust  in  God,  and  dispatched  you, 
after  a  full  meal,  with  some  small  rehef  to  a 
poor  family,  in  the  shape  of  corned  beef  and 
greens,  and  you  know  the  sequel,  that's 
enough.  Be  off  now,  and  get  the  rings 
made  as  I  desired  you." 

He  then  turned  to  the  stranger,  whom  he 
scanned  closely  ;  and  we  need  hardly  assure 
our  reader  that  the  other,  in  his  tiun, 
marked  the  worthy  priest's  bearing,  manner, 
and  conversation  with  more  than  usual  curi- 
osity. The  harmless  passion  in  which  he 
found  him — his  simple  but  touching  benev- 
olence, added  to  the  genuine  benignity 
with  which  he  relaxed  his  anger  against 
Mat  Ruly,  the  gigantic  sen-ant,  because  he 
told  him  that  he  had  put  a  heap  upon  the 
creel  of  tui'f  which  he  brought  to  poor  Bar- 
ney FarreU  and  his  family,  not  omitting  the 
tears  he  represented  himseK  to  have  shed 
from  Christian  sympathy  with  Widow  Ma- 
gowran, both  of  which  acts  were  inventions 
of  the  purest  water,  resorted  to  in  order  to 
soften  the  kind-hearted  priest ;   all  this,  we 


366 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


say,  added  to  what  he  had  heard  fi'om  Bir- 
ney,  deeply  uiterested  the  stranger  in  the 
character  of  Father  Peter.  Nor  was  he  less 
struck  by  his  appearance.  Father  !MacMahon 
was  a  round,  tight,  rosy-faced  little  man, 
with  laughing  eyes,  full  of  good  nature,  and 
a  countenance  which  altogether  might  be. 
termed  a  title-page  to  benevolence.  His 
lips  were  finely  cut,  and  his  w'ell-formed 
mouth,  though  full  of  sweetness,  was  utterly 
free  fi'om  everj'  indication  of  sensuahty  or 
passion.  Indeed,  it  was  at  all  times  highly 
expressive  of  a  disposition  the  most  kind 
and  placable,  and  not  unfrequently  of  a 
comical  spirit,  that  blended  with  his  benev- 
olence to  a  degree  that  rendered  the  whole 
cast  of  his  features,  as  they  varied  with  and 
responded  to  the  kindly  and  natui-al  impvd- 
ses  of  his  heart,  a  perfect  treat  to  look  upon. 
That  his  heart  and  soul  were  genuinely 
Irish,  might  easily  be  perceived  by  the  Hght 
of  humor  which  beamed  with  such  signifi- 
cant contagion  fi-om  every  feature  of  his  face, 
as  well  as  hy  the  tear  which  misery  and  des- 
titution and  sorrow  never  failed  to  bring  to 
his  cheek,  thus  overshadowing  for  a  time,  if 
we  may  say  so,  the  whole  sunny  horizon  of 
his  countenance.  But  this  was  not  all ;  you 
might  read  there  a  spirit  of  kindly  sarcasm 
that  was  in  complete  keejDing  with  a  dispo- 
sition always  generous  and  afiectionate, 
mostly  blunt  and  occasionally  caustic.  Noth- 
ing could  exceed  the  extreme  neatness  with 
which  he  attended  to  his  dress  and  person. 
In  this  point  he  was  scrupulously  exact  and 
carefvd ;  but  this  attention  to  the  minor 
morals  was  the  result  of  anything  but  per- 
sonal pride,  for  we  are  bound  to  say,  that, 
with  all  his  amiable  eccentricities,  more  un- 
affected humihty  never  dwelt  in  the  heart  of 
a  Christian  minister. 

He  had,  in  fact,  paid  little  or  no  attention 
to  the  stranger  until  Mat  Ruly  went  out ; 
when,  on  glancing  at  him  with  more  atten- 
tion, he  perceived  at  once  that  he  was  evi- 
dently a  person  of  no  ordinary  condition  in 
life, 

"I  have  to  ask  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  he, 
"  for  seeming  to  neglect  you  as  I  did,  but  the 
truth  is,  I  was  in  a  white  heat  of  passion  with 
that  great  good-natured  colossus  of  mine, 
Mat  Ruly,  for,  indeed,  he  is  good-natured, 
and  that  I  can  tell  jovl  makes  me  overlook 
many  a  thing  in  him  that  I  would  not  other- 
wise pass  by.  Ah,  then,  sir,  did  you  ob- 
serve," he  added,  "  how  he  confessed  to 
heaping  the  creel  of  turf  for  the  Farrells, 
and  crying  with  poor  Widow  Magowran  ?  " 

The  stranger  could  have  told  him  that,  if 
he  had  seen  the  comical  wink  which  the 
aforesaid  Mat  had  given  to  one  of  the  ser- 
vant-maids, as  he  reported  his  own  sympathy 


and  benevolence  to  his  master,  he  might 
probably  have  somewhat  restricted  his  en- 
comium upon  him. 

"I  can't  say,  sir,"  he  rephed,  "that  I  paid 
particular  attention  to  the  dialogue  between 
you." 

"Bless  me,"  exclaimed  Father  Peter, 
"what  am  I  about?  Walk  into  the  parlor, 
sir.  ^\Tiy  should  I  have  kept  you  standing 
here  so  long  ?  Pray,  take  a  seat,  sir.  You 
must  think  me  very  rude  and  forgetful  of 
the  attention  due  to  a  gentleman  of  your  ap- 
pearance." 

"Not  at  all,  sir," replied  the  other,  seating 
himself.  "  I  rather  think  you  were  better 
engaged  and  in  higher  duties  than  any  that 
are  likely  to  arise  from  my  communication 
vdth  you." 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  the  priest,  smiling, 
"  that  you  know  is  yet  to  be  determined  on  ; 
but  in  the  mane  time  I'll  be  happy  to  hear 
your  business,  whatever  it  is  ;  and,  indeed, 
fi'om  your  looks,  although  the  Lord  knows 
they're  often  treacherous,  I  tell  you  that  if  I 
can  stretch  a  point  to  sarve  you  I  -Hill  ;  pro- 
vided always  that  I  can  do  so  with  a  good  con- 
science, and  prorided  also  that  I  find  your 
character  and  conduct  entitle  you  to  it. 
So,  then,  I  say,  let  us  have  at  the  busi- 
ness you  spake  of,  and  to  follow  up  this 
projoosition  with  suitable  energy,  what's 
your  name  and  occupation  ?  for  there's 
nothing  like  knowing  the  ground  a  man 
stands  on.  I  know  you're  a  stranger  in 
this  neighborhood,  for  I  assure  you  there 
is  not  a  face  in  the  parish  but  I  am  as  weU 
acquainted  with  as  my  own,  and  indeed  a 
gi'eat  deal  betther,  in  regard  that  I  never 
shave  with  a  looking-glass.  I  tried  it  once 
or  twice  and  was  near  committing  suicide  in 
the  attempt." 

There  was  something  so  kind,  frank,  yet 
withal  so  eccentric,  and,  as  it  would  seem, 
so  unconsciously  humorous  in  the  worthy 
father's  manner,  that  the  stranger,  whilst  he 
felt  embarrassed  by  the  good-natm-ed  blunt- 
ness  of  his  interrogations,  could  not  help 
experiencing  a  sensation  that  was  equally 
novel  and  delightful,  arising  as  it  did  from 
the  candor  and  honesty  of  purpose  that  were 
so  evident  in  all  the  worthy  man  did  and 
said. 

"  I  should  never  have  supposed,  from  the 
remarkable  taste  of  your  dress  and  your 
general  appearance,"  he  replied,  "  that  you 
make  your  toilet  vrithout  a  looking-glass." 

"  It's  a  fact,  though  ;  neither  I  nor  my 
worthy  father  before  me  ever  troubled  one  ; 
we  left  them  to  the  gir^has  and  the  women  ; 
habit  is  everything,  and  for  that  reason  I 
could  shave  as  well  at  midnight  as  at  the 
hour  of  noon.    However,  let  us  pass  that  by, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


367 


thank  God  I  can  go  out  with  as  clane  a  face, 
and  I  trust  with  as  clear  a  conscience,  always 
barring  the  passions  that  ]\Iat  Ruly  puts  me 
into,  as  some  of  my  neighbors  ;  yet,  God  for- 
give me,  why  should  I  boast  ?  for  I  know  and 
feel  that  I  fall  far  short  of  my  duty  in  everj' 
sense,  especially  when  I  reflect  how  much  of 
poverty  and  destitution  are  scattered  through 
this  apparently  wealthy  parish.  God  for- 
give me,  then,  for  the  boast  I  made,  for  it 
was  both  "VNTong  and  sinful !  "  I 

A  touch  of  feeling  which  it  would  bei 
difficult  to  describe,  iDut  which  raised  him " 
still  more  highly  in  the  estimation  of  the 
stranger,  here  passed  over  his  handsome  and 
benevolent  features,  but  after  it  had  passed 
away  he  returned  at  once  to  the  object  of  the 
stranger's  visit.  I 

"Well,"  said  he,  "to  pass  now  from  my  ! 
omissions  and  deficiencies,  let  us  return  to  j 
the  point  we  were  talking  of ;  you  haven't  ■ 
told  me  your  name,  or  occupation,  or  pro- 
fession, or  business  of  any  kind — that  is,  if 
you  have  any  ?  "  1 

"I  assure  you,  reverend  sir,"  rephed  the 
other,  "  that  I  am  at  the  present  moment  j 
placed  in  such  a  position,  that  I  fear  it  is  out  | 
of  m}-  power  to  satisfy  you  in  any  of  these 
points.     "WHiilst,  at  the  same  time,  I  confess 
that,  nameless  and  stranger  as  I  am,  I  feel 
anxious  to  receive  your  advice  and  assistance 
upon   a  matter  of  considerable — indeed  of 
the  deepest — importance  to  an  unfortunate 
and  heart-broken  lady,  whose  only  son,  when 
but  six  years  of  age,  and  then  heir  to  a  large 
property,  disappeared  many  years  ago  in  a 
manner  so  mysterious,  that  no  ti'ace,  until 
veiy  recently,  has  ever  been  found  of  him! 
Nor,  indeed,  has  she  found  any  clew  to  him 
yet,  beyond  a  single  intimation  given  to  her  ; 
by  her  house-steward — a  man  named  Corbet  | 
— who,  on  his  death-bed,  had  merely  breath 
to   say  that  '  your  son   Uves,   and  that  Sir 
Thomas — '     These,  sir,  were  the  man's  last 
words  ;  for,  alas !  unhappy  for  the  p^ace  of 
mind  of  this  excellent  lady,  he  expired  before  ; 
he  could  complete  the  sentence,  or  give  her  | 
the  information  for  which  her  heart  yearned.  : 
Now,  reverend  sir,"  he  added,  "I  told  you 
that  it  is  out  of  my  power,  for  more  than  one 
reason,  to  disclose  my  name  ;  but,  I  assure 
you,  that  the  fact  of  making  this  communi- 
cation  to   3'ou,    which   you   perceive   I    do 
frankly  and  without  hesitation,  is  placing  a 
confidence  in  you,  though  a  personal  stranger  i 
to  me,  which  I  am  certain  you  will  respect."  j 

"  Me  a  stranger  !  "   exclaimctl  the  priest,  j 
"  in  my  own  parish  where  I  have  lived  cu-  ! 
rate  and  parish  priest  for  close  upon  forty 
years  ;  hut  tut !  this  is  a  good  joke.    Why,  I 
tell  you,  sir,  that  there  is  not  a  dog  in  the  j 
parish  but  knows  me,  with  the  exception  of  ' 


a  vile  cur  belonging  to  Jemmy  M'Gurth, 
that  I  have  striven  to  coax  and  conciliate  a 
hundred  ways,  and  yet  I  never  pass  but  he's 
out  at  me.  Indeed,  he's  an  ungrateful 
creature,  and  a  mane  sconce  besides  ;  for  I 
tell  you,  that  when  leaving  home,  I  have 
often  put  breatl  in  ray  pocket,  and  on  going 
past  his  owner's  house,  I  would  throw  it  to 
him — now  not  a  He  in  this — and  what  do 
you  think  the  nasty  vermin  would  do  ?  He'd 
ait  the  bread,  and  after  he  had  made  short 
work  of  it — for  he's  aquil  to  Mat  Kuly  in 
appetite— he'd  attack  me  as  fresh,  and  in- 
deed a  great  dale  fresher  in  regard  of  what 
he  had  got ;  ay,  and  with  more  bitterness,  if 
possible,  than  ever.  Now,  sir,  I  remember 
that  greedy  and  ungrateful  scrub  of  an  an- 
imal about  three  years  ago  ;  for  indeed  the 
ill  feehng  is  going  on  between  us  for  nearly 
seven — I  say  I  remember  him  in  the  dear 
year,  when  he  wasn't  able  to  bai'k  at  me  until 
he  staggered  over  and  put  himself  against 
the  ditch  on  the  roadside,  and  then,  heaven 
knows,  worse  execution  of  the  kind  was 
never  heard.  However,  there's  little  else 
than  ingratitude  in  this  world,  and  eaten 
bread,  hke  hunger,  is  soon  forgotten,  though 
far  seldomer  by  dogs,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
than  by  man — a  circumstance  which  makes 
the  case  I  am  repeating  to  you  of  this  cur 
still  worse.  But,  indeed,  he  served  me 
right ;  for  bribery,  even  to  a  dog,  does  not 
deserve  to  prosper.  But  I  beg  your  pardon, 
sir,  for  obtruding  my  own  little  gi-ievances 
upon  a  stranger.  A^Hiat  is  it  you  expect  me 
to  do  for  you  in  this  business  ?  You  allude, 
I  think,  to  Lady  Gourlay  ;  and,  in  truth,  if  it 
was  in  my  power  to  restore  hei'  son  to  her, 
that  good  and  charitable  lady  would  not  be 
long  without  him." 

"  I  do,"  replied  the  other.  "  She  is  under 
a  strong  impression,  in  consequence  of  the 
d^-ing  man's  allusion  to  the  boy's  uncle.  Sir 
Thomas,  'who,'  he  said,  'knows,'  that  he  is 
cognizant  of  the  position — whatever  it  may 
be — in  which  her  unfortunate  son  is  placed." 

"  Not  unlikely,  but  still  what  can  I  do  in 
this?" 

"I  am  scarcely  aware  of  that  myself,"  re- 
plied the  other  ;  "  but  I  may  say  that  it  was 
\\r.  Bimey,  who,  imder  the  circumstances 
of  peculiar  difficulty  in  which  I  am  placed, 
suggested  to  me  to  see  you,  and  who  justi- 
fied me  besides  in  reposing  this  important 
confidence  in  you." 

"I  thank  Mr.  Bimey,"  said  Father  Peter 
"  and  you  may  rest  assured,  that  your  con- 
fidence "\\'ill  not  be  abused,  and  that  upon  .( 
higher  principle,  I  trust,  than  my  fiiendship 
for  that  worthy  and  estimable  gentleman 
I  wish  all  in  his  dirty  roguish  profession 
were  like  him.      By  the  way,"  he  added,  as 


368 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOBKS. 


if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  "  perhaps 
you  are  the  worthy  gentleman  who  kicked 
the  Black  Baronet  downstairs  in  the  Mitre 
inn?" 

"  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  some  warm  words  we 
had,  which  indeed  for  one  reason  I  regret ; 
but  that  was  all.  Sir  Thomas,  sir,  I  believe, 
is  not  popular  in  the  neighborhood  ?  " 

"  I  make  it  a  point,  my  friend,"  rephed 
the  priest,  "never  to  spake  ill  of  the  absent ; 
but  perhaps  you  are  aware  that  his  only  son 
disappeared  as  mysteriously  as  the  other» 
and  that  he  charges  his  sister-in-law  as  the 
cause  of  it ;  so  that,  in  point  of  fact,  their 
suspicions  are  mutual." 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  the  other  ;  "  but  I  wish 
to  direct  your  attention  to  another  fact,  or, 
rather,  to  another  individual,  who  seems  to 
me  to  be  involved  in  considerable  mysterj'." 

"And  pray,  who  is  that?"  replied  the 
priest.  "Not  yoiirself,  I  hope  ;  for  in  truth, 
by  all  accoimts,  you're  as  mysterious  as  e'er 
a  one  of  them." 

"  My  mystery  will  soon  disappear,  I  trust," 
said  the  stranger,  smiling.  "The  young 
man's  name  to  whom  I  allude  is  Fenton ; 
but  I  appeal  to  yourself,  reverend  sir, 
whether,  if  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  were  to 
become  aware  of  the  dying  man's  words, 
with  which  I  have  just  made  you  acquainted, 
he  might  not  be  apt,  if  it  be  a  fact  that  he 
has  in  safe  and  secret  durance  his  brother's 
son,  and  the  heir  to  the  property  which  he 
himself  now  enjoys,  whether,  I  say,  he  might 
not  take  such  steps  as  would  probably  ren- 
der fruitless  every  search  that  could  be  made 
for  him  ?  " 

"You  needn't  fear  me,  sir,"  repHed  his 
reverence ;  "if  you  can  keep  your  own  se- 
cret as  well  as  I  will,  it  won't  travel  far,  I 
can  tell  you.  But  what  about  this  vmfortu- 
nate  young  man,  Fenton  ?  I  think  I  certain- 
ly heard  the  people  say  from  time  to  time 
that  nobody  knows  anything  about  him, 
either  as  to  where  he  came  from  or  who 
he  is.  How  is  he  involved  in  this  affair, 
though  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  speak  with  any  certainty,"  re- 
plied the  other ;  "  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  often  feel  myseK  impressed  with  strong 
suspicions,  that  he  is  the  verj'  individual  we 
are  seeking." 

"But  upon  what  reasons  do  you  ground 
those  suspicions  ?  "  asked  his  reverence. 

The  stranger  then  related  to  him  the  cir- 
cumstances in  connection  with  Fenton's 
mysterious  terror  of  Sir  Thomas  Go\irlay, 
precisely  as  the  reader  is  already  acquainted 
with  them. 

"But,"  said  the  priest,  "can  you  believe 
now,  if  Sir  Thomas  was  the  kidnapper  in 
this  instance,  that  he  would  allow  unfortu- 


nate Fenton,  supposing  he  is  his  brother*'* 
heir,  and  who,  they  say,  is  often  non  compos, 
to  remain  twenty-four  hours  at  large  ?  " 

"  Probably  not ;  but  you  know  he  may  be 
imawai'e  of  his  residence  so  near  him.  Sir 
Thomas,  Uke  too  many  of  his  countrymen, 
has  been  an  absentee  for  years,  and  is  only 
a  short  time  in  this  countiy,  and  still  a 
shorter  at  Red  Hall.  The  young  man  prob- 
ably is  at  large,  because  he  may  have  escaped- 
There  is  evidently  some  mysterious  relation 
between  Fenton  and  the  baronet,  but  what 
it  is  or  can  be  I  am  utterly  unable  to  trace. 
Fenton,  with  all  his  wild  eccentricity  or  in- 
sanity, is  cautious,  and  on  his  guard  against 
me  ;  and  I  find  it  impossible  to  get  anything 
out  of  him." 

The  worthy  priest  fell  into  a  mood  of  ap- 
parently deep  but  agreeable  reflection,  and 
the  stranger  felt  a  hope  that  he  had  fallen 
upon  some  plan,  or,  at  all  events,  that  he 
had  thought  of  or  recalled  to  memory  some 
old  recollection  that  might  probably  be  of 
sei'vice  to  him. 

"  The  poor  fellow,  sir,"  said  he,  addressing 
the  other  with  singular  benignity,  "is  an 
orphan  ;  his  mother  is  dead  more  than  twelve 
years,  and  his  father,  the  idle  and  unfortu- 
nate man,  never  has  been  of  the  sHghtest 
use  to  him,  poor  creature." 

"  What,"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  with  an- 
imation, "you,  then,  know  his  father  !  " 

"  Know  him  !  to  be  sure  I  do.  He  is,  or 
rather  he  was,  a  horse-jockey,  and  I  took 
the  poor  neglected  young  lad  in  because  he 
had  no  one  to  look  after  him.  But  wasn't 
it  kind-hearied  of  the  creature  to  heap  the 
creel  of  turf  though,  and  shed  tears  for  poor 
Widow  Magowi-an  ?  In  truth,  I  won't  forget 
either  of  these  two  acts  to  him." 

"  You  speak,  sir,  of  your  servant,  I  be- 
lieve ?  "  observed  the  other,  with  something 
like  chagrin. 

"In  truth,  there's  not  a  kind-hearted 
young  giant  alive  this  day.  Many  a  httle 
bounty  tljat  I,  through  the  piety  and  liber- 
aHty  of  the  charitable,  am  enabled  to  dis- 
tribute among  my  poor,  and  often  send  to 
them  with  Mat ;  and  I  beheve  there's  scarce- 
ly an  instance  of  the  kind  in  which  he  is 
the  bearer  of  it,  that  he  doesn't  shed  tears 
just  as  he  did  with  Widow  Magowran.  Sure 
I  have  it  from  his  own  hps." 

"I  have  httle  doubt  of  it,"  rephed  the 
stranger. 

"  And  one  day,"  proceeded  the  credulous, 
easy  man,  "that  I  was  going  along  the 
Race-road,  I  overtook  him  with  a  creel  of 
turf,  the  same  way,  on  his  back,  and  when  I 
looked  down  from  my  horse  into  the  creel, 
I  saw  with  astonishment  that  it  wasn't  more 
than  half  full.     '  Mat,'   said  I,  *  what's  the 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


36» 


raison  of  this  ?     Didn't  I  desire  you  to  fill 
the  creel  to  the  top,  and  above  it  ? ' 

"  'Troth,'  said  poor  Mat,  '  I  never  cari-ied 
Buch  a  creelful  in  my  life  as  it  was  when  I 
left  home.' 

"  '  But  what  has  become  of  the  turf,  then  ? ' 
I  asked. 

"He  gave  me  a  look  and  almost  began  to 
cry — '  Aira  now,  your  reverence,'  he  rephed, 
'  how  could  you  expict  me  to  have  the  heart  '• 
to  refuse  a  few  sods  to  the  gi'eat  number  of 
poor  creatures  that  axed  me  for  them,  to  i 
boil  their  pratees,  as  I  came  along  ?    I  hope,  ' 
your  reverence,  I  am  not  so  hard-hearted  as 
aU  that  comes  to.' " 

"I  know,"  proceeded  the  priest,  "that  it 
was  wrong  not  to  bring  the  turf  to  its  des- 
tination ;  but,  you  see,  sir,  it  was  only  an 
error  of  judgment — although  the  head  was 
wrong,  the  heart  was  right — and  that's  a 
great  point." 

It  was  not  in  human  nature,  however,  to 
feel  annoyed  at  this  characteristic  ebulhtion. 
The  stranger's  chagi-in  at  once  disappeai'ed, 
and  as  he  was  in  no  particulfir  huiiy,  and 
wished  to  see  as  much  of  the  priest  as 
possible,  he  resolved  to  give  him  his  own 
way. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait,  however.  After 
about  a  minute's  deep  thought,  he  expressed 
himself  as  follows — and  it  may  be  observed 
here,  once  for  all,  that  on  appropriate  oc- 
casions his  conversation  could  rise  and  adapt 
itself  to  the  dignity  of  the  subject,  with  a 
gi'eat  deal  of  easy  power,  if  not  of  eloquence  : 

"Now,  sir,"  said  he,  "you  "sviU  plaise  to 
pay  attention  to  what  I  am  about  to  say  : 
Beware  of  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay — as  a  Chi-is- 
tian  man,  it  is  my  duty  to  put  you  on  your 
guai'd  ;  but  consider  that  you  ask  me  to  in- 
volve myself  in  a  matter  of  deep  family  in- 
terest and  importance,  and  yet,  as  I  said, 
you  keep  yourself  'OTapped  up  in  a  veil  of 
impenetrable  mysteiy.  Pray,  aUow  me  to 
ask,  is  ]Mr.  Biraey  acquainted  with  your 
name  and  secret  ?  " 

"He  is,"  replied  the  other,  "with  both." 

"Then,  in  that  case,"  said  the  worthy 
priest,  with  very  commendable  pinidence, 
"  I  will  walk  over  with  you  to  his  house,  and 
if  he  assures  me  personally  that  you  are  a 
gentleman  in  whose  objects  I  may  and  ought 
to  feel  an  interest,  I  then  say,  that  I  shall  do 
what  I  can  for  you,  although  that  may  not 
be  much.  Perhaps  I  may  put  you  in  a 
proper  train  to  succeed.  I  will,  with  these 
conditions,  give  you  a  letter  to  an  old  man 
in  Dublin,  who  may  give  you,  on  this  verj' 
subject,  more  infonnation  than  any  other 
person  I  know,  with  one  exception." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  repHed  the  stranger,  get- 
ting on  his  legs,  "  I  am  quite  satisfied  with 


that  proposal,  and  I  feel  that  it  is  Tery  kind 
of  you  to  make  it." 

"  Yes,  but  you  won't  go,"  said  the  priest, 
"  till  you  take  some  refi'eshment.  It's  now 
past  two  o'clock." 

"I  am  much  obhged  to  you,"  replied  the 
other,  "  but  I  never  lunch." 

"Not  a  foot  you'll  stir  then  till  you  take 
something — I  don't  want  you  to  lunch — a 
bit  and  a  sup  just — come,  don't  refuse  now, 
for  I  say  you  must." 

The  other  smiled,  and  rephed  :  "  But,  ] 
assure  you,  my  dear  sii%  I  coiddn't — I  break- 
fasted late." 

"Not  a  matter  for  that,  you  must  have 
something,  I  say — a  drop  of  dram  then — • 
pui'e  poteen — or  maybe  you'd  jarefer  a  glass 
of  ■v\-ine?  say  which,  for  you  must  taste 
either  the  one  or  the  other  " — and  as  he 
spoke,  with  a  good-humored  laugh,  he  de- 
Hberately  locked  the  door,  and  put  the  key 
in  his  pocket.  "  It's  an  old  proverb,"  he 
added,  "that  those  who  won't  take  are  never  * 
ready  to  give,  and  I'U  think  you  after  aU  but 
a  poor-hearted  creature  if  you  refuse  it.  At 
any  rate,  consider  yourself  a  prisoner  until 
you  comply." 

"WeU,  then,"  rephed  our  strange  friend, 
still  smiling,  "  since  your  hospitality  -n-ill 
force  me,  at  the  expense  of  my  hberty,  I 
think  I  must — a  glass  of  sherry  then,  since 
you  are  so  kind." 

"  Ah,"  replied  his  reverence,  "  I  see  you 
don't  know  what's  good — that's  the  stufE^" 
he  added,  pointing  to  the  poteen,  "  that 
would  send  the  radical  heat  to  the  very  ends 
of  yovu-  nails — I  never  take  more  than  a 
single  tumbler  after  my  dinner,  but  that's 
my  choice." 

The  stranger  then  joined  him  in  a  glass 
of  sherry,  and  they  proceeded  to  Mi\  Bimey's 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

Crackenfudge  Outwitted  by  Fenton—T?ie  Baronet, 
Enraged  at  His  Laughter's  Firmness,  strike* 
Uer. 

Crackenfudge,  who  was  completely  on  the 
alert  to  ascei-tain  if  possible  the  name  of  the 
stranger,  and  the  nature  of  his  business  in 
Ballytrain,  learned  that  Teuton  and  he  had 
had  three  or  foiu-  private  inter\-iews,  and  he 
considered  it  verj^  likely  that  if  he  could 
tkrow  himself  in  that  wild  young  fellow's 
way,  ^"ithout  any  appearance  of  design,  he 
might  be  able  to  extract  something  concern- 
ing the  other  out  of  him.  In  the  course,  then, 
of  three  or  four  days  after  that  detailed  in 
our  last  chapter,  and  we  mention  this  par- 


370 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ticularly,  because  Father  M'Mahon  was  ob- 
liged to  write  to  Dublin,  va.  order  to  make 
inquii'ies  touching  the  old  man's  residence 
to  whom  he  had  vmdertaken  to  give  the 
stranger  a  letter — in  the  course,  we  say,  of 
thi-ee  or  foui-  days  after  that  on  which  the 
worthy  priest  appears  in  our  pages,  it  occur- 
red that  Crackenfudge  met  the  redoubtable 
Fenton  in  his  visual  maudlin  state,  that  is  to 
say,  one  in  which  he  could  be  termed  neither 
dnmk  nor  sober.  We  have  said  that  Fen- 
ton's  mind  was  changeful  and  tmstable ; 
sometimes  evincing  extraordinar\-  quietness 
and  ci^•ihty,  and  sometimes  full  of  rant  and 
swagger,  to  which  we  may  add,  a  good  deal 
of  adroitness  and  tact.  In  his  most  degraded 
state  he  was  always  known  to  claim  a  certain 
amount  of  respect,  and  would  scarcely  hold 
conversation  T\'ith  any  one  who  would  not 
call  him  2Ir.  Fenton. 

On  meeting  Fenton,  the  worthy  candidate 
for  the  magistracy,  obsening  the  condition 
he  was  in,  which  indeed  was  his  usual  one, 
took  it  for  granted  that  his  chance  was  good. 
He  accordingly  addressed  him  as  follows : 

"Fenton,"  said  he,  "what's  the  news  in 
town  •? " 

"  To  whom  do  you  speak,  siiTa  ?  "  replied 
Fenton,  indignantly.  "  Take  off  your  hat, 
sir,  whenever  you  address  a  gentleman." 

"Even'  one  knows  you're  a  gentleman, 
IMi*.  Fenton,"  repUed  Crackenfudge  ;  "  and  as 
for  me,  a'd  be  sorry  to  address  you  as  any- 
thing else." 

"  I'm  S011T  I  can't  retui-n  the  compHment, 
then,"  said  Fenton  ;  "eveiyone  knows  you're 
anything  hut  a  gentleman,  and  that's  the  dif- 
ference between  us.  What  piece  of  knavery 
have  you  on  the  anril  now,  my  worthy  em- 
bryo magistrate  ?  " 

"  You're  severe  this  morning,  ]\Ii'.  Fenton  ; 
a'  don't  think  a'  ever  deserved  that  at  your 
hands.  But  come.  jVIr.  Fenton,  let  us  be  on 
good  terms.  A'  acknowledge  you  are  a  gen- 
tleman, JVIr.  Fenton." 

"Take  care,"  replied  Fenton,  "  and  don't 
overdo  the  thing  neither.  \Miether  is  it  the 
knave  or  fool  predominates  in  you  to-day, 
]Mr.  Crackenfudge  ?  " 

"A'  hope  a'm  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other,"  repUed  the  embryo  magistrate.  "A' 
hope  a'm  not,  IMr.  Fenton." 

"I  beHeve,  however,  you  happen  to  be 
both,"  said  Fenton;  "that's  a  fact  as  well 
known,  my  good  fellow,  as  the  public  stocks 
there  below  ;  and  if  Madam  Fame  reports 
aright,  it's  a  pity  you  should  be  long  out  of 
them.  Avaunt,  you  upstart !  Bei'oi'e  the 
close  of  your  life,  you  will  die  with  as  many 
aliases  as  e'er  a  thief  that  ever  swung  fit'om  a 
gallows,  and  will  deserve  the  swing,  too,  bet- 
ter than  the  thief." 


"  A'  had  a  right  to  change  my  name,"  re- 
plied the  other,  "when  a'  got  into  property. 
A'  was  ashamed  of  my  fi-iends,  because  there's 
a  gi'eat  many  of  them  poor." 

"Invert  the  tables,  you  misbegotten  son  o\ 
an  elve,"  repUed  Fenton  ;  "  'tis  they  that  are 
ashamed  of  you  ;  there  is  not  one  among  the 
humblest  of  them  but  would  blush  to  name 
you.  So  3'ou  did  not  uncover,  as  I  desired 
you  ;  but  be  it  so.  You  wish  to  let  me,  sir, 
who  am  a  gentleman,  know,  and  to  force  me 
to  say,  that  there  is  a  knave  under  your  hat. 
But  come,  ]Mi'.  Crackenfudge,"  he  continued, 
at  once,  and  by  some  imaccoun table  impulse, 
changing  his  manner,  "  come,  my  friend 
Crackenfudge,  you  must  overlook  my  satii-e. 
Thersites'  mood  has  j)ast,  and  now  for  benev- 
olence and  friendship.  Give  us  yovu*  honest 
hand,  and  beai"  not  maHce  against  your  friend 
and  neighbor." 

"You  must  have  your  own  way,  Mr.  Fen- 
ton," said  Crackenfudge,  smiling,  or  assum- 
ing a  smile,  and  still  steady  as  a  sleuthhound 
to  his  purpose. 

"  Where  now  are  you  bound  for,  oh,  benev- 
olent and  humane  Crackenfudge  ?  " 

"  A'  was  jist  thinking  of  asking  this  strange 
fellow " 

"  Eight,  0  Crack enfudgius  !  that  impostor 
is  a  fellow  ;  or  if  you  prefer  the  reverse  of  the 
proposition,  that  fellow  is  an  impostor.  I 
have  found  him  out." 

"  A'  hai'd,"  replied  Crackenfudge,  "  that  he 
and  you  were  on  rather  intimate  terms, 
and " 

"  iVnd  so  as  being  my  companion,  you  con<. 
sidered  him  a  fellow!  Proceed,  Cracken- 
fudgius." 

"  No,  not  at  all ;  a'  was  thinkin'  of  makin' 
his  acquaintance,  and  papng  some  attention 
to  him  ;  that  is,  if  a'  could  know  who  and 
what  he  is." 

"  And  thou  shalt  know,  my  worthy  mock 
magistrate.  I  am  in  a  communicative  humor 
to-day,  and  know  thou  shalt." 

"  And  what  may  his  name  be,  pray,  Mr. 
Fenton  ? "  with  a  pecidiai'  emphasis  on  the 
Mr. 

"Caution,"  said  Fenton;  "don't  overdo 
the  thing,  I  say,  othei'^'ise  I  am  silent  as  the 
grave.  Heigh-ho !  what  put  that  in  my 
head  ?  Well,  sir,  jo\x  shall  know  all  you  wish 
to  know.  In  the  first  place,  as  to  his  name 
— it  is  Hany  Hedles.  He  was  clerk  to  a  tooth- 
brush-maker in  London,  but  it  seems  he 
made  a  Httle  too  free  with  a  portion  of  the 
bnish  money  :  he  accordingly  brushed  off  to 
oiu'  celebrated  Ii-ish  metropolis,  ycleped 
Dublin,  where,  owing  to  a  tolerably  good 
manner,  a  smooth  English  accent,  and  a  tre- 
mendous stock  of  assurance,  he  insinuated 
himself  into  several  respectable  families  as  a 


THE  BLACK  B  AUG  NET. 


371 


man  of  some  importance.  Amonp:  others,  it 
is  said  that  he  has  engaged  the  affections  of 
a  beautiful  creature,  daughter  and  heiress  to 
an  Irish  baronet,  and  that  the}'  are  betrothed 
to  each  other.  But  as  to  the  name  or  resi- 
dence of  the  baronet,  O  Crackenf  udgius,  I  am 
not  in  a  condition  to  inform  you — for  this 
good  reason,  that  I  don't  know  either  my- 
self" 

"  But  is  it  a  fair  question,  ^Ii*.  Fenton,  to 
ask  how  you  became  acquainted  "snth  aU 
this?" 

"How?"  exclaimed  Fenton,  with  a 
doughty  but  confident  swagger  ;  "  incredu- 
lous varlet,  do  you  doubt  the  authenticity  of 
my  information  ?  He  disclosed  to  me  every 
word  of  it  himself,  and  sought  me  out  here 
for  the  pui-pose  of  getting  me  to  influence 
my  friends,  who,  you  distrustful  caitiff,  are 
persons  of  rank  and  consequence,  for  the 
purpose  of  bringing  about  a  reconcihation 
between  him  and  old  Giinwell,  the  tooth- 
brush man,  and  having  the  prosecution 
stopped.  Avaunt !  now,  begone  !  This  is 
aU  the  information  I  can  atford  upon  the 
subject  of  that  stout  but  gentlemanly  im- 
postor." 

Crackenfudge,  we  should  have  said,  was 
on  horseback  diu'ing  the  pre^-ious  dialogue, 
And  no  sooner  had  Fenton  passed  on,  \s\Wi  a 
look  of  the  most  dignified  seK-consequence 
on  his  thin  and  wasted,  though  rather  hand- 
some features,  than  the  candidate  magistrate 
set  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  with  a  singularly 
awkward  wabbling  motion  of  his  feet  and 
legs  about  tne  ammal's  sides,  his  right  hand 
flourishing  his  whip  at  the  same  time  into 
circles  in  the  air,  he  approached  Red  Hall,  as 
if  he  brought  tidings  of  some  great  national 
victory. 

He  found  the  baronet  perusing  a  letter, 
who,  after  ha\ing  given  him  a  nod,  and 
pointing  to  a  chair,  without  speaking,  read 
on,  with  an  expression  of  countenance  which 
almost  alarmed  poor  Crackenfudge.  ^^^lat- 
ever  intelligence  the  letter  may  have  con- 
tauied,  one  thing  seemed  obvious — thai,  it 
was  gall  and  wormwood  to  his  heart.  His 
countenance,  naturally  more  than  ordinarily 
dark,  literally  blackened  with  rage  and  morti- 
fication, or  perhaps  with  both  ;  his  eyes 
flashed  fire,  and  seemed  as  about  to  project 
themselves  out  of  his  head,  and  poor  Cracken- 
fudge could  hear  most  distinctly  the  grind- 
ing of  his  teeth.  At  length  he  rose  up,  and 
strode,  as  was  his  custom,  through  the  room, 
moved  by  such  a  state  of  feehng  as  it  was 
awful  to  look  upon.  During  all  this  time  he 
never  seemed  to  notice  Crackenfudge,  whose 
face,  on  the  other  hand,  formed  a  very  ludi- 
crous contrast  Tsath  that  of  the  baronet. 
There  was  at  any  time  very  little  meaning. 


I  to  an  ordinary  observer,  in  the  countenance 
of  this  anxious  candidate  for  the  magisterial 
bench,  but  it  was  not  without  cunning  ;  just 
;  as  in  the  case  of  a  certiiin  class  of  fools,  any 
one  may  recollect  that  anomalous  combina- 
tion of  the  latter  with  features  whose  blank- 
ness  betokens  the  natural  idiot  at  a  first 
[  glance.  Cx-ackenfudge,  who,  on  this  occa- 
j  sion,  felt  conscious  of  the  valuable  intelli- 
gence he  was  about  to  communicate,  sat  with 
a  face  in  which  might  be  read,  as  far  at  least 
as  anj-thing  could,  a  full  sense  of  the  vast 
importance  \vith  which  he  was  chai'ged,  and 
the  agreeable  sui-pi-ise  which  he  must  neces- 
sai-ily  give  the  raging  baronet.  Not  that  the 
expression,  after  all,  could  reach  anything 
higher  than  that  union  of  stupidity  and  as- 
surance which  may  so  fi'equently  be  read  in 
the  same  countenance. 

"A'  see,  Sir  Thomas,"  he  at  length  said, 
"that  something  has  vexed  you,  and  a'm 
sorry  to  see  it." 

The  biu'onet  gave  him  a  look  of  such  fur}-, 
as  in  a  moment  bani.shed  not  only  the  full- 
blown consciousness  of  the  important  inteUi- 
gence  he  was  about  to  communicate,  but  its 
very  expression  from  his  face,  which  waxed 
meaningless  and  cowai-dly-looking  as  ever. 

"A' hope,"  he  added,  in  an  apologetical 
tone,  "  that  a'  didn't  offend  you  by  my  obser- 
vation ;  at  least,  a'  didn't  intend  it." 

"Sir,"rephed  the  baronet,  "your  apology 
is  as  unseasonable  as  the  offence  for  which 
you  make  it.  You  see  in  what  a  state  of 
agitation  I  am,  and  yet,  seeing  this,  you  have 
the  presumption  to  annoy  me  by  your  imper- 
tinence.    I   have   already  told   you,    that  I 

would  help  you  to  this  d d  magistracy  ; 

although  it  is  a  shame,  before  God  and  man, 
to  put  such  a  creature  as  you  are  upon  the 
bench.  Don't  you  see,  sir,  that  I  am  not  in 
a  mood  to  be  spoken  to  ?  " 

Poor  Crackenfudge  was  silent ;  and,  upon 
remembering  his  prerious  dialogue  with 
Fenton,  he  could  not  avoid  thinking  that  he 
was  treated  rather  roughly  between  them. 
The  baronet,  however,  still  moved  backward 
and  forward,  like  an  enraged  tiger  in  his 
cage,  without  any  further  notice  of  Cracken- 
fudge ;  who,  on  his  part,  felt  likely  to  ex- 
plode, unless  he  should  soon  disburden  him- 
self of  his  intelligence.  Indeed,  so  confident 
did  he  feel  of  the  sedative  effect  it  would  and 
must  have  upon  the  disturbed  spirit  of  this 
dark  and  terrible  man,  that  he  resolved  to 
risk  an  experiment,  at  all  hazards,  after  his 
OAvn  way.  He  accordingly  puckered  his  face 
into  a  grin  that  was  rendered  melancholy  by 
the  terror  which  was  still  at  his  heart,  and. 
in  a  voice  that  had  one  of  the  most  comical 
quavers  imaginable,  he  said :  "  Good  newa. 
Sir  Thomas." 


K72 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Good  devil,  sir !  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"A'  mean  good  news,  Sir  Thomas.  The 
jellow  in  the  iim — a'  know  everything  about 
him." 

"Eh !  what  is  that  ?  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Drdckenfudge ;  I  have  treated  you  discour- 
teously and  badly — but  you  will  excuse  me. 
T  have  had  such  cause  for  excitement  as  is 
sufficient  to  drive  me  almost  mad.  What  is 
the  good  news  you  speak  of,  Crackenfudge  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  who  the  fellow  in  the  inn 
is,  Sir  Thomas  ?  " 

"  Not  I ;  but  I  wish  I  did." 

"  Well,  then,  a'  can  tell  you." 

Sir  Thomas  tm-ned  abruptly  about,  and, 
iastening  his  dark  gleaming  eyes  upon  him, 
sm^eyed  him  with  an  expression  of  which  no 
language  could  give  an  adequate  description. 

"Crackenfudge,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  con- 
/iensed  into  tremendous  power  and  interest, 
'  keep  me  not  a  moment  in  suspense — don't 
tamper  with  me,  sir — don't  attempt  to  play 
upon  me — don't  sell  your  inteUigence,  nor 
make  a  bargain  for  it.  Ciu'se  your  magis- 
tracy— have  I  not  ah'eady  told  you  that  I 
wUl  help  you  to  it?  What  is  the  inteUi- 
gence— the  good  news  you  speak  of  ?  " 

"TVliy,  simply  this.  Sir  Thomas,"  replied 
ihe  other, — "  that  a'  know  who  and  what  the 
fellow  in  the  inn  is  ;  but,  for  God's  sake,  Sir 
Thomas,  keep  yovu'  temper  within  bounds, 
or  if  you  don't,  a'  must  only  go  home  again, 
and  keep  my  secret  to  myself.  You  have 
treated  me  very  badly.  Sir  Thomas ;  you 
have  insulted  me,  Su-  Thomas ;  you  have 
grossly  offended  me.  Sir  Thomas,  in  your 
own  house,  too,  and  without  the  slightest 
provocation.  A'  have  told  you  that  a'  know 
everj'thing  about  the  fellow  in  the  inn  ;  and 
now,  sir,  you  may  thank  the  treatment  a'  re- 
ceived that  a'  simply  tell  you  that,  and  have 
the  honor  of  bidding  you  good  day." 

"  Crackenfudge,"  replied  Sir  Thomas,  who 
in  an  instant  saw  his  error,  and  felt  in  all  its 
importance  the  value  of  the  intelligence  with 
which  the  other  was  charged,  "I  beg  your 
pardon ;  but  you  may  easily  see  that  I  was 
oot — that  I  am  not  myself." 

"You  pledge  your  honor.  Sir  Thomas, 
that  you  will  get  me  the  magistracy?  A' 
know  you  can  if  you  set  about  it.  A' 
declare  to  God,  Sir  Thomas,  a'  will  never 
have  a  happy  day  unless  I'm  able  to  write 
J.  P.  after  my  name.  A'  can  think  of  noth- 
ing else.  And,  Sir  Thomas,  listen  to  me  ; 
my  friends — a'  mean  my  relations — poor, 
honest,  contemptible  creatures,  are  all  angry 
with  me,  because  a'  changed  my  name  to 
Crackenfudge." 

"  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  the  history 
of  the  fellow  in  the  inn  ?  "  replied  Sir  Thomas. 
"  With  respect  to  the  change  of  your  name, 


I  have  been  given  to  understand  that  your 
relations  have  been  considerably  reheved  by 
it." 

"How,  Sir  Thomas?" 

"  Because  they  say  that  they  escape  the 
disgi'ace  of  the  connection  ;  but,  as  for  my- 
seK,"  added  the  baronet,  vsdth  a  pecuhar 
sneer,  "I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything 
about  the  matter — one  way  or  other.  But 
let  it  pass,  however ;  and  now  for  your  in- 
telligence." 

"  But  you  didn't  pledge  your  honor  that 
you  would  get  me  the  magistracy." 

"  If,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  "  the  information 
you  have  to  communicate  be  of  the  impor- 
tance I  expect,  I  pledge  my  honor,  that 
whatever  man  can  do  to  serve  you  in  that 
matter,  I  will.  You  know  I  cannot  make 
magistrates  at  my  will — I  am  not  the  lord 
chancellor." 

"  Well,  then.  Sir  Thomas,  to  make  short 
work  of  it,  the  fellow's  name  is  Harry  Hedles. 
He  was  clerk  to  the  firm  of  Grinwell  and 
Co.,  the  great  tooth-binish  manufacturers — 
absconded  with  some  of  their  cash,  came 
over  here,  and  smuggled  himself,  in  the 
shape  of  a  gentleman,  into  respectable  fami- 
lies ;  and  a'm  positively  informed,  that  he 
has  succeeded  in  seducing  the  affections,  and 
becoming  engaged  to  the  daughter  and  heir- 
ess of  a  wealthy  baroiiei" 

The  look  which  Sir  Thomas  turned  upon 
Crackenfudge  made  the  cowardly  caitiff 
tremble. 

"  Harkee,  Mr.  Crackenfudge,"  said  he ; 
"  did  you  hear  the  name  of  the  baronet,  or 
of  his  daughter  ?  " 

"A'  did  not.  Sir  Tliomas  ;  the  person  that 
told  me  was  ignorant  of  this  himself." 

"  May  I  ask  who  your  informant  was,  Mr. 
Crackenfudge  ?  " 

"Why,  Sii'  Thomas,  a  half  mad  feUow, 
named  Fenton,  who  said  that  he  saw  this 
vagabond  at  an  estabhshment  in  England 
conducted  by  a  brother  of  this  Grinwell's." 

The  baronet  paused  for  a  moment,  but 
the  expression  which  took  possession  of  his 
features  was  one  of  the  most  intense  interest 
that  could  be  depicted  on  the  human  coun- 
tenance ;  he  fastened  his  eyes  upon  Cracken- 
fudge, as  if  he  would  have  read  the  veiy  soul 
within  him,  and  by  an  effort  restrained  him- 
self so  far  as  to  say,  with  forced  composure, 
"Pray,  Mr.  Crackenfudge,  what  kind  of  a 
person  is  this  Fenton,  whom  you  caU  half 
mad,  and  fi'om  whom  you  had  this  informa^ 
tion  ?  " 

Crackenfudge  described  Fenton,  and  in- 
formed Sir  Thomas  that  in  the  opinion  of  the 
people  he  was  descended  of  a  good  family, 
though  neglected  and  unfortunate.  "  But," 
he  added,   "as  to  who  he  really  is,  or  of 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


373 


what   family,  no  one  can  get  out  of  him. 
He's  close  and  cunning." 

"Is  he  occasionally  unsettled  in  his  rea- 
son ?  "  asked  the  baronet,  with  assumed  in- 
difference. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  Sir  Thomas  ;  he'll  some- 
times pass  a  whole  week  or  fortnight  and 
never  open  his  Ujds." 

The  bai'onet  apj^eared  to  be  divided  be- 
tween two  states  of  feehng  so  equally 
balanced  as  to  leave  him  almost  without  tlie 
power  of  utterance.  He  walked,  he  paused, 
he  looked  at  Crackenfudge  as  if  he  would 
speak,  then  resumed  his  step  with  a  hasty 
and  rajiid  stride  that  betokened  the  depth  of 
what  he  felt. 

"  Well,  Crackenfudge,  he  said,  "  your  in- 
teUigence,  after  aU,  is  but  mere  smoke.  I 
thought  the  fellow  in  the  inn  was  something 
beyond  the  rank  of  clerk  to  a  tooth-brush  j 
maker  ;  he  is  not  worth  our  talk,  neither  is 
that  madman  Fenton.  In  the  mean  time,  I 
am  much  obliged  to  you,  and  you  may  cal- 
cidate  ui)ou  my  services  wherever  they  can 
be  made  available  to  your  inteiests.  I 
would  not  now  hiu'i-y  you  away  nor  request 
you  to  curtail  your  \dsit,  were  it  not  that  I 
expect  Lord  Ciillamore  here  in  about  half 
an  hour,  or  perhaps  less,  and  I  wish  to  see 
IVIiss  Gourlay  previous  to  his  arrival." 

"But  you  won't  forget  the  magistracy, 
Sir  Thomas  ?  A'm  di'eaming  of  it  every 
night.  A'  think  that  a'm  seated  upon  a 
bench  with  five  or  six  other  magistrates 
along  with  me,  and  you  can't  imagine  the 
satisfaction  I  feel  in  sending  those  poor  ver- 
min that  are  going  about  in  a  state  of  dis- 
loyalty and  starvation  to  the  stocks  or  the 
jail.  Oh,  authority  is  a  delightful  thing, 
Su-  Thomas,  especially  when  a  man  can  ex- 
ercise it  upon  the  vile  rubbish  that  consti- 
tutes the  pauper  population  of  the  country. 
You  know,  if  a'  were  a  magistrate,  Sir 
Thomas,  a'  would  fine  every  one — as  weU  as 
my  owTi  tenants,  whom  I  do  fine — that  did 
not  take  off  their  hat  or  make  me  a  cour- 
tesy." 

"And  if  you  were  to  do  so,  Cracken- 
fudge," rephed  the  baronet,  \vith  a  grim,  sar- 
donic smile,  or  rather  a  sneer,  "lassiu-e 
you,  that  such  a  measure  would  become  a 
verj'  general  and  heavy  impost  upon  the 
coimtiy.  But  goodby,  now  ;  I  sh.xll  remem- 
ber yoiu-  wishes  as  touching  the  magistracy'. 
You  shall  have  J.  P.  after  your  name,  and 
be  at  hberty  to  fine,  flog,  put  in  the  stocks, 
and  send  to  prison  as  many  of  the  rubbish 
you  speak  of  as  you  wish." 

"  That  will  be  dehghtful,  Sir  Thomas.  AH 
then  make  many  a  vagabond  that  despises 
and  laughs  at  me  suffer." 

"  In  that  case,  the  country  at  large  will 


suffer  heavily  ;  for  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Crackenfudge,  you  are  anything  but  a  fav- 
orite. Goodby,  now,  I  must  see  my  daugh- 
ter." And  so  he  nodded  the  embryo  magis- 
trate out. 

After  the  latter  had  taken  his  departure, 
Sir  Thomas  rubbed  his  hands,  with  a  strong 
turbid  gleam  of  ferocious  satisfaction,  that 
evidently  resulted  from  the  communication 
that  Crackenfudge  had  made  to  him. 

"It  can  be  no  other,"  thought -he;  "his 
allusion  to  the  establishment  of  GrinweU  is 
a  strong  presumptive  proof  that  it  is  ;  but  he 
must  be  secured  forthwith,  and  that  with  all 
secrecy  and  dispatch,  taking  it  always  for 
gi'anted  that  he  is  the  fugitive  for  whom  we 
have  been  seeking  so  long.  One  point, 
however,  in  our  favor  is,  that  as  he  knows 
neither  his  real  name  nor  origin,  nor  even 
the  hand  which  guided  his  destiny,  he  can 
make  no  discovery  of  which  I  may  feel  ap- 
prehensive. Still  it  is  dangerous  that  he 
should  be  at  lai-ge,  for  it  is  impossible  to 
say  what  contingency  might  hai^pen — what 
chance  would,  or  perhaps  early  recollection 
might,  like  a  spark  of  light  to  a  train,  blow 
ujD  in  a  moment  the  precaution  of  years.  As 
to  the  fellow  in  the  inn,  the  account  of  him 
maj'  be  true  enough,  for  unquestionably 
GrinweU,  who  kept  the  asylum,  had  a  brother 
in  the  tooth-bnish  business,  and  this  fact 
gives  the  story  something  like  probabihty, 
as  does  the  mystery  with  which  this  man 
wi'aps  himself  so  closely.  In  the  meantime, 
if  he  he  a  clerk,  he  is  certainly  an  impostor 
of  the  most  consummate  art,  for  assuredly 
so  gentlemanly  a  scoundrel  I  have  never  yet 
come  in  contact  with.  But,  good  heavens ! 
if  such  a  report  should  have  gone  abroad 
concerning  that  stifl-necked  and  obstinate 
girl,  her  reputation  and  prospects  in  hfe  are 
ruined  forever.  AMiat  would  Dunroe  say 
if  he  heard  it  ?  as  it  is  certain  he  will.  Then, 
again,  here  is  the  risit  fi*om  this  conscien- 
tious old  blockhead,  Lord  Cullamore,  who 
won't  allow  me  to  manage  my  daughter  after 
my  own  manner.  He  must  hear  from  her 
own  lips,  forsooth,  how  she  reUshes  this 
union.  He  must  see  her,  he  says  ;  but,  if 
she  betrays  me  now  and  continues  restive,  I 
shall  make  her  feel  what  it  is  to  provoke 
me.  This  interview  will  ruin  me  with  old 
Cullamore  ;  but  in  the  meantime  I  must  see 
the  girl,  and  let  her  know  what  the  conse- 
quences w^ill  be  if  she  peaches  against  me." 

All  this,  of  course,  passed  thi'ough  his 
mind  briefly,  as  he  walked  to  and  fi'O,  accord- 
ing to  his  usual  habit.  After  a  few  minutes 
he  rang,  and  w  ith  a  lowering  brow,  and  in  a 
stern  voice,  ordered  Miss  Gourlay  to  be  con- 
ducted to  him.  This  was  accordingly  done. 
her  maid  having  escorted  her  to  the  hbrary 


374 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


door,  for  it  is  necessarj'  to  say  here,  that  she 
had  been  under  confinement  since  the  day 
of  her  father's  visit  to  Lord  Cullamore. 

She  api^eared  p;ile  and  dejected,  but  at 
the  same  time  e\'idently  sustained  by  serious 
composure  and  firmness.  On  entering  the 
room,  her  father  gazed  at  her  with  a  long, 
BeiU'chiug  look,  that  seemed  as  if  he  wished 
to  ascertain,  fi'om  her  manner,  whether  im- 
prisonment had  in  any  degree  tamed  her 
do^vTi  to  his  piu^poses.  He  saw,  indeed,  that 
she  was  somewhat  j^aler  than  usual,  but  he 
perceived  at  once  that  not  one  jot  of  herz*es- 
olution  had  abated.  After  an  eftbrt,  he  en- 
deavored to  imitate  her  composure,  and  in 
some  remote  degree  the  calm  and  serene 
dignity  of  her  manner.  Lucy,  who  consid- 
ered herself  a  prisoner,  stood  after  having 
entered  the  room,  as  if  in  obedience  to  her 
father's  wishes. 

"Lucy,  be  seated,"  said  he;  and  whilst 
speaking,  he  placed  himself  in  an  arm-chair, 
near  the  tire,  but  turned  toward  her,  and 
kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  upon  her  counte- 
nance. "Lucy,"  he  proceeded,  "you  are  to 
receive  a  visit  fi*om  Lord  Cullamore,  by  and 
by,  and  it  rests  with  you  this  day  w'hether  I 
shall  stand  in  his  estimation  a  dishonored 
man  or  not." 

"I  do  not  understand  j'ou,  papa." 

"  You  soon  shall.  I  paid  him  a  visit,  as 
you  are  aware,  at  his  own  request,  a  few  days 
ago.  The  object  of  that  visit  was  to  discuss 
the  approaching  union  between  you  and  his 
son.  He  said  he  would  not  have  you  pressed 
against  your  incUnations,  and  exjDressed  an 
apprehension  that  the  match  was  not  exactly 
in  accordance  with  your  wishes.  Now,  mark 
me,  Lucy,  I  undertook,  upon  my  own  re- 
sponsibility, as  wen  as  ui^on  youi's,  to  assure 
him  that  it  had  your  fullest  concurrence,  and 
I  expect  that  you  shall  bear  me  out  and  sus- 
tain me  in  this  assertion." 

"  I  who  am  engaged  to  another?  " 

*"Yes,  but  clandestinely,  without  your 
father's  knowledge  or  approbation." 

"  I  admit  my  eiTor,  papa ;  I  fully  and 
freely  acknowledge  it,  and  the  only  atone- 
ment I  can  make  to  you  for  it  is,  to  assure 
you  that  although  I  am  not  likely  ever  to 
many  according  to  your  wishes,  yet  I  shall 
never  marry  against  them." 

"  Ha !  "  thought  the  baronet,  "  I  have 
brought  her  down  a  step  already." 

"Now,  Lucy,"  said  he,  "it  is  time  that 
this  undutiful  obstinacy  on  your  part  should 
cease.  It  is  time  you  should  look  to  and  re- 
spect— yes,  and  obey  your  father's  wishes. 
I  have  alread}'  told  you  that  I  have  impressed 
Lord  Cullamore  with  a  belief  that  you  are  a 
free  and  consenting  party  to  this  marriage, 
and  I  tnist  you  have  too  much  delicacy  and 


self-respect  to  make  yovir  father  a  liar,  foi 
that  is  the  word.  I  admit  I  told  him  a  false- 
hood, but  I  did  so  for  the  honor  and  exalta- 
tion of  my  child.  You  will  not  betray  me, 
Lucy  ?  " 

"Father,"  said  she,  "I  regi'et  that  you 
make  these  torturing  communications  to  me. 
God  know^s  I  wish  to  love  and  respect  you, 
but  when,  under  solemn  circumstances,  you 
utter,  by  your  own  admission,  a  deliberate 
falsehood  to  a  man  of  the  jDurest  truth  and 
honor  ;  when  you  knowingly  and  wUfully 
mislead  him  for  selfish  and  ambitious  pur- 
poses ; — nay,  I  will  retract  these  words,  and 
suppose  it  is  fi'om  an  anxiety  to  secure  me 
rank  and  happiness, — I  say,  father,  when  you 
thus  forget  all  that  constitutes  the  integrity 
and  dignity  of  man,  and  stoop  to  the  dis- 
creditable meanness  of  falsehood,  I  ask  you, 
is  it  manly,  or  honorable,  or  aifectionate,  to 
involve  me  in  proceedings  so  utterly  shame- 
ful, and  to  ask  me  to  abet  you  in  such  a 
wanton  perversion  of  truth  ?  Sir,  there  are 
fathers — indeed,  I  beheve,  most  fathers  hv- 
ing — who  would  rather  see  any  child  of 
theirs  stretched  and  shrouded  up  in  the 
gi'ave  than  know  them  to  be  guilty  of  such  a 
base  and  deliberate  violation  of  all  the  sacred 
j)rinciples  of  truth  as  this." 

"  You  will  expose  me  then,  and  disgrace 
me  forever  with  this  cui'sed  conscientious  old 
blockhead?  I  teU  you  that  he  doubts  my 
assertion  as  touching  yoiu'  consent,  and  is 
coming  to  hear  the  truth  fi'om  your  own 
Hps.  But  hearken,  girl,  betray  me  to  him, 
and  bj'  heavens  you  know  not  the  extent  to 
which  my  vengeance  wiU  caiTy  me." 

He  rose  up,  and  glared  at  her  in  a  manner 
that  made  her  apprehensive  for  her  personal 
safety. 

"Father,"  said  she,  growing  pale,  for  the 
dialogue,  brief  as  it  was,  had  brought  the 
color  into  her  cheeks,  "w'ill  you  permit  me 
to  withdi'aw  ?  I  am  quite  unequal  to  these 
contests  of  temper  and  opinion  ;  permit  me, 
sir,  to  withdraw.  I  have  already  told  you, 
that  provided  you  do  not  attempt  to  force 
me  into  a  marriage  contrary  to  my  wishes  I 
shall  never  marry  contrary  to  yours." 

The  baronet  swore  a  deep  and  blasphe- 
mous oath  that  he  would  enter  into  no  such 
stijDulation.  The  thing,  he  said,  was  an  eva- 
sion, an  act  of  moral  fraud  and  deceit  upon 
her  part,  and  she  should  not  escape  from 
him. 

"You  wish  to  gain  time,  madam,  to  work 
out  your  own  treacherous  purposes,  and  to 
defeat  my  intentions  with  respect  to  you  ; 
but  it  shall  not  be.  You  must  see  Lord 
Cullamore  ;  you  must  corroborate  my  asser- 
tions to  him  ;  you  must  save  me  fi'om  shame 
and  dishonor  or  di'ead  the  consequences.     A 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


375 


paltrj*  sacrifice,  indeed,  to  tell  a  fib  to  a 
doting  old  peer,  who  tliinks  no  one  in  the 
world  honest  or  honorable  l)ut  himself  !  " 

"  Think  of  the  danger  of  what  you  ask," 
she  replied  ;  "  think  of  the  deep  iniquity — 
the  homble  guilt,  and  the  infamy  of  the 
crime  into  which  you  wish  to  plunge  me. 
Reflect  that  you  are  breaking  down  the  re- 
straints of  honor  and  conscience  in  my  heart ; 
that  you  are  defiling  my  soul  with  fiilsehood  ; 
and  that  if  I  yield  to  you  in  this,  everj'  sub- 
sequent temptation  wiU  beset  me  with  more 
success,  until  my  faith,  truth,  honor,  integ- 
rity, are  gone  forever — until  I  shall  be  lost. 
Is  there  no  sense  of  rehgion,  father?  Is 
there  no  future  life  ?  Is  there  no  God — no 
judgment  ?  Father,  in  asking  me  to  abet 
your  falsehood,  and  sustain  you  in  your  de- 
ceit, you  transgi'ess  the  hmits  of  pai'ental 
authority,  and  the  first  principles  of  natural 
affection.  You  pen'ert  them,  you  abuse 
them  ;  and,  I  must  say,  once  and  for  all,  that 
be  the  weight  of  your  vengeance  what  it  may, 
I  prefer  bearing  it  to  enduring  the  weight  of 
a  guilty  conscience." 

The  baronet  rose,  and  rushing  at  her, 
raised  his  open  hand  and  struck  her  rather 
severely  on  the  side  of  the  head.  She  felt, 
as  it  were,  stunned  for  a  little,  but  at  length 
she  rose  up,  and  said  :  "  Father,  this  is  the 
insanity  of  a  bad  ambition,  or  perhaps  of 
aft'ection,  and  you  know  not  what  you  have 
done."  She  then  approached  him.  and 
throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  exclaim- 
ed :  "  Papa,  kiss  me  ;  and  I  shall  never  think 
of  it,  nor  allude  to  it ;"  as  she  spjoke  the 
tears  fell  in  showers  from  her  eyes. 

"  No,  madam,"  he  replied,  "  I  repulse  you  ; 
I  throw  you  ofi'from  me  now  and  forever." 

"  Be  calm,  papa  ;  compose  yourself,  my 
dear  papa.  I  shall  not  see  Lord  Cullamore  ; 
it  would  be  now  impossible  ;  I  could  not  sus- 
tain an  interview  with  him.  You,  conse- 
quently, can  have  nothing  to  fear  ;  you  can 
say  I  am  ill,  and  that  will  be  tinith  indeed." 

"  I  shall  never  relax  one  moment,"  he  re- 
plied, "  until  I  either  subdue  you,  or  break 
yovu'  obstinate  heart.  Come,  madam,"  said 
he,  "  I  will  conduct  you  to  your  apai'tment." 

She  submissively  preceded  him,  until  he 
committed  her  once  more  to  the  surveillance 
of  the  maid  whom  he  had  engaged  and 
bribed  to  be  her  sentinel. 

It  is  imnecessary  to  say  that  the  visit  of 
the  honorable  old  nobleman  ended  in  noth- 
ing. Lucy  was  not  in  a  condition  to  see 
him  ;  and  as  her  father  at  all  risks  reiterated 
his  assertions  as  to  her  free  and  hearty  con- 
sent to  the  match,  Lord  Cullamore  went 
away,  now  perfectly  satisfied  that  if  his  son 
had  any  chance  of  being  reclaimed  by  the 
influence  of  a  virtuous  wife,  it  must  be  by 


his  union  with  Lucy.  The  noble  quahtiea 
and   amialile   dispo.sition   of  this   excellent 

I  young  lady  were  so  well  known  that  only 
one  opinion  prevailed  with  respect  to  her. 
Some  wondered,  indeed,  how  such  a  man 
could  be  father  to  such  a  daughter  ;  but,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  virtues  of  the  mother 
wei-e  remembered,  and  the  wonder  was  one 

j  no  longer. 


CHAPTER  Xm 

Tlie   Stranger's  Second  Visit  to  Father  M'MaJwn 
— Something  like  an  Elopement. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day  the  stran- 
ger desired  Paudeen  Gair  to  take  a  pLace  for 
him  in  the  "  Fly,"  which  was  to  return  to 
Dubhn  on  that  night.  He  had  been  fur- 
nished Avith  a  letter  from  Father  ^I'^Iahon,  to 
whom  he  had,  in  Mr.  Bimey's,  fuUy  dis- 
clo.sed  his  name  and  objects.  He  felt  anx- 
ious, however,  to  engage  some  trustworthy 
servant  or  attendant,  on  whose  integrity  he 
could  fully  rel}',  knowing,  or  at  least  appre- 
hending, that  he  might  be  placed  in  circum- 
stances where  he  could  not  himself  act  open- 
ly' and  freely  without  incurring  suspicion  or 
obseiTation.  Paudeen,  however,  or,  as  we 
shall  call  him  in  future,  Pat  Shai*pe,  had 
promised  to  procure  a  person  of  the  strictest 
honesty,  in  whom  every  confidence  could  be 
placed.  This  man's  name,  or  rather  his 
nickname,  was  Dandy  Dulcimer,  an  epithet 
bestowed  upon  him  in  consequence  of  the 
easy  and  strolling  life  he  led,  supporting 
himself,  as  he  passed  from  place  to  place,  by 
his  performances  upon  that  simple  but 
pleasing  instiiiment. 

"Pat,"  said  the  stranger  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  "  have  you  succeeded  in  pro- 
curing me  this  cousin  of  yours  ?  "  for  in  that 
relation  he  stood  to  Pat. 

"I  expect  him  here  even'  minute,  sir," 
replied  Pat ;  "  and  there's  one  thing  I'll  lay 
down  my  life  on — you  may  tmst  him  as  you 
would  any  one  of  the  twelve  apostles — bar- 
ring that  blackguiu'd  Judas.  Take  St. 
Pether,  or  St.  Paul,  or  any  of  the  dacent 
apostles,  and  the  diril  a  one  of  them  hon- 
ester  than  Dandy.  Not  that  he's  a  saint 
like  them  either,  or  much  overburdened 
with  religion,  poor  fellow  ;  as  for  honesty 
and  ti-uth — diril  a  gi'eater  liar  ever  walked 
in  the  mane  time  ;  but,  by  truth,  I  mane 
truth  to  you.  and  to  any  one  that  employs 
him — augh,  by  my  soul,  he's  the  flower  of  a 
boy." 

"He  won't  bring  his  dulcimer  with  him, 
I  hope." 


376 


WILLIAM  CABLETOS'S  WOBKS. 


"  Won't  he,  indeed  ?  Be  me  soavI,  sir,  you 
might  as  well  sejDarate  sowl  and  body,  as 
take  Dandy  fi*om  his  dulcimer.  Like  the 
t'wo  sides  of  a  scissors,  the  one's  of  no  use 
widout  the  other.  They  must  go  together, 
or  Dandy  could  never  cut  his  way  thi'ough 
the  world  by  any  chance.  Hello  !  here  he 
is.     I  hear  his  voice  in  the  hall  below." 

"Bring  him  up,  Pat,"  said  the  stranger  ; 
"  I  must  see  and  speak  to  him  ;  because  if  I 
feel  that  he  won't  suit  me,  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  him." 

Dandy  immediately  entered,  with  his  dul- 
cimer slung  like  a  peddler's  box  at  his  side, 
and  with  a  comic  movement  of  respect, 
which  no  presence  or  position  could  check, 
he  made  a  bow  to  the  stranger,  that  forced 
him  to  smile  in  spite  of  himself. 

"You  seem  a  droll  fellow," said  the  stran- 
ger.    "  Are  you  fond  of  truth  ?  " 

"Hem!  Why,  yes,  sir.  I  spare  it  as 
much  as  I  can.  I  don't  treat  it  as  an  every- 
day concern.  We  had  a  neighbor  once,  a 
widow  M'Cormick,  who  was  rather  penuri- 
ous, and  whenever  she  saw  her  servants  but- 
tering their  bread  too  thickly,  she  used  to 
whisper  to  them  in  a  confidential  way, 
'Ahagiu',  the  thinner  you  spread  it  the 
further  it  will  go.'  Hem  !  However,  I  must 
confess  that  once  or  twice  a  year  I  draw  on 
it  by  way  of  novelty,  that  is,  on  set  days  or 
bonfire  nights  ;  and  I  hope,  sir,  you'll  admit 
that  that's  treating  it  with  respect." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  tui'n  musician  ?  " 
asked  the  other. 

"Why,  sir,  I  was  always  fond  of  a  jingle  ; 
but,  to  tell  you  the  tnith,  I  would  rather 
have  the  same  jingle  in  my  purse  than  in 
my  instniment.  Divil  such  an  unmusical 
purse  ever  a  man  was  cvu'sed  with  than  I 
have  been  doomed  to  carry  during  my  whole 
Ufe." 

"  Then  it  was  a  natural  love  of  music  that 
sent  you  abroad  as  a  performer  ?  " 

"  Partly  only,  sir  ;  for  there  were  three 
causes  went  to  it.  There  is  a  certain  man 
named  Dandy  Didcimer,  that  I  had  a  very 
loving  regard  for,  and  I  thought  it  against 
his  aise  and  comfort  to  ask  him  to  strain  his 
poor  bones  by  hard  work.  I  accordingly 
substituted  pure  idleness  for  it,  which  is  a 
delightful  thing  in  its  way.  There,  sir,  is 
two  of  the  causes — love  of  melody  and  a 
strong  but  virtuous  disinclination  to  work. 

The  third "  but  here  he  paused  and  his 

face  darkened. 

"Well,"  inquired  the  stranger,  "  the  third? 
What  about  the  third  ?  " 

Dandy  significantly  pointed  back  with  his 
thumb  over  his  shoulder,  in  the  direction  of 
Red  Hall.  "It  was  }iim,"  he  said;  "the 
Black  Baronet — or  rather  the  incarnate  divil. " 


"  That's  tnitli,  at  all  events,"  obseiTed  Pai; 
corroborating  the  incomplete  assertion. 

"  It  was  he,  sir,"  continued  Dandy,  "that 
thnist  us  out  of  our  comfortable  farm — he 
best  knows  why  and  wherefore — and  like  a 
true  fi'iend  of  liberty,  he  set  us  at  large  from 
oui'  comfortable  place,  to  enjoy  it." 

"Well,"  rejilied  the  stranger,  "if  that  be 
true  it  was  hard  ;  but  you  know  every  story 
has  two  sides  ;  or,  as  the  proverb  goes,  one 
story  is  weU  until  the  other  is  told.  Let  ua 
dismiss  this.  If  I  engage  you  to  attend  me, 
can  you  be  faithful,  honest,  and  cautious?" 

"To  an  honest  man,  sir,  I  can  ;  but  to  no 
other.  I  grant  I  have  acted  the  knave  very 
often,  but  it  was  always  in  self-defence,  and 
toward  far  greater  knaves  than  myself.  An 
honest  man  did  once  ax  me  to  sei-ve  him 
in  an  honest  way ;  but  as  I  was  then  in  a 
roguish  state  of  mind  I  tould  him  I  couldn't 
conscientiously  do  it." 

"  If  you  were  intrusted  with  a  secret,  for 
instance,  could  you  undertake  to  keep  it  ?  " 

"  I  was  several  times  in  Dublin,  sir,  and  I 
saw  over  the  door  of  some  public  o£6ice  a 
big,  brazen  fellow,  with  the  world  on  his 
back  ;  and  you  know  that  fi'om  what  he 
seemed  to  suifer  I  thought  he  looked  very 
like  a  man  that  was  keej)ing  a  secret.  To 
tell  God's  truth,  sir,  I  never  like  a  burden  of 
any  kind  ;  and  whenever  I  can  get  a  man 
that  will  carry  a  share  of  it,  I " 

"Tut !  your  honor,  never  mind  him,"  said 
Pat.  "  What  the  deuce  are  you  at.  Dandy  ? 
Do  you  want  to  prevent  the  gintleman-  from 
engagin'  you  ?  Never  mind  him,  sir  ;  he's  as 
honest  as  the  sun." 

"It  matters  not,  Pat,"  said  the  stranger  ; 
"  I  like  him.  Are  you  willing  to  take  service 
with  me  for  a  short  time,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"  If  you  could  get  any  one  to  give  you  a 
caracther,  sir,  perhaps  I  might,"  replied 
Dandy. 

"  How,  sin-ah !  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  said 
the  stranger. 

"  Why,  su-,  that  we  humble  folks  haven't 
all  the  dishonesty  to  oiirselves.  I  think  our 
suj^eriors  come  in  now  and  then  for  the 
lion's  share  of  it.  There,  now,  is  the  Black 
Baronet." 

"  But  you  are  not  entering  the  service  of 
the  Black  Baronet." 

"  No  ;  but  the  ould  scoundrel  stinick  his 
daughter  to-day,  because  she  wouldn't  con- 
sent to  man-y  that  young  profligate,  Lord 
Dunroe  ;  and  has  her  locked  up  besides." 

The  stranger  had  been  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  when  the  Dand}^  mentioned 
these  revolting  circumstances  ;  for  the  tnith 
was,  that  Lvicy's  maid  had  taken  upon  heif 
the  office  of  that  female  virtue  called  cuiiosi* 
ty,  and  by  the  aid  of  her  eye,  her  ear,  and 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


377 


an  open  kej-hole  was  able  to  communicate 
to  one  or  two  of  the  other  servants,  in  the 
strictest  confidence  of  course,  all  that  had  oc- 
cuiTcd  during  the  inter\iew  between  father 
and  daughter.  Now  it  so  happened,  that 
Dandy,  who  had  been  more  than  once,  in 
the  course  of  his  visits,  to  the  hitchen,  prom- 
ised, as  he  said,  to  vietamurplii/  one  of  them 
into  j\Ii*s.  Dulcimei",  alias  Mui-jihy — that  be- 
ing his  real  name — was  accidentally  in  the 
kitchen  while  the  dialogue  lasted,  and  for 
some  time  afterwards  ;  and  as  the  expectant 
Mrs.  Dulcimer  was  one  of  the  fii'st  to  whom 
the  secret  was  solemnly  confided,  we  need 
scarcely  say  that  it  was  instantly  transfeiTed 
to  Dandy's  keej)ing,  who  mentioned  it  more 
from  honest  indignation  than  from  any  oth- 
er motive. 

It  would  be  difiicult  to  describe  the  com- 
bination of  feelings  that  might  be  read  in  the 
stranger's  fine  featui'es — distress,  auger,  com- 
passion, love,  and  sorrow,  all  stniggled  for 
mastery.  He  sat  down,  and  there  was  an 
instant  jiause  in  the  conversation  ;  for  both 
Dandy  and  his  relative  felt  that  he  was  not 
sufficiently  collected  to  proceed  with  it. 
They  consequently,  after  glancing  with  sur- 
prise at  each  other,  remained  silent,  until 
the  stranger  should  resume  it.  At  length, 
after  a  struggle  that  was  evidently  a  severe 
one,  he  said, 

"  Now,  my  good  fellow,  no  more  of  this 
buftbonery.  Will  you  take  sendee  with  me 
for  three  months,  since  I  am  willing  to  accept 
you  ?   Ay  or  no  ?  " 

"  As  wilhng  as  the  flowers  of  May,  your 
honor  ;  and  I  tinist  you  will  never  have  cause 
to  find  fault  with  me,  so  far  as  truth,  honesty, 
and  discretion  goes.  I  can  see  a  thing  and 
not  see  it.  I  can  hear  a  thing  and  not  hear 
it.  I  can  do  a  thing  and  not  do  it — but  it 
must  be  honest.  In  short,  su-,  if  j-ou  have 
no  objection,  I'm  your  man.  I  hke  your 
face,  sir  ;  there's  something  honorable  and 
manly  in  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  wish  to  name  the 
amount  of  the  wages  you  expect.  If  so, 
speak." 

"  Divil  a  wage  or  wages  IT!  name,  sir  ; 
that's  a  matter  I'U  lave  to  your  ovm  gen- 
erosity." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  I  start  by  the  '  Fly  '  to- 
night, and  you,  observe,  are  to  accompany 
me.  The  trimk  which  I  shall  bring  with  me 
is  ah'eady  packed,  so  that  you  will  have  very 
little  trouble." 

Dandy  and  his  relative  both  left  him,  and 
be,  with  a  riew  of  allaying  the  agitation 
which  he  felt,  walked  toward  the  residence 
of  Father  M'^Mahon,  who  hud  i)romised,  if  he 
could,  to  furnish  him  ^rith  further  instruc- 
tions ere  he  should  start  for  the  metropoUs. 


After  they  had  left  the  room,  our  friend 
Crackenfudge  peeped  out  of  the  back  apart- 
ment, in  order  to  satisfy  himself  that  the 
coast  was  clear ;  and  after  stretching  hif 
neck  over  the  stairs  to  ascertain  that  there 
was  no  one  in  the  hall,  he  tripped  do^^'n  as 
if  he  were  treading  on  razors,  and  with 
a  face  brimful  of  importance  made  his  es- 
cajDe  from  the  inn,  for,  in  truth,  the  mode 
of  his  disappeai-ing  could  be  termed  httle 
else. 

Now,  in  the  days  of  which  we  write,  it  so 
happened  that  there  was  a  vast  portion  of 
bitter  rivah-y  between  mail  coaches  and  their 
proprietors.  At  this  time  an  opposition 
coach,  called  "  the  Flash  of  Lightning  " — to 
denominate,  we  presume,  the  speed  at  which 
it  went — ran  against  the  "Fly,"  to  the  mani- 
fest, and  frequently  to  the  actual,  danger  of 
the  then  reigning  monarch's  hege  and  loyal 
subjects.  To  the  office  of  this  coach,  then, 
did  Crackenfudge  repair,  with  an  honorable 
intention  of  watching  the  motions  of  our 
fiiend  the  stranger,  prompted  thereto  by  two 
motives — first,  a  curiosity  that  was  naturally 
prurient  and  mean  ;  secondly,  by  an  anxious 
wish  to  serve  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  and,  if 
possible,  to  involve  himself  in  his  affairs, 
thus  rendering  his  interest  touching  the 
great  object  of  his  ambition — the  magistracy 
— a  matter  not  to  be  withheld.  He  instantly 
took  his  seat  for  Dublin — an  inside  seat — in 
order  to  conceal  himself  as  much  as  jjossible 
fi'om  obsei'vation.  Having  arranged  this  £if- 
faii',  he  rode  home  in  high  spirits,  and  made 
preparations  for  starting,  in  due  time,  by 
"  the  Flash  of  Lightning." 

The  sti'anger,  on  his  way  to  Father  M'Ma- 
hon's,  called  upon  his  fi-iend  Bimey,  with 
whom  he  had  a  long  confidential  conversa- 
tion. Thej'  had  akeady  determined,  if  the 
unfortunate  heir  of  Red  Hall  could  be  trac- 
ed, and  if  his  disappeaivance  could  be  brought 
home  to  the  bai'onet,  to  take  such  pubHc  or 
rather  legal  proceedings  as  they  might  be 
advised  to  by  competent  professional  adrice. 
Our  readers  may  ah'eady  guess,  however, 
that  the  stranger  was  influenced  by  motives 
sufficiently  strong  and  decisive  to  prevent 
him,  above  all  men,  fi'om  api:)earing,  publicly 
or  at  aU,  in  any  proceedings  that  might  be 
taken  against  tlie  baronet. 

On  arriving  at  Father  ^I'!^Llhon's,  he  found 
that  excellent  man  at  home  ;  and  it  was 
upon  this  occasion  that  he  obsei^ed  with 
more  attention  than  befofe  the  extraordinai'y 
neatness  of  his  dwelling-house  and  premises. 
The  cleanliness,  the  order,  the  whiteness, 
the  striking  taste  displayed,  the  variety  of 
culinary  utensils,  not  in  themselves  expensive, 
but  arranged  ^-ith  surprising  reguliu'ity,  con- 
stituting a  httle  paradise  of  convenience  and 


SIS 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S  WORKS. 


comfort,  were  all  perfectly  delightful  to  con- 
template. The  haU-door  was  open,  and  when 
the  stranp^er  entered,  he  found  no  one  in  the 
kitchen,  for  it  is  necessary  to  saj'  here  that, 
in  this  neat  but  unassuming  abode  of  benev- 
olence and  goodness,  that  Avhicli  we  have 
termed  the  hall-door  led,  in  the  tirst  instance, 
to  the  beautiful  httle  kitchen  we  have  just 
described.  The  stranger,  haAing  heard  voices 
in  conversation  -vN-ith  the  priest,  resolved  to 
wait  a  httle  until  liis  visitors  should  leave  him, 
as  he  felt  reluctant  to  intrude  upon  him 
while  engaged  with  his  parishioners.  He 
could  not  prevent  himself,  however,  fi'om 
overhearing  the  following  portion  of  their 
conversation. 

"And  it  was  yesterday  he  put  in  the  dis- 
traint ?  " 

"It  was,  your  reverence." 

"  Oh,  the  dirty  Turk  ;  not  a  landlord  at 
all  is  half  so  hard  to  ourselves  as  those  of 
our  o^\Ti  religion  :  they'll  show  some  lenit}' 
to  a  Protestant,  and  I  don't  blame  them  for 
that,  but  they  trample  those  belonging  to 
their  own  creed  under  their  inhuman  hoofs." 

"  How  much  is  it,  Nogher  ?  " 

"  Only  nine  pounds,  your  reverence." 

"  Well,  then,  bring  me  a  stamp  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  and  I'll  pass  my  bill  to 
dim  for  the  amount."' 

"  Troth,  sir,  wid  great  respect,  your  rev- 
erence will  do  no  such  thing.  However  I 
may  get  it  settled,  I  won't  lug  you  in  by  the 
head  and  shoulders.  You  have  done  more 
of  that  kind  of  work  than  you  could  afford. 
No,  sir ;  but  if  you  will  send  Father  James 
up  to  my  poor  wife  and  daughter  that's  so 
ill  -with  this  faver — that's  all  I  want." 

"  To  be  sure  he'll  go,  or  rather  I'll  go  my- 
self, for  he  won't  be  home  till  after  station. 
Did  this  middleman  landlord  of  yours  know 
that  there  was  fever  in  your  family  when  he 
sent  in  the  bailiffs  ?  " 

"To  do  him  justice,  sir,  he  did  not ;  but 
he  knows  it  since  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and  yet  he  won't  take  them  off  unless  he 
gets  either  the  rent  or  security." 

"  Indeed,  and  the  hard-hearted  Turk  Avill 
have  the  security  ;• — whisper, — call  down  to- 
morrow with  a  stamp,  and  I'll  put  my  name 
on  it ;  and  let  these  men,  these  keepers,  go 
about  their  business.  My  goodness !  to 
think  of  having  two  strange  fellows  night 
and  day  in  a  sick  and  troubled  family  !  Oh, 
dear  me  !  one  half  the  world  doesn't  know 
how  the  other  lives.  If  many  of  the  rich 
and  wealthy,  Michael,  could  witness  the 
scenes  that  I  witness,  the  sight  might  jirob- 
ably  soften  their  hearts.  Is  this  boy  your 
son,  Nogher?" 

"He  is,  8U-." 

"  J  hope  jrou  are  giving  him  a  good  edu- 


cation ;  and  I  hope,  besides,  that  he  ia  fl 
good  boy.  Do  you  attend  to  your  duty  re- 
gularly, my  good  lad  ?  " 

"  I  do,  plaise  your  revei'ence." 

"  And  obey  your  parents  ?  " 

"I  hope  so,  sir." 

"Indeed,"  said  his  father,  "poor  Mick 
doesn't  lave  us  much  to  complain  of  in  that 
resjaect ;  he's  a  very  good  boy  in  general, 
your  reverence." 

"  God  bless  you,  my  child,"  said  the 
priest,  solemnly,  placuig  his  hand  upon  the 
boy's  head,  who  was  sitting,  "and  guide 
your  feet  in  the  paths  of  religion  and  vir- 
tue !  " 

"  Oh,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  poor  affectionate 
lad,  bursting  into  tears,  "I  wish  you  would 
come  to  my  mother  !  she  is  very  iD,  and  so 
is  my  sister." 

"I  will  go,  my  child,  in  haH-an-hour.  I 
see  you  are  a  good  youth,  and  full  of  affec- 
tion ;  I  will  go  almost  immediately.  Here, 
Mat  Kuly,"  he  shouted,  raising  the  parlor 
window,  on  seeing  that  neat  boy  pass  ; — 
"  here,  you  colossus — you  gigantic  prototype 
of  grace  and*  beauty  ; — I  say,  go  and  saddle 
Freney  the  Robber  immediately  ;  I  must 
attend  a  sick  call  without  delay.  'SMiat  do 
you  stare  and  gape  for  ?  shut  that  fathom- 
less cleft  in  your  face,  and  be  off.  Now, 
Nogher,"  he  said,  once  more  addressing  the 
man,  "slip  down  to-morrow  with  the  stamp ; 
or,  stay,  why  should  these  fellows  be  there 
two  hours,  and  the  house  and  the  family  as 
they  are  ?  Sit  down  here  for  a  few  minutes, 
I'U  go  home  with  you  ;  we  can  get  the  stamp 
in  Ballytrain,  on  our  way, — ay,  and  draw  up 
the  biU  there  too  ; — indeed  we  can  and  we 
will  too  ;  so  not  a  syllable  against  it.  You 
know  I  must  have  my  will,  and  that  I'm  a. 
raging  lion  when  opposed." 

"  God  bless  ^o\xx  reverence,"  rephed  the 
man,  moved  almost  to  tears  by  his  goodness  ; 
"many  an  act  of  the  kind  your  poor  and 
stniggling  parishioners  has  to  thank  you 
for." 

On  looking  into  the  kitchen,  for  the  par- 
lor door  was  open,  he  espied  the  stranger, 
whom  he  approached  with  every  mark  of  the 
most  profound  resj^ect,  but  still  Avith  jDerfect 
ease  and  independence. 

After  the  first  salutations  were  over — 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  priest,  "do  you  hold 
to  your  pvirpose  of  going  to  Dublin  ?  " 

"I  go  this  night,"  replied  the  other; 
"  and,  except  through  the  old  man  to  whom 
you  are  so  kind  as  to  give  me  the  letter,  I 
must  confess  1  have  but  slight  expectations 
of  success.  Unless  we  secure  this  unfortu- 
nate young  man,  that  is,  always  supposing 
that  he  is  alive,  and  are  able  cleaiiy  and 
without  (juestion  to  identify  his  person,  aU 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


37d 


we  may  clo  must  be  in  vain,  and  the  baronet 
is  firm  in  both  title  and  estates." 

"That  is  evident,"  rej^hed  the  priest. 
"  Could  you  find  the  heir  alive,  and  identify 
his  person,  of  coiu'.se  your  battle  is  won. 
Well ;  if  there  be  anythinj^  like  a  thread  to 
^ide  you  through  the  difficulties  of  this 
iabyi'inth,  I  have  placed  it  in  your  hands." 

"  I  am  sensible  of  your  good  wishes,  sir, 
and  I  thank  you  very  much  for  the  interest 
you  have  so  kindly  taken  in  the  matter.  By 
the  way,  I  engaged  a  sei'vant  to  accompany 
me — one  Dulcimer,  Dandy  Dulcimer  ;  pray, 
what  kind  of  moral  chai'acter  does  he  bear  ?  " 

"  Dandy  Dulcimer  !  "  exclaimed  the  pi'iest ; 
"  why,  the  thief  of  the  world  !  is  it  jDossible 
you  have  engaged  him  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  is  he  not  honest  ?  "  asked  the 
other,  with  suii^rise. 

"  Honest !  "  rephed  the  priest ;  "  the  vaga- 
bond's as  honest  a  vagabond  as  ever  lived. 
You  may  trust  him  in  anythmg  and  e\ery- 
thing.  When  I  call  him  a  vagabond,  I  only 
mean  it  in  a  kind  and  familiar  sense  ;  and, 
by  the  way,  I  must  give  you  an  explanation 
upon  the  subject  of  my  pony.  You  must 
have  heard  me  call  him  '  Freney  the  Rob- 
ber '  a  few  min\xtes  ago.  Now,  not  .another 
sense  did  I  give  him  that  name  in  but  in  an 
ironical  one,  just  like  lucia^  a  non  lucendo, 
or,  in  other  words,  because  the  poor  creature 
is  strictly  honest  and  w^ell  tempered.  And, 
indeed,  there  are  some  anim:ils  much  more 
moral  in  their  disposition  than  others. 
Some  are  kind,  affectionate,  benevolent,  and 
grateful  ;  and  some,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
thieving  robbers  and  murderers.  No,  sir,  I 
admit  that  I  was  wrong,  and,  so  to  sjDeak,  I 
owe  Freney  an  aj^ology  for  ha\'ing  given 
him  a  bad  name  ;  but  then  again  I  have 
made  it  up  to  him  in  other  respects.  Now, 
you'll  scarcely  believe  what  I  am  going  to 
tell  you,  although  you  may,  for  not  a  word 
of  lie  in  it.  When  Freney  sometimes  is 
turned  out  into  my  fields,  he  never  breaks 
bounds,  nor  covets,  so  to  speak,  his  neigh- 
bor's property,  but  confines  himself  strictly 
and  honestly  to  his  own ;  and  I  can  tell  you  it's 
not  every  horse  would  do  that,  or  man  either. 
He  knows  my  voice,  too,  and,  what  is  more, 
my  veiy  foot,  for  he  wall  whinnj'^  when  he 
hears  it,  and  before  he  sees  me  at  all." 

"  Pray,"  said  the  stranger,  exceedingly 
amused  at  this  narrative,  "  how  does  your 
huge  servant  get  on  ?  " 

"Is  it  Matlluly? — why,  sir,  the  poor  boy's 
as  kind-hearted  and  benevolent,  and  has  as 
sharp  an  appetite  as  ever.  He  told  me  that 
he  cried  yesterday  when  bringing  a  little 
asaistance  to  a  poor  family  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. But,  touching  this  matter  on  which 
you  are  engaged,  will  you  be  good  enough 


to  write  to  me  from  time  to  time  ?  for  I  shaD 
feel  anxious  to  hear  how  you  get  on." 

The  stranger  promised  to  do  so,  and  aftel 
having  received  two  letters  fi*om  him  thej 
shook  hands  and  separated. 

We  have  stated  before  that  Dandy  Dul- 
cimer had  a  sweetheart  in  the  service  of  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay.  Soon  after  the  interview 
between  the  stranger  and  Dandy,  and  while 
the  former  had  gone  to  get  the  letters  from 
Father  M'Mahon,  this  same  sweetheart,  by 
name  Alley  ^lahon,  came  to  have  a  word  or 
two  with  Paiideen  Gair,  or  Pat  Sharpe. 
When  Paudeen  saw  her,  he  imputed  the 
cause  of  her  visit  to  something  connected 
with  Dandy  Dulcimer,  his  cousin  ;  for,  as 
the  latter  had  disclosed  to  him  the  revelation 
which  Alley  had  made,  he  took  it  for  gi-anted 
that  the  Dandy  had  communicated  to  her 
the  fact  of  his  being  about  to  accept  sen'ice 
with  the  stranger  at  the  inn,  and  to  proceed 
with  him  to  Dubhn.  And  such,  indeed, 
was  the  actual  truth.  Paudeen  had,  on  be- 
half of  Dandy,  all  but  arranged  the  matter 
with  the  stranger  a  couple  of  days  before. 
Dandy  being  a  consenting  party,  so  that 
nothing  was  wanting  but  an  interview  be- 
tween the  latter  and  the  stranger,  in  order 
to  complete  the  negotiation. 

"Pat,"  said  Alley,  after  he  had  brought 
her  up  to  a  little  back-room  on  the  second 
story,  "  I  know  that  your  family  ever  and 
always  has  been  an  honest  family,  and  that 
a  stain  of  thraicher}^  or  disgrace  was  never 
upon  one  of  their  name." 

"  Thank  God,  and  you.  Alley  ;  I  am  proud 
to  know  that  what  you  say  is  right  and 
true." 

"  Well,  then,"  she  replied,  "  it  is,  and 
every  one  knows  it.  Now,  then,  can  you 
keep  a  secret,  for  the  sake  of  tiiith  and  con- 
science, ay,  and  religion  ;  and  if  all  will  not 
do,  for  the  sake  of  her  that  paid  back  to 
your  family,  out  of  her  ovra  private  purse, 
what  her  father  robbed  them  of '? " 

"By  all  that's  lovely,"  replied  Pat,  "ii 
there's  a  h^•in'  bein'  I'd  sacrifice  my  life  for, 
it's  her." 

"  Listen  ;  I  want  j'ou  to  secure  two  seats 
in  the  'Fly,'  for  this  night ;  inside  seats,  or 
if  you  can't  get  insides,  then  outsides  will 
do.'" 

"Stop  where  you  are."  replied  Pat,  about 
to  start  downstairs  ;  "  the  thing  will  be 
done  in  five  minutes." 

"Are  you  mad,  Pat?"  said  she;  "take 
the  money  with  you  before  you  go." 

"  Begad,"  said  Pat,  '•  my  heart  was  in  my 
mouth^ — hero,  let  us  have  it.  And  so  the 
darling  young  lady  is  forced  to  fly  from  the 
tyrant  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Pat,"  said  Ahee,  solemnly,  "for  the 


380 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORLDS. 


sake  of  tlie  living  God,  don't  breathe  that 
you  know  anything  about  it  ;  we're  lost  if 
you  do." 

"If  Dandy  was  here,  Alley,"  he  replied, 
"  I'd  make  him  swear  it  upon  your  hps  ;  but, 
hand  us  the  money,  for  there's  little  time  to 
be  lost ;  I  hoj)e  aU  the  seats  ai-n't  taken." 

He  was  just  in  time,  however  ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  returned,  haAing  secured  for 
two  the  only  inside  seats  that  were  left  un- 
taken  at  the  moment,  although  there  were 
many  claimants  for  them  in  a  few  minutes 
aftei*wards. 

"Now,  Alley,"  said  he,  after  he  had  re- 
turned fi'om  the  coach-office,  which,  by  the 
way,  was  connected  with  the  inn,  "what 
does  aU  this  mane  ?  I  think  I  could  guess 
something  about  it.     A  runaway,  eh  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  a  runaway  ?  "  she 
repHed ;  "of  course  she  is  ininning  away 
from  her  brute  of  a  father,  and  I  am  goin' 
with  her." 

"  But  isn't  she  goin'  wid  somebody  else  ?  " 
he  inquired. 

"  No,"  replied  Alley  ;  "  I  know  where  she 
is  goin' ;  but  she  is  goin'  md  nobody  but 
myself." 

"Ah,  Alley,"  replied  Pat,  shrewdly,  "I 
see  she  has  kept  you  in  the  dark  ;  but  I 
don't  blame  her.  Only,  if  you  can  keep  a 
secret,  so  can  I." 

"Pat,"  said  she,  "desire  the  coachman  to 
stop  at  the  white  gate,  where  two  faymales 
will  be  waitin'  for  it,  and  let  the  guard  come 
down  and  open  the  door  for  us  ;  so  that  we 
won't  have  occasion  to  spake.  It's  aisy  to 
know  one's  voice,  Pat." 

"  I'll  manage  it  all,"  said  Pat  ;  "  make 
your  mind  aisy — and  what  is  more,  I'll  not 
breathe  a  syllable  to  mortual  man,  woman, 
or  child  about  it.  That  would  be  an  un- 
grateful return  for  her  kindness  to  our 
family.  May  God  bless  her,  and  grant  her 
happiness,  and  that's  the  worst  I  wish  her." 

The  baronet,  in  the  course  of  that  evening, 
was  sitting  in  his  dining-room  alone,  a  bot- 
tle of  Madeira  before  him,  for  indeed  it  is 
necessary  to  say,  that  although  unsocial  and 
inhospitable,  he  nevertheless  indulged  pretty 
freely  in  wine.  He  apjDeared  moody,  and 
gulped  down  the  Madeira  as  a  man  who 
wished  either  to  sustain  his  mind  against 
care,  or  absolutely  to  drowTi  memoiy,  and 
probably  the  force  of  conscience.  At  length, 
with  a  flushed  face,  and  a  voice  made  more 
deep  and  stern  by  his  potations,  and  the 
reflections  they  excited,  he  rang  the  beU,  and 
in  a  moment  the  butler  appeared. 

"  Is  Gillespie  in  the  house,  Gibson  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Send  him  up." 

In  a  few  minutes  GOlespie  entered  ;  and 


indeed  it  would  be  difficult  to  see  a  more 
ferocious-looking  nxffian  than  this  scoundrel 
who  was  gi'oom  to  the  baronet.  Fame,  or 
scandal,  or  truth,  as  the  case  may  be,  had 
settled  the  relations  between  Sir  Thomas  and 
him,  not  merely  as  those  of  master  and  ser- 
vant, but  as  those  of  father  and  son.  Be  this 
as  it  may,  however,  the  similarity  of  figvu-e 
and  feature  was  so  extraordinary,  that  the 
inference  could  be  considered  by  no  means 
sui'prising. 

"  Tom,"  said  the  baronet,  "  I  suppose 
there  is  a  Bible  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say,  su',"  replied  the  ruffian.  'I 
never  saw  any  one  in  use.  O,  yes.  Miss 
Gourlay  has  one." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  gloomy 
reflection,  "  I  forgot  ;  she  is,  in  addition  to 
her  other  accomplishments,  a  Bible  reader. 
WeU,  stay  where  you  are ;  I  shall  get  it  my- 
self." 

He  accordingly  rose  and  proceeded  to 
Lucy's  chamber,  where,  after  having  been 
admitted,  he  found  the  book  he  sought,  and 
such  was  the  absence  of  mind,  occasioned  by 
the  apprehensions  he  felt,  that  he  brought 
away  the  book,  and  forgot  to  lock  the  door. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  the  baronet,  sternly,  when 
he  returned,  "  do  you  respect  this  book  ?  It 
is  the  Bible." 

"  Why,  yes,  sir.  I  respect  eveiy  book  that 
has  readin'  in  it — printed  readin'." 

"  But  this  is  the  Bible,  on  which  the 
Christian  religion  is  founded." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  don't  doubt  that,"  replied 
the  enlightened  master  of  horse  ;  "  but  I 
prefer  the  Seven  Champions  of  Christendom, 
or  the  History  of  Valentine  and  Orson,  or 
Fortunatus's  Purse." 

"You  don't  relish  the  Bible,  then?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir  ;  I  never  read  a  Hne  of 
it — although  I  heard  a  great  deal  about 
it.  Isn't  that  the  book  the  parsons  preach 
from?" 

"It  is,"  replied  the  baronet,  in  his  deep 
voice.  "This  book  is  the  source  and  origin 
and  history  of  the  revelation  of  God's  will  to 
man  ;  this  is  the  book  on  which  oaths  are 
taken,  and  when  taken  falsely,  the  falsehood 
is  pei-jury,  and  the  individual  so  peijuring 
himself  is  transported,  either  for  Hfe  or  a 
term  of  years,  while  hving  and  when  dead, 
Gillespie — mark  me  well,  sir — when  dead, 
his  soul  goes  to  eternal  jDerdition  in  the 
flames  of  heU.  Would  you  now,  knowing 
this — that  you  would  be  transported  in  this 
world,  and  damned  in  the  next — wovdd  you, 
I  say,  take  an  oath  uj)on  this  book  and  break 
it?" 

"  No,  sir,  not  after  what  you  said." 

"  WeU,  then,  I  am  a  magistrate,  and  I  wish 
to  administer  an  oath  to  you." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


381 


"Very  well,  sir,  I'll  swear  whatever  you 
Kke." 

"  Then  listen — take  the  book  in  your  right 
hand — you  shall  swear  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth,  so  help 
you  God  !  You  swear  to  execute  whatever 
duty  I  may  happen  to  require  at  your  hands, 
and  to  keep  the  performance  of  that  duty  a 
secret  fi'om  every  hving  mortal,  and  besides 
to  keep  secret  the  fact  that  I  am  in  any  way 
connected  with  it — you  swear  this  ?  " 

"I  do,  sir,"  rephed  the  other,  kissing  the 
book. 

The  baronet  paused  a  little. 

"Very  well,"  he  added,  "consider  yourself 
solemnly  sworn,  and  pray  recoUect  that  if 
you  violate  this  oath — in  other  words,  if  you 
commit  perjui-y,  I  shall  have  you  transpoi*ted 
as  sure  as  youi*  name  is  Gillespie." 

"  But  your  honor  has  sworn  me  to  secrecy, 
and  yet  I  don't  know  the  secret." 

"Neither  shall  you  for  twenty-four  houi's 
longer.  I  am  not  and  shall  not  be  in  a  con- 
dition to  mention  it  to  you  sooner,  but  I  put 
you  under  the  obligation  now,  in  order  that 
you  may  have  time  to  reflect  uj)on  its  impor- 
tance.    You  may  go." 

Gillespie  felt  exceedingly  puzzled  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  services  about  to  be  required 
at  his  hands,  but  as  every  attemj^t  to  solve 
this  difliculty  was  fi'uitless,  he  resolved  to 
await  the  event  in  patience,  aware  that  the 
period  between  his  anxiety  on  the  subject 
and  a  knowledge  bf  it  was  but  short. 

We  need  not  hesitate  to  assvu-e  our  readers, 
that  if  Lucy  Gourlay  had  been  apprised,  or 
even  dreamt  for  a  moment,  that  the  stranger 
and  she  were  on  that  night  to  be  feUow-trav- 
eUers  in  the  same  coach,  she  ^vould  unques- 
tionably have  deferred  her  jounaey  to  the 
metropolis,  oi',  in  other  words,  her  escape 
from  the  senseless  tyranny  of  her  ambitious 
father.  Fate,  however,  is  fate,  and  it  is  pre- 
cisely the  occurrence  of  these  seemingly  inci- 
dental coincidences  that  in  fact,  as  well  as  in 
fiction,  constitutes  the  pi*incipal  interest  of 
those  cu'cumstances  which  give  romance  to 
the  events  of  human  life  and  develop  its  char- 
acter. 

The  "  Fly  "  started  from  Balljiirain  at  the 
usual  houi',  with  only  two  inside  passengers 
— to  \Ai,  our  fi-iend  the  stranger  and  a 
wealthy  stock- farmer  from  the  same  parish. 
He  was  a  large,  big-boned,  good-humored 
feUow,  dressed  in  a  strong  fiieze  outside  coat 
or  jock,  buckskin  breeches,  top-boots,  and  a 
heavy  loaded  whip,  his  inseparable  companion 
wherever  he  went. 

The  coach,  on  aiTi\'ing  at  the  white  gate, 
pulled  up,  and  two  females,  deeply  and 
closely  veiled,  took  their  seats  inside.  Of 
course,  the  natural  pohteness  of  the  stranger 


prevented  him  from  obtniding  his  conversa« 
tion  upon  ladies  with  whom  he  was  not  ac- 
quainted. Tlie  honest  farmer,  however,  felt 
no  such  scruples,  nor,  as  it  happened,  did 
one  at  least  of  the  ladies  in  question. 

"This  is  a  nice  affixir,"  he  observed, 
"  about  the  Black  Baronet's  daughter." 

"  "What  is  a  nice  aflfair?  "  asked  our  friend 
Alley,  for  she  it  was,  as  the  reader  of  course 
is  already  aware — "What  is  a  nice  affair?" 

"  ^\^ly,  that  j\Iiss  Gourlay,  they  say,  fell 
in  love  with  a  buttonmaker's  clerk  from  Lon- 
don, and  is  goin'  to  mai-ry  him  in  spite  of 
all  opposition." 

"  ^Vllo's  your  authority  for  that  ?  "  asked 
Alley  ;  "  but  whoever  is,  is  a  liar,  and  the 
truth  is  not  in  him — that's  what  I  say." 

"Ay,  but  what  do  you  know  about  it?" 
asked  the  grazier.  "  You're  not  in  jSIiss 
Gourlay's  saicrets — and  a  devilish  handsome, 
gentlemanly  lookin'  fellow  they  say  the 
button-maker  is.  Faith,  I  can  tell  you,  I 
give  tooth-an-egg-credit.  The  fellow  will 
get  a  dai-Hn'  at  all  events — and  he'll  be  very 
bad  indeed,  if  he's  not  worih  a  ship-load  of 
that  profligate  Lord  Dunroe." 

"  Well,"  rephed  Alley,  "  I  agree  with  you 
there,  at  all  events  ;  for  God  sees  that  the 
same  Lord  Dunroe  Arill  make  the  cream  of  a 
bad  husband  to  whatsoever  poor  woman  will 
suffer  by  him.  A  bad  bargain  he  will  be  at 
best,  and  in  that  I  agi-ee  with  you." 

"So  far,  then,"  replied  the  grazier,  "we 
do  agree  ;  an',  dang  my  buttons,  but  I'll 
lave  it  to  this  gentleman  if  it  wouldn't  be 
betther  for  Miss  Gom-lay  to  many  a  daicent 
button-maker  any  day,  than  such  a  hurler  as 
Duni'oe.     "VNTiat  do  you  say,  su-  ?  " 

"But  who  is  this  button-maker,"  asked 
the  stranger,  "and  where  is  he  to  be 
found  ?  " 

Lucy,  on  recognizing  his  voice,  could 
scarcely  prevent  her  emotion  from  becoming 
perceptible  ;  but  o-wang  to  the  darkness  of 
the  night,  and  the  folds  of  her  thick  veil,  her 
fellow-travellers  observed  nothing. 

"  ^Miy,"  rephed  the  grazier,  who  had  evi- 
dently, from  a  lajjse  of  memory,  substituted 
one  species  of  manufacture  for  another  thing, 
"  they  tell  me  he  is  stopping  in  the  head  inn 
in  Bcillytrain  ;  an',  dang  my  buttons,  but  he 
must  be  a  feUow  of  mettle,  for  sure  didn't 
he  kick  that  tyrannical  ould  scoundrel,  the 
Black  Baronet,  do\\'n-stairs,  and  out  of  the 
hall-door,  when  he  came  to  bull^Tag  over 
him  about  his  daughter — the  darlin'?  " 

Lucy's  distress  uas  here  incredible  ;  and 
had  not  her  self-command  and  firmness  of 
character  been  indeed  unusual,  she  would 
have  felt  it  extremely  difficult  to  keep  her 
agitation  within  due  bounds. 

"  You  labor  under  a  mistake  there,"  rephed 


3S2 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


the  stranger  ;  "I  happen  to  know  that  noth- 
ing of  the  kind  occurred.  Some  warm  words 
passed  between  them,  brrt  no  blows.  A 
young  person  named  Fenton,  whom  I  know, 
was  present." 

"Why,"  observed  the  grazier,  "that's  the 
young  fellow  that  goes  mad  betimes,  an'  a 
quai'e  chap  he  is,  by  all  accounts.  They  say 
he  went  mad  for  love." 

From  this  it  was  evident  that  rumor  had, 
as  usual,  assigned  several  causes  for  Fen  ton's 
insanity. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,"  repHed  the  stranger. 

Alley,  who  thought  she  had  been  over- 
looked in  this  pai'tial  dialogue,  determined 
to  sustain  her  part  in  the  conversation  with 
a  dignity  becoming  her  situation,  now  re- 
solved to  flourish  in  with  something  like 
effect. 

"  They  know  nothing  about  it,"  she  said, 
"  that  calls  Miss  Gourlay's  sweetheart  a  but- 
ton-maker. Miss  Goui'lay's  not  the  stuff  to 
fall  in  love  wid  any  button-maker,  even  if  he 
made  buttons  of  goold  ;  an'  sui-e  thej-  say 
that  the  king  an'  queen,  and  the  whole  royal 
familj'  wears  golden  buttons." 

"I  think,  in  spaiking of  buttons,"  observed 
the  grazier,  with  a  grin,  "  that  you  might  lave 
che  queen  out." 

"  And  why  should  I  lave  the  queen  out  ?  " 
asked  Alley,  indignantly,  and  with  a  toweling 
resolution  to  defend  the  privileges  of  her 
sex.  "  ^^'^ly  ought  I  lave  the  queen  out,  I 
say?" 

""WTiy,"  rephed  the  gi-azier,  -udth  a  still 
broader  grin,  "  bai*ring  she  wears  the 
breeches,  I  don't  know  what  occasion  she 
could  have  for  buttons." 

"  That  only  shows  yoiu*  ignorance,"  said 
Alley;  "don't  you  know  that  all  ladies 
wear  habit-shirts,  and  that  habit-shirts  must 
have  buttons  ?  " 

"  I  never  heard  of  a  shirt  havin'  buttons 
anj-where  but  at  the  neck,"  replied  the 
gi-azier,  M'ho  drew  the  inference  in  question 
from  his  own,  which  were  made  upon  a  very 
simple  and  jDi-imitive  fashion. 

"  But  you  don't  know  either,"  responded 
Alley,  launching  nobly  into  the  purest  fiction, 
from  an  impression  that  the  character  of  her 
mistress  required  it  for  her  defence,  "you 
don't  know  that  nobody  is  allowed  to  make 
buttons  for  the  queen  but  a  knight  o'  the 
garther." 

"Garther!"  exclaimed  the  gi-azier,  with 
astonishment.  "  ^AHiy  what  the  dickens  has 
garthers  to  do  wid  buttons  ?  " 

"More  than  you  think,"  replied  the  re- 
doubtable Alley.  "  The  queen  wears  buttons 
to  her  garthers,  and  the  knight  o'  the  garther 
is  always  obliged  to  try  them  on  ;  but 
always,  of  course,  afore  company." 


The  stranger  was  exceedingly  amused  at 
this  bit  of  by-play  between  Alley  and  the 
honest  gi'azier,  and  the  more  so  as  it  drew 
the  conversation  from  a  point  of  the  subject 
that  was  painful  to  him  in  the  last  degi-ee, 
inasmuch  as  it  du-ectly  involved  the  character 
of  Miss  Goiuiay. 

"  How  do  you  know,  then,"  proceeded 
Alley,  triumphantly,  "but  the  button-maker 
that  Miss  Gourlay  has  fallen  in  love  with  may 
be  a  knight  o'  the  garther  ?  " 

"  Begad,  there  may  be  a  great  dale  in  that, 
too,"  rej)lied  the  unsusjiicious  grazier,  who 
never  dreamt  that  Alley's  knowledge  of  court 
etiquette  might  jDossibl}-  be  rather  limited, 
and  her  accounts  of  it  somewhat  apoci-j-phal ; 
— "  begad,  there  may.  "Well," he  added,  with 
an  honest  and  earnest  tone  of  sincerity,  "for 
my  part,  and  fi'om  all  ever  I  heaixl  of  thai 
darHn'  of  a  beautj',  she  deseiwes  a  knight  o' 
the  shire,  let  alone  a  knight  o'  the  garther. 
They  say  the  good  she  does  among  the  jDOor 
and  destitute  since  they  came  home  is  un- 
tellable.  God  bless  her  !  And  that  she  maj 
live  long  and  die  happy  is  the  worst  that  I 
or  anybod}'  that  knows  her  wishes  her.  It's 
well  known  that  she  had  her  goodness  from 
her  angel  of  a  mother  at  all  events,  for  they 
say  that  such  another  woman  for  charity  and 
kindness  to  the  poor  never  hved  ;  and  by  aU 
accounts  she  led  an  unhappj'  and  miserable 
life  wid  her  Turk  of  a  husband,  who,  they 
pay,  broke  her  heai't,  and  sent  her  to  an  early 
grave." 

Alley  was  about  to  bear  fiery  and  vehement 
testimony  to  the  truth  of  all  this  ;  but  Lucy,  ■ 
whose  bosom  heaved  ujd  strongly  two  or' 
three  times  at  these  affecting  allusions  to  her 
beloved  mother,  and  who  almost  sobbed 
aloud,  not  merely  from  sorrow  but  distress, 
arising  fi'om  the  whole  tenor  of  the  conver-. 
sation,  whispered  a  few  words  into  her  ear, 
and  she  was  instantly  silent.  The  farmer 
seemed  somewhat  startled  ;  for,  in  truth,  as 
\\'e  have  said,  he  was  naturally  one  of  those 
men  who  wish  to  hear  themselves  talk.  In 
this  instance,  however,  he  found,  after  hav- 
ing made  three  or  four  colloquial  attacks 
iipon  the  stranger,  but  without  siiccess,  that 
he  must  only  have  recourse  either  to  solilo- 
quy or  silence.  He  accordingly  commenced 
to  hum  over  several  old  Irish  airs,  to  whiclw 
he  ventured  to  join  the  words — at  first  in  a 
veiy  subdued  undertone.  "Whenever  the 
coach  stopped,  however,  to  change  horses, 
which  it  generally  did  at  some  public  house 
or  inn,  the  stranger  covild  observe  that  the 
grazier  always  went  out,  and  on  his  return 
appeared  to  be  affected  with  a  still  stronger  \ 
relish  for  melody.  By  degrees  he  proceeded 
from  a  tolerably  distinct  fmdertone  to  raise 
his  voice  into  a  bolder  key,  when,  at  last, .] 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


383 


Ibrowing  aside  all  reserve,  he  commenced 
the  song  of  Cruiakeen  Imwu,  "wliich  he  gave 
in  admirable  style  and  spii'it,  and  with  a  rich 
mellow  voice,  that  was  calculated  to  render 
ever}'  justice  to  that  fine  old  air.  In  this 
manner,  he  hterally  sang  his  way  until  with- 
in a  few  miles  of  the  metropolis.  He  was 
not,  however,  without  assistance,  during,  at 
least,  a  portion  of  the  journey.  Our  fi-iend 
Dandy,  who  was  on  the  outside,  finding 
that  the  coach  came  to  a  level  space  on  the 
road,  placed  the  dulcimer  on  his  knees,  and 
commenced  an  accompaniment  on  that  in- 
strument, which  produced  an  effect  equally 
comic  and  aj^i-eeable.  And  what  added  to 
the  humor  of  this  extraordinary  duet — if  we 
can  call  it  so — was  the  delight  with  which 
each  intimated  his  satisfaction  at  the  perfor- 
mance of  the  other,  as  well  as  with  the  terms 
in  which  it  was  expressed. 

"Well  done,  Dandy!  dang  my  buttons, 
but  you  shine  upon  the  wii-es.  Ah,  thin, 
it's  you  that  is  and  ever  was  the  wiiy  lad — 
and  sure  that  was  what  made  you  take  to 
the  dulcimer  of  course.  D;mdy,  achora, 
will  you  give  us,  'Merrily  kissed  the 
Quaker  ? '  and  I  ask  it,  Daiidy,  bekaise  we 
are  in  a  rehgious  way,  and  have  a  quakers' 
meetin'  in  the  coach." 

"  No,"  replied  Dandy  ;  "  but  I'll  give  you 
the  'Bonny  brown  Girl,'  that's  worth  a 
thousand  of  it,  you  thief." 

"  Bravo,  Dandy,  and  so  it  is ;  and,  as  far 
as  I  can  see  in  the  dark,  dang  my  buttons, 
but  I  think  we  have  one  here,  too." 

"I  thank  you  for  the  compUment,  sir," 
said  Alley,  appropriating  it  without  cere- 
mony to  herself.  "  I  feel  much  obhged  to 
you,  sir  ;  but  I'm  not  worthy  of  it." 

"My  darling,"  repHed  the  jolly  farmer, 
"  you  had  betther  not  take  me  up  till  I  fall. 
How  do  you  know  it  was  for  you  it  was  in- 
tended ?  You're  not  the  only  lady  in  the 
coach,  avoumeen." 

"And  you're  not  the  only  gintlemsm  in 
the  coach.  Jemmy  Doran,"  reijlied  Alley, 
indignantly.  "  I  know  you  well,  man  alive 
— and  you  picked  up  your  pohteness  from 
your  cattle,  I  suppose." 

"  A  better  chance  of  getting  it  from  them 
than  from  you,"  repUed  the  hasty  grazier. 
"But  I  tell  you  at  once  to  take  it  aisy, 
achora  ;  don't  get  on  fire,  or  3'ou'll  bmni  the 
coach — the  comphment  was  not  intended 
for  you  at  all  events.  Come,  Dandy,  give 
us  the  'Bonny  brown  Gii'l,'  and  I'll  help 
you,  as  well  as  I'm  able." 

In  a  moment  the  dulcimer  was  at  work 
on  the  top  of  the  coach,  and  the  merry  far- 
mer, at  the  top  of  his  lungs,  lending  his 
assistance  inside. 

^^Taei)  the  performance  had  been  conclu- 


ded, Alley,  who  was  brimful  of  indignation 
at  the  slight  which  had  been  put  upon  her, 
said,  "  ^Lmy  thanks  to  you,  ^listher  Doran, 
but  if  you  plaise  we'll  dispense  wid 
your  music  for  the  rest  of  the  journey. 
Remember  you're  not  among  your  own  bul- 
locks and  swine — and  that  this  roaring  and 
grunting  is  and  must  be  verj'  disagreeable 
to  pohte  company." 

"  Troth,  whoever  you  are,  you  have  the 
advantage  of  me,"  repHed  the  good-natured 
farmer,  "  and  besides  I  beheve  you're  right 
— I'm  afraid  I've  given  ofiince  ;  and  as  we 
have  gone  so  far — but  no.  dang  my  buttons, 
I  won't — I  was  going  to  try  '  Kiss  my  Lady,' 
along  wid  Dandy,  it  goes  beautiful  on  the 
dulcimer — but — but — ah,  not  half  so  well  as 
on  a  puiiy  jiair  of  hps.  Alley,  dai'lin',"  he 
proceeded  now,  evidently  in  a  maudUn  state, 
"I  never  lave  you,  but  I'm  in  a  huny  home 
to  you,  for  it's  your  Hps  that's " 

"  It's  fidse,  ;Mr.  Domn,"  exclaimed  Alley ; 
"  how  dare  you,  sir,  bring  my  name,  or  my 
lips  either,  into  comparishment  wid  your- 
self ?  You  want  to  take  away  my  character, 
^Ir.  Doran  ;  but  I  have  fi-iends,  and  a  strong 
faction  at  my  back,  that  wiU  make  you  suifei- 
for  this." 

The  farmer,  however,  who  was  elevated 
into  the  seventh  heaven  of  domestic  aflec- 
tion,  paid  no  earthly  attention  to  her,  but 
turning  to  the  stranger  said  : 

"  Su-,  I've  the  best  wife  that  ever  faced 
the  sun " 

"  I,"  exclaimed  Alley,  "  am  not  to  be  in- 
sulted and  caluninied,  ay,  an'  backbitten  be- 
fore my  own  face,  ]\Iisther  Doran,  ancV  take 
my  word  you'U  hear  of  this  to  your  cost — 
I've  a  faction." 

"Sir — gintleman — miss,  over  the  way 
there — for  throth,  for  all  so  close  as  you're 
veiled,  you  haven't  a  man-ied  look — but  aa 
I  was  sayin',  we  fell  in  love  wid  one  another 
by  mistake — for  there  was  an  ould  match- 
maker, by  name  Biddlety  Gu'tha,  a  daugh- 
ter of  ould  Jemmy  Trailcudgel's — God  be 
good  to  him — father  of  the  present  strug- 
glin'  jDOor  man  of  that  name — and  as  I  had 
hard  of  a  celebrated  beauty  that  lived  about 
twelve  or  fifteen  miles  down  the  countiy  that 
I  wished  to  coort — and  she,  on  the  other 
hand,  having  hard  of  a  very  fine,  handsome 
yoimg  fellow  in  my  own  neighborhood — 
what  does  the  oidd  thief  do  but  brings  us 
together,  in  the  fair  of  Baltihorum,  and 
palms  her  off  on  me  as  the  celebrated 
beauty,  and  j^alms  myself  on  her  as  the 
fine,  handsome  young  fellow  from  the  parish 
of  Ballytrain,  and,  as  I  said,  so  we  fell  in  love 
wid  one  another  by  mistake,  and  didn't  dis- 
cover the  imposthui-e  that  the  ould  vagabond 
had  put  on  us  until  afther  the  marriage. 


384 


WILLIAM  OARLETON'S  WORKS. 


However,  I'm  not  som^  for  it — she  turned 
out  a  good  wdfe  to  me,  at  all  events — for,  be- 
sides bringin'  me  a  stockin'  of  guineas,  she 
has  brought  me  twelve  of  as  fine  childre'  as 
you'd  see  in  the  kingdom  of  Ii-eland,  ay,  or 
in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  either.  Barrin' 
that  she's  a  httle  hasty  in  the  temper — and 
sometimes — do  you  persave? — has  the  use 
of  her — there's  five  of  them  on  each  hand  at 
any  rate — do  you  undherstand — I  say,  bar- 
rin' that,  and  that  she  often  amuses  herself 
— just  when  she  has  nothing  else  to  do — ■ 
and  by  way  of  keepin'  her  hand  in — I  say, 
sir,  and  you,  miss,  over  the  way — she  now 
and  then  amuses  herself  by  turnin'  up  the 
little  finger  of  her  right  hand — but  what 
matter  for  aU  that — thei-e's  no  one  mdout 
their  httle  weeny  failin's.  My  own  haii-'s  a 
httle  sandy,  or  so — some  people  say  it's  red, 
but  I  think  myself  it's  only  a  httle  sandy — 
as  I  said,  sir — so  out  of  love  and  affection 
for  the  best  of  wives,  I'll  give  you  her  favor- 
ite, the  'Eed-haired  man's  vdfe.'  Dandy, 
you  thief,  will  you  help  me  to  do  the  '  Ked- 
haired  man's  wife  ? ' " 

"Wid  pleasure,  Msther  Doran,"  rephed 
Dandy,  adjusting  his  dulcimer.  "Come  now, 
start,  and  I'm  wid  you." 

The  performance  was  scarcely  finished, 
when  a  sob  or  two  was  heard  from  Alley, 
who,  during  this  ebiilhtion  of  the  grazier's, 
had  been  nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm, 
as  Bui'ns  says. 

"  I'm  not  without  fi'iends  and  protectors, 
IVIr.  Doran — that  won't  see  me  rantinized  in 
a  mail-coach,  and  mocked  and  made  httle  of 
— whereof  I  have  a  strong  back,  as  you'L 
soon  find,  and  a  faction  that  ^viU  make  you 
sup  son'ow  yet." 

All  this  \irtuous  indignation  was  lost, 
however,  on  the  honest  gi-azier,  who  had 
scarcely  concluded  the  "Ked-haired  man's 
wife,"  ere  he  fell  fast  asleep,  in  which  state 
he  remained — having  simply  changed  the 
style  and  character  of  his  melody,  the  exe- 
cution of  the  latter  being  equally  masterly — 
until  they  reached  the  hotel  at  which  the 
coach  always  stopped  in  the  metropohs. 

The  weather,  for  the  fortnight  preceding, 
had  been  genial,  mild,  and  beautiful.  For 
some  time  before  they  reached  the  city,  that 
gradual  withdrawing  of  darkness  began  to 
take  place,  which  resembles  the  disappear- 
ance of  sori'ow  from  a  heavy  heart,  and  har- 
binges  to  the  world  the  return  of  cheerful- 
ness and  hght.  The  dim,  spectral  paleness 
of  the  eastern  sky  by  degrees  received  a 
cleai-er  and  healthier  tinge,  just  as  the  wan 
cheek  of  an  invahd  assumes  slowly,  but  cer- 
tainly, the  glow  of  returning  health.  Early 
as  it  was,  an  odd  individual  was  visible  here 
and  there,  and  it  may  be  observed,  that  at  a 


very  early  hour  every  person  visible  in  thft 
streets  is  characterized  by  a  chilly  and  care- 
worn appearance,  looking,  with  scarcely  an 
exception,  both  solitary'  and  sad,  just  as  if 
they  had  not  a  single  friend  on  eai'th,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  were  striving  to  encounter 
struggles  and  difficulties  which  they  were 
incompetent  to  meet. 

As  our  travellers  entered  the  city,  that  by- 
gone class  who,  as  guardians  of  the  night, 
were  appointed  to  preserve  the  public  peace, 
eveiy  one  of  them  a  half  felon  and  whole  ac- 
comphce,  were  seen  to  pace  slowly  along, 
their  poles  under  theu*  left  ai-m,  their  hands 
mutually'  thnist  into  the  capacious  cuffs  of 
their  watchcoats,  and  each  with  a  frowzy 
woollen  nightcap  under  his  hat.  Here  and 
there  a  staggering  toper  might  be  seen  on  his 
way  home  fi'om  the  tavern  brawl  or  the  mid- 
night debauch,  advancing,  or  attempting  to 
advance,  as  if  he  wanted  to  trace  Hogarth's 
line  of  beauty.  From  some  quarters  the 
wild  and  reckless  shriek  of  female  profligacy 
might  be  heai'd,  the  tongue,  though  loaded 
with  blasphemies,  nearly  paralyzed  by  intoxi- 
cation. Nor  can  we  close  here.  The  fashion- 
able carriage  made  its  api^earance  fiUed  with 
beauty  shorn  of  its  charms  by  a  more  refined 
dissipation — beauty,  no  longer  beautiful,  re- 
turning with  pale  cheeks,  lang-uid  eyes,  and 
exhausted  frame — after  having  breathed  a 
thickened  and  suffocating  atmosphere,  cal- 
culated to  sap  the  physical  health,  if  not  to 
disturb  the  pure  elements  of  moral  feeling, 
|)rinciple,  and  dehcacy,  without  which  woman 
becomes  only  an  object  of  contempt. 

Up  until  the  arrival  of  the  "  Fly  "  at  the 
hotel,  the  gray  dusk  of  morning,  together 
with  the  thick  black  veil  to  which  we  have 
alluded,  added  to  that  natural  pohteness 
which  jDrevents  a  gentleman  fifom  staring  at 
a  lady  who  may  wish  to  avoid  observation — 
owing  to  these  causes,  we  say,  the  stranger 
had  neither  inclination  nor  oj^portunity  to 
recognize  the  featirres  of  Lucy  Gooirlay. 
When  the  coach  drew  up,  however,  with  that 
courtesy  and  attention  that  ai'e  always  due  to 
the  sex,  and,  we  may  add,  that  are  very  sel- 
dom omitted  with  a  pretty  travelhng  com- 
panion, the  stranger  stepped  quickly  out  of 
it  in  order  to  offer  her  assistance,  which  was 
accepted  silently,  being  acknowledged  only 
by  a  graceful  inclination  of  the  head.  'WTien, 
however,  on  leaving  the  darkness  of  the 
vehicle  he  found  her  hand  and  arm  tremble, 
and  had  sufficient  light  to  recognize  her 
through  the  veil,  he  uttered  an  exclamation 
expressive  at  once  of  delight,  wonder,  and 
curiosity. 

"  Good  God,  my  dear  Lucy,"  said  he  in  a 
low  whisper,  so  as  not  to  let  his  words  reach 
other  ears.  "  how  is  this  ?   In  heaven's  name. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


3d5 


how  does  it  happen  that  you  travel  by  a  com- 
mon night  coach,  and  are  here  at  such  an 
hour  ? " 

She  blushed  deeply,  and  as  she  spoke  he 
obsei-ved  that  her  voice  was  infirm  and 
tremulous :  "  It  is  most  unfortunate,"  she 
replied,  "  that  we  should  both  have  travelled 
in  the  same  conveyance.  I  request  you  will 
instantly  leave  me." 

"What!  leave  you  alone  and  unattended 
at  this  hour  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  unattended,"  she  i*ei)lied  ;  "  that 
faithful  creature,  though  somewhat  blunt  and 
uncouth  in  her  manners,  is  all  truth  and  at- 
tachment, so  far  as  I  at  least  am  concerned. 
But  I  beg  you  will  immediately  withdraw. 
If  we  ai'e  seen  liolding  conversation,  or  for  a 
moment  in  each  other's  societ}',  I  cannot  teU 
what  the  consequences  may  be  to  my  repu- 
tation." 

"  But,  my  dejir  Lucy,"  replied  the  stranger, 
•'  that  risk  may  easily  be  avoided.  This  meet- 
ing seems  providential — I  entreat  you,  let  us 
accept  it  as  such  and  avail  ourselves  of  it." 

"  That  is,"  she  replied,  whilst  her  glorious 
dark  eye  kindled,  and  her  snowj'  temples 
got  red  as  fii'e,  "  that  is,  that  I  should  elope 
with  you,  I  presume?  Sir,"  she  added,  "you 
are  the  Lvet  man  from  whom  I  should  have 
expected  an  insult.  You  forget  yourself,  and 
you  forget  me." 

The  high  sense  of  honor  that  flashed  fi-om 
that  glorious  eye,  and  which  made  itself  felt 
through  the  indignant  tones  of  her  voice, 
rebuked  him  at  once. 

"I  have  erred,"  said  he,  "but I  have  erred 
from  an  excess  of  affection — will  you  not 
pardon  me  ?  " 

She  felt  the  difficulty  and  singular  distress 
of  her  position,  and  in  spite  of  her  firmness 
and  the  unnatural  hai-shness  of  her  father, 
she  almost  regretted  the  step  she  had  taken. 
As  it  was,  she  made  no  reply  to  the  stranger, 
but  seemed  absorbed  in  thoughts  of  bitter- 
ness and  affliction. 

"  Let  me  press  you,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  tc  come  into  the  hotel ;  you  require  both 
rest  and  refreshment — and  I  entreat  and  im- 
plore you,  for  the  sake  both  of  my  happiness 
and  your  own,  to  grant  me  a  quarter  of  an 
hour's  conversation." 

"I  have  reconsidered  our  position,"  she 
rephed.  "  Alley  will  fetch  in  our  ver\'  slight 
luggage  ;  she  has  money,  too,  to  pay  the 
guard  and  driver — she  says  it  is  usual ;  and 
I  feel  that  to  give  you  a  short  explanation 
now  may  possibly  enable  us  to  avoid  nuich 
future  embari-assment  and  misunderstanding 
— Alley,  however,  must  accompany  us,  and 
be  present  in  the  room.  But  then,"  she  ad- 
ded, starting,  "is  it  proper? — is  it  delicate? 
— no.  no,  I  cannot,  I  cannot ;  it  might  com- 
13 


promise  me  Avith  the  world.  Leave  me,  I 
entreat,  I  imj^lore,  I  command  you.  I  ask  it 
as  a  proof  of  your  love.  We  will,  I  trust, 
have  other  opjiortunities.  Let  us  trust,  too, 
to  time — let  us  ti-ust  to  God — but  I  will  do 
nothing  wrong,  and  I  feel  that  this  Avould  be 
unworthy  of  my  mother's  daughter." 

"WeD,"  rejjlied  the  stranger,  "I  shall 
obey  you  as  a  proof  of  my  love  for  you  ;  but 
will  you  not  allow  me  to  write  to  you  ? — will 
you  not  give  me  your  address  ?  " 

"No,"  she  returned  ;  "and  I  enjoin  you, 
as  you  hope  that  we  shall  ever  be  happy,  not 
to  attempt  to  trace  me.  I  ask  this  from  you 
as  a  man  of  honor.  Of  course  it  may  oi 
perhaps  it  will  be  discovered  that  we  trav- 
elled in  the  same  coach.  The  accident  may 
be  misinterpreted.  ]\Iy  father  may  seek  an 
explanation  from  you — he  may  ask  if  you 
know  where  I  am.  Should  I  have  placed 
the  knowledge  of  my  retreat  in  your  posses- 
sion, you  know  that,  as  a  man  of  honor,  you 
could  not  tell  him  a  falsehood.  Goodby," 
she  added,  "  we  may  meet  in  better  times, 
but  I  much  fear  that  our  destinies  wiU  be 
separated  forever — Come,  Alley." 

Her  voice  softened  as  she  uttered  the  last 
words,  and  the  stranger  felt  the  influence  of 
her  ascendency  over  him  too  strongly  to 
hesitate  in  manifesting  this  proof  of  his  obe- 
dience to  her  wishes. 


CHAPTEB  XIV. 

Qrackenfudge  put  upon  a  Wrong  Scent  —  JtfSu 
Oouriay  takes  Refuge  with  an  Old  Friend. 

Little  did  Lucy  dream  that  the  fact  ol 
their  discoveiy  as  fellow-travellei'S  would  so 
soon  reach  her  father's  ears,  and  that  the 
pro^dsion  against  that  event,  and  the  infer- 
ences whicli  calumny  might  draw  from  it,  as 
suggested  by  her  prudence  and  good  sense, 
should  render  her  ad%ice  to  the  stranger  so 
absolutely  necessary. 

Whilst  the  brief  dialogue  which  we  have 
recited  at  the  close  of  the  last  cliapter  took 
place,  another,  which  as  a  faithful  historian 
we  are  bound  to  detail,  was  proceeding  be- 
tween the  redoubtable  Crackenfudge  and 
oiu'  facetious  fiiend,  Dandy  Dulcimer. 
Crackenfudge  in  following  the  stranger  to 
the  metropohs  liy  the  Flash  of  Lightning,  in 
order  to  watch  his  movements,  was  uttei'ly 
ignorant  that  Lucy  had  been  that  gentle- 
man's fellow-traveller  in  the  Fly.  A  strong 
opposition,  as  we  have  alretuly  said,  existed 
between  the  two  coaches,  and  so  equal  was 
theu'   speed,    that   in    consequence    of    the 


386 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


mutual  delay  caused  by  cbanp^ing  horses, 
they  frequently  passed  each  other  on  the 
road,  the  driver,  guard,  and  outside  passen- 
gers of  both  coaches  uniformly  grimacing  at 
each  other  amidst  a  storm  of  groans,  cheers, 
and  banter  on  both  sides.  So  equal,  how- 
ever, were  their  relative  powers  of  progress, 
that  no  eftbrt  on  either  side  was  found  suffi- 
cient to  enable  any  one  of  them  to  claim  a 
victory.  On  the  contrary,  their  contests 
generally  ended  in  a  dead  heat,  or  something 
veiy  neai'ly  approaching  it.  On  the  night  in 
question  the  Fly  had  a  shght  advantage,  and 
but  a  slight  one.  Before  the  coachman  had 
time  to  descend  from  his  ample  seat,  the 
Flash  of  Lightning  came  dashing  in  at  a 
most  reckless  speed — the  unfortunate  horses 
snorting  and  panting — steaming  with  smoke, 
which  rose  from  them  in  white  wreaths,  and 
streaming  in  such  a  manner  with  persjjira- 
tion  that  it  was  jDainfuI  to  look  upon  them. 

Crackenfudge  was  one  of  the  first  out  of 
the  Flash  of  Lightning,  which,  we  should 
say,  drew  up  at  a  rival  estabhshment,  di- 
rectly opposite  that  which  patronized  the 
Fly.  He  lost  no  •  time  in  sending  in  his 
trunk  by  "boots,"  or  some  other  of  those 
harpies  that  are  always  connected  with  large 
hotels  in  the  metropohs.  HaAing  accom- 
plished this,  he  set  himself,  but  quite  in  a 
careless  way,  to  watch  the  motions  of  the 
stranger.  For  this  purpose  he  availed  him- 
self of  a  position  from  whence  he  could  see 
without  being  himself  seen.  Judge,  then,  of 
his  surprise  on  ascertaining  that  the  female 
whom  he  saw  with  the  stranger  was  no  other 
than  Lucy  Gourlay,  and  in  conversation  with 
the  ver}'  indi\4dual  with  whose  name,  mo- 
tions, and  projects  he  wished  so  anxiously 
to  become  acquainted.  If  he  watched  IMiss 
Gourlay  and  her  comjjanion  well,  however, 
he  himself  was  undei'going  quite  as  severe  a 
scrutiny.  Dandy  Dulcimer  having  obseiwed 
him,  in  consequence  of  some  hints  that  he 
had  already  received  fi'om  a  source  with 
which  the  reader  may  become  ultimatelj'  ac- 
quainted, approached,  and  putting  his  hand 
to  his  hat,  exclaimed  : 

"  \^^ly,  then,  Counsellor  Crackenfudge,  is 
(t  here  I  find  yotu'  honor  ?  " 

"Don't  you  see  a'm  here.  Dandy,  my 
fine  fellow  ?  "  and  this  he  uttered  in  a  very 
agreeable  tone,  simply  because  he  felt  a  weak 
and  pitiable  ambition  to  be  addi'essed  by 
the  title  of  "  Your  honor." 

"  AMiat  does  all  this  mean,  Dandy  ?  "  asked 
Crackenfudge  ;  "it  looks  veiy  odd  to  see 
INIiss  Gourla}'  in  conversation  with  an  im- 
postor— a'  think  it's  an  elopement,  Dandy. 
And  pray  Dandy,  what  brought  yoa  to 
town?" 

"I  think  your  honor's   a  fiiend   to  Sir 


Thomas,   counsellor  ? "    repHed  Dandy,    an« 
swering  by  another  question. 

"A' am,  Dandy,  a  stanch  friend  to  Sir 
Thomas." 

"Bekaise  I  know  that  if  you  aren't  a 
fi'iend  of  his,  he  is  a  friend  of  yovu-s.  I 
was  plaj-in'  a  tune  the  other  day  in  the  hall, 
and  while  I  was  in  the  very  middle  of  it  I 
heard  him  say — '  We  must  have  Counsellor 
Crackenfudge  on  the  bench  ; '  and  so  they 
had  a  long  palaver  about  you,  and  the  whole 
thing  ended  by  Sir  Thomas  getting  the 
tough  old  Captain  to  promise  you  his  sup- 
port, with  some  great  man  that  they  called 
custos  rascalorum." 

"  A'  am  obUged  to  Sir  Thomas,"  said 
Crackenfudge,  "  and  a'  knoAv  he  is  a  true 
friend  of  mine." 

"  Ay,  but  will  you  now  be  a  true  friend  to 
Mm,  plaiseyour  honor,  counsellor?  " 

"To  be  sure  I  will,  Dandy,  my  fine  fel- 
low." 

"Well,  then,  listen — Sir  Thomas  got  me 
put  into  this  strange  fellow's  sar-vice,  in  or- 
dher  to  ah — ahem — why,  you  see  in  ordher 
to  keep  an  eye  upon  him — and,  what  do 
you  think?  but  he's  jist  afther  tellin'  me 
that  he  doesn't  think  he'll  have  any  fxu'ther 
occasion  for  my  sarvices."  t 

"  WeU,  a'  think  that  looks  suspicious — it's 
an  elopement,  there's  no  doubt  about  it." 

"  I  think  so,  your  honor  ;  although  I  am 
myself  completely  in  the  dark  about  it,  any 
farther  than  this,  coimsellor — listen,  now — 
I  know  the  road  they're  goin',  for  I  heard  it 
by  accident — they'll  be  oil",  too,  immediatel}'. 
Now,  if  yoiu"  honor  is  a  true  fiiend  to  Sir 
Thomas,  you'll  take  a  post  chaise  and  start 
ofl:'  a  little  before  them  upon  the  Naas  road. 
You  know  that  by  going  before  them,  they 
never  can  suspect  that  you're  followin'  them. 
I'll  remain  here  to  watch  theu*  motions,  and 
while  you  keep  before  them,  I'll  keep  after 
them,  so  that  it  will  be  the  very  sorra  if  they 
escape  us  both.  Whisper,  counsellor,  your 
honor — I'm  in  Sir  Thomas's  paj'.  Isn't  that 
enough  ?  but  I  want  assistance,  and  if  3'ou're 
his  friend,  as  you  say,  you  wiU  be  guided  by 
me  and  saiwe  him." 

Crackenfudge  felt  elated  ;  he  thought  of 
the  magistracy,  of  his  privilege  to  sit  on  the 
bench  in  all  the  plenitude  of  official  author- 
ity ;  he  reflected  that  he  could  commit 
mendicants,  impostors,  vagi'ants,  and  vaga- 
bonds of  all  descriiDtions,  and  that  he  would 
be  entitled  to  the  solemn  and  reverential' 
designation  of  "  Your  worship."  Here,  then, 
was  an  opening.  The  very  object  for  which 
he  came  to  town  was  accompUshed — that  is 
to  say,  the  securing  to  himself  the  magistracy 
through  the  important  services  rendered  to 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay. 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


387 


It  occiirred  to  him,  "vre  admit,  that  as  it 
must  have  been  evidently  a  case  of  elope- 
ment, it  mif^ht  be  his  duty  to  have  the  par- 
ties arrested,  until  at  least  the  pai-ent  of  the 
lady  could  be  apprised  of  the  circumstances. 
Tliere  was,  however,  about  Crackenfudge  a 
wholesome  re{2fai'd  for  what  is  tenned  a 
whole  skin,  and  as  he  had  been,  through  the 
key-hole  of  the  ^Nlitre  inn,  a  witness  of  cer- 
tain scintillations  iuid  flashes  that  Ht  up  the 
eye  of  this  most  mysterious  stranger,  he  did 
not  conceive  that  such  steps  and  his  own 
personal  safety  were  compatible.  In  the 
meantime,  he  saw  that  there  was  an  air  of 
sincerity  and  anxiety  about  Dandy  Dulcimer, 
which  he  could  impute  to  nothing  but  a  •SN'ish, 
if  possible,  to  make  a  lasting  fi*ieud  of  Sir 
Thomas,  by  enabling  him  to  trace  his  daugh- 
ter. 

Dandy's  plea  and  plan  both  succeeded, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  Cracken- 
fudge  was  posting  at  an  easy  rate  toward 
the  town  of  Naas.  Many  a  look  did  he  gi^•e 
out  of  the  chaise.  Avith  a  hope  of  being  able 
to  obsen-e  the  vehicle  which  contained  those 
for  whom  he  was  on  the  watch,  but  in  vain. 
Nothing  of  the  kind  was  risible  ;  but  not- 
withstanding this  he  di'ove  on  to  the  town, 
where  he  ordered  breakfast  in  a  private 
room,  with  the  anxious  expectation  that  they 
might  soon  arrive.  At  length,  his  patience 
ha\-ing  become  considerably  exhausted,  he 
determined  to  return  to  Dublin,  and  provi- 
ded he  met  them,  with  Dandy  in  pursuit,  to 
wheel  about  and  also  to  join  the  musician  in 
the  chase.  Having  settled  his  bill,  which  he 
did  not  do  Arithout  half  an  hour's  wi-angling 
vrith  the  waiter,  he  came  to  the  hall  door, 
fi"om  which  a  chaise  with  close  Venetian 
bhnds  was  about  to  start,  and  into  which  he 
thought  the  figure  of  a  man  entered,  who 
very  much  resembled  that  of  Corbet,  Sir 
Thomas's  house  steward  and  most  confiden- 
tial sen'ant.  Of  this,  however,  he  could  not 
feel  quite  certain,  as  he  had  not  at  all  got  a 
glimpse  of  his  face.  On  inquuing,  he  found 
that  the  chaise  contained  another  man  also, 
who  was  so  ill  as  not  to  be  able  to  leave  it. 
One  of  them,  however,  drank  some  spirits  in 
the  chaise,  and  got  a  bottle  of  it,  together 
AN-ith  some  provisions,  to  take  along  with 
them. 

So  far  had  Crackenfudge  been  most  ad- 
roitly throAAni  off  the  trace  of  !Mis8  Gourlay 
and  the  stranger  ;  and  when  Dandy  joined 
his  master,  who,  fi'om  principles  of  dehcacy 
and  respect  for  Lucy,  went  to  the  opposite 
inn,  he  candidly  told  him  of  the  hoax  he  had 
played  off  on  the  embryo  magistrate. 

"  I  sent  him,  yovu:  honor,  upon  what  they 
call  a  fool's  errand,  and  certain  I  am,  he  is 
the  very  boy  tnUI  dehver  it — not  but  that  he's 


the  diA-il's  own  knave  on  the  other.  The 
truth  is,  sir,  it's  just  one  day  a  knave  and 
the  other  a  fool  AN-ith  him." 

The  stranger  paid  Httle  attention  to  these 
observations,  but  w;ilked  up  and  down  the 
room  in  a  state  of  sorrow  and  disjxppoint- 
ment,  that  completely  abstracted  him  from 
every  object  Jiround  him. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  she  will 
not  even  allow  me  to  know  the  place  of  her 
retreat,  and  she  may  stand  in  need  of  aid 
and  suppoi-t,  and  probably  of  protection,  a 
thousand  ways.  Would  to  heaven  I  knew 
how  to  trace  her,  and  become  acquainted 
with  her  residence,  and  that  more  for  her 
own  sake  than  for  mine  ! " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Dandy,  "I 
see  a  cousin  o'  mine  over  the  way  ;  would 
your  honor  give  me  a  couple  of  hours  to 
spend  wid  him  ?  I  haven't  seen  him  this — 
God  knows  how  long." 

Well  might  Dandy  say  so — the  cousin  al- 
luded to  having  been  only  conceived  and 
brought  forih  from  his  own  OA\-n  fertile  fancy 
at  the  moment,  or  rather,  while  his  master 
was  unconsciously  utteiing  his  soliloquy. 
The  truth  was,  that  while  the  latter  spoke, 
Dandy,  whom  he  had  ordered  to  attend  him, 
without  well  knowing  why,  obsen^ed  a  hack- 
ney-coach draw  up  at  the  door  of  tlie  oppo- 
site hotel ;  but  this  fact  would  not  have  in 
any  particidar  way  an-ested  his  attention, 
had  he  not  seen  Alley  Mahon  giring  orders 
to  the  driver. 

"  You'll  give  me  a  couple  of  houi-s,  your 
honor  ? " 

"I'll  give  you  the  whole  day.  Dandy,  if 
you  wish.  I  shall  be  engaged,  and  will  not 
require  any  further  sei-rices  fi-om  you  until 
to-moiTow." 

Dandy  looked  at  him  veiy  significantly, 
and  "nith  a  degi'ee  of  assurance,  for  which 
we  can  certainly  offer  no  apolog}',  puckered 
his  naturally  comic  face  into  a  most  myste- 
rious giin.  and  closing  one  eye,  or  in  other 
words,  giring  his  master  a  knowing  wink, 
said — 

"  Very  well,  sii",  I  know  how  many  banes 
makes  five  at  any  rate — let  me  alone." 

"  WTiat  do  you  mean,  you  varlet,"  said 
his  master,  "by  that  impudent  wink ?  " 

"Wink?"  replied  Dandy,  with  a  face  of 
admirable  composure.  "  Oh,  you  observed 
it,  then  ?  Sure,  God  help  me,  it's  a  wakeness 
I  have  in  one  of  mj'  eyes  ever  since  I  had 
the  small-pock." 

"  And  pray  which  eye  is  it  in  ?  "  asked  his 
master. 

"In  the  left,  your  honor." 

"  But,  you  scoundrel,  you  winked  at  me 
with  the  right." 

"  Troth,  sir,  maybe  I  did,  for  it  sometimea 


388 


WILLIAM  CARlETON'S   WORKS. 


passes  from  the  one  to  the  other  wid  me — 
but  not  often  indeed — it's  principally  in  my 
left." 

"  Very  well ;  but  in  speaking  to  me,  use 
no  such  giimaces  in  future  ;  and  now  go  see 
youi'  cousin.  I  shall  sleejj  for  a  few  hours, 
for  I  feel  somewhat  jaded,  and  out  of  order 
on  many  accounts.  But  before  you  go,  list- 
en to  me,  and  mark  me  well.  You  saw  me 
in  conversation  with  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

Dandy,  whose  percej^tion  was  quick  as 
lightning,  had  his  finger  on  his  lips  imme- 
diately. "  I  understand  you,  sir,"  said  he  ; 
"and  once  for  all,  sir,"  he  i^roceeded,  "do 
you  hsten  to  me.  You  may  lay  it  do^ii  as 
one  of  the  ten  commandments,  that  any  se- 
cret you  may  plaise  to  trust  me  with,  will  be 
undher  a  tombstone.  I'm  not  the  stuff  that 
a  traitor  or  "villain  is  made  of.  So,  once  for 
all,  your  honor,  make  your  mind  aisy  on 
that-  point." 

"It  will  be  your  own  interest  to  prove 
faithful,"  said  his  master.  "Here  is  a 
month's  wages  for  you  in  advance." 

Dandy,  having  accepted  the  money,  imme- 
diately proceeded  to  the  next  hackney  sta- 
tion, which  was  in  the  same  street,  where  he 
took  a  coach  by  the  hour  ;  and  having  got 
into  it,  ordered  the  driver  to  follow  that 
which  he  saw  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  hotel 
aforesaid. 

"Folly  that  hackney,"  said  he  to  the  dri- 
ver, "  at  what  is  called  a  respectful  distance, 
an'  you'll  be  no  loser  by  it." 

"  Is  there  a  piece  of  fun  in  the  wind  ?  " 
asked  the  di'iver,  with  a  knowing  grm. 

"When  you  go  to  your  Padereens  to- 
night," replied  Dandy,  "  that  is,  in  case  you 
ever  trouble  them,  you  may  swear  it  on 
them." 

"Whish  !  More  power — I'm  the  boy  wiU 
rowl  you  on." 

"There,  they're  off,"  said  Dandy;  "but 
don't  be  in  a  hurry,  for  fraid  we  might  seem 
to  foUy  them — only  for  your  life  and  sowl, 
and  as  you  hope  to  get  half-a-dozen  gum- 
ticklers  when  we  come  come  back — don't  let 
them  out  o'  sight.  By  the  rakes  o'  Mallow, 
this  jaunt  may  be  the  makin'  o'  you.  Says 
his  lordship  to  me,  'Dandy,'  says  he,  "  find 
out  where  she  goes  to,  and  you  and  every 
one  that  helps  you  to  do  so,  is  a  made 
man.' " 

"  Ha,  ha !  "  exclaimed  the  driver,  with 
glee,  "  is  that  it  ?  Come,  then — here's  at  you 
— they're  off." 

It  was  not  yet  five  o'clock,  and  the  stran- 
ger requested  to  be  shown  to  a  bedroom,  to 
which  he  immediately  retired,  in  order  to 
gain  a  few  hours'  sleep,  after  the  fatigue  of 
his  journey  and  the  agitation  which  he  had 
Undergone. 


In  the  meantime,  as  Dandy  followed  Miss 
Gourlay,  so  shall  we  follow  him.  The  chase, 
we  must  admit,  was  conducted  with  singular 
judgment  and  discretion,  the  second  chaise 
jogging  on — but  that,  in  fact,  is  not  the 
term — we  should  rather  say  flogging  on, 
inasmuch  as  that  which  contained  the  fair 
fugitives  went  at  a  rate  of  most  unusual 
speed.  In  this  manner  they  proceeded,  un- 
til they  reached  a  very  pretty  cottage,  about 
tlu-ee  quai-ters  of  a  mile  from  the  town  of 
Wicklow,  situated  some  fifty  or  sixty  yards 
in  from  the  road  side.  Here  they  stopped  ; 
but  Dandy  desired  his  man  to  drive  slowly 
on.  It  was  evident  that  this  cottage  was  the 
destination  of  the  fugitives.  Dandy,  having 
tui'ned  a  corner  of  the  road,  desired  the 
driver  to  stop  and  observe  whether  they  en- 
tered or  not ;  and  the  latter  having  satisfied 
himself  that  they  did — 

"Now,"  said  Dandy,  "let  us  wait  where 
we  are  till  we  see  whether  the  chaise  returns 
or  not ;  if  it  does,  all's  right,  and  I  know 
what  I  know." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  empty  chaise  started 
once  more  for  Dublin,  followed,  as  before, 
by  the  redoubtable  Dulcimer,  who  entered 
the  city  a  much  more  important  person  than 
when  he  left  it.  Ejaowledge,  as  Bacon  says, 
is  power. 

About  two  o'clock  the  stranger  was 
dressed,  had  breakfasted,  and  having  or- 
dered a  car,  proceeded  to  Constitution  Hill. 
As  he  went  up  the  street,  he  observed  the 
numbers  of  the  houses  as  well  as  he  covdd, 
for  some  had  numbers  and  some  had  not. 
Among  the  latter  was  that  he  sought  for, 
and  he  was  consequently  obliged  to  inquire. 
At  length  he  found  it,  and  saw  by  a  glance 
that  it  was  one  of  those  low  lodging-houses 
to  which  country  folks  of  humble  rank — 
chapmen,  hawkers,  pedlers,  and  others  of  a 
similar  character — resort.  It  was  evident, 
also,  that  the  proprietor  dealt  in  hucksteiy, 
as  he  saw  a  shop  in  which  there  was  bacon, 
meal,  oats,  eggs,  potatoes,  bread,  and  such 
other  articles  as  are  usually  to  be  found  in 
small  establishments  of  the  kind.  He  en- 
tered the  shoj),  and  found  an  old  man, 
certainly  not  less  than  seventy,  but  rather 
beyond  it,  sitting  behind  the  counter.  The 
appearance  of  this  man  was  anj^thing  but 
prepossessing.  His  brows  were  low  and 
heavy ;  his  mouth  close,  and  remarkably 
hard  for  his  years  ;  the  forehead  low  and 
narrow,  and  singularly  deficient  in  what 
phrenologists  term  the  moral  and  intellec- 
tual qualities.  But  the  worst  feature  in  the 
whole  face  might  be  read  in  his  small,  dark, 
cunning  eyes,  which  no  man  of  any  penetra- 
tion could  look  upon  without  feeling  that 
they  were  significant  of  duplicfty,  cruelty. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


389 


ftnd  fraud.  His  hair,  though  long,  and  fall- 
ing over  his  neck,  was  black  as  ebony ;  for 
although  Time  had  left  liis  impress  upon  the 
general  features  of  his  face,  it  had  not  dis- 
colored a  single  hair  upon  his  head  ;  whilst 
his  whiskers,  on  the  contrary,  were  like 
snow — a  circumstance  which,  in  connection 
with  his  sinister  look,  gave  him  a  remai'k- 
able  and  startling  appearance.  His  hands 
were  coarse  and  strong,  and  the  joints  of  his 
thick  fingers  were  noded  either  by  age  or 
disease  ;  but,  at  all  events,  affording  indica- 
tion of  a  rude  and  unfeeling  character. 

"  Pray,"  said  the  stranger,  "  is  your  name 
Denis  Dunphy  ?  " 

The  old  man  fastened  his  x'at-like  eyes 
ui^on  him,  compressed  his  hard,  unfeeling 
lips,  and,  after  surveying  him  for  some  time, 
replied — 

"What's  your  business,  sir,  with  Denis 
Dunphy  ? " 

"  That,  my  friend,  can  be  mentioned  only 
to  himself  ;  are  you  the  man  ?  " 

"  WeU,  and  what  if  I  be  ?  " 

"  But  I  must  be  certain  that  you  are." 

There  was  another  pause,  and  a  second 
scrutiny,  after  which  he  replied, 

"  May  be  my  name  U.  Denis  Dunphy." 

"I  have  no  communication  to  make,"  said 
the  stranger,  "  that  you  may  be  afraid  of  ; 
but,  such  as  it  is,  it  can  be  made  to  no  per- 
son but  Denis  Duni^hy  himself.  I  have  a 
letter  for  him." 

"Who  does  it  come  from?"  asked  the 
cautious  Denis  Dunphy. 

"From  the  parish  priest  of  Bally  train," 
replied  the  other,  "the  Rev.  Father  M'Ma- 
hon." 

The  old  man  pulled  out  a  large  snuff-box, 
and  took  a»long  jjinch,  which  he  cx'ammed 
with  his  thumb  first  into  one  nostril,  then 
into  the  other,  bending  his  head  at  the  same 
time  to  each  side,  in  order  to  enjoy  it  with 
greater  rehsh,  after  which  he  gave  a  short 
deliberative  cough  or  two. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  am  Denis  Dunpliy." 

"In  that  case,  then,"  replied  the  other,  "I 
should  very  much  wish  to  have  a  slioi't  pri- 
vate conversation  with  you  of  some  impor- 
tance. But  you  had  better  first  read  the  i 
reverend  gentleman's  letter,"  he  added,  "  and 
perhaps  we  shidl  then  understand  each  other 
better  ; "  and  as  he  spoke  he  handed  him  the 
letter. 

The  man  received  it,  looked  at  it,  and 
again  took  a  more  rapid  and  less  copious 
pinch,  peered  keenly  at  the  stranger,  and 
asked — "  Pray,  sir,  do  you  know  the  contents 
of  this  letter  ?  " 

"Not  a  syllable  of  it." 

He  then  coughed  again,  and  having  opened 
the  document,  began  deliberately  to  peruse  it. 


I      The  stranger,  who  was  disagreeably  im- 
pressed by  liis  Avhole  manner  and   appear- 
j  ance,  made  a  point  to  watch  the  effect  which 
j  the  contents  of  the  document  might  have  on 
him.     The  other,  in  the  meantime,  i-ead  on, 
and,  as  he  proceeded,  it  was   ob\'ious  that 
I  the  communication  was   not  only  one   that 
gave  him  no  pleasure,  but   filled  him  with 
j  suspicion  and    alarm.     After   about  twenty 
I  minutes — for  it  took  him  at  least  that  length 
of  time  to  get  through  it — he  raised  his  head, 
and  fastening  his  small,  piercing  eyes  upon 
the  stranger,  said : 

"  But  how  do  I  know  that  this  letter  comes 
from  Father  M'Mahon  ?  " 

"I'd  have  you  to  understand,  sir,"  rephed 
the  stranger,  nearly  losing  his  temper,  "that 
you  are  addi-essing  a  gentleman  and  a  man 
of  honor." 

"Faith,"  said  the  other,  "I  don't  know 
whether  I  am  or  not.  I  have  only  your  word 
for  it — and  no  man's  willin*  to  give  a  bad 
character  of  himself — but  if  you  will  keep 
the  shop  here  for  a  minute  or  two,  I'll  soon 
be  able  to  tell  whether  it's  Father  M'Mahon's 
hand-write  or  not." 

So  sapng,  he  deliberately  locked  both  tills 
of  the  counter — to  wit,  those  which  contained 
the  silver  and  coppers — then,  siu'\'e3'ing  the 
stranger  with  a  look,  of  suspicion — a  look,  by 
the  wa}',  that,  after  having  made  his  cash 
safe,  had  now  something  of  the  triumph  and 
confidence  of  security  in  it,  he  withdrew  to  a 
Httle  backroom,  that  was  divided  from  the 
shop  by  a  partition  of  boards  and  a  glass 
door,  to  which  there  was  a  red  curtain. 

"  It  is  betther,"  said  the  impudent  old  sin- 
ner, alluding  to  the  cash  in  the  tills,  "to 
greet  over  it  than  greet  afther  it — just  keep 
the  shop  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  then 
we'll  undherstand  one  another,  may  be. 
There's  a  great  many  skamers  going  in  this 
world." 

Having  entered  the  little  room  m  question, 
he  suddenly  popped  out  his  head  and  asked  : 
"  Covdd  you  weigh  a  stone  or  a  half  stone 
of  praties,  if  they  were  called  for?  But, 
never  mind — you'd  be  apt  to  give  clown 
weight — I'll  come  out  and  do  it  myself,  if 
they're  wanted  ; "  saying  which,  ho  drew  the 
red  ciu'tain  aside,  in  order  the  better,  as  it 
would  seem,  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  upon  the 
other. 

The  latter  was  at  first  offended,  but  ulti- 
matelj'  began  to  feel  amused  by  the  offensive 
peculiarities  of  the  old  man.  He  now  per- 
ceived tliat  he  Avas  eccentric  and  capricious, 
and  that,  in  order  to  Im-e  any  iufonnation 
out  of  him,  it  would  be  necessary  to  watch 
and  take  advanbige  of  the  disagi-eeable  whim- 
sicahties  which  marked  his  character.  Pa- 
tience, he  saw  cleai'ly,  was  his  only  remedy. 


390 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'8   WORKS. 


After  remaining  in  the  back  parlor  for 
about  eight  or  ten  minutes,  he  put  out  his 
thin,  sharp  face,  w^ith  a  gi-in  upon  it,  which 
was  intended  for  a  smile — the  expression  of 
which,  however,  was  exceedingly  disagi-ee- 
able. 

"  We  will  talk  this  matter  over,"  he  said, 
"by  and  by.  I  have  compared  the  hand- 
write  in  this  letther  \dd  a  certificate  of 
Father  M'Mahon's,  that  I  have  for  many 
years  in  my  possession.  Step  inside  in  the 
meantime  ;  the  ould  woman  will  be  back  in 
a  few  minutes,  and  when  she  comes  we'll  go 
upstau's  and  speak  about  it." 

The  stranger  complied  with  this  invita- 
tion, and  felt  higlily  gi-atified  that  matters 
seemed  about  to  take  a  more  favorable  turn. 

"I  tinist,"  said  he,  "you  are  satisfied  that 
I  am  fully  entitled  to  any  confidence  you 
may  feel  disposed  to  place  in  me  ?  " 

"  The  priest  speaks  well  of  you,"  replied 
Dunphy  ;  "  but  then,  sure  I  know  him  ;  he's 
so  kind-hearted  a  creatui-e,  that  any  one 
who  speaks  liim  fair,  or  that  he  happens  to 
take  a  fancy  to,  vrill  be  sure  to  get  his  good 
word.  It  isn't  much  assistance  I  can  give 
you,  and  it's  not  on  account  of  his  letther 
altogether  that  I  do  it ;  but  bekaise  I  think 
the  time's  come,  or  rather  soon  icill  be  come. 
Oh,  here,"  he  said,  "  is  the  ould  woman,  and 
she'll  keep  the  shop.  Now,  sir,  come  up- 
stairs, if  you  plaise,  for  what  we're  goin'  to 
talk  about  is  what  the  vei-y  stones  oughtn't 
to  hear  so  long  as  that  man " 

He  paused,  and  instantly  checked  him- 
self, as  if  he  felt  that  he  had  ah'eady  gone 
too  far. 

"Now,  sir,"  he  proceeded,  "what  is  it 
you  expect  from  me  ?     Name  it  at  wanst." 

"You  are  aware,"  said  the  stranger,  "  that 
the  son  of  the  late  Sir  Edward  Gourlay,  and 
the  heir  of  his  property,  disappeared  veiy 
mysteriously  and  suspiciously " 

"  And  so  did  the  son  of  the  jn-esent  man," 
replied  Dunphy,  eying  the  stranger  keenly. 

"It  is  not  of  him  I  am  speaking,"  rej^hed 
the  other  ;  "  although  at  the  same  time  I 
must  say,  that  if  I  could  find  a  trace  even  of 
him  I  would  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  re- 
cover him." 

The  old  man  looked  into  the  floor,  and 
mused  for  some  time. 

"  It  was  a  strange  business,"  he  observed, 
"  that  both  should  go — you  may  take  my 
word,  there  has  been  mischief  and  revenge, 
or  both,  at  the  bottom  of  the  same  business." 

"  The  worthy  priest,  whose  letter  I  pre- 
sented to  you  to-day,  led  me  to  sujopose, 
that  if  any  man  could  put  me  in  a  capacity 
to  throw  light  upon  it  you  could." 

"  He  didn't  say,  surely,  that  /  could  throw 
light  upon  it — did  he  ?  " 


"No,  certainly  not — but  that  if  any  man 
could,  you  are  that  man." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  replied  old  Dimphy  ;  "  all  be- 
kaise he  thinks  I  have  a  regai-d  for  the 
Gourlays.  That's  what  makes  him  suppose 
that  I  know  am^thing  about  the  business  ; 
just  as  if  I  was  in  the  saicrets  of  the  family. 
I  may  have  suspicions  like  other  people  ; 
but  that's  all." 

"  Can  you  thi'ow  out  no  liint,  or  give  no 
clew,  that  might  aid  me  in  the  recovery  of 
this  unhappy  young  man,  if  he  be  alive  ?  " 

"  You  did  well  to  add  that,  for  who  can  t^ 
whether  he  is  or  not? — maybe  it's  only 
thrashing  the  water  you  are,  after  all." 

The  sti'anger  saw  the  old  fellow  had  once 
more  grown  cautious,  and  avoided  giving  a 
direct  reply  to  him  ;  but  on  considering  the 
matter,  he  was,  after  all,  not  much  sui-prised 
at  this.  The  subject  involved  a  black  and 
heinous  crime,  and  if  it  so  happened  that 
Dunphy  could  in  any  way  have  been  imjjli- 
cated  in  or  connected  with  it,  even  indirect^, 
it  would  be  almost  unreasonable  to  expect 
that  he  should  now  become  his  o\m  accuser. 
Still  the  stranger  coiild  observe  that  in  spite 
of  all  his  caution,  there  was  a  mystery  and 
imeasiness  in  his  manner,  when  talking  of 
it,  wliich  he  could  not  shake  ofi". 

When  the  conversation  had  reached  this 
point,  the  old  woman  caUed  her  husband 
down  in  a  voice  that  seemed  somewhat 
agitated,  but  not,  as  far  as  he  could  guess, 
disagi-eeably. 

"Denis,  come  dovm  a  minute,"  she  said, 
"come  down,  will  you?  here's  a  stranger 
that  you  haven't  seen  for  some  time." 

"What  stranger?"  he  inquired,  peevislily. 
"  "VMio  is  it  ?  I  wish  you  wouldn't  bother  me 
— I'm  talkin'  -oith  a  gentleman."  « 

"  It's  Giuty." 

"  Ginty,  is  it  ?  "  said  he,  musing.  "  WeU, 
that's  odd,  too — to  think  that  she  should 
come   at    this  very   moment.     Maybe,    the 


of  G- 


I  beg  yoiu' 
two — ^I'll   be 


pardon,   sir, 
back  imme- 


hand 

for  a  minute 

diately  " 

He  went  down  staii-s,  and  foimd  in  the 
back  parlor  the  woman  named  Ginty  CoojDer, 
the  same  fortune-teller  and  proi)hetess  whom 
we  have  ah-eady  described  to  the  reader. 

The  old  man  seemed  to  consider  her  ap 
pearance  not  as  an  incident  that  stirred  up 
any  natural  aflfection  in  himself,  but  as  one 
that  he  looked  upon  as  extraordinar}'.  In- 
deed, to  tell  the  truth,  he  experienced  a 
sensation  of  surprise,  mingled  with  a  super- 
stitious feeling,  that  startled  him  consider- 
ably, by  her  unexpected  appearance  at  that 
particular  period.  He  did  not  resume  his 
conversation  -nith  the  stranger  for  at  least 
twenty  minutes  ;  but  the  latter  was  perfectly 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


391 


aware,  from  tlie  earnestness  of  their  voices, 
although  their  words  were  not  audible,  that 
he  and  the  new-comer  were  discussing  some 
topic  in  which  they  must  have  felt  a  very 
deep  interest.  At  length  he  came  up  and 
apologized  for  the  delay,  adding  : 

"  With  regard  to  this  business,  it's  alto- 
gether out  of  my  power  to  give  you  any 
assistance.  I  have  nothing  but  my  suspi- 
cions, and  it  wouldn't  be  the  part  of  a  Chris- 
tian to  lay  a  crime  like  that  to  any  man's 
door  upon  mere  guess." 

"  If  you  know  anything  of  this  dai'k  trans- 
action," replied  the  stranger,  whose  earnest- 
ness of  manner  was  increased  by  liis  disai> 
pointment,  as  well  as  by  an  impression  that 
the  old  man  knew  more  about  it  than  he 
Avas  disposed  to  admit,  ''and  will  not  enable 
us  to  render  justice  to  the  wronged  and 
defrauded  orphtui,  you  will  have  a  hea-sy 
reckoning  of  it — an  awful  one  when  you 
meet  your  God.  By  the  usual  course  of 
nature  that  is  a  reckoning  that  must  soon 
be  made.  I  advise  you,  therefore,  not  to 
tamper  with  your  o\\ji  conscience,  nor,  by 
concealing  your  knowledge  of  this  great 
crime  to  peril  your  hopes  of  eternal  happi- 
ness. Of  one  thing  you  may  rest  assured, 
that  the  justice  we  seek  will  not  stoop  to 
those  who  have  been  merely  instruments  in 
the  liands  of  others." 

"  That's  all  very  fine  talk,"  replied  Dun- 
phy,  uneasOy  however,  "and  from  the  high- 
tlown  language  you  give  me,  I  take  you  to  be 
a  law^-er  ;  but  if  you  were  ten  times  a  law- 
yer, and  a  judge  to  the  back  of  that,  a  man 
can't  tell  what  he  doesn't  know." 

"Mark  me,"  replied  the  stranger,  assaiUng 
him  through  his  cupidity,  "I  pledge  you  my 
solemn  word  that  for  any  available  informa- 
tion you  may  or  can  give  us  you  shall  be 
most  liberally  and  amply  remunerated." 

"  I  have  money  enough,"  replied  Dunphy  ; 
"  that  is  to  say,  as  much  as  barely  does  me, 
for  the  wealthiest  of  us  cannot  bring  it  to  the 
grave.  I'm  thankfid  to  you,  but  I  cjm  give 
you  no  assistance." 

"  AVhom  do  you  suspect,  then? — whom  do 
yoii  even  suspect  ?  " 

"  Hut ! — why,  the  man  that  every  one  sus- 
pects— Sir  Thomas  Gourlay." 

"And  upon  what  gi'ounds,  may  I  ask?" 
"  AVhy,  simply  because  no  other  man  had 
any  interest  in  getting  the  child  removed. 
Every  one  knows  he's  a  dark,  t}-rannical,  bad 
man,  that  wouldn't  be  apt  to  scniple  at  any- 
thing. There  now,"  he  added,  "  that  is  all  I 
know  about  it ;  and  I  suppose  it's  not  more 
than  you  knew  yoiu-self  before." 

In  order  to  close  the  dialogue  he  stood  up, 
and  at  once  led  the  way  down  to  the  back  j 
parlor,  where  the  stranger,  on  following  him,  I 


foimd  Ginty  Cooper  and  the  old  woman  in 
close  conversation,  which  instantly  ceased 
when  they  made  their  appearance. 

The  stranger,  chagiined  and  vexed  at  hia 
want  of  success,  was  about  to  depart,  when 
Dunphy 's  wife  said  : 

"  Maybe,  sir,  you'd  %\'ish  to  get  your  for- 
tune tould  ?  bekaise,  if  you  would,  here's  a 
woman  that  will  tell  it  to  yo-i,  and  you  may 
depend  upon  it  she'll  tell  you  nothing  but 
the  truth." 

"  I  am  not  in  a  humor  for  such  nonsense, 
my  good  woman  ;  I  have  much  more  impor- 
tant matters  to  think  of,  I  assure  you  ;  but  I 
suppose  the  woman  wishes  to  have  her  hand 
crossed  \s\i\x  silver  ;  well,  it  shidl  be  done. 
Here,  my  good  woman,"  he  said  offering  her 
money,  "  accept  this,  and  sjiai'e  your  j^roph- 
ecy." 

"  I  will  not  have  your  money,  sir,"  rephed 
the  prophetess ;  "  and  I  say  so  to  let  you 
know  that  I'm  not  an  impostor.  Be  adris- 
ed,  and  hear  me — show  me  your  hand." 

The  stai-thng  and  almost  supeniatm-al  ap- 
pearance of  the  woman  struck  him  very  forc- 
ibly, and  with  a  kind  of  good-humored  im- 
patience, he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her. 
"Well,"  said  he,  "I  will  test  the  truth  of 
what  you  promise." 

She  took  it  into  hei's,  and  after  examining 
the  hnes  for  a  few  seconds  Siiid,  "  The  lines 
in  your  hand,  sir,  are  very  legible — so  much 
so  that  I  can  read  your  name  in  it —  and  it's 
a  name  which  very  few  in  this  country 
know." 

The  stranger  started  with  astonishment, 
and  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  signed  to 
him  to  be  silent. 

"  You  are  in  love,"  she  continued,  "  and 
your  sweetheart  loves  you  dearly.  You  saw 
her  this  morning,  and  you  would  give  a  trifle 
to  know  where  she  "vvill  be  to-morrow.  You 
traveled  with  her  last  night  and  didn't  know 
it — and  the  business  that  brought  you  to 
town  Avill  prosper." 

"  You  say  you  know  my  name,"  rephed  the 
stranger,  "if  so,  write  it  on  a  shp  of  pa- 
per." 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Will  it  do,"  she  asked,  "  if  I  give  you 
the  initials?" 

"No,"  he  rephed,  "  the  name  in  full — and 
I  think  you  are  fairly  caught." 

She  gave  no  reply,  but  having  got  a  slip 
of  paper  and  a  pen,  went  to  the  wall  and 
knocked  three  times,  repeating  some  unin- 
telligible words  Arith  an  appeai'ance  of  great 
solemnity  and  mysteiT.  Having  knocked, 
she  applied  her  eai-  to  the  wall  three  time* 
also,  after  which  she  seemed  satisfied. 

The  stranger  of  coui-se  imputed  all  this  to 
imposture  ;  but  when  he  reflected  upon  what 


592 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S  WORKS. 


she  had  already  told  him,  he  felt  perfectly 
confounded  with  amazement.  The  i3roj)het- 
ess  then  went  to  her  father's  counter  and 
wrote  something  upon  a  small  fi'agment  of 
paper,  which  she  handed  to  liim.  No  eai-th- 
ly  language  could  now  express  his  astonish- 
ment, not  from  any  behef  he  entertained  that 
she  jDOSsessed  supernatural  power,  but  fi-om 
the  almost  incredible  fact  that  she  could 
have  known  so  much  of  a  man's  affairs  who 
was  an  utter  stranger  to  her,  and  to  whom 
she  was  herself  unknown. 

"Well,  it  is  odd  enough," he  added  ;  "but 
this  knocking  on  the  wall  and  hstening  was 
useless  jugglery.  Did  you  not  say,  when 
first  you  inspected  my  hand,  that  you  could 
read  my  name  in  the  lines  of  it?  then,  of 
course  you  knew  it  before  you  knocked  at 
the  wall — the  knocking,  therefore,  was  im- 
postui'e." 

"I  knew  the  name,"  she  rephed,  "the 
moment  I  looked  into  your  hand,  but  I  was 
obliged  to  ask  permission  to  reveal  it.  Your 
obsen'ation,  however,  was  very  natural.  It 
may,  in  the  meantime,  be  a  consolation  for 
you  to  know  that  I'm  not  at  Uberty  to  men- 
tion it  to  any  one  but  yourseK  and  one  other 
person." 

"  A  man  or  woman  ?  " 

"  A  woman — she  you  saw  this  morning." 

"  Wliether  that  be  true  or  not,"  obsei'ved 
the  stranger,  "the  mention  of  my  name  at 
present  would  jDlace  me  in  both  difficulty  and 
danger  ;  so  that  I  hope  you'll  keep  it  se- 
cret." 

She  thi-ew  the  slip  of  pajDer  into  the  fire. 
"  There  it  Hes,"  she  rejDlied,  "  and  you  might 
as  well  read  it  in  those  white  ashes  as  extract 
it  from  me  luitil  the  proper  time  comes.  But 
with  respect  to  it,  there  is  one  thing  I  must 
teU  you  before  you  go." 

"  What  is  that,  pray  ?  " 

"It  is  a  name  you  vpill  not  carry  long. 
Ask  me  no  more  questions.  I  have  ah'eady 
said  you  will  succeed  in  the  object  of  your 
pursuit,  but  not  without  difficulty  and  dan- 
ger. Take  my  advice,  and  never  go  any- 
where without  a  case  of  loaded  pistols.  I 
have  good  reasons  for  saying  so.  Now  pass 
on,  for  I  am  silent." 

There  was  an  air  of  confidence  and  supe- 
riority about  her  as  she  uttered  these  words 
— a  sense,  as  it  were,  of  power — of  a  privilege 
to  command,  by  which  the  stranger  felt  him- 
self involuntarily  influenced.  He  once  more 
offered  her  money,  but,  with  a  motion  of  her 
hand,  she  silently,  and  somewhat  indignant- 
ly refused  it. 

Wliilst  this  singiilar  exhibition  took  place, 
the  stranger  observed  the  very  remarkable 
and  peculiar  expression  of  the  old  man's 
countenance      It  is  indeed  very  difficult  to 


describe  it.  He  seemed  to  experience  a  fee\ 
ing  of  satisfaction  and  triumjjh  at  the  revela. 
tions  the  woman  had  made  ;  added  to  which 
was  something  that  might  be  teiTiied  shrewd, 
ironical,  and  derisive.  In  fact,  his  face  bore 
no  bad  resemblance  to  that  of  Mephistophe- 
les,  as  represented  in  Retsch's  powerful  con- 
ception and  deUneation  of  it  in  hi-s  illustra- 
tion of  Goethe's '"  Faust,"  so  inimitably 
translated  by  our  admu-able  countryman, 
Anster. 

The  stranger  now  looked  at  his  watch, 
bade  them  good  day,  and  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Interview  beticeen  Lady  Gourlay  and  the  Stranger 
— Dandy  Dulcimer  makes  a  Discovery — Tfie 
Stranger  receives  Mysterious  Communications. 

From  Constitution  HiU  our  fiiend  di-ove 
directly  to  Merrion  square,  the  residence  of 
Lady  Gourlay,  w^hom  he  found  alone  in  the 
drawing-room.  She  welcomed  him  with  a 
courtesy  that  was  exj)ressive  at  once  of  anx- 
iety, sorrow,  and  hope.  She  extended  her 
hand  to  him  and  said,  after  the  usual  gTeet- 
ings  were  over  : 

"I  fear  to  ask  what  the  result  of  your 
journey  has  been — for  I  cannot,  alas !  read 
any  exj)ression  of  success  in  your  counte- 
nance." 

"As  yet,"  rephed  the  stranger,  "I  have 
not  been  successful,  madam  ;  but  I  do  not 
desj)air.  I  am,  and  have  been,  acting  under 
an  impression,  that  we  shall  ultimate^  suc- 
ceed ;  and  although  I  can  hold  out  to  your 
ladyshij)  but  very  slender  hojDes,  if  any,  still 
I  would  say,  do  not  despau'." 

Lady  Gourlay  was  about  forty-eight,  and 
although  sorrow,  and  the  bitter  calamity 
with  which  the  reader  is  ah*eady  acquainted, 
had  left  theu*  severe  traces  upon  her  consti- 
tution and  featui'es,  still  she  was  a  woman 
on  M^hom  no  one  could  look  without  deep 
interest  and  sympathy.  Even  at  that  age, 
her  fine  form  and  extraordinary  beauty  bore 
up  in  a  most  surj^rising  manner  against  her 
sufferings.  Her  figure  was  tall — its  propor- 
tions admii-able  ;  and  her  beauty,  faded  it  is 
tme,  still  made  the  spectator  feel,  with  a 
kind  of  wonder,  what  it  must  have  been  when 
she  was  in  the  i^rinic  of  youth  and  untouched 
by  affliction.  She  possessed  that  sober  ele- 
gance of  manner  that  was  in  melancholy  ; 
accordance  with  her  fate  ;  and  evinced  in 
every  movement  a  natural  dignity  that  ex- 
cited more  than  ordinary  respect  and  sym- 
pathy for  her  character  and  the  sorrows  she 
had  suffered.     Her  face  was  oval,  and  had 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


39d 


been  always  of  that  healthy  paleness  than 
which,  when  associated  with  symmetrj*  and 
expression — us  was  the  case  with  her — there 
is  nothing  more  lovely  among  women.  Her 
eyes,  which  were  a  dark  brown,  had  lost,  it 
is  true,  much  of  the  lustre  and  sparkle  of 
early  Hfe  ;  but  this  was  succeeded  by  a  mild 
and  mellow  light  to  Avhich  an  abiding  son'ow 
had  imparted  an  expression  that  was  full  of 
melancholy  beauty. 

For  many  years  past,  indeed,  ever  since 
the  disappeai-ance  of  her  only  child,  she  had 
led  a  secluded  life,  and  devoted  herself  to 
the  Christian  virtues  of  chainty  and  benevo- 
lence ;  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  avoid  any- 
thing hke  ostentatious  display.  Still,  such 
is  the  structure  of  society,  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  carry  the  virtues  for  which  she  was 
remarkable  to  any  practical  extent,  without 
the  world  by  degrees  becoming  cognizant  of 
the  secret.  The  very  recipients  themselves, 
in  the  fulness  of  their  heart,  will  commit  a 
grateful  breach  of  confidence  with  which  it 
is  impossible  to  quan'el. 

Consoled,  as  far  as  any  consolation  could 
reach  her,  by  the  consciousness  of  doing 
good,  as  well  as  by  a  strong  sense  of  religion, 
she  led  a  life  which  we  regret  so  few  in  her 
social  position  are  disposed  to  imitate.  For 
many  years  before  the  jieriod  at  which  our 
nari'ative  commences,  she  had  given  up  all 
hope  of  ever  recovering  her  child,  if  indeed 
he  was  alive.  "Whether  he  had  j>erished  by 
an  accidental  death  in  some  place  where  his 
body  could  not  be  discovered — whether  he 
had  been  murdered,  or  kidnapped,  were 
dreadful  contingencies  that  wrung  the  moth- 
er's soul  with  agony.  But  as  habits  of  en- 
durance give  to  the  body  stronger  powers  of 
resistance,  so  does  time  by  degrees  strength- 
en the  mind  against  the  influence  of  sorrow. 
A.  blameless  life,  therefore,  varied  only  by  its 
unobtrusive  charities,  together  with  a  firm 
ti'ust  in  the  goodness  of  God,  took  much  of 
the  sting  fi'om  aflrtiction,  but  could  not  wholly 
eradicate  it.  Had  her  child  died  in  her 
arms — had  she  closed  its  innocent  eyes  with 
her  own  hands,  and  given  the  mother's  last 
kiss  to  those  pale  lips  on  which  the  smile  of 
afit'ection  was  never  more  to  sit — had  she 
been  able  to  go,  and,  in  the  fulness  of  her 
childless  heart,  pour  her  sorrow  over  his 
grave — she  would  have  felt  that  his  death, 
compared  with  the  darkness  and  uncertainty 
by  which  she  was  enveloped,  would  have 
been  comparatively  a  mitigated  dispensation, 
for  which  the  heart  ought  to  feel  almost 
thankful. 

The  death  of  Corbet,  her  steward,  found 
her  in  that  mournful  apathy  under  which 
she  had  labored  for  years.  Indeed  she  re- 
sembled a  ceiiain  class  of  invaUds  who  are 


afflicted  with  some  secret  ailment,  which  is 
not  much  felt  unless  when  an  unexpected 
pressure,  or  sudden  change  of  postui-e, 
causes  them  to  feel  the  pang  which  it  inflicts. 
From  the  moment  that  the  words  of  the  dy- 
ing man  shed  the  serenity  of  hope  over  her 
mind,  and  revived  in  her  heart  all  those  ten- 
der aspirations  of  maternal  affection  which, 
as  associated  with  the  recovery  of  her  child, 
had  nearly  perished  out  of  it — from  that 
moment,  we  say,  the  extreme  bitterness  of 
her  affliction  had  departed. 

She  had  already  sufltered  too  much,  how- 
ever, to  allow  herself  to  be  carried  beyond 
unreasonable  bounds  by  sanguine  and  im- 
prudent expectations.  Her  i-ule  of  heart 
and  of  conduct  was  simple,  but  true — she 
tinisted  in  God  and  in  the  justice  of  his  pro- 
vidence. 

On  hearing  the  stranger's  want  of  success, 
she  felt  more  affected  by  that  than  by  the 
faint  consolation  which  he  endeavored  to 
hold  out  to  her,  and  a  few  bitter  tears  ran 
slowly  down  her  cheeks. 

"Hope  had  altogether  gone,"  said  she, 
"  and  with  hope  that  j^ower  in  the  heart  to 
cherish  the  soiTow  which  it  sustains ;  and 
the  certainty  of  his  death  had  thrown  me 
into  that  apathy,  which  qualifies  but  cannot 
destroy  the  painful  consequences  of  reflec- 
tion. That  which  presses  upon  me  now,  is 
the  fear  that  althougli  he  may  still  live,  as 
unquestionably  Corbet  on  his  death-bed  had 
assured  me,  yet  it  is  possible  we  may  never 
recover  him.  In  that  case  he  is  dead  to  me 
— lost  forever." 

"  I  will  not  attempt  to  offer  your  ladyship 
consolation,"  replied  the  stranger  ;  "  but  I 
would  suggest  simjjly,  that  the  dj^ing  words 
of  your  steward,  perhaps,  may  be  looked  upon 
as  the  first  opening — the  da^Ti  of  a  hopeful 
issue.  I  think  we  may  fairly  and  reasonablj' 
calculate  that  your  son  lives.  Take  courage, 
madam.  In  our  efforts  to  trace  him,  re- 
member that  we  have  only  commenced 
operations.  Every  day  and  ever\-  successive 
attempt  to  penetrate  this  painful  mystery 
Avill,  I  trust,  fm-nish  us  with  additional 
materials  fur  success." 

*'  May  God  grant  it ! "  replied  her  lady- 
ship ;  "  for  if  we  fjiil,  my  wounds  ^dll  have 
been  again  torn  open  in  vain.  Better  a 
thousand  times  that  that  hope  had  never 
reached  me." 

"True,  indeed,  madam,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger ;  "  but  still  bxke  what  comfort  you  can. 
Think  of  your  brother-in-law  ;  he  also  has 
lost  his  child,  and  bears  it  well." 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  replied,  "but  yon  forget 
that  he  has  one  still  left,  and  that  I  am  child- 
less. If  there  be  a  sohtary  being  on  earth, 
it  is  a  childless  and  a  widowed  mother — a 


394 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


widow  wlio  has  known  a  mother's  love — a 
wife  who  has  experienced  the  tender  and 
manly  affection  of  a  devoted  husband." 

"I  gi-ant,"  he  replied,  "that  it  is,  indeed, 
a  bitter  fate." 

"As for  my  brother-in-law," she  proceeded, 
"  the  child  which  God,  in  his  love,  has  spared 
to  him  is  a  compensation  almost  for  any 
loss.  I  trust  he  loves  and  cherishes  her  as 
he  oufrht,  and  as  I  am  told  she  desei-ves. 
There  has  been  no  communication  between 
us  ever  since  my  marriage.  Edward  and  he, 
though  brothers,  were  as  different  as  day  and 
night.  Unless  once  or  twice,  I  never  even 
saw  my  niece,  and  only  then  at  a  distance  ; 
nor  has  a  word  ever  passed  between  us. 
They  teU  me  she  is  an  angel  in  goodness,  as 
well  as  in  beauty,  and  that  her  accomphsh- 
ments  are  extraordinary — but  / — I,  alas ! — am 
alone  and  childless." 

The  stranger's  heart  paljDitated  ;  and  had 
Lady  Gourlay  entertained  any  suspicion  of 
his  attachment,  she  might  have  perceived  his 
agitation.  He  also  felt  deep  sympathy  with 
Lady  Goui-lay. 

"  Do  not  say  childless,  madam,"  he  rephed. 
"  Your  ladyship  must  hope  for  the  best." 

"  But  what  have  you  done  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Did  you  see  the  young  man  ?  " 

"  I  saw  him,  madam  ;  but  it  is  impossible 
to  get  anything  out  of  him.  That  he  is 
wrapped  in  some  deep  myster}'  is  unquestion- 
able. I  got  a  letter,  however,  from  an 
amiable  Roman  Cathohc  clergj'man,  the  joar- 
ish  priest  of  Ballytrain,  to  a  man  named 
Dunphy,  who  hves  in  a  street  called  Con- 
stitution HiU,  on  the  north  side  of  the  city." 

"  He  is  a  relation,  I  understand,  of  Edward 
Corbet,  who  died  in  my  service,"  rephed  her 
ladyshij),  with  an  interest  that  seemed  in- 
stantly to  awaken  her.  "Well,"  said  she, 
eagerly,  "  what  was  the  result  ?  Did  you 
present  the  letter  ?  " 

"  I  presented  the  letter,  my  lady  ;  and  had 
at  first  strong  hopes  — no,  not  at  first  — 
but  in  the  course  of  our  conversation.  He 
dropped  unconscious  hints  that  induce  me 
to  suspect  he  knows  more  about  the  fate  of 
your  son  than  he  wishes  to  acknowledge.  It 
struck  me  that  he  might  have  been  an  agent 
in  this  black  busmess,  and,  on  that  account, 
that  he  is  afi-aid  to  criminate  himself.  I 
have,  besides,"  he  added,  smilingh',  "  had 
the  gratification  to  have  heard  a  projihecy 
uttered,  by  which  I  was  assured  of  ultimate 
success  in  my  efforts  to  trace  out  your  son  ; 
— a  prophecy  uttered  under  and  accompanied 
by  circumstances  so  extraordinary  and  in- 
comprehensible as  to  confound  and  amaze 
me." 

He  then  detailed  to  her  the  conversation 
he  had  had  with  old  Dunphy  and  the  fortune- 


teller, suppressing  all  allusion  to  whai  Hof 
latter  had  said  concerning  Lucy  and  himself. 
After  which.  Lady  Gourlay  paused  for  some 
time,  and  seemed  at  a  loss  what  construction 
to  put  upon  it. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  she  at  length  ob- 
sen^ed  ;  "  that  woman  has  been  here,  I  think, 
several  times,  visiting  her  late  brother,  who 
left  her  some  money  at  his  death.  Is  she  not 
extremeh'  jjale  and  wild-looking  ?  " 

"  So  much  so,  madam,  that  there  is  some- 
thing awful  and  almost  supernatural-looking 
in  the  expression  of  her  eyes  and  features.  I 
have  certainly  never  seen  such  a  face  before 
on  a  denizen  of  this  Hfe." 

"  It  is  strange,"  rephed  her  ladyship,  "  that 
she'  should  have  taken  upon  her  the  odious 
character  of  a  fortune-teller.  I  was  not 
aware  of  that.  Corbet,  I  know,  had  a  sister, 
who  was  deranged  for  some  time  ;  pei'haps 
this  is  she,  and  that  the  gift  of  fortune-teU- 
ing  to  which  she  pretends  may  be  a  mono- 
mania or  some  other  delusion  that  her  un- 
happy malady  has  left  behind  it." 

"  Yevj  hkely,  my  lady,"  rephed  the  other  ; 
"nothing  more  probable.  The  fact  you 
mention  accounts  both  for  her  strange  ap- 
pearance and  conduct.  Still  I  must  say,  that 
so  far  as  I  had  an  opportunity  of  obseiwing, 
there  did  not  appear  to  be  any  obvious  trace 
of  insanity  about  her." 

"  Well,"  she  exclaimed,  "  w^e  know  to  fore- 
tell future  events  is  not  now  one  of  the 
privileges  accorded  to  mortals.  I  will  place 
my  assurance  in  the  justice  of  God's  good- 
ness and  providence,  and  not  in  the  delusions 
of  a  jDoor  maniac,  or,  perhaps,  of  an  impostor. 
What  course  do  you  propose  taking  now  ?  " 

"I  have  not  yet  determined,  madam.  I 
think  I  win  see  this  old  Dunphy  again.  He 
told  me  that  he  certainly  suspected  your 
brother-in-law,  but  assured  me  that  he  had 
no  specific  grounds  for  his  suspicions — be- 
yond the  simple  fact,  that  Sir  Thomas  would 
be  the  principal  gainer  by  the  child's  re- 
moval. At  aU  events,  I  shall  see  him  once 
more  to-morrow." 

"  WTiat  stay  will  you  make  in  town  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  at  the  present  moment  say,  my 
lady.  I  have  other  matters,  of  which  your 
ladyship  is  aware,  to  look  after.  My  own 
rights  must  be  vindicated  ;  and  I  dare  say 
3'ou  wiU  not  regi-et  to  hear  that  eveiTthing  is 
in  a  proper  train.  We  want  only  one  link 
of  the  chain.  An  important  document  is 
wanting  ;  but  I  think  it  will  soon  be  in  our 
hands.  Who  knows,"  he  added,  smihng, 
"  but  3'our  ladyship  and  I  may  ere  long  be 
able  to  congratulate  each  other  upon  our 
mutual  success?  And  now,  madam,  permit 
me  to  take  my  leave.  I  am  not  without  hope 
on  your  accoimt ;  but  of  this  you  may  rest 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


395 


assured,  that  my  most  strenuous  exertions 
shall  be  devoted  to  the  object  nearest  your 
heart." 

"Alas,"  she  replied,  as  she  stood  up,  "it 
is  neither  title  nor  wealth  that  I  covet.  Give 
me  my  child — restore  me  my  child — and  I 
shall  be  happy.  That  is  the  simple  ambition 
of  his  mother  s  heart.  I  wish  Sir  Thomas  to 
vmderstaud  that  I  shall  allow  him  to  enjoy 
both  title  and  estates  during  liis  life,  if,  know- 
ing where  my  child  is,  he  will  restore  him  to 
my  heai't.  I  wall  bind  myself  by  the  most 
solemn  forms  and  engagements  to  this. 
Perhaps  that  might  satisfy  )iim." 

They  then  shook  hands  and  separated,  the 
stranger  involuntarily  influenced  by  the  con- 
fident predictions  of  Gtnty  Cooj^er,  although 
he  was  really  afraid  to  say  so  ;  whilst  L;idy 
Gourlay  felt  her  heart  at  one  time  elevated 
by  the  da\\Ti  of  hope  that  had  arisen,  and 
again  depressed  by  the  darkness  which  hung 
over  the  fate  of  her  son. 

Has  next  risit  was  to  his  attorney,  Bii'ne}', 
who  had  been  a  day  or  two  in  town,  and 
whom  he  found  in  his  office  in  Gloucester 
street. 

"Well,  I\Ii'.  Biniey,"  he  inquired,  "what 
advance  are  you  making  ?  " 

"AVliy,"  repUed  Bh-uey,  "  the  state  of  our 
ease  is  this  :  if  ]\li's.  Norton  could  be  traced 
we  might  manage  -without  the  documents 
you  have  lost  ; — by  the  way,  have  you  any 
notion  where  the  scoundrel  might  be  whom 
you  suspect  of  having  taken  them  ?  " 

"  What !  :M'Bride  ?  I  was  told,  as  I  men- 
tioned before,  that  he  and  the  Frenchwoman 
went  to  America,  leaving  his  unfortunate 
vvife  behind  him.  I  could  easily  forgive  the 
rascal  for  the  money  he  took  ;  but  the  mis- 
fortune was,  that  the  documents  and  the 
money  were  both  in  the  same  pocket-book. 
He  knew  their  value,  however,  for  unfortu- 
nately he  was  fully  in  my  confidence.  The 
feUow  was  insane  about  the  girl,  and  I  think 
it  was  love  more  than  dishonesty  that  tempt- 
ed him  to  the  act.  I  have  httle  doubt  that 
he  would  retvu'n  me  the  papers  if  he  knew 
where  to  send  them." 

"  Have  you  any  notion  where  the  wife 
is?" 

"None  in  the  world,  unless  that  she  is 
somewhere  in  this  countrs',  having  set  out 
for  it  a  fortnight  before  I  left  Paris." 

"  As  the  matter  stands,  then,"  replied  Bir- 
ney,  "  we  shall  be  obliged  to  go  to  France  in 
order  to  get  a  fresh  copy  of  the  death  and 
the  marriage  properly  attested — or,  I  should 
rather  say,  of  the  marriage  and  the  death. 
This  will  complete  our  documentaiy  evi- 
dence ;  but.  unfortunately,  ]\Irs.  Norton,  who 
was  her  maid  at  the  time,  and  a  witness  of 
both  the  death  and  marriage,  cannot  be  found. 


although  she  was  seen  in  Dublin  about  three 
months  ago.  I  have  advertised  several  times 
for  her  in  the  papers,  but  to  no  purpose.  I 
cannot  find  her  whereabouts  at  all.  I  fear, 
however,  and  so  does  the  Attorney-Genend, 
that  we  shall  not  be  able  to  accompHsh  our 
purpose  without  her." 

"  That  is  unfortunate,"  rephed  the  stranger. 
"  Let  us  continue  the  advertisements  ;  per- 
haps she  mav'  turn  up  yet.  As  to  the  other 
pursuit,  touching  the  lost  child,  I  know  not 
what  to  say.  There  are  but  slight  grounds 
for  hope,  and  yet  I  am  not  at  all  disposed  to 

!  despair,  although  I  cannot  tell  why." 

"It  cannot  be  possible, '  observed  Biniey, 
"  that  that  wicked  old  baronet  could  ulti- 
mately i^rosper  in  his  villainy.  I  speak,  of 
coui'se,  ujDon  the  supposition  that  he  is,  or 
was,  the  bottom  of  the  business.  Your  safest 
and  best  plan  is  to  find  out  liis  agents  in 

I  the  business,  if  it  can  be  done." 

!  "I  shall  leave  nothing  unattempted,"  re- 
phed the  other  ;  "and  if  we  fail,  w^e  shall  at 
least  have  the  satisfaction  of  having  done  our 

;  duty.  The  lapse  of  time,  however,  is  against 

j  us  ; — perhaps  the  agents  are  dead." 

"If  this  man  is  guilty,"  said  the  attorney, 

j  "he  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  modem 
^lacbeth.  However,  go  on,  and  keep  up 
your  resolution  ;  effort  wiU  do  much.  I  hope 
in  this  case — in  both  cases — it  vviU  do  all." 

After  some  further  conversation  upon  the 
matter  in  question,  which  it  is  not  our  in- 
tention to  detail  hei*e,  the  stnmger  made  an 
£-  icursion  to  the  country,  and  returned  about 
six  o'clock  to  his  hotel.  Here  he  found 
Dandy  Dulcimer  before  him,  evidently  brim- 
ful of  some  imj^ortant  information  on  which 
he  (Dandy)  seemed  to  place  a  high  value, 
and  which  gave  to  his  naturally  droU  counte- 
nance such  an  expression  of  mock  gravity  as 
was  ludicrous  in  the  extreme. 

"  "\iMiat  is  the  matter,  sir  ?  "  asked  his  mas- 
ter;  "you  look  very  big  and  imjDortant  just 
now.    I  hojjeyou  have  not  been  drinking." 

Dandy  compressed  his  lips  as  if  his  mas- 
ter's   fate   depended  .  upon   his   vrords,  and 

,  pointing  with  his  forefinger  in  the  direction 
of  Wieklow,  replied  : 

"  The  deed  is  done,  sir — the  deed  is  done." 

"WTiat  deed,  sirra?" 

"  Weren't  you  tould  the  stuff  that  was  in 

me?  "  he  rephed.    "But  God  hxs  gifted  me, 

and  sure  that's  one  comfort,  glorj'  be  to  his 

name.     Weren't " 

"  Explain  yoiu'self,  sir  !  "  said  his  master, 
authoritatively.  ""WTiat  do  you  mean  by 
'  the  deed  is  done  ? '  You  haven't  got  niiU'- 
ried,  I  hope.  Perhaps  the  cousin  you  went 
to  see  was  your  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  haven't  got  married.  God  keep 
me  a  little  while  longer  from  sich  a  calamity  ? 


396 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


But  I  have  put  you  in  the  way  of  being 
so." 

"  How,  sirra — put  me  into  a  state  of  cala- 
mity ?    Do  you  caU  that  a  service  ?  " 

"  A  state  of  repentance,  sir,  they  say,  is  a 
state  of  grace  ;  an'  when  one's  in  a  state  of 
j^frace  they  can  make  their  soul  ;  and  any- 
thing, you  know,  that  enables  one  to  make 
liis  soul,  is  surely  for  his  good." 

"  WTiy,  then,  say  '  God  forbid,'  when  I 
suppose  you  had  yourself  got  married  ?  " 

"Bekaise  I'm  a  sinner,  sir, — a  good  deal 
hardened  or  so, — and  haven't  the  grace  even 
to  wish  for  such  a  state  of  grace." 

"  Well,  but  what  deed  is  this  you  have 
done  ?  and  no  more  of  your  gesticulations." 

"  Don't  you  imdherstand,  su* !  "  he  replied, 
extending  the  digit  once  more  in  the  same 
direction,  and  with  the  same  comic  signifi- 
cance. 

"She's  safe,  sir.  IMiss  Gourlay — I  have 
her." 

"  How,  you  impudent  scoundrel,  what 
kind  of  language  is  this  to  apply  to  IMiss 
Gourlay?" 

"  Troth,  an'  I  have  her  safe,"  rephed  the 
pertinacious  Dandy.  "  Safe  as  a  hare  in  her 
form  ;  but  it  is  for  your  honor  I  have  her. 
Cousin  !  oh,  the  di-\il  a  cousin  has  Dandy 
widin  the  four  walls  of  Dublin  town  ;  but 
well  becomes  me,  I  took  a  post-chaise,  no 
less,  and  followed  her  hot  foot — never  lost 
sight  of  her,  even  while  you'd  Avink,  till  I  seen 
her  housed." 

"Explain  yourself,  siiTa." 

"Faith,  sir,  all  the  explanation  I  have  to 
give  you've  got,  barrin'  where  she  Hves." 

The  stranger  instantly  thought  of  Lucy's 
caution,  and  for  the  present  determined  not 
to  embarrass  himself  with  a  knowledge  of  her 
)'esidence  ;  "lest,"  as  she  said,  "her  father 
might  demand  from  him  whether  he  was 
'iware  of  it."  In  that  case  he  felt  fully  the 
tinith  and  justness  of  her  injunctions.  Should 
Sii"  Thomas  put  the  question  to  him  he  could 
not  betray  her,  nor  could  he,  on  the  other 
hand,  stain  his  conscience  by  a  deliberate 
falsehood ;  for,  in  truth,  he  was  the  soul  of 
honor  itself. 

"Harkee,  Dandy,"  said  he,  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  disi^leased  with  him,  al- 
though he  affected  to  be  so,  "  if  you  wish  to 
remain  in  my  service  keep  the  secret  of 
Miss  Gourlay's  residence — a  secret  not  only 
from  me,  but  from  every  human  being  that 
lives.  You  have  taken  a  most  unwarrantable 
and  impudent  Hberty  in  following  her  as  you 
did.  You  know  not,  siiTa,  how  you  may 
have  implicated  both  her  and  me  by  such 
conduct,  especially  the  young  lady.  You  are 
knoAvn  to  be  in  my  service  ;  although,  for 
certain  reasons,  I  do  not  intend,  for  the 


present  at  least,  to  put  you  into  livery  ;  and 
you  ought  to  know,  sir,  also,  that  it  will  be 
taken  for  granted  that  you  acted  by  my 
orders.  Now,  sir,  keep  that  secret  to  your- 
self, and  let  it  not  pass  your  Hps  until  I  may 
think  proper  to  ask  you  for  it." 

One  evening,  on  the  second  day  after  this, 
he  reached  his  hotel  at  six  o'clock,  and  was 
about  to  enter,  when  a  young  lad,  dancing 
up  to  liim,  asked  in  a  whisper  if  that  was 
for  him,  at  the  same  time  presenting  a  note. 
The  other,  looking  at  it,  saw  that  it  was  ad- 
dressed to  him  only  by  his  initials. 

"J  think  it  is,  my  boy,"  said  he  ;  "from 
whom  did  it  come,  do  you  know?" 

The  lad,  instead  of  giving  him  any  reply, 
took  instantly  to  his  heels,  as  if  he  had  been 
pursued  for  life  and  death,  without  even 
waiting  to  sohcit  the  gratuity  which  is  usu- 
ally expected  on  such  occasions.  Oui-  friend 
took  it  for  granted  that  it  had  come  from 
the  fortune-teller,  Ginty  Cooper ;  but  on 
opening  it  he  perceived  hk,  a  glance  that  he 
must  have  been  mistaken,  as  the  wi'iting  most 
certainly  was  not  that  of  this  extraordinai'y 
sibyl.  The  hand  in  which  she  had  wi'itten 
his  name  was  precisely  such  as  one  would 
expect  from  such  a  woman — rude  and  vulgar 
— whereas,  on  the  contrary,  that  in  the  note 
was  elegant  and  lady-hke.  The  contents 
were  as  foUows  : 

"  Sir, — On  receipt  of  this  you  will,  if  you 
wish  to  prosper  in  that  which  you  have 
undertaken  to  accomphsh,  hasten  to  Bally- 
train,  and  secure  the  person  of  a  young  man 
named  Fenton,  who  lives  in  or  about  the 
town.  You  will  claim  him  as  the  laA\'fiil  heir 
of  the  title  and  property  of  Bed  Hall,  for 
such  in  fact  he  is.  Go  then  to  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay,  and  ask  him  the  following  questions: 

"  1st.  Did  he  not  one  night,  about  sixteen 
years  ago,  engage  a  man  who  was  so  ingeni- 
ously masked  that  the  child  neither  perceived 
the  mask,  nor  knew  the  man's  pei'son,  to  lure 
him  from  Red  Hall,  under  the  pretence  of 
bringing  him  to  see  a  puppet  show  ? 

"2d.  Did  not  Su-  Thomas  give  instnic- 
tions  to  this  man  to  take  him  out  of  his  path, 
out  of  hu  sight,  and  out  cf  his  hearing  ? 

"  8d.  Was  not  this  man  well  rewarded  by 
Sir  Thomas  for  that  act  ? 

"  There  are  other  questions  in  connection 
with  the  affair  that  could  be  put,  but  at 
present  they  would  be  unseasonable.  The 
curtain  of  this  dark  drama  is  beginning  to 
rise  ;  truth  will,  ere  long,  be  vindicated,  jus- 
tice rendered  to  the  defrauded  orphan,  and 
guilt  punished. 

"A  Lover  of  Justice." 

It  is  very  difficult  to  describe  the  feelings 
with  which  the  stranger  pei-used  this  welcome 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


397 


*»ttt  mysterious  document.  To  him,  it  was 
one  of  great  pleasure,  and  also  of  exceedingly 
great  pain.  Here  was  something  like  a  clew 
to  the  discovery  which  he  was  so  deeply  in- 
terested in  making.  But,  then,  at  whose 
expense  was  this  discovery  to  be  made  ?  He 
was  betrothed  to  Lucj'  Gourla}',  and  here  he 
was  compelled  by  a  sense  of  justice  to  drag 
her  father  forth  to  pubHc  exposure,  as  a 
criminal  of  the  deepest  dye.  What  would 
Lucy  say  to  this  ?  What  would  she  say  to 
the  man  who  should  entail  the  heavy  ig- 
nominy with  which  a  discovery  of  this  atro- 
cious crime  must  blacken  her  father's  name. 
He  knew  the  high  and  proud  principles  by 
which  she  was  actuated,  and  he  knew  how 
deeply  the  disgrace  of  a  guilty  parent  would 
affect  her  sensitive  spirit.  Yet  wha^  was  he 
to  do  ?  Was  the  iniquity  of  this  ambitious 
and  bad  man  to  depi'ive  the  ^irtuous  and 
benevolent  woman — the  friend  of  the  poor 
and  destitute,  the  lo\dng  mother,  the  affec- 
tionate wife  who  had  enshrined  her  departed 
husband  in  the  sorrowful  recesses  of  her 
pure  and  virtuous  heart,  was  this  cold- 
blooded and  ci-uel  tyrant  to  work  out  his 
diabolical  purposes  -without  any  effox-t  being 
made  to  check  him  in  his  cai-eer  of  guilt,  or 
to  justify  her  pious  trust  in  that  God  to 
whom  she  looked  for  protection  and  justice  ? 
No,  he  knew  Lucy  too  well ;  he  knew  that 
her  extraordinary  sense  of  .truth  and  honor 
would  justify  him  in  the  stej)s  he  might  be 
forced  to  take,  and  that  whatever  might  be 
the  result,  he  at  least  was  the  last  man  whom 
she  could  blame  for  rendering  justice  to  the 
widow  of  her  father's  brother.  But,  then 
again,  what  rehance  could  be  placed  upon 
anonymous  information — information  which, 
after  all,  was  but  hmited  and  obscure  ?  Yet 
it  was  evident  that  the  \\Titer — a  female 
beyond  question — whoever  she  was,  must  be 
perfectly  conversant  ^^'ith  his  motives  and  his 
objects.  And  if  in  volunteering  him  directions 
how  to  proceed,  she  had  any  pui-pose  adver- 
sative to  his,  her  note  was  without  meaning. 
Besides,  she  only  reawakened  the  suaincion 
which  he  himself  had  entertained  -with 
respect  to  Fenton.  At  all  events,  to  act 
upon  the  hints  contained  in  the  note,  might 
lead  to  something  caj^able  of  breaking  the 
hitherto  impenetrable  cloud  under  which  this 
melancholy  transaction  lay  ;  and  if  it  failed 
to  do  this,  he  (the  stranger)  could  not  possi- 
bly stand  worse  in  the  estimation  of  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  than  he  did  already.  In 
God's  name,  then,  he  would  miike  the  experi- 
ment ;  and  in  order  to  avoid  mail-coach  ad- 
ventures in  future,  he  would  post  it  back  to 
Ballytrain  as  quietly,  and  'SN'ith  as  httle  obser- 
vation as  possible. 

He  accordingly  ordered  Dandy  to  make 


such  slight  preparations  as  were  necessary 
for  their  return  to  that  town,  and  in  the 
meantime  he  determined  to  pay  another  visit 
to  old  Dunphy  of  Constitution  Hill. 

On  arriving  at  the  huckster's,  he  found 
him  in  the  backi-oom,  or  parlor,  to  which  we 
have  before  alluded.  The  old  man's  manner 
was,  he  thought,  considerably  changed  foi' 
the  better.  He  received  him  with  mor«.i 
complacency,  and  seemed  as  if  he  felt  some- 
thing hke  regret  for  the  harshness  of  his 
manner  towai'd  him  during  his  first  visit. 

"  Weil,  sir,"  said  he,  "  is  it  fair  to  ask  you, 
how  you  have  got  on  in  ferritin'  out  this 
black  business  ?  " 

There  are  some  words  so  completely  low 
and  offensive  in  their  own  nature,  that  no 
matter  how  kind  and  honest  the  intention  of 
the  speaker  may  be,  the}'  are  certain  to  vex 
and  annoy  those  to  whom  they  ai-e  applied. 

"Ferreting  out !  "  thought  the  stranger — 
"  what  does  the  old  scoundrel  mean  ?  "  Yet, 
on  second  consideration,  he  could  not  for  the 
soul  of  him  avoid  admitting  that,  consider- 
ing the  natui'e  of  the  task  he  was  engageo 
in,  it  Avas  by  no  means  an  inappropriate  illus^ 
tration. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  we  have  made  no  prog- 
ress, but  we  still  ti-ust  that  j'ou  will  enable 
us  to  advance  a  step.  I  have  already  told 
you  that  we  only  wish  to  come  at  the  princi- 
pals. Theii"  mere  instiaiments  we  overlook. 
You  seem  to  be  a  poor  man — but  listen  to 
me — if  you  can  give  us  any  assistance  in  this 
affaii',  you  shall  be  an  independent  one  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  yoiu'  life.  Prorided 
murder  has  not  been  committed  I  guarantee 
perfect  safet}'  to  any  person  who  may  have 
only  acted  mider  the  orders  of  a  superior." 

"  Take  your  time,"  replied  the  old  man, 
with  a  peculiar  exjwession.  "  Did  you  ever 
see  a  river  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  why  do 
you  ask  ?  " 

"  Well,  now,  could  you,  or  any  Hvin'  man, 
make  the  strame  of  that  river  flow  faster 
than  its  natural  course  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  repUed  the  stranger. 

"  Well,  then — I'm  an  oidd  man  and  be  ad- 
vised by  me — don't  attempt  to  luuTy  the 
course  o'  the  river.  Take  things  as  they 
come.  If  there's  a  man  on  this  earth  that's 
a  Hvin'  di-vnl  in  flesh  and  blood,  it's  Sii 
Thomas  Gouiiay,  the  Black  BaiTOwnight ; 
and  if  there's  a  man  livin'  that  would  go  half 
way  into  hell  to  pimish  him,  I'm  that  man. 
Now,  su',  you  said,  the  last  day  you  wer6 
here,  that  you  were  a  gentleman  and  a  man 
of  honor,  and  I  beheve  you.  So  these  words 
that  /  have  sjioken  to  you  about  him  you 
will  never  mention  them — you  promise 
that?" 


398 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Of  course  I  can,  and  do.  To  what  pur- 
pose should  I  mention  them  ?  " 

"  For  your  own  sake,  or,  I  should  say^  for 
the  sake  of  the  cause  you  ai'e  engaged  in, 
don't  do  it." 

The  bitterness  of  expression  which  dai'k- 
ened  the  old  man's  features,  while  he  spoke 
of  the  Baronet,  was  perfectly  diabohcal,  and 
threw  him  back  fi'om  the  good  opinion  which 
the  stranger  was  about  to  form  of  him,  not- 
withstanding his  conduct  on  the  previous 
day's  visit. 

"  You  don't  appear  to  like  Sir  TBhomas," 
he  said.  "He  is  certainly  no  favorite  of 
yours." 

"  Like  him,"  repHed  the  okl  man,  bitterly. 
"  He  is  supposed  to  be  the  best  fi'iend  I  have  ; 
but  little  you  know  the  punishment  he  will 
get  in  his  heart,  sowl,  and  spirit — httle  you 
know  what  he  will  be  made  to  suffer  yet. 
Of  course  now  you  undherstand,  that  if  I 
could  help  you,  as  you  say,  to  advance  a  sin- 
gle step  in  finding  the  right  heir  of  this 
property  I  would  do  it.  As  matthers  stand 
now,  however,  I  can  do  nothing — but  I'll 
teU  you  what  I  will  do — I'U  be  on  the  look- 
out—I'U  ask,  seek,  and  incjuire  from  them 
that  have  been  about  him  at  the  time  of  the 
child's  disappeai'ance,  and  if  I  can  get  a  sin- 
gle particle  worth  mentionin'  to  you,  you 
shall  have  it,  if  I  could  only  know  where  a 
letther  would  find  you." 

The  cunning,  the  sagacity,  the  indefinable 
twinkle  that  scintillated  from  the  small, 
piercing  eyes,  were  too  ob^ious  to  be  over- 
looked. The  stranger  instantly  felt  himseK 
placed,  as  it  were,  upon  his  guard,  and  he 
replied, 

"  It  is  possible  that  I  may  not  be  in  town, 
and  my  address  is  uncertain  ;  but  the  mo- 
ment you  are  in  a  capacity  to  communicate 
any  information  that  may  be  useful,  go  to 
the  proper  quarter — to  Lady  Gourlay  her- 
self. I  understand  that  a  relation  of  yoiu'S 
lived  and  died  in  her  service  ?  " 

"  That's  true,"  said  the  man,  "  and  a  bet- 
ther  mistress  never  did  God  put  breath  in, 
nor  a  betther  masther  than  Sir  Edward.  Well, 
I  will  follow  your  advice,  but  as  for  Sir  Thom- 
as— no  matther,  the  time's  comin' — the  river's 
flowin  — and  if  there's  a  God  in  heaven,  he 
will  be  punished  for  all  his  misdeeds — for 
other  things  as  well  as  takin'  away  the  child 
■ — that  is,  if  he  has  taken  him  away.  Now, 
Bir,  that's  all  I  can  say  to  you  at  present — for 
I  know  nothing  about  this  business.  Who 
can  teU,  however,  but  I  may  ferret  out  some- 
thing ?  It  won't  be  my  heart,  at  any  rate, 
that  will  hinder  me." 

There  was  nothing  further  now  to  detain 
the  stranger  in  to^Ti.  He  accordingly  post- 
ed it  at  a  rapid  rate  to  B.illytrain,  accom- 


panied by  Dandy  and  his  dulcimer,  who,  ex- 
cept during  the  evenings  among  the  servants 
in  the  hotel,  had  very  httle  opportunity  of 
creating  a  sensation,  as  he  thought  he  would 
have  done  as  an  amateur  musician  in  the 
metropolis. 

"Musha,  you're  welcome  back,  sir,"  said 
Pat  Sbaipe,  on  seeing  the  stranger  enter  the 
IVIitre  ;  "  troth,  we  were  longin'  for  you,  sir. 
And  where  is  herself,  your  honor  ?  " 

"  T\Tiom  do  you  mean,  Pat  ? "  said  the 
stranger,  sharply. 

Pat  pointed  with  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  towai'd  Ked  Hall. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  laugh,  by 
my  soul  I  knew  you'd  manage  it  well.  And 
troth,  I'U  drink  long  life  an'  happiness  an'  a 
sweet  honeymoon  to  yez  both,  this  very 
night,  till  the  eyes  stand  in  my  head.  Ah, 
thin,  but  she  is  the  darhn',  God  bless  her  !  " 

If  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  at  his  feet,  the 
stranger  could  not  have  felt  more  astonish- 
ment ;  but  that  is  not  the  word — soitow — ■ 
agony — indignation. 

"  Gracious  heaven  ! "  he  exclaimed,  *' what 
is  this  ?  what  Adllanous  calumny  has  gone 
abroad  ?  " 

Here  Dandy  saw  clearly  that  his  master 
w^as  in  distress,  and  generously  resolved  to 
step  in  to  his  assistance. 

"Paudeen,"  said  he,  "you  know  nothing 
about  this  business,  my  hurler.  You're  a  day 
before  the  fail*.  They're  not  married  yet — but 
it's  as  good — so  hovdd  yoiu*  prate  about  it 
till  the  knot's  tied — then  trumpet  it  through 
the  town  if  you  like." 

The  stranger  felt  that  to  enter  into  an  al- 
tercation mth  two  such  persons  would  be 
perfect  madness,  and  only  make  what  now 
appeared  to  be  ah'eady  too  bad,  much  worse. 
He  therefore  said,  very  calmly, 

"  Pat,  I  assiu-e  you,  that  my  journey  to 
Dublin  had  nothing  whatsoever  to  do  w4th 
IVIiss  Goiu'lay's.  The  whole  matter  was  acci- 
dental. I  know  nothing  about  her  ;  and  if 
any  unfortunate  reports  have  gone  abroad 
they  are  unfounded,  and  do  equal  injustice 
to  that  lady  and  to  me." 

"  Di\-il  a  thing  else,  now,  Paudeen,"  said 
Dandy,  with  a  face  full  of  most  villanous 
mystery — that  had  runaway  and  elopement 
in  every  hne  of  it — and  a  tone  of  voice  that 
would  have  shamed  a  couple-beggar — "  bad 
scran  to  the  ha'p'orth  happened.  So  don't 
be  puttin'  bad  constructions  on  things  too 
soon.  However,  there's  a  good  time  comin', 
plaise  God — so  now,  Paudeen,  behave  your- 
self, can't  you,  and  don't  be  vexin'  the 
masther." 

"Pat,"  said  the  stranger,  feeling  that  the 
best  way  to  put  an  end  to  this  most  painful 
conversation  was  to  start  a  fi-esh  topic,  "  vdil        - 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


399 


you  send  for  Fenton,  and  say  I  wish  to  see 
him?  " 

"  Fenton,  sir  ! — why,  poor  Mr.  Fenton 
has  been  missed  out  of  the  town  and  neigh- 
borhood ever  since  the  night  you  and  IVliss 
Gour — I  beg  pardon " 

"Upon  my  soul,  Paudeen,"  said  Dandy, 
"  I'll  knock  you  down  if  you  say  that  agin 
now,  afther  what  the  masther  an'  I  said  to 
you.  Hang  it,  can't  you  have  discretion, 
and  keep  your  tongue  widiu  your  teeth,  on 
</iis  business  at  any  rate  ?  " 

"Is  not  Fenton  in  town?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

"No,  sir;  he  has  neither  been  seen  nor 
heard  of  since  that  night,  and  the  people's 
beginnin'  to  wonder  what  has  become  of  him. " 

Here  was  a  disappointment ;  just  at  the 
moment  when  he  had  determined,  by  seizing 
upon  Fenton,  "s\'ith  a  view  to  claim  him  as 
the  son  of  the  late  Sir  Edward  Gourlay,  and 
the  legitimate  heir  of  Red  Hall,  in  order,  if 
it  were  legally  possible,  to  bring  about  an 
investigation  into  the  justice  of  those  claims, 
it  turned  out  that,  as  if  in  anticipation  of 
his  designs,  the  young  man  either. voluntaiily 
disappeared,  or  else  was  spirited  forcibly 
away.  How  to  act  now  he  felt  himself  com- 
pletely at  a  loss,  but  as  two  heads  he  knew 
were  better  than  one,  he  resolved  to  see 
Father  M'Mahon,  and  ask  his  opinion  and 
advice  upon  this  strange  and  mysterious  oc- 
currence. In  the  mean  time,  while  he  is  on 
the  way  to  visit  that  amiable  and  benevolent 
priest,  we  shall  so  far  gratify  the  reader  as 
to  throw  some  Hghtupon  the  unaccountable 
disappearance  of  the  unfortunate  Fenton. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Conception  and  Perpetration  of  a  Diabolical  Plot 
against  Fenton. 

Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  was  a  man  prompt 
and  inexorable  in  following  up  his  resolu- 
tions. On  the  night  of  Lucy's  flight  from 
Red  Hall,  he  had  concocted  a  plan  which  it 
was  not  his  intention  to  put  in  execution 
for  a  day  or  two,  as  he  had  by  no  means 
made  up  his  mind  in  what  manner  to  pro- 
ceed with  it.  On  turning  over  the  matter, 
however,  a  second  time  in  his  thoughts,  and 
comparing  the  information  which  he  had 
received  from  Crackenfudge  respecting  the 
stranger,  and  the  allusion  to  the  toothpick 
manufacturer,  he  felt  morally  certain  that 
Fenton  was  his  brother's  son,  and  that  by 
some  means  or  other  unkno\sni  to  him  he 
had  escaped  from  the  asylum  in  which  he 
had  been  placed,  and  by  some  iinaccountable 


fatality  located  himself  in  the  town  of  Bally- 
train,  which,  in  fact,  was  a  portion  of  his  in- 
heritance. 

"  I  am  wrong,"  thought  he,  "  in  deferring 
this  project.  There  is  not  a  moment  to  be 
lost.  Some  chance  incident,  some  eai'ly 
recollection,  even  a  siglit  of  myself — for  he 
saw  me  once  or  twice,  to  his  cost — may 
awaken  feehngs  which,  by  some  unlucky  as- 
sociation, might  lead  to  a  discovery.  Curse 
on  the  cowardly  scouncb'el,  Corbet,  that  did 
not  take  my  hint,  and  put  him  at  once  and 
forever  out  of  my  path,  sight,  and  hearing. 
But  he  had  scruples,  forsooth  ;  and  here 
now  is  the  serjient  unconsciously  crossing 
my  path.  This  is  the  third  time  he  has  es- 
caped and  broken  out  of  bounds.  Upon  the 
two  former  I  managed  him  myself,  withou' 
a  single  ^vitness  ;  and,  but  that  I  had  lo^« 
my  own  child — and  there  is  a  mystery  I  can- 
not penetrate — I  would  have " 

Here  he  i-ang  the  bell,  and  a  servant  en- 
tered. « 

"  Send  up  Gillespie." 

The  servant,  as  usual,  bowed,  and  Gilles- 
pie entered. 

"  Gillespie,  there  is  a  young  fellow  in  Bal- 
lytrain,  named — Fenton,  I  think  ?  " 

"  Yes,  your  honor ;  he  is  half-mad,  or 
whole  mad,  as  a  good  many  people  think." 

"I  am  told  he  is  fond  of  liquor." 

"He  is  seldom  sober.  Sir  Thomas." 

"  Will  you  go  into  BaDy train,  and  try  to 
see  him  ?  But  first  see  the  butler,  and  de- 
sire liim,  by  my  orders,  to  give  you  a  bottle 
of  whiskey.  I  don't  mean  this  moment, 
sin-a,"  he  said,  for  Gillespie  was  proceeding 
to  take  him  instantly  at  his  word. 

"Listen,  sir.  See  Feuton — lure  him  as 
quietly  and  secreth'  as  you  can  out  of  town — 
bring  him  into  some  remote  nook " 

"Sir  Thomas,  I  beg  yom-  pardon,"  ex- 
claimed Gillespie,  getting  pale ;  "if  you 
mean  that  I  should " 

"  Silence,  sir,"  rephed  the  baronet,  in  his 
sternest  and  deepest  voice  ;  "  heai-  me  ;  biing 
him,  if  you  can,  to  some  quiet  place,  where 
you  will  both  be  free  fr-om  obsen-ation  ;  then 
produce  your  bottle  and  glass,  and  ply  him 
with  liquor  until  you  have  him  drunk." 

"It's  vei-y  hkely  that  I'll  find  him  drunk 
as  it  is,  sir  ;  he  is  seldom  othei-wise." 

"  So  much  the  better ;  you  will  have  the 
less  trouble.  Well,  when  you  have  him  suf- 
ficientl}'  drunk,  bring  him  to  the  back  gate 
of  the  garden,  which  you  will  find  unlocked  ; 
lodge  him  in  the  tool-house,  ply  him  with 
more  Hquor,  vmtil  he  becomes  helpless.  In 
the  meantime,  lock  the  back  gate  after  you 
— here  is  the  key,  which  you  can  keep  in 
your  pocket.  Having  left  him  in  the  tool- 
house — in  a  sufficiently  helpless  state,  mark 


400 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


— ^lock  liim  in,  put  that  key  in  your  pocTiet, 
also  ;  then  get  vaj  travelling  carriage  ready, 
put  to  the  hoi-ses,  and  when  all  this  is  done, 
come  to  me  here  ;  I  shall  then  instruct  you 
how  and   where   to   proceed.     I   shall  also 

accompany  you  myself  to  the  toAvn  of  , 

after  which  you  shall  take  a  post-chaise,  and 
proceed  with  this  person  to  the  place  of  his 
destination.  Let  none  of  the  servants  see 
you ;  and  remember  we  are  not  to  start  from 
the  garden  gate  until  about  twelve  o'clock, 
or  later." 

Gillespie  promised  compliance,  and,  in 
fact,  undertook  the  business  with  the  greater 
alacrity,  on  hearing  that  there  was  to  be  a 
bottle  of  whiskey  in  the  case.  As  he  was 
leaving  the  room,  however,  Su*  Thomas  called 
him  back,  and  said,  with  a  frown  which 
nobody  could  misunderstand,  "Harkee,  Gil- 
lespie, keep  yoiu'self  strictly  sober,  and — oh 
yes,  I  had  nearly  forgotten  it — try  if  there  is 
a  hard  scar,  as  if  left  by  a  wound,  under  his 
chin,  to  the  left  side  ;  and  if  you  find  none, 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  You  under- 
stand, now,  all  I  require  of  you  ?  " 

"Perfectly,  your  honor.  But  I  may  not 
be  able  to  find  this  Fenton." 

"That  won't  be  your  own  fault,  you  must 
only  try  another  time,  when  you  may  have 
better  success.  Obsei-ve,  however,  that  if 
there  is  no  scar  under  the  left  side  of  his 
chin,  you  are  to  let  him  pass — he  is  not  the 
person  in  whom  I  feel  interested,  and  whom 
I  am  determined  to  sen^e,  if  I  can — even 
against  his  wishes.  He  is,  I  believe,  the  son 
of  an  old  fi-iend,  and  I  'nill  endeavor  to  have 
him  restored  to  the  perfect  use  of  his  reason, 
if  human  skill  can  effect  it." 

"  That's  very  kind  of  you,  Sir  Thomas,  and 
vei-y  few  woidd  do  it,"  replied  GiUesj)ie,  as 
he  left  the  apartment,  to  fulfil  his  execrable 
mission. 

Gillespie  having  put  the  bottle  of  strong 
spirits  into  his  pocket,  wrapped  a  great  coat 
about  him,  and,  by  a  subsequent  hint  fi'om 
Sir  Thomas,  tied  a  large  handkerchief  across 
his  face,  in  order  the  better  to  conceal  his  fea- 
tures, and  set  out  on  his  way  to  Ballytrain. 

It  may  be  remarked  with  truth,  that  the 
projects  of  crime  are  frequently  aided  by 
those  melancholy  but  fehcitous  contingencies, 
which,  though  unexpected  and  unlooked  for, 
are  calculated  to  enable  the  criminal  to  effect 
his  wicked  purposes  with  more  facility  and 
less  risk.  Gillespie,  on  the  occasion  in  ques- 
tion, not  only  met  Fenton  within  a  short 
distance  of  the  town,  and  in  a  lonely  place, 
but  also  fovmd  him  far  advanced  in  a  state  of 
intoxication. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Fenton  ?  "  said  he.  "  How  do 
you  do,  ]Mi'.  Fenton  ?    A  beautiful  night,  sir." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  rephed  the  unfortunate  young 


man  ;  "  it  is  Mr.  Fenton,  and  you  are  a  gen- 
tleman. Some  folks  now  take  the  liberty  of 
calling  me  Fenton,  which  is  not  only  impu- 
dently familiar  and  ridiculous,  but  a  proof 
that  they  do  not  know  how  to  address  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"  You  are  leaving  the  town,  it  seems,  Mr. 
Fenton?" 

"  Yes,  there's  a  wake  down  in  KiUyfaddy, 
where  there  will  be  a  superfluity,  sir,  of  fun  ; 
and  I  like  to  see  fun  and  sorrow  associated. 
They  harmonize,  my  friend — they  concate- 
nate." 

"Mr.  Fenton,"  proceeded  Gillespie,  "you 
are  a  young  gentleman " 

"Yes,  sii',  that's  the  term.  I  am  a  gentle- 
man. What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  I  have  rare 
interest  among  the  great  and  powerful." 

"  I  don't  at  all  doubt  it,"  rephed  Gilles- 
pie ;  "  but  I  was  goin'  to  say,  sir,  that  you 
are  a  young  gentleman  that  I  have  always 
respected  very  highly." 

"  Thanks,  my  fi'iend,  thanks." 

"  If  it  wouldn't  be  takin'  a  Uberty,  I'd  ask 
a  favor  of  you." 

"  Sir,  you  are  a  gentleman,  and  it  should 
be  gi'anted.     Name  it." 

"  The  night,  sir,  although  a  fine  enough 
night,  is  a  little  shai'p,  for  all  that.  Now,  I 
happen  to  have  a  sup  of  as  good  liquor  in 
my  pocket  as  ever  went  down  the  red  lane, 
and  if  we  could  only  get  a  quiet  sheltei*ing 
spot,  behind  one  of  these  ditches,  we  could 
try  its  pulse  between  us." 

"The  project  is  good  and  hospitable," 
rephed  poor  Fenton,  "  and  has  my  fuU  con- 
ciuTence." 

"  WeD,  then,  sir,"  said  the  other,  "  will 
you  be  so  good  as  to  come  along  with  me, 
and  we'll  make  out  some  snug  spot  where 
I'll  have  the  pleasure  of  drinkin'  your  hon- 
or's health." 

"  Good  again,"  rej^lied  the  unlucky  dupe  ; 
"  upon  my  soul  you're  an  excellent  fellow ! 
Proceed,  I  attend  you.  The  liquor's  good, 
you  say?" 

"  Betther  was  never  drank,  your  honor." 

"  Veiy  well,  sir,  I  beheve  you.  We  shall 
soon,  however,  put  the  tinith  of  that  magni- 
ficent assertion  to  the  test ;  and  besides,  sir, 
it  will  be  an  honor  for  j'ou  to  share  your 
bottle  with  a  gentleman." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  reached  a  quiet 
little  deU,  by  which  there  led  a  private  path- 
way, open  only  to  the  inmates  of  Red  Hall 
when  passing  to  or  from  the  town,  and 
which  formed  an  agreeable  and  easy  short- 
cut when  any  hun-ied  message  was  necessary. 
This  path  came  out  upon  an  old  road  which 
ran  behind  the  garden,  and  joined  the  larger 
thoroughfare,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  be- 
yond it. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


401 


In  a  sheltered  little  cul  de  sac,  between 
two  ■vrhite-thom  hedges,  they  took  their 
seats  ;  and  Gillespie  having  pulled  out  his 
bottle  and  glass,  began  to  ply  the  luckless 
young  man  with  the  strong  liquor.  And  an 
easy  task  he  found  it ;  for  Fenton  resembled 
thousands,  who,  when  the  bounds  of  mod- 
eration are  once  passed,  know  not  when  to 
restrain  themselves.  It  would  be  both  painful 
and  disagreeable  to  dwell  upon  the  hellish 
iniquity  of  this  merciless  and  moiul  murder  ; 
it  is  enough  to  say  that,  having  reduced  the 
young  man  to  the  precise  condition  which 
was  necessary  for  his  purpose,  this  slavish 
and  unprincipled  i-uffian,  as  Delahunt  did 
with  his  innocent  victim,  deliberately  put 
his  hand  to  his  tlu'oat,  or,  rather,  to  the  left 
side  of  his  neck,  and  there  found  beyond  all 
doubt  a  lai'ge  welt,  or  cicatrice,  preciseh'  as 
had  been  described  by  Sii*  Thomas.  After 
the  space  of  about  two  hours — for  Gillespie 
was  anxious  to  prolong  the  time  as  much  a? 
possible — he  assisted  Fenton,  now  unable  to 
walk  without  support,  and  completely  par- 
alyzed in  his  organs  of  speech,  along  the 
short  and  solitary  path  to  the  back  gate  of 
the  garden.  He  opened  it,  dragged  Fenton 
in  hke  a  dog  whom  he  was  about  to  hang, 
but  still  the  latter  seemed  disposed  to  make 
some  unconscious  and  instinctive  resistance. 
It  was  to  no  pui-pose,  however.  The  poor 
young  man  was  incapable  of  resistance, 
either  by  word  or  deed.  In  a  short  time 
they  reached  the  tool-house,  where  he  threw 
Fenton  on  a  heap  of  apples,  like  a  bag,  and 
left  him  to  he  in  cold  and  darkness,  as  if  he 
were  some  noxious  animal,  whom  it  would 
be  dangerous  to  set  at  large.  He  then 
locked  the  door,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket, 
and  went  to  acquaint  the  baronet  with  the 
success  of  his  mission. 

The  latter,  on  understanding  fi-om  Gil- 
lespie that  Fenton  was  not  onh'  secured, 
but  that  his  suspicions  as  to  his  identity 
were  correct,  desired  him  to  have  the  car- 
riage ready  in  the  course  of  about  an  hour. 
He  had  sdready  written  a  letter,  containing 
a  hberal  enclosure,  to  the  person  into  whose 
merciless  hands  he  was  about  to  commit 
him.  In  the  meantime,  it  is  impossible  to 
describe  the  confu.sed  character  of  his  feel- 
ings— the  tempest,  the  tornado  of  passions, 
that  swept  through  his  dark  and  ambitious 
spirit. 

"This  is  the  third  time,"  he  thought  to 
himself,  as  he  paced  the  room  in  such  a 
state  of  stormy  agitation  as  reacted  upon 
himself,  and  filled  him  with  temporary 
alai-m.  His  heart  beat  powerfully,  his  pul- 
sations were  strong  and  rapid,  and  his  brain 
felt  burning  and  tumultuous.  Occa.sional 
giddiness  dso  seized  him,  accompanied  by  I 


''  weakness  about  the  knee-joints,  and  huski- 
ness  in  the  throat.  In  fact,  once  or  twice 
he  felt  as  if  he  were  about  to  fall  In  this 
state  he  hasti^'  gulped  down  two  or  three 
large  glasses  of  Madeira,  which  was  his 
favorite  wine,  and  he  felt  his  system  more 
intensely  stning. 

"  That  woman,"  said  he,  alluding  to  Lady 
Gourlay,  "  has  tjiken  her  revenge  by  destroy- 
ing my  son.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of 
that.  And  wliat  now  prevents  me  from 
crushing  this  riper  forever  ?  If  my  daugh- 
ter were  not  with  me,  it  should  be  done  ; 
yes,  I  would  do  it  silently  and  secretly,  ay, 
and  surely,  with  my  own  hand.  I  would 
have  blood  for   blood.     What,  however,   if 

the  mur if  the  act  came  to  Ught !     Then 

I  must  suffer ;  my  daughter  is  involved  in 
my  infamy,  and  all  my  dreams  for  her  ag- 
grandizement come  to  worse  than  nothing. 
But  I  know  not  how  it  is,  I  fear  that  girL 
Her  moral  ascendency,  as  they  call  it,  is  so 
dreadful  to  me,  that  I  often  feel  as  if  I  hated 
her.  What  right  has  she  to  subjugate  a 
spirit  like  mine,  by  the  influence  of  her 
sense  of  honor  and  her  virtuous  principles  ? 
or  to  school  me  to  my  face  by  her  example  ? 
I  am  not  a  man  disposed  to  brook  inferiority, 
yet  she  sometimes  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were 
a  monster.  Howgver,  she  is  a  fool,  and 
talks  of  happiness  as  if  it  were  anything  but 
a  chimera  or  a  dream.  Is  she  herself  happy  ? 
I  would  be  glad  to  see  the  mortal  that  is. 
Do  her  virtues  make  her  happy  ?  No, 
Then  where  is  the  use  of  this  boasted  virtue, 
if  it  will  not  procure  that  happiness  after 
which  all  are  so  eager  in  pursuit,  but  which 
none  has  ever  yet  attained?  Was  Christ, 
who  is  said  to  have  been  spotless,  happy  ? 
No  ;  he  was  a  man  of  soitows.  Away,  then, 
with  this  cant  of  vii-tue.  It  is  a  shadow,  a 
deception  ;  a  thing,  Hke  rehgion,  that  has 
no  existence,  but  takes  our  senses,  our  in- 
terests, and  oxvc  passions,  and  works  with 
them  under  its  own  mask.  Yet  why  am  I 
afraid  of  my  daughter  ?  and  why  do  I,  in  my 
heart,  reverence  her  as  a  being  so  far  supe- 
rior to  myself?  A\Tiy  is  it  that  I  could 
murder — ay,  murder — this  worthless  object 
that  thnist  himself,  or  would  thnist  him- 
self, or  might  thnist  himself,  between  me 
and  the  heredittiiy  honors  of  my  name,  were 
it  not  that  her  very  presence,  if  I  did  it, 
would,  I  feel,  overpower  and  paralyze  me 
with  a  sense  of  my  guilt  ?  Yet  I  struck  her 
— I  struck  her  ;  but  her  spirit  trampled  mine 
in  the  dust — she  humihated  me.  Away  !  I 
am  not  like  other  men.  Yet  for  her  sake 
this  miserable  wi-etch  shall  Kve.  1.  will  not 
imbrue  ray  hands  in  his  blood,  but  shall 
place  him  where  he  will  never  cross  me 
more.      It   is  one   satisfaction   to   me,  and 


402 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


security  besides,  that  he  knows  neither  his 
real  name  nor  Hneage  ;  and  now  lie  shall 
enter  this  establishment  under  a  new  one. 
As  for  Lucy,  she  shall  be  Countess  of  Cul- 
lamore,  if  she  or  I  should  die  for  it." 

He  then  swallowed  another  glass  of  wine, 
and  was  about  to  proceed  to  the  stables, 
when  a  gentle  tap  came  to  the  door,  and 
Gillespie  presented  himself. 

"  All's  ready,  your  honor." 

"Verj'  well,  Gillespie.  I  shall  go  with 
you  to  see  that  all  is  right.  In  the  coiu-se 
of  a  few  minutes  will  you  bring  the  caniage 
round  to  the  back  gate?  The  horses  are 
steady,  and  will  remain  there  while  we  con- 
duct him  down  to  it.  Have  you  a  dark  lan- 
tern?" 

"  I  have,  your  honor." 

Both  then  proceeded  toward  the  stables. 
The  baronet  perceived  that  everything  was 
correct  ;  and  having  seen  Gillespie,  who  was 
his  coachman,  mount  the  seat,  he  got  into 
the  carriage,  and  got  out  again  at  the  door 
of  the  tool-house,  where  poor  Fenton  lay. 
After  unlocking  the  door,  for  he  had  got  the 
key  fi'om  Gillesj)ie,  he  entered,  and  cautious- 
ly turning  the  hght  of  the  lantern  in  the 
proper  dii-ection,  discovered  liis  unhappy 
victim,  stretched  cold  and  aj)parently  life- 
less. 

Alas,  what  a  melancholy  picture  lay  before 
him !  Stretched  upon  some  apples  that  were 
scattered  over  the  floor,  he  found  the  imhap- 
py  young  man  in  a  sleep  that  for  the  mo- 
ment resembled  the  slumber  of  the  dead. 
His  hat  had  faUen  off,  and  on  his  pale  and 
emaciated  temples  seemed  indeed  to  dwell 
the  shai'p  impresfi  of  approaching  death.  It 
appeared,  nevertheless,  that  his  rest  had  not 
been  by  any  means  unbroken,  nor  so  placid 
as  it  then  appeared  to  be  ;  for  the  baronet 
could  observe  that  he  must  have  been  weep- 
ing in  his  sleep,  as  his  eyehds  were  surcharg- 
ed with  tears  that  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
dry.  The  veins  in  his  temples  were  blue, 
and  as  fine  as  silk  ;  and  over  his  whole  coun- 
tenance was  spread  an  expression  of  such 
hopeless  sorrow  and  misery  as  was  sufl&cient 
to  soften  the  hardest  heart  that  ever  beat  in 
human  bosom.  One  touch  of  nature  came 
over  even  that  of  the  baronet.  "No,"  said 
he,  "I  could  not  take  his  life.  The  family 
hkeness  is  obvious,  and  the  resemblance  to 
his  cousin  Lucj'  is  too  strong  to  permit  me 
to  shed  his  blood  ;  but  I  will  secure  him  so 
that  he  shaU  never  cross  my  jDath  again.  He 
wiU  not,  howevei',  cross  it  long,"  he  added 
to  himself,  after  another  pause,  "  for  the 
stamp  of  death  is  upon  his  face." 

Gillespie  now  entered,  and  seizing  Fen- 
ton, dragged  him  up  upon  his  legs,  tlie  bar- 
onet in  the  meantime  tm'ning  the  light  of 


the  lantern  aside.  The  poor  feUow,  being 
properly  neither  asleep  nor  awake,  made  no 
resistance,  and  without  any  trouble  they 
brought  him  down  to  the  back  gate,  putting 
him  into  the  coach.  Sir  Thomas  entering 
with  him,  and  immediately  drove  off,  about 
half-past  twelve  at  night,  their  \'ictim  having 
fallen  asleep  again  almost  as  soon  as  he  en- 
tered the  carriage. 

The  wai-mth  of  the  carriage,  and  the  com- 
fort of  its  cushioned  sides  and  seat  occasion- 
ed his  sleep  to  become  more  natural  and  i-e- 
freshing.  The  consequence  was,  that  he 
soon  began  to  exhibit  symptoms  of  awaken- 
ing. At  first  he  gToaned  deeply,  as  if  under 
the  influence  of  physical  pain,  or  probably 
fi'om  the  consciousness  of  some  apprehension 
arising  from  the  exiDerience  of  what  he  had 
already  suffered.  By  and  by  the  groan  sub- 
sided to  a  sigh,  whose  expression  was  so  re- 
plete with  misery  and  dread,  that  it  might 
well  have  touched  and  softened  any  heart. 
As  yet,  however,  the  fumes  of  intoxication 
had  not  departed,  and  his  language  was  so 
mingled  with  the  feeble  dehrium  resulting 
fx'om  it,  and  the  terrors  arising  from  the 
situation  in  which  he  felt  himself  placed, 
that  it  was  not  only  wild  and  melancholy  by 
tui-ns,  but  often  scarcely  inteUigible.  Still 
it  was  evident  that  one  great  apprehension 
absorbed  all  his  other  thoughts  and  sensa- 
tions, and  seemed,  whilst  it  lasted,  to  buiy 
him  in  the  darkness  of  despair. 

" Hold  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  where  am  I? — 
what  is  this  ?  Let  me  see,  or,  rather,  let  me 
feel  where  I  am,  for  that  is  the  more  appro- 
priate expression,  considering  that  I  am  in 
utter  obscuiity.  What  is  this,  I  ask  again  ? 
Is  my  hospitable  fi'iend  with  me  ?  he  with 
whom  I  partook  of  that  delicious  liquor  un- 
der '  the  greenwood-tree '  ?  " 

He  then  searched  about,  and  in  doing  so 
Ills  hands  came  necessarily  in  contact  with 
the  bulky  person  of  the  baronet.  "  WTiat !  " 
he  proceeded,  supposing  still  that  it  was  Gil- 
lespie, "  is  this  you,  my  friend  ?— but  I  take 
that  fact  for  gi-anted.  Sir,  you  are  a  gentle- 
man, and  know  how  to  address  a  gentleman 
with  proper  respect ;  but  how  is  this,  jovl 
have  on  your  hat  ?  Sir,  you  forget  yourself 
— uncover,  and  remember  you  are  in  my 
presence." 

As  he  uttered  the  words,  he  seized  the 
baronet's  hat,  tore  it  forcibly  off,  and,  in  do- 
ing so,  accidentally  removed  a  mask  which 
that  worthy  gentleman  had  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  assume,  in  order  to  prevent  lum- 
self  from  being  recognized. 

"Ha  ! "  exclaimed  Fenton,  with  something 
like  a  shriek — "  a  mask !  Oh,  my  God  ! 
This  mysterious  enemy  is  upon  me  !  I  am 
once  more  caught  in  his  toils  !     What  have 


TUE  BLACK  BARONET. 


403 


I  done  to  desen'e  this  persecution  ?  I  am 
innocent  of  all  offence — all  guilt.  My  life 
has  been  one  of  horror  and  of  suflering  in- 
describable, but  not  of  crime  ;  and  although 
they  say  I  am  insane,  I  know  there  is  a  God 
above  who  will  render  me  justice,  and  my 
oppressor  justice,  and  who  knows  that  I  have 
given  offence  to  none. 

Thero  i8  a  bird  that  sings  alone — heigh  ho  I 
And  every  note  is  but  a  tone  of  woe. 

Heigh  ho  I " 

The  baronet  grasped  his  wrist  tightly  with 
one  hand — and  laoth  feeble  and  attenuated 
was  that  poor  wrist — the  baronet,  we  say, 
grasped  it,  and  in  an  instant  had  regained 
possession  of  the  mask,  which  he  deliberate- 
ly replaced  on  his  face,  after  which  he  seized 
the  unfortunate  young  man  by  the  neck,  and 
pressed  it  with  such  force  as  almost  to  occa- 
sion suffocation.  Still  he  (Sir  Thomas) 
uttered  not  a  syllable,  a  circumstance  which 
in  the  teriified  mind  of  his  unhappy  victim 
caused  his  position  as  well  as  that  of  his  com- 
panion to  assume  a  darker,  and  consequent- 
ly a  more  terrible  mysterj'. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  low  and  trem- 
bling voice,  "  I  know  you  now.  You  are  the 
stranger  who  came  to  stop  in  the  •  Mitre.' 
Yes,  you  came  down  to  stoj)  in  the  ']\litre.' 
I  know  you  by  your  strong  grasp.  I  cai'e 
not,  however,  for  your  attempt  to  strangle 
me.  I  forgive  you — I  pai'don  you  ;  and  I 
will  tell  you  why — treat  me  as  violently  as 
you  may — I  feel  that  there  is  goodness  in 
your  face,  and  mercy  in  yom-  heai-t.  But  I 
did  see  a  face,  one  day,  in  the  inn,"  he  add- 
ed, in  a  voice  that  gradually  became  quite 
frantic — "  a  face  that  was  dark,  damnable, 
and  demoniac — oh,  oh  !  may  God  of  heaven 
ever  preserve  me  from  seeing  that  face 
again  ! "  he  exclaimed,  shuddering  wildly. 
"  Open  me  up  the  shi'ouded  graves,  my 
friend  ;  I  will  call  you  so  notwithstanding 
what  has  happened,  for  I  still  think  you  are 
a  gentleman  ;  open  me  up,  I  say,  the  shroud- 
ed graves — set  me  among  the  hideous  dead, 
in  all  their  ghastly  and  loathsome  putrefac- 
tion— lay  me  side  by  side  with  the  sweltering 
carcass  of  the  gibbeted  murderer — give  me 
such  a  vision,  and  expose  me  to  the  anger  of 
the  Almighty  when  raging  in  his  vengeance  ; 
or,  if  there  be  a  pitch  of  horror  still  beyond 
this,  then  I  say — mark  me,  my  friend — then 
I  say,  open  me  up  all  hell  at  full  work — hiss- 
ing, boiling,  bubbling,  scalding,  roasting, 
frj-ing,  scorching,  blazing,  burning,  but  ever- 
consuming  hell,  sir,  I  say,  in  fvdl  operation 
— the  whole  dark  and  penal  machineiy  in 
full  play — open  it  up — there  they  are — the 
yell,  the  scream,  the  blasphemy,  the  shout, 
the  torture,  the  laughter  of  despair — with 


the  pleasing  consciousness  that  all  this  is  to 
be  eternal ;  hark  ye,  sir,  open  me  up  a  view 
of  this  aforesaid  spectacle  upon  the  very 
brow  of  perdition,  and  having  allowed  me 
time  to  console  myself  by  a  contemplation  of 
it,  fling  me,  soul  and  body,  into  the  utter- 
most depths  of  its  howUng  tortures  ;  do  any 
or  all  of  these  things,  sooner  than  let  me 
have  a  sight  of  that  face  again — it  bears 
such  a  terrible  resemblance  to  that  which 
bhghted  me." 

He  then  paused  for  a  little,  and  seemed  as 
if  about  to  sink  into  a  calmer  and  more 
thoughtful  mood — at  least  the  baronet  in- 
ferred as  much  from  his  silence.  The  latter 
still  declined  to  speak,  for  he  felt  perfectly 
aware,  from  this  incoherent  outburst,  that 
although  Fenton  had  seen  him  only  two  or' 
three  times,  many  years  ago,  when  the  im- 
fortunate  yovmg  man  was  scarcely  a  boy,  yet 
he  had  often  heard  his  voice,  and  he  conse- 
quenth'  avoided  every  possibility  of  giving 
the  former  a  clew  to  his  identity.  At  length 
Fenton  broke  silence. 

"  "Wliat  was  I  saying  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Did  I 
talk  of  that  multitudinous  Umbo  called  hell  ? 
"Well,  who  knows,  perhaps  there  may  be  a 
general  jail  delivery  there  yet ;  but  talking 
of  the  thing,  I  assure  you,  sir,  I  feel  a  portion 
of  its  tortures.  Like  Dives — no,  not  hke  the 
rich  and  hardened  glutton — I  resemble  him 
in  nothing  but  my  sufferings.  Oh  I  a  diink, 
a  drink — water,  water — my  tongue,  my 
mouth,  my  thi'oat,  my  blood,  my  brain,  ai'e 
all  on  fire  ?  " 

Oh,  false  ambition,  to  what  mean  and  des- 
picable resources,  to  what  low  and  imscru- 
pulous  precautions  dost  thou  stoop  in  order 
to  accomphsh  thy  selfish,  dishonest,  and 
heartless  designs  !  The  very  gratification  of 
this  expected  thirst  had  been  j^rovided  for 
and  anticipated.  As  Fenton  spoke,  the  baro- 
net took  fi'om  one  of  the  coach  pockets  a 
large  flask  of  spirits  and  water,  which  he  in- 
stantly, but  without  speaking,  placed  in  the 
scorching  wretch's  hands,  who  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  put  it  to  his  hps  and 
emptied  it  at  one  long,  luxurious  draught. 

"Thanks,  friend,"  he  then  exclaimed  ;  "I 
have  been  agreeably  mistaken  in  you,  I  find. 
You  are — you  must  be — no  other  than  my 
worthy  host  of  the 'Hedge.'  Poor  Dives! 
D — n  the  glutton  ;  after  all,  I  pity  him,  and 
would  fain  hope  that  he  has  got  relief  by  this 
time.  As  for  Lazarus,  I  fear  that  his  con- 
dition in  hfe  was  no  better  than  it  desen^ed. 
If  he  had  been  a  trump,  now,  and  anxious  to 
render  good  for  evil,  he  would  have  dropped 
a  bottle  of  aquapura  to  the  suffering  glutton, 
for  if  worthy  Dives  did  nothing  else,  he  fed 
the  dogs  that  hcked  the  old  fellow's  sores. 
Fie,  for  shame,  old  Lazftrus,  d — n  me,  if  I 


i04 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S  WOBKS. 


had  you  back  again,  but  we'd  teach  you  sym- 
pathy for  Dives  ;  and  how  so,  my  friend  of 
the  hawthorn — wlxy,  we'd  send  him  to  the 
poor-house,*  or  if  that  wouldn't  do,  to  the 
mad-house — to  the  mad-house.  Oh,  my  God 
— my  God  !  what  is  this  ?  "WTiere  ai-e  you 
bringing  me,  sir  ?  but  I  know — I  feel  it — 
this  destiny  that's  over  me  !  " 

He  again  became  silent  for  a  time,  but 
dui-ing  the  pause,  we  need  scarcely  say,  that 
the  pernicious  draught  began  to  operate  with 
the  desired  effect. 

"  That  mask,"  he  then  added,  as  if  speak- 
ing to  himseh,  "  bodes  me  nothing  but  ter- 
ror and  persecution,  and  all  this  in  a  Chris- 
tian countiT,  where  there  are  rehgion  and 
laws — at  least,  they  say  so — as  for  my  jDart, 
I  could  never  discover  them.  However,  it 
matters  not,  let  us  clap  a  stout  heart  to  a 
steep  brae,  and  we  may  jink  them  and  blink 
them  yet ;  that's  all. 

There  was  a  little  bird,  a  very  little  bird. 

And  a  very  little  bird  was  he ; 

And  he  sang  his  little  song  all  the  summer  day  long, 

On  a  branch  of  the  fair  green-wood  tree. 

Heigh  ho  ! " 

This  little  touch  of  melody,  which  he  sang 
to  a  sweet  and  plaintive  air,  seemed  to  pro- 
duce a  feeling  of  moui-nfulness  and  sorrow 
in  his  spirit,  for  although  the  draught  he  had 
taken  was  progressing  fast  in  its  operations 
upon  his  intellect,  still  it  only  assumed  a  new 
and  more  affecting  shape,  and  occasioned  that 
singular  form  and  ease  of  expression  which 
may  be  observed  in  many  under  the  influence 
of  similar  stimulants. 

"Well,"  he  proceeded,  "I  will  soon  go 
home  ;  that  is  one  consolation !  There  is  a 
sickness,  my  fi'iend,  whoever  you  are,  at  my 
beart  here,  and  in  what  does  that  sickness 
.:X)nsist  ?  I  will  tell  you — in  the  memory  of 
some  beautiful  dreams  that  I  had  when  a 
child  or  httle  boy :  I  remember  something 
about  green  fields,  groves,  dark  mountains, 
and  summer  rivers  flowing  sweetly  by.  This 
now,  to  be  sure,  is  a  feehng  which  hui  few 
can  understand.  It  is  called  homesickness, 
and  assumes  different  aspects,  my  worthy 
friend.  Sometimes  it  is  a  yearning  after  im- 
mortality, which  absorbs  and  consumes  the 
spirit,  and  then  we  die  and  go  to  enjoy  that 
which  we  have  pined  for.  Now,  my  worthy 
mute  fiiend,  mark  me,  in  my  case  the  malady 
is  not  so  exalted.  I  only  want  my  green 
fields,  my  dark  mountains,  my  early  rivers, 
with  Hberty  to  tread  them  for  a  biief  space. 
There  lies  over  them  in  my  imagination — 
there  does,  my  worthy  and  most  taciturn 


*  It  is  to  be  presumed,  that  Fenton  speaks  here 
from  his  English  experience.  We  find  no  poor- 
bouses  at  the  time. 


friend,  upon  my  soul  there  does — a  golden 
light  so  clear,  so  j^ure,  so  full  of  happiness, 
that  I  question  whether  that  of  heaven  itself 
will  sui-jjass  it  in  radiance.  But  now  I  am 
caged  once  more,  and  will  never  see  anything 
even  like  them  again." 

The  poor  young  man  then  wept  for  a 
couple  of  minutes,  after  which  he  added, 
"Yes,  sir,  this  is  at  once  my  malady  and  my 
hope.  You  see,  then,  I  am  not  worth  a  plot, 
nor  would  it  be  a  high-minded  or  honorable 
act  for  any  gentleman  to  conspire  against 
one  who  is  nobody's  enemy,  but  ajDpears  to 
have  all  the  world  against  him.  Yes,  ar.d 
they  thought  when  I  used  to  get  into  my 
sUent  moods  that  I  was  mad.  No,  but  I 
was  in  heaven,  enjoying,  as  I  said,  my 
mountains,  my  rivers,  and  m}'  green  fields. 
I  was  in  heaven,  I  say,  and  walked  in  the 
hght  of  heaven,  for  I  was  a  little  boy  once 
more,  and  saw  its  radiance  uj^on  them,  as  I 
used  to  do  long  ago.  But  do  you  know 
what  occurs  to  me  this  moment,  most  ta- 
citurn?" He  added,  after  a  short  pause, 
being  moved,  probably,  by  one  of  those 
quick  and  capricious  changes  to  which  both 
the  intoxicated  and  insane  are  proverbially 
liable  :  "It  strikes  me,  that  you  probably 
are  descended  fi-om  the  man  in  the  iron 
mask — ha — ha — ha !  Or  stay,  was  there 
ever  such  a  thing  in  this  benevolent  and  hu- 
mane world  of  ours  as  a  man  with  an  iron 
heart  ?  If  so,  who  knows,  then,  but  you  may 
date  your  ancestry  fi'om  him?  Ay,  right 
enough  ;  we  are  in  a  coach,  I  think,  and 
going — going— going  to — to — to — ah,  where 
to  ?    I  know — oh,  mj  God — we  are  going  to 

— to — to "  and  here  jjoor  Fenton  once 

more  feU  asleejD,  as  was  evident  by  his  deep 
but  oppressive  breathing. 

Now  the  baronet,  although  he  maintained 
a  stiict  silence  dui'ing  their  journey,  a  si- 
lence which  it  was  not  his  intention  to 
break,  made  up  for  this  cautious  tacitui*nity 
by  thought  and  those  reflections  which  ori- 
ginated from  his  designs  upon  Fenton.  He 
felt  astonished,  in  the  first  place,  at  the 
measures,  whatever  they  might  have  been, 
by  which  the  other  must  have  obtained 
means  of  esgaping  fi'om  the  asylum  to  which 
he  had  been  committed  with  such  strict  in- 
junctions as  to  his  seciu'e  custody.  It  oc- 
curred to  him,  therefore,  that  by  an  exami- 
nation of  his  pockets  he  might  possibly 
ascertain  some  clew  to  this  cu'cumstance, 
and  as  the  man  was  not  overbiu'dened  with 
much  conscience  or  delicacy,  he  came  to  the 
determination,  as  Fenton  was  once  more 
dead  asleep,  to  search  for  and  examine  what- 
ever papers  he  should  find  about  him,  if 
any.  For  this  purpose  he  ignited  a  match 
— such  as  they  had  in  those  days — and  with 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


405 


this  match  lit  up  a  small  dark  laatem,  the 
same  to  which  we  have  already  alluded. 
Aided  by  its  light,  he  examined  the  sleeping 
young  man's  jjockets,  in  which  he  felt  verj' 
httle,  in  the  sliape  of  either  money  or  pa- 
pers, that  could  compensate  him  for  this  act 
of  larceny.  In  a  breast-pocket,  however,  in- 
side his  waistcoat,  he  found  pinned  to  the 
lining  a  note — a  poimd  note — on  the  back 
of  which  was  jotted  a  brief  memorandum  of 
the  day  on  which  it  was  WTitten,  and  the 
person  fi'om  whom  he  had  received  it.  To 
this  was  added  a  second  memorandum,  in 
the  foUowing  words  :  "  Mem.  This  note  may 
yet  be  usefid  to  myself  if  I  could  get  a  sin- 
cere fiiend  that  would  find  out  the  man 
whose  name — Thomas  Skij^ton — is  wTitten 
here  upon  it.  He  is  the  man  I  want,  for  I 
know  his  signatiu-e." 

No  sooner  had  the  baronet  read  these 
lines,  than  he  examined  the  several  names 
on  the  note,  and  on  coming  to  one  which 
was  underlined  evidently  by  the  same  ink 
that  was  used  by  Fenton  in  the  memoranda, 
his  eyes  gleamed  with  delight,  and  he  waved 
it  to  and  fi'O  wdth  a  grim  and  hideous  tri- 
umph, such  as  the  lurid  light  of  his  foul 
principles  flashing  through  such  eyes,  and 
animating  such  features  as  his,  could  only 
express. 

"  Unhappy  AATetch,"  thought  he,  looking 
upon  his  unconscious  ^•ictim,  "it  is  evident 
that  you  are  doomed  ;  this  man  is  the  only 
indindual  hving  over  whom  I  have  no  con- 
trol, that  could  give  any  trace  of  you  ;  nei- 
ther of  the  other  two,  for  their  own  sakes, 
dare  sjDeak.  Even  fate  is  against  you  ;  that 
fate  which  has  consigned  this  beggarly  rep- 
resentative of  wealth  to  my  hands,  through 
your  own  instrumentahty.  I  now  feel  con- 
fident ;  nay,  I  am  certain  that  my  projects 
will  and  must  succeed.  The  affairs  of  this 
world  are  regulated  unquestionably  by  the 
immutable  decrees  of  destiny.  What  is  to 
be  xcUl  be  ;  and  I,  in  putting  this  Avretched, 
dinmken,  mad,  and  besotted  being  out  of 
my  way,  am  only  an  instrument  in  the  hands 
of  that  destiny  myself.  The  blame  then  is 
not  mine,  but  that  of  the  law  which  con- 
strains— forces  me  to  act  the  pai-t  I  am  act- 
ing, a  part  which  was  allotted  to  me  fi'om  the 
beginning  ;  and  this  reflection  fills  me  with 
consolation." 

He  then  re-examined  the  note,  put  it  into 
a  paiiicular  fold  of  his  pocket-book  which 
had  before  been  empty*  in  order  to  keep  it 
distinct,  and  once  more  thinasting  it  into  his 
pocket,  buttoned  it  carefully  up,  extin- 
guished the  lantern,  and  laid  himself  back 
in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,  in  which  posi- 
tion he  reclined,  meditating  upon  the  kind 
partiality  of  destiny  in  his  favor,  the  virtu- 


ous tendencies  of  his  own  ambition,  and  the 
admirable,  because  successful,  means  by 
which  he  was  bringing  them  about. 

In  this  manner  they  proceeded  until  they 
reached  the  entrance  of  the  next  town,  when 
the  baronet  desu-ed  Gillespie  to  stop.     "  Go 
forward,"  said  he,    "and  order  a  chaise  and 
pair  ^^•ithout  delay.     I  think,  however,  you 
will  find  them  reiidy  for  you  ;  and  if  Corbet 
is  there,  desire  him  to  return  \rith  you.     He 
\  has  already  had  his  instructions.     I  am  sick 
'  of  this  work,  (iillespie ;   and   I  assure  you 
]  it  is  not  for  the  son  of  a  common  friend 
that  I  would  forego  my  necessarj-  rest,   to 
sit  at  such  an  hour  with  a  person  who  is 
'■  both  mad  and  drunk.     What  is  friendship, 
however,  if  we  neglect  its  duties  ?   Care  and 
''  medical  skill  may  enable  this   unfortunate 
young  man  to  recover  his  reason,  and  take  a 
!  respectable  position  in  the  world  yet.     Go 
now  and  make  no  delay.    I  shall  take  charge 
of  this  poor  feUow  and  the  horses  until  you 
■  return.     But,  mark  me,  my  name  is  not  to 
be  breathed  to  mortal,  under  a  penalty  that 
you  will  find  a  dreadful  one,   should  you  in- 
cur it." 

!      "Never  fear,  your  honor,"  rephed  Gilles- 
pie ;  "I  am  not  the  man  to  betray  tmst ; 
and  indeed,  few  gentlemen  of  your  i-ank,  aa 
:  I  said,  would  go  so  far  for  the  son  of  an 
I  auld  friend.     I'll  lose  no  time,  Su'  Thomas." 
I      Sir  Thomas,  we  have  had  occasion  to  say 
i  more  than  once,  was  quick  and  energetic  in 
;  all  his  resolutions,  and  beyond  doubt,  the 
fact  that  Gillespie  found  Corbet  ready  and 
expecting  him  on  this  occasion,  fully  con'ob- 
oi'ates  our  opinion. 

1      Indeed,  it  was  his  invariable  habit,  when- 
'  ever  he  found  that  more  than  one  agent  or 
;  instrument  was  necessary-,  to  employ  them, 
'  as  far  as  was  possible,  independently  of  each 
other.     For  instance,  he  had  not  at  aU  com- 
municated to  Gillespie  the  fact  of  his  having 
:  engaged  Corbet  in  the  matter,  nor  had  the 
former  any  suspicion  of  it  until  he  now  re- 
i  ceived  the  fii-st  hint  from  Sir  Thomas  him- 
!  self.     A  chaise  and  pair   in  less   than   five 
'  minutes  drove  gently,  but  -vrith  steady  pace, 
1  back  to  the  spot  where  the  baronet  stood  at 
the  head  of  his  horses,  watching  the  doore 
I  of  the  carnage  on  each  side  eveiy  quarter  of 
1  a  minute,  lest  b}-  any  possible  chance  his 
j  victim  might  escape  him.     Of  this,  however, 
,  there  was  not  tlie  slightest   danger ;    poor 
'  Fenton's  sleep,  hke  that  of  almost  all  diimk- 
1  en  men,  ha%ing  had  in  it  more  of  stupor 
than  of  ordinaiT  and  healthful  repose. 

We  have  informed  our  readers  that  the 
baronet  was  not  \rithout  a  strong  tinge  of 
superstition,  notwithstanding  his  rehgious 
infidehty,  and  his  beUef  in  the  doctrine  of 
fate  and  necessity.     On  finding  himself  alone 


406 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


at  that  dead  and  dreary  boiu-  of  the  night — 
half-past  two — standing  under  a  shady  range 
of  tall  trees  that  met  across  the  road,  and 
gave  a  character  of  extraordinary  gloom  and 
solitude  to  the  place,  he  began  to  experience 
that  vague  and  undefined  terror  which  steals 
over  the  mind  from  an  involuntary  appre- 
hension  of  the   supernatural.      A  singular  ; 
degree   of  uneasiness   came   over  him  :  he 
coughed,  he  hemmed,  in  oixler  to  brejik  the 
death-Hke  stillness  in  which  he  stood.     He 
patted  the  horses,  he  rubbed  his  hand  Aovm. 
theh'  backs,   but  felt  considerable  surprise  j 
and  terror  on  finding  that  they  both  trem- 
bled,   and   seemed   by   then-   snorting   and 
tremors  to  partake  of  his  own  sensations. 
Under  such  terrors  there  is  nothing  that  ex-  , 
tinguishes  a  man's  courage  so  much  as  the 
re\iew  of  an  ill-spent  life,  or  the  reproaches  i 
of  an  e\il  conscience.     Sir  Thomas  Goui'lay 
could  not  see  and  feel,  for  the  moment,  the 
criminal  iniquity  of  his  black  and  ungodly 
ambition,  and  the  crimes  into  which  it  in-  \ 
volved  him.     Still,  the  consciousness  of  the 
flagitious  project  in  which  he  was  engaged  j 
against  the  unoffending  son  of  his  brother, 
the  influence  of  the  hour,  and  the  sohtude  in 
which  he  stood,  together  with  the  operation 
upon  his  mind  of  some  unaccountable  fear 
.apart  fi'om   that  of  jDersonal   riolence — aU, 
when  united,  thi'ew  him  into  a  commotion 
that  resulted  from  such  a  dread  as  intimated  | 
that  something  supernatui-al  must  be  near  | 
him.     He  was  seized  by  a  violent  shaking 
of  the  limbs,   the   perspiration  burst   from 
every  pore  ;  and  as  he  patted  the  horses  a  \ 
second  time  for  relief,  he   again  perceived 
that  their  terrors  were  increasing  and  keep- ; 
ing  pace  with  his  own.     At  length,  his  hair 
fairly  stood,  and  his  excitement  was  nearly 
as  high  as  excitement  of  such  a  merely  ideal  , 
character   could    go,  Avhen   he   thought   he  1 
heard   a   step — a   heaA-T,  solemn,  unearthly 
step — that  sounded  as  if  there  was  something 
denouncing  and  judicial  in  the  terrible  em- 
phasis with  which  it  went  to  his  heart,  or 
rather  to  his  conscience.     Without  having 
the  joower  to  restrain  himself,  he  foUowed 
with  his   eyes   this  symbohcal   tread   as   it  ' 
seemed  to  api:)roach  the  coach  door  on  the  ' 
side  at  Avhich  he  stood.     This  Avas  the  more  | 
surprising   and   frightful,    as,    although   he 
heard  the  tramp,  yet  he  could  for  the  moment ' 
see  nothing  in  the  shape  of  either  figure  or  \ 
form,  from  which  he  could  resolve  what  he 
had  heard  into  a  natural  sound.     At  length, 
as  he  stood  almost  dissolved  in  terror,  he 
thought  that  an  indistinct,  or  ratlier  an  un- 
substantial figure  stood  at  the  carriage-door, 
looked  in  for  a  moment,  and  then  bent  his 
glance  at  him,  with  a  severe  and  stem  ex- 
pression ;  after  which,  it  began  to  rub  out 


or  eft'ace  a  certain  portion  of  the  armorial 
bearings,  which  he  had  added  to  his  heraldic 
coat  in  right  of  his  wife.  The  noise  of  the 
chaise  approaching  now  reached  his  ears,  and 
he  turned  as  a  relief  to  ascertain  if  Gillespie 
and  Corbet  were  near  him.  As  far  as  he 
could  judge,  they  were  about  a  couple  of 
hundred  yards  oft',  and  this  discovery  re- 
called his  departed  courage  ;  he  tiuned  his 
eyes  once  more  to  the  cariiage-door,  but  to 
his  infinite  rehef  could  perceive  nothing.  A 
soft,  solemn,  mournfiil  blast,  however,  some- 
what hke  a  low  moan,  amounting  almost  to 
a  wail,  crejjt  through  the  trees  under  which 
he  stood ;  and  after  it  had  subsided — whether 
it  was  fact  or  fancy  cannot  now  be  knowTi — 
he  thought  he  heard  the  same  step  slowly, 
and,  as  it  were  with  a  kind  of  sorrowftd 
anger,  retreating  in  the  distance. 

"  If  mortal  spirit,"  he  exclaimed  as  they 
approached,  "ever  was  permitted  to  return 
to  this  eai'th,  that  form  was  the  spirit  of  my 
mortal  brother.  This,  however,"  he  added, 
but  only  in  thought,  when  they  came  up  to 
him,  and  after  he  had  regained  his  confidence 
by  their  presence,  "  this  is  all  stufi" — nothing 
but  solitude  and  its  associations  acting  upon 
the  nerves ;  thus  euabUng  us,  as  we  think, 
to  see  the  very  forms  created  only  by  our 
fears,  and  which,  apart  fi"om  them,  have  no 
existence." 

The  men  and  the  chaise  were  now  with 
him — Gillespie  on  horseback,  that  is  to  say, 
he  was  to  bring  back  the  same  animal  on 
which  Sir  Thomas  had  secretly  despatched 

Corbet  from  Red  HaU  to  the  town  of , 

for  the  purpose  of  having  the  chaise  ready, 
and  conducting  Fenton  to  his  ultimate  des- 
tination. The  poor  young  man's  transfer 
fi'om  the  carriage  to  the  chaise  was  quickly 
and  easily  eftected.  Several  large  flasks  of 
strong  spirits  and  water  were  also  transfeiTcd 
along  with  him. 

"  Now,  Corbet,"  observed  Sir  Thomas 
apart  to  him,  "you  have  full  instructions 
how  to  act ;  and  see  that  you  carry  them  out 
to  the  letter.  You  will  find  no  difiiculty  in 
keepmg  this  person  in  a  state  of  intoxication 

aU  the  way.     Go  back  to  ,  engage  old 

Bradbuiy  to  drive  the  chaise,  for,  although 
deaf  and  stujiid,  he  is  an  excellent  driver. 
Change  the  chaise  and  horses,  however,  as 
often  as  you  can,  so  as  that  it  may  be  difii- 
cult,  if  not  impossible,  to  trace  the  route  you 
take.  Give  Benson,  who,  after  all,  is  the 
prince  of  mad  docfors,  the  enclosui-e  which 
you  have  in  the  blank  cover ;  and  tell  him, 
he  shall  have  an  annuity  to  the  same  amount, 
whether  this  fellow  lives  or  dies.  Mark  me, 
Corbet — whether  his  charge  hves  or  dies. 
Repeat  these  v/ords  to  him  twice,  as  I  have 
done  to  you.     Above  all  things,  let  him  keej." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


¥A 


\ma  safe — aafe — safe.  Remember,  Corbet, 
tliat  our  family  have  been  kind  fiiends  to 
yours.  I,  therefore,  have  trusted  you  all 
along  in  this  matter,  and  calculate  upon  your 
confidence  as  a  gi'ateful  and  honest  man,  as 
well  as  upon  your  impUcit  obedience  to  every 
order  I  have  given  you.  I  myself  shall  drive 
home  the  cari'iage  ;  and  when  we  get  near 
Red  Hall,  Gillespie  can  ride  forwai-d,  have 
liis  horse  put  up,  and  the  stable  and  coach- 
house doors  open,  so  that  everything  to- 
morrow morning  may  look  as  if  no  such  ex- 
pedition had  fciken  place." 

They  then  separated  ;  Corbet  to  conduct 
poor  Fenton  to  his  dreaiy  cell  in  a  mad-house, 
and  Sir  Thomas  to  seek  that  upon  which, 
despite  his  most  ambitious  projects,  he  had 
been  doomed  all  his  hfe  to  seek  after  in 
vain — rest  on  an  wneasy  pillow. 


CHAPTER  X\TX 

A  Scene  in  Jemmy  TraHcudyeV s — Retributive  Jus- 
tice, or  the  Robber  robbed. 

Ix  the  days  of  which  we  Avi-ite,  travelling 
was  a  very  diflferent  process  fi'om  what  it  is 
at  px-esent.  Mail-coaches  and  chaises  were 
tlie  only  vehicles  then  in  requisition,  with 
the  exception  of  the  awkward  gingles,  bug- 
gies, and  other  gear  of  that  nondesci-ipt  class 
which  were  peculiar  to  the  times,  and  prin- 

■  cipally  confined  to  the  metropolis.  The  re- 
sult of  this  was,  that  travellers,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  slow  jog-trot  motion  of  those 
curious  and  inconvenient  machines,  were 
obliged,  in  order  to  transact  their  business 
with  something  like  due  dispatch,  to  travel 
both  by  night  and  day.  In  this  case,  as  in 
others,  the  cause  produced  the  effect ;  or 
rather,  we  should  say,  the  temptation  occa- 

,      sioned   the   crime.      Highway-robbery   was 

;'  frequent ;  and  many  a  worthy  man — fat  far- 
mer and  wealthy  commoner — was  eased  of 
his  purse  in  despite  of  all  his  armed  precau- 
tions and  the  most  sturdy  resistance.  The 
poorer  classes,  in  every  part  of  the  country, 
were  ■with  scarcely  an  exception,  the  fiiends 
of  those  depredators  ;  by  whom,  it  is  true, 
they  were  aided  against  oppres.sion,  and  as- 
sisted in  their  destitution,  as  a  compensation 
for  connivance  and  shelter  whenever  the  ex- 
ecutive authorities  were  in  pursuit  of  them. 

>  Most  of  these  robberies,  it  is  true,  were  the 
result  of  a  loose  and  disorganized  state  of  so- 
ciety, and  had  their  direct  origin  from  op- 
pressive and  unequal  laws,  badly  or  partially 
administered.  Robbery,  therefore,  in  its  gen- 
eral character,  was  caused,  not  so  much  by 


poverty,  as  from  a  desperate  hatred  of  those 
penal  statutes  which  operated  for  punish- 
ment but  not  for  protection.  Our  readers 
may  not  feel  sui-jirised,  then,  when  we  assure 
them  that  the  bui-glar  and  highway-robber 
looked  upon  this  infamous  habit  as  a  kind 
of  patriotic  and  politicid  pi*ofession,  rather 
than  a  crime  ;  and  it  is  well  known  that 
within  the  last  century  the  sons  of  even  decent 
farmers  were  bound  apprentices  to  this  fla- 
gitious craft,  especially  to  that  of  horse  steal- 
ing, which  was  then  reduced  to  a  sy.stem  of 
most  extraordinaiy  ingenuity  and  address. 
Still,  there  were  many  poor  wretches  who, 
sunk  in  the  deepest  destitution,  and  con- 
taminated by  a  habit  which  familiarity  bad 
deprived  in  their  eyes  of  much  of  its  inher- 
ent enormity,  scinipled  not  to  relieve  their 
distresses  by  haring  recourse  to  the  preva^ 
lent  usage  of  the  countiy. 

Having  thrown  out  these  few  preparatory 
observations,  we  request  oiu*  readers  to  fol- 
low us  to  the  wretched  cabin  of  a  man 
whose  iwm  de  guerre  was  that  of  Jemmy 
TraUcudgel — a  name  that  was  applied  to 
him,  as  the  reader  may  see,  in  consequence 
of  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  he  canied 
the  weapon  aforesaid.  Trailcudgel  was  a 
man  of  enormous  personal  strength  and  sur- 
prising courage,  and  had  distinguished  him- 
self as  the  leader  of  many  a  party  and  faction 
fight  in  the  neighboring  faii-s  and  mai'kets. 
He  had  been,  not  many  yeai's  before,  in  tol- 
erably good  circumstances,  as  a  tenant  under 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  ;  and  as  that  gentleman 
had  taken  it  into  his  head  that  his  tenantry 
were  bound,  as  firmly  as  if  there  had  been  a 
clause  to  that  effect  in  their  leases,  to  bear 
patientl}-  and  in  respectful  silence,  the  im- 
perious and  ribald  scurriUty  which  in  a  state 
of  resentment,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  pour- 
ing Upon  them,  so  did  he  lose  few  opportu- 
nities of  making  them  feel,  for  the  most 
tririal  causes,  all  the  irresponsible  insolence 
of  the  strong  and  vindictive  tyrant.  Now, 
Jemmy  Trailcudgel  was  an  honest  man, 
whom  eveiy  one  hked  ;  but  he  was  also  a 
man  of  spii-it,  whom,  in  another  sense,  most 
people  feared.  Among  his  family  he  was  a 
perfect  child  in  affection  and  tenderaess — 
lo^'ing,  playful,  and  simple  as  one  of  them- 
selves. Yet  this  man,  affectionate,  brave, 
and  honest,  because  he  could  not  submit  in 
silence  and  ^\•ithout  indication,  to  the  wan- 
ton and  overbearing  riolence  of  his  landlord, 
was  harassed  by  a  series  of  persecutions, 
under  the  pretended  authority  of  law,  until 
he  and  his  unhappy  family  were  driven  to 
beggary — almost  to  despair. 

"Trailcudgel,"  said  Sir  Tliomas  to  him 
one  day  that  he  had  sent  for  him  in  a  fury, 
"  by  what  right  and  authority,  sirra,  did  you 


109 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


dare  to  cut  turf  on  that  part  of  the  bog 
callecl  Berwick's  Bank  ?  " 

"Ul)on  the  right  and  authority  of  my 
.ease,  Sir  Thomas,"  repKed  Trailcudgel ;  "  and 
vnth  great  respect,  sir,  you  had  neither 
right  nor  authority  for  settin'  my  bog,  that 
I'm  payin'  you  rent  for,  to  another  tenant." 

The  baronet  gi-ew  black  in  the  face,  as  he 
always  did  when  in  a  passion,  and  especially 
when  repHed  to. 

"You  are  a  lying  scoundrel,  sin-a,"  con- 
tinued the  other  ;  "  the  bog  does  not  belong 
to  you,  and  I  will  set  it  to  the  devil  if  I 
likeV' 

"  I  know  nobody  so  fit  to  be  your  tenant," 
replied  Trailcudgel.  "  But  I  am  no  scoun- 
di*el,  Sir  Thomas,"  added  the  independent 
fellow,  "  and  there's  veiy  few  dare  tell  me 
so  but  yourself." 

"  What,  you  villain !  do  you  contradict 
me  ?  do  you  bandy  words  and  looks  with 
me  ?  "  asked  the  baronet,  his  rage  deej)ening 
at  Trailcudgel's  audacity  in  having  repHed  at 
all 

"  Villain  !  "  returned  his  gigantic  tenant, 
in  a  voice  of  thunder.  "You  called  me  a 
scoundrel,  sirra,  and  you  have  called  me  a 
villain,  sin-a,  now  I  tell  you  to  your  teeth, 
you're  a  Uar — I  am  neither  ^dllain  nor  scoun- 
drel ;  but  yovi're  both  ;  and  if  I  hear  another 
word  of  insolence  out  of  your  foul  and  lying 
mouth,  I'll  thrash  you  as  I  would  a  shafe  of 
whate  or  oats." 

The  black  hue  of  the  baronet's  rage 
changed  to  a  much  modester  tint  ;  he  looked 
upon  the  face  of  the  sturdy  yeoman,  now 
flushed  with  honest  resentment ;  he  looked 
upon  the  eye  that  was  kindled  at  once  into 
an  expression  of  resolution  and  disdain  ;  and 
turning  on  his  toe,  proceeded  at  a  pace  by 
no  means  funereal  to  the  steps  of  the  hall- 
door,  and  having  ascended  them,  he  turned 
round  and  said,  in  a  very  mild  and  quite 
a  gentlemanly  tone, 

"  Oh,  very  well.  Mi'.  Trailcudgel ;  very 
weU,  indeed.  I  have  a  memory,  Mr.  Trail- 
cudgel— I  have  a  memory.    Good  morning  ! " 

"Betther  for  you  to  have  a  heart,"  ve]Aied 
Trailcudgel ;  "  what  you  never  had." 

Having  uttered  these  words  he  departed, 
conscious  at  the  same  time,  from  his  knowl- 
edge of  his  landlord's  unrelenting  malignity, 
that  his  own  fate  was  sealed,  and  his  ruin 
accomplished.  And  he  was  right.  In  the 
course  of  four  years  after  their  quarrel*  Trail- 
cudgel found  himself,  and  his  numerous 
family,  in  the  scene  of  destitution  to  which 
we  are  about  to  conduct  the  indulgent 
reader. 

We  pray  you,  therefore,  gentle  reader,  to 
imagine  yourself  in  a  small  cabin,  where 
there  ai*e  two  beds — that  is  to  say,  two  scanty 


portions  of  damp  straw,  spread  out  thinly 
upon  a  still  damper  foot  of  earth,  in  a  por- 
tion of  which  the  foot  sinks  when  walking 
over  it.  The  two  beds — each  what  is  termed 
a  shake  down — have  barely  covering  enough 
to  perser\'e  the  piu-poses  of  decency,  but  not 
to  communicate  the  usual  and  necessary 
wai-mth.  In  consequence  of  the  limited  ai-ea 
of  the  cabin  floor  they  are  not  far  removed 
from  each  other.  Uj)on  a  little  three-legged 
stool,  between  them,  biu'ns  a  dim  rush  can- 
dle, whose  Hght  is  so  exceedingly  feeble 
that  it  casts  ghastly  and  death-like  shadows 
over  the  whole  inside  of  the  cabin.  That 
family  consists  of  nine  persons,  of  whom 
five  are  lying  ill  of  fever,  as  the  reader,  fi'om 
the  nature  of  their  bedding,  may  have  al- 
ready anticipated — for  we  must  obser\'e  here, 
that  the  epidemic  was  rife  at  the  time. 
Food  of  any  description  has  not  been  under 
that  roof  for  more  than  twenty-four  hours. 
They  are  all  in  bed  but  one.  A  low  mur- 
mur, that  went  to  the  heart  of  that  one, 
with  a  noise  which  seemed  to  it  louder  and 
more  terrible  than  the  deepest  peal  that 
ever  thundered  tlu'ough  the  firmament  of 
heaven — a  low  murmur,  we  say,  of  this  de- 
scription, arose  fi-om  the  beds,  composed  of 
those  wailing  sounds  that  mingle  together 
as  they  proceed  from  the  lips  of  weakness, 
pain,  and  famine,  until  they  form  that  many- 
toned,  incessant,  and  horrible  voice  of  mul- 
tiphed  misery,  which  falls  upon  the  ear 
with  the  echoes  of  the  gi'ave,  and  upon  the 
heart  as  something  wonderful  in  the  accents 
of  God,  or,  as  we  may  suppose  the  voice  of 
the  accusing  angel  to  be,  whilst  recording 
before  His  thi-one  the  ofiicial  inhumanity 
of  councils  and  senates,  who  harden  their 
hearts  and  shut  their  ears  to  "  the  ciy  of  the 
poor." 

Seated  upon  a  second  little  stool  was  a 
man  of  huge  stature,  clothed,  if  we  can  say 
so,  with  rags,  contemj^lating  the  misery 
around  him,  and  having  no  sounds  to  listen 
to  but  the  low,  ceaseless  wail  of  pain  and 
suftering  which  we  have  described.  His 
features,  once  manly  and  handsome,  are 
now  shai-p  and  hollow  ;  his  beard  is  grown  ; 
his  lips  are  white ;  and  his  eyes  Arithout 
speculation,  unless  when  lit  up  into  an  oc- 
casional blaze  of  fire,  that  seemed  to  jjroceed 
as  much  from  the  paroxysms  of  approaching 
insanity  as  from  the  terrible  scene  which 
surrounds  him,  as  well  as  from  his  own 
wolfish  desire  for  food.  His  cheek  bones 
project  fearfully,  and  his  large  temples  seem, 
hj  the  ghastly  skin  which  is  drawn  tight 
about  them,  to  remind  one  of  those  of  a  skele- 
ton, were  it  not  that  the  image  is  made  stiil 
more  appalling  by  the  existence  of  hfe. 

Whilst  in  this  position,  motionless  as  e 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


409 


statue,  a  voice  from  one  of  the  beds  called 
out  "Jemmy,"  with  a  tone  so  low  and  feeble 
that  to  other  ears  it  would  probably  not 
have  been  distinctly  audible.  He  went 
to  the  bedside,  and  taking  the  candle  in  his 
hand,  said,  in  a  voice  that  had  lost  its  strength 
but  not  its  tenderness  : 

"Well,  Mary  dear?  ' 

"  Jemmy,"  said  she,  for  it  was  liis  wife 
who  had  called  him,  "  my  time  has  come. 
I  must  lave  you  and  them  at  last." 

"Thanks  be  to  the  Almighty,"  he  ex- 
claimed, fervently  ;  "  and  don't  be  siu'prised, 
darlin'  of  my  life,  that  I  spake  as  I  do.  Ah, 
Mai-y  dear,"  he  proceeded,  with  a  wild  and 
bitter  manner,  "  I  never  thought  that  my  love 
for  you  would  make  me  say  such  words,  or 
•\\ash  to  feel  you  torn  out  of  my  breakin'  heai't ; 
but  I  know  how  happy  the  change  will  be 
for  you,  as  well  as  the  sufferers  3'ou  are 
lavin'  behind  you.  Death  now  is  om-  only 
consolation." 

"It  cannot  be  that  God,  Avho  knows  the 
kind  and  affectionate  heart  you  have,  an' 
ever  had,"  replied  his  dying  wife,  "  will  neg- 
lect you  and  them  long," — but  she  an- 
swered with  difficulty.  "  We  were  very 
happ3',"  she  proceeded,  slowly,  however,  and 
with  pain  ;  "  for,  hard  as  the  world  was  of 
late  upon  us,  still  we  had  love  and  affection 
among  ourselves  ;  and  that.  Jemmy,  God  in 
his  goodness  left  us,  blessed  be  his — his — 
holy  name — an'  sui-e  it  was  betther  thsm  aU 
he  took  from  us.  I  hope  poor  Alley  will  re- 
cover ;  she's  now  nearly  a  girl,  an'  "will  be 
able  to  take  care  of  you  and  be  a  mother  to 
the  rest.  I  feel  that  my  tongue's  gettin' 
wake  ;  God  bless  you  and  them,  an',  above 
all,  her — for  she  was  our  dai'hn'  an'  our 
Hfe,  especially  yours.  Raise  me  up  a  little," 
she  added,  "  till  I  take  a  last  look  at  them 
before  I  go."  He  did  so,  and  after  casting 
her  languid  eyes  mournfully  over  the 
wretched  sleepers,  she  added  :  "  WeU,  God 
is  good,  but  this  is  a  bitther  sight  for  a 
mother's  heart.  Jemmy,"  she  j^roceeded, 
"  I  won't  be  long  by  myself  in  heaven  ;  some 
of  them  wiU  be  "with  me  soon — an'  oh,  what 
a  joyful  meeting  wiU  that  be.  But  it's  you 
I  feel  for  most — it's  you  I'm  loath  to  lave, 
light  of  my  heart.  Howsomever,  God's  will 
be  done  still.  He  sees  we  can't  live  here,  an' 
He's  takin'  us  to  himself.  Don't,  darlin', 
don't  kiss  me,  for  fraid  you  might  catch  this 
fav " 

She  held  his  hand  in  hers  during  this  brief 
and  tender  dialogue,  but  on  attempting  to 
utter  the  last  word  he  felt  a  gentle  pressui-e, 
then  a  shght  relaxation,  and  on  holding  the 
candle  closer  to  her  emaciated  face — which 
still  bore  those  dim  traces  of  former  beauty, 
that,  in  miiny  instances,  neither  sickness  nor 


death  can  altogether  obhterate — he  stooped 
and  wildly  kissed  her  now  passive  hps,  ex- 
claiming, in  words  purposely  low,  that  the 
other  inmates  of  the  cabin  might  not  hear 
them  : 

"  A  milhon  f avers,  my  darUn'  Mary,  would 
not  prevent  me  from  kissin'  your  hps,  that 
will  never  more  be  opened  with  words  of 
love  and  kindness  to  my  heart.  Oh,  Marj', 
Mar}' !  Uttle  did  I  drame  that  it  would  be  in 
such  a  place,  and  in  such  a  way,  that  you'd 
lave  me  and  them." 

He  had  hardly  spoken,  when  one  of  the 
little  ones,  awaking,  said  : 

"  Daddy,  come  here,  an'  see  what  ails  AUey; 
she  won't  spake  to  me." 

"  She's  asleep,  darlin',  I  suppose,  "  he  re- 
pHed  ;  "  don't  sjDake  so  loud,  or  you'U  waken 
her." 

"Ay,  but  she's  as  could  as  anything,"  con- 
tinued the  little  one;  "an' I  can't  rise  her 
arm  to  put  it  about  me  the  way  it  used  to  be." 

Her  father  went  over,  and  placing  the  dim 
light  close  to  her  face,  as  he  had  done  to  that 
of  her  mother,  perceived  at  a  glance,  that 
when  the  spirit  of  that  affectionate  mother — 
of  that  faithful  wife — went  to  hapjDiness,  she 
had  one  kindred  soul  there  to  welcome  her. 

The  man,  whom  we  need  not  name  to  the 
reader,  now  stood  in  the  centre  of  his  "  deso- 
late hearth,"  and  it  was  indeed  a  fearful  thing 
to  contemplate  the  change  which  the  last  few 
minutes  had  produced  on  his  appeai'ance. 
His  countenance  ceased  to  manifest  any  ex- 
pression of  either  grief  or  sorrow  ;  his  brows 
became  knit,  and  fell  with  savage  and  deter- 
mined gloom,  not  unmiugled  "«ith  fmy,  over 
his  eyes,  that  now  blazed  like  coals  of  fii-e. 
His  hps,  too,  became  tight  and  firm,  and 
were  pressed  closely  together,  luiconsciously 
and  without  effort.  In  this  mood,  we  sa}',  he 
gazed  about  him,  his  heart  smote  with  sor- 
row and  affliction,  whilst  it  boiled  with 
indignation  and  fury.  "  Thomas  Goui-lay," 
he  exclaimed — ' '  villain — oppressor — murd- 
tierer — devil — this  is  your  work  !  but  I  here 
entreat  the  Almighty  God  " — he  droj^ped  on 
his  knees  as  he  sjjoke — "  never  to  suffer  you 
to  lave  this  world  till  he  taches  you  that  he 
Cfm  take  vengeance  for  the  poor."  Looking 
around  him  once  more,  he  lit  a  longer  nish- 
light,  and  placed  it  in  the  little  wooden 
candlestick,  which  had  a  slit  at  the  top,  into 
which  the  rush  was  jiressed.  Proceeding 
then  to  the  lower  corner  of  the  cabin,  he  i)ut 
uj}  his  hand  to  the  top  of  the  side  wall,  from 
which  he  tof)k  down  a  large  stick,  or  cudgel, 
having  a  strong  leathern  thong  in  the  upper 
part,  within  about  six  inches  of  the  top. 
Into  this  thong  he  thrust  his  hand,  and 
twisting  it  roimd  his  WTist,  in  order  that  no 
accident  or  chance  blow  might  cause  him  to 


410 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


lose  his  gi'ip  of  it,  he  once  more  looked  upon 
this  scene  of  unexampled  wi'etchedness  and 
sorrow,  and  pulling  his  old  caubeen  over  his 
brow,  left  the  cabin. 

It  is  altogether  impossible  to  describe  the 
storm  of  conflicting  passions  and  emotions 
that  raged  and  jostled  against  each  other 
within  him.  Sorrow — a  sense  of  relief — on 
behalf  of  those  so  dear  to  him,  who  had  been 
rescued  from  such  misery  ;  the  love  which  he 
bore  them  now  awakened  into  tenfold  affec- 
tion and  tenderness  by  theii*  loss  ;  the  un- 
certain fate  of  his  other  httle  brood,  who 
were  ill,  but  still  U-\ing  ;  then  the  destitution 
— the  want  of  all  that  could  nourish  or  sus- 
tain them^the  furious  ravenings  of  famine, 
which  he  himself  felt — and  the  black,  hope- 
less, impenetrable  futirre — all  crowded  upon 
his  heart,  swept  through  his  fi'antic  imagina- 
tion, and  produced  those  maddening  but 
unconscious  impulses,  under  the  influence  of 
which  great  crimes  are  frequently  committed, 
almost  before  their  perpetrator  is  aware  of 
his  having  committed  them. 

Trailcudgel,  on  leading  his  cabin,  cared 
not  whither  he  went ;  but,  by  one  of  those 
instincts  which  direct  the  savage  to  the  pecu- 
Uar  haunts  where  its  prey  may  be  expected, 
and  guides  the  stupid  drunkard  to  his  own 
pai'ticular  dwelling,  though  unconscious  even 
of  his  veiy  existence  at  the  time — like  either, 
or  both,  of  these,  he  went  on  at  as  rapid  a 
pace  as  his  weakness  Avould  permit,  being 
quite  ignorant  of  his  whereabouts  rmtil  he 
felt  himself  on  the  great  highway.  He  looked 
at  the  sky  now  with  an  interest  he  had  never 
felt  before.  The  night  was  exceedingly  dark, 
but  calm  and  warm.  An  odd  star  here  and 
there  presented  itself,  and  he  felt  glad  at 
this,  for  it  removed  the  monotony  of  the 
darkness. 

"There,"  said  he  to  himself,  "is  the  place 
where  Mary  and  Alley  live  now.  Up  there, 
in  heaven.  I  am  glad  of  it ;  but  still,  how 
will  I  enther  the  cabin,  and  not  hear  their 
voices  ?  But  the  other  poor  creatures ! 
musn't  I  do  something  for  them,  or  they  will 
go  too  ?  Yes,  yes, — but  whisht !  what  noise 
is  that?  Ha!  a  coach.  Now  for  it.  May 
God  sujDport  me  !  Here  comes  the  battle 
for  the  little  ones — for  the  poor  weak  hand 
that's  not  able  to  can-y  the  drink  to  its 
lips.  Poor  darlins !  Yes,  darhus,  your 
father  is  now  goin'  to  fight  your  battle — to 
put  himself,  for  your  sakes,  against  the  laws 
of  man,  but  not  against  the  laws  of  nature 
that  God  has  put  into  my  heai-t  for  my  dying 
childre.  Either  the  one  funeral  will  carry 
three  corpses  to  the  grave,  or  I  will  bi-ing 
yez  rehef.  It's  comin'  near,  and  I'll  stand 
undher  this  tree." 
In   accordance   with    this    resolution,    he 


planted  himself  under  a  large  clump  of  trees 
where,  like  the  famished  tiger,  he  awaited 
the  arrival  of  the  cai-riage.  And,  indeed,  it 
is  obvious  that  despair,  and  hunger,  and  sor- 
row; had  brought  him  down  to  the  first  ele- 
ments of  mere  animal  hfe  ;  and  finding  not 
by  any  process  of  reasoning  or  inference,  but 
by  the  agonizing  pressiu-e  of  stern  reality, 
that  the  institutions  of  social  civilization  were 
closed  against  him  and  his,  he  acted  pre- 
cisely as  a  man  would  act  in  a  natirral  and 
savage  state,  and  who  had  never  been  ad- 
mitted to  a  participation  in  the  common 
rights  of  humanity — we  mean,  the  right  to 
live  honestly,  when  willing  and  able  to  con- 
tribute his  share  of  labor  and  industry  to 
the  common  stock. 

Let  not  our  readers  mistake  us.  We  are 
not  defending  the  crime  of  robbery,  neither 
would  we  rashly  palliate  it,  although  there 
are  instances  of  it  which  deserve  not  only 
palliation,  but  pardon.  We  are  only  describ- 
ing the  principles  upon  which  this  man 
acted,  and,  considering  his  motives,  we 
question  whether  this  peculiar  act,  origina- 
ting as  it  did  in  the  noblest  vii'tues  and 
affections  of  our  nature,  was  not  rather  an 
act  of  heroism  than  of  robbery.  This  point, 
however,  we  leave  to  metaphysicians,  and 
return  to  our  narrative. 

The  night,  as  Ave  said,  was  dark,  and  the 
carriage  in  question  was  proceeding  at  that 
slow  and  steady  pace  which  was  necessary  to 
insure  safety.  Sir  Thomas,  for  it  was  he,  sat 
on  the  dickey  ;  Gille&pie  having  proceeded 
in  advance  af  him,  in  order  to  get  horses, 
carriage,  and  everything  safely  put  to  rights 
without  the  possibility  of  observation. 

We  may  as  well  mention  here  that  his 
anxiety  to  keep  the  events  of  the  night  secret 
had  overcome  his  apj^rehensions  of  the  su- 
pernatural, and  indeed,  it  may  not  be  im- 
jDossible  that  he  made  acquaintance  mth  one 
of  the  flasks  that  had  been  destined  for  poor 
Fenton.  Of  this,  however,  we  are  by  no 
means  certain  ;  we  only  throw  it  out,  there- 
fore, as  a  probabihty. 

It  is  well  knoAATi  that  the  stronger  and 
more  insupportable  jjassions  sharpen  not 
only  the  physical  but  the  mental  faculties  in 
an  extraordinary  degi-ee.  The  eye  of  the 
bird  of  i^rey,  which  is  mosth^  directed  by 
the  savage  instincts  of  hunger,  can  view  itp 
quari-y  at  an  incredible  distance  ;  and,  insti- 
gated by  vengeance,  the  American  Indian 
will  trace  his  enemy  by  marks  which  the  ut- 
most ingenuity  of  civilized  man  would  never 
enable  him  to  discover.  Quickened  by  some- 
thing of  the  kind,  Trailcudgel  instantly  rec- 
ognized his  bitter  and  implacable  foe,  and  in 
a  moment  an  unusual  portion  of  his  former 
strength  returned,  with  the  impetuous  aad 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


411 


energetic  resentment  which  the  appearance 
of  the  baronet,  at  that  pecuhar  crisis,  had 
awakened.  When  the  carriage  came  nearly 
opposite  where  he  stood,  the  frantic  and  un- 
happy man  was  in  an  instant  at  the  lieads  of 
the  horses,  and,  seizing  the  reins,  brought 
them  to  a  stand-still. 

•'  ^\llat's  the  matter  there  ? "  exclaimed 
the  baronet,  ■  who,  however,  began  to  feel 
veiy  serious  alarm.  "  Why  do  you  stop  the 
horses,  my  friend?  All's  right,  and  I'm 
much  obliged — in'ay  let  them  go." 

"All's  Avroug,"  shouted  the  other  in  a 
voice  so  deep,  hoarse,  and  terrible  in  the 
wildness  of  its  intonations,  that  no  human 
being  could  recognize  it  as  that  of  Trailcud- 
gel ;  "all's  wrong,"  he  shouted;  "I  de- 
maud  your  money  !  yoiu-  life  or  your  money 
— quick  ! " 

"Tliis  is  highway-robbeiy,"  replied  Sir 
Thomas,  in  a  voice  of  expostulation,  "  think 
of  what  you  are  about,  my  friend." 

But,  as  he  spoke,  Ti'ailcudgel  could  ob- 
sen-e  that  he  put  his  hand  behind  him  as  if 
with  the  intent  of  taking  fire-arms  out  of  his 
pocket.  Like  hghtning  was  the  blow  which 
tumbled  him  from  his  seat  uj)on  the  two 
horses,  and  a  fortunate  circumstance  it 
proved,  for  there  is  little  doubt  that  his 
ueok  would  have  been  broken,  or  the  fall 
proved  othei-wise  fatal  to  so  heavy  a  man, 
had  he  been  precipitated  directly,  and  from 
such  a  height,  upon  the  hard  road.  As  it 
was,  he  fovmd  himself  instantly  in  the  fero- 
cious clutches  of  Trailcudgel,  who  dragged 
him  from  the  horses,  as  a  tiger  would  a  bull, 
and  ere  he  could  use  hand  or  word  in  his 
own  defence,  he  felt  the  muzzle  of  one  of  his 
own  pistols  pressed  against  liis  head. 

"  Easy,  my  friend !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a 
voice  that  was  rendered  infirm  by  teiTor  ; 
"  do  not  take  my  life — don't  murder  me — 
you  shall  have  my  money." 

"  Murdher !  "  shouted  the  other.  "  Ah, 
you  black  dog  of  hell,  it  is  on  your  red  sowl 
that  many  a  muixlher  lies.  jVIurdher !  "  he 
exclaimed,  in  words  that  were  thick,  vehem- 
ent, and  almost  unintelhgible  with  rage. 
"Ay,  murdher  is  it?  It  was  a  just  God  that 
put  the  words  into  j'our  guilty  heai't  and 
wicked  hps — prepare,  your  last  moment's 
3ome — youi'  doom  is  sealed — are  you  ready 
to  die,  \-illain  ?  " 

Tlie  whole  black  and  fearful  tenor  of  the 
baronet's  life  came  like  a  vision  of  hell  itself 
over  his  conscience,  now  fearfully  awakened 
to  the  terrible  position  in  which  he  felt  him- 
self placed. 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  he  replied,  in  a  voice  whose 
tremulous  tones  betrayed  the  full  extent  of 
his  agony  and  teiTors.  "  Oh,  no  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed.    "Spai-e  me,  whoever  j-ou   are — 


spare  my  life,  and  if  you  will  come  to  me 
to-mon'ow,  I  proniiso,  in  the  presence  oi 
God,  to  make  you  independent  as  long  aa 
you  live.  Oh,  spare  me,  for  the  sake  of  the 
living  God — for  I  am  not  fit  to  die.  If  you 
kill  me  now,  you  will  have  the  perdition  of 
my  soul  to  answer  for  at  the  bar  of  judg- 
ment. If  you  spare  me,  I  will  reform  mj 
life — I  will  become  a  ATrtuous  man." 

"  Well, '  replied  the  other,  relaxing — "  fot 
the  sake  of  the  name  you  have  used,  and  in 
the  hope  that  this  may  be  a  warniu'  to  you 
for  your  good,  I  will  leave  your  wicked  and 
worthless  hfe  with  you.  No,  I'll  not  be  the 
man  that  will  hurl  you  into  perdition — but 
it  is  on  one  condition — you  must  hand  me 
out  your  money  before  I  have  time  to  count 
ten.  Listen  now — if  I  haven't  every  farthing 
that's  about  you  before  that  reckonin's  made, 
the  bullet  that's  in  this  pistol  will  be  through 
your  brain." 

The  expedition  of  the  baronet  was  amaz- 
ing, for  as  Jemmy  went  on  with  this  disas- 
trous enumeration,  steadily  and  distinctly, 
but  not  quickly,  he  had  only  time  to  get  as 
far  as  eight  when  he  fovmd  himself  in  posses- 
sion of  the  baronet's  purse. 

"  Is  it  all  here  ?  "  he  asked.  "  No  tricks 
— no  lyin' — the  truth  ?  for  I'll  search  you." 

"You  may,"  replied  the  other,  with  confi- 
dence ;  "  and  you  may  shoot  me,  too,  if  you 
find  another  farthing  in  my  possession." 

"  Now,  then,"  said  Trailcudgel,  "  get  home 
as  well  as  you  can,  and  reform  your  life  as 
you  promised — as  for  me,  I'll  keep  the  pis- 
tols ;  indeed,  for  my  own  sake,  for  I  have  no 
notion  of  putting  them  into  yom*  hands  at 
present." 

He  then  disappeared,  and  the  baronet, 
ha\'ing  with  considerable  difficulty  gained 
the  box-seat,  reached  home  somewhat  lighter 
in  pocket  than  he  had  left  it,  convinced  be- 
sides that  an  unexpected  visit  from  a  natural 
apparition  is  fi'equently  much  more  to  be 
dreaded  than  one  from  the  supernatural. 

The  baronet  was  in  the  general  affiiirs  of 
life  penurious  in  money  matters,  but  on 
those  occasions  where  money  was  necessaiy 
to  enable  him  to  advance  or  mature  his  plans, 
conceal  his  proceedings,  or  reward  his  in- 
struments, he  was  by  no  means  iUiberal. 
This,  however,  was  mere  selfislmess,  or 
rather,  we  should  say,  self-preservation,  inas- 
much as  nis  success  and  reputation  depended 
in  a  great  degree  upon  tlie  hbenility  of  his 
coiiTiption.  On  the  present  occasion  lie  re- 
gi-etted,  no  doubt,  the  loss  of  the  money, 
but  we  are  boiuid  to  say,  that  he  would  have 
given  its  amount  fifteen  times  repeated,  to 
get  once  more  into  his  hands  the  single 
pound-note  of  which  he  had  treacherously 
and   like   a   coward   robbed   Fenton    while 


412 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


asleep  in  the  carriage.  Tliis  loss,  in  connec- 
tion with  the  robbeiy  which  occasioned  it, 
forced  him  to  retrace  to  a  considerable  ex- 
tent the  process  of  ratiocination  on  the  sub- 
ject of  fate  and  destiny,  in  which  he  had  so 
complacentl}'  indulged  not  long  before. 

No  matter  how  deep  and  hardened  any 
▼Olain  may  be,  the  most  reckless  and  un- 
scnipulous  of  the  class  possess  some  con- 
scious principle  within,  that  tells  them  of 
their  misdeeds,  and  acquaints  them  with  the 
fact  that  a  point  in  the  moral  government  of 
life  has  most  certainly  b^en  made  against 
them.  So  was  it  now  with  the  baronet.  He 
laid  himself  ujDon  his  gorgeous  bed  a  des- 
ponding, and,  for  the  present,  a  discomfited 
man  ;  nor  could  he  for  the  life  of  him,  much 
as  he  pretended  to  disregard  the  operations 
of  a  Dirine  Providence,  avoid  coming  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  highway  robbeiy  com- 
mitted on  him  looked  surprisingly  like  an 
act  of  retributive  justice.  He  consoled  him- 
self, it  is  time,  with  the  reflection,  that  it  was 
not  for  the  value  of  the  note  that  he  had 
committed  the  crime  upon  Fenton,  for  to 
him  the  note,  except  for  its  mere  amount, 
Vvas  iii  other  respects  valueless.  But  what 
galled  him  to  the  soul,  was  the  bitter  re- 
flection that  he  did  not,  on  perceiring  its  ad- 
vantage to  Fenton,  at  once  destroy  it — tear 
it  up — eat  it — swaUow  it — and  thus  render  it 
utterly  impossible  to  ever  contravene  his 
ambition  or  his  crimes.  In  the  meantime 
slumber  stole  upon  him,  but  it  was  neither 
deep  nor  refreshing.  His  mind  was  a  choas 
of  dark  projects  and  frightful  images.  Fen- 
ton— the  ragged  and  gigantic  robber,  who 
was  so  much  changed  by  famine  and  misery 
that  he  did  not  know  him — the  stranger — his 
daughter — Ginty  Cooper,  the  fortune-teller — 
Lord  CuUamore — the  terrible  pistol  at  his 
brain — Dunroe— and  all  those  who  were 
more  or  less  concerned  in  or  affected  by  his 
schemes,  flitted  through  his  disturbed  fancy 
like  the  figures  in  a  magic  lantern,  rendering 
his  sleep  feverish,  disturbed,  and  by  many 
degrees  more  painful  than  his  waking  re- 
flections. 

It  has  been  frequently  observed,  that 
violence  and  tyranny  overshoot  tlieir  mark  ; 
and  we  may  add,  that  no  craft,  however 
secret  its  operations,  or  rather  however 
secret  they  are  designed  to  be,  can  cope  with 
the  consequences  of  even  the  simplest  acci- 
dent. A  short,  feverish  attack  of  illness  hav- 
ing seized  Mrs.  Morgan,  the  housekeeper,  on 
the  night  of  Feuton's  removal,  she  persuaded 
one  of  the  maids  to  sit  up  vrith  her,  in  order 
to  provide  her  with  whey  and  nitre,  which 
she  took  from  time  to  time,  for  the  purpose 
of  relieving  her  by  cooling  the  system.  The 
attack  though  short  was  a  shai-p  one,  and  the 


poor  woman  was  reaUy  very  ill.  In  the 
course  of  the  night,  this  girl  was  somewhat 
surprised  by  hearing  noises  in  and  about  the 
stables,  and  as  she  began  to  entertain  appre- 
hension from  robbers,  she  considered  it  her 
duty  to  consult  the  sick  woman  as  to  the 
steps  she  ought  to  take. 

"Take  no  steps,"  reiahed  the  prudent 
housekeeper,  "till  we  know,  if  we  can,  what 
the  noise  proceeds  from.  Go  into  that  closet, 
but  don't  take  the  candle,  lest  the  light  of  it 
might  alarm  them — it  overlooks  the  stable- 
yard — open  the  window  gently  ;  you  know  it 
turns  upon  hinges — and  look  out  cautiously. 
If  Sir  Thomas  is  disturbed  by  a  false  alarm, 
you  might  fly  at  once  ;  for  somehow  of  late 
he  has  lost  all  command  of  his  temper.'* 

"But  we  know  the  reason  of  that,  IVIrs. 
Morgan,"  replied  the  girl.  "It's  because 
Miss  Gourlay  refuses  to  marry  Lord  Dunroe, 
and  because  he's  afi'aid  that  she'll  nin  away 
with  a  very  handsome  gentleman  that  stops 
in  the  Mitre.  That's  what  made  him  lock 
her  up." 

"  Don't  you  breathe  a  syllable  of  that," 
said  the  cautious  Mrs.  Morgan,  "  for  fear 
you  might  get  locked  up  yourself.  You 
know,  nothing  that  happens  in  this  family  is 
ever  to  be  spoken  of  to  any  one,  on  jDain  of 
Sir  Thomas's  severest  displeasure  ;  and  you 
have  not  come  to  this  time  of  day  without 
understanding  what  that  means.  But  don't 
talk  to  me,  or  rather,  don't  expect  me  to  talk 
to  you.  My  head  is  veiy  iU,  and  my  pulse 
going  at  a  rapid  rate.  Another  di'ink  of  that 
whey,  Nancy  ;  then  see,  if  you  can,  what 
that  noise  means." 

Nancy,  having  handed  her  the  whey,  went 
to  the  closet  window  to  reconnoitre ;  but 
the  reader  may  judge  of  her  surprise  on  see- 
ing Sir  Thomas  himself  moving  about  with 
a  dark  lantern,  and  giving  directions  to 
GillesiDie,  who  was  jDutting  the  horses  to  the 
cai-riage.  She  returned  to  the  housekeeper 
on  tip-toe,  her  face  brimful  of  mystery  and 
delight. 

"  \Vhat  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Morgan  ?  If 
there  isn't  Sir  Thomas  himself  walking  about 
with  a  little  lantern,  and  giving  orders  to 
Gillespie,  who  is  yoking  the  coach." 

IMi'S.  Morgan  could  not  refrain  fi'om  smil- 
ing at  this  comical  exjDression  of  yoking  the 
coach  ;  but  her  face  soon  became  serious, 
and  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  hope  in  God 
this  is  no  further  act  of  violence  against  his 
angel  of  a  daughter.  What  else  could  he 
mean  by  getting  out  a  carriage  at  this  hour 
of  the  night?  Go  and  look  again,  Nancy, 
and  see  whether  you  may  not  also  get  a 
ghmpse  of  Miss  Gourlay." 

Nancy,  however,  arrived  at  the  window  only 
in  time  to  see  her  master  enter  the  carriage, 


THE  BLA  CK  BAR  ONET. 


413 


and  the  carnage  disappear  out  of  the  yard  ; 
but  wliether  IMiss  Gourlay  was  in  it  along 
with  him,  the  darkness  of  the  night  prevent- 
ed her  from  ascertaining.  After  some  time, 
however,  she  threw  out  a  suggestion,  on 
which,  with  the  consent  of  the  patient,  she 
immediately  acted.  This  was  to  discover,  if 
possible,  whether  Miss  Gourlay  with  her 
maid  was  in  her  own  room  or  not.  She  ac- 
cordingly went  with  a  light  and  stealthy  pace 
to  the  door  ;  and  as  she  knew  that  its  fair  oc- 
cupant always  slei:)t  with  a  night-light  in  her 
chamber,  she  put  her  jjretty  eye  to  the  key- 
hole, in  order  to  satisfy  herself  on  this  point. 
All,  however,  so  far  as  both  sight  and  hearing 
could  inform  her,  was  both  dark  and  silent. 
This  was  odd  ;  nay,  not  only  odd,  but  un- 
usual. She  now  felt  her  heart  jjalpitate  ; 
she  was  excited,  alarmed.  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  She  would  take  a  bold  step — she 
would  knock — she  would  whisper  through 
the  key-hole,  and  set  down  the  interruption 
to  anxiety  to  mention  IVIrs.  Morgan's  sudden 
and  \iolent  illness.  Well,  all  these  remedies 
for  curiosity  were  tried,  all  these  steps  taken, 
and,  to  a  certain  extent,  they  Avere  success- 
ful ;  for  there  could  indeed  be  httle  doubt 
that  Miss  Gourlay  and  her  maid  were  not  in 
the  apartment.  Everything  now  pertaining 
to  the  mysterious  motions  of  Sir  Thomas  and 
his  coachman  was  as  clear  as  crystal.  He 
had  spirited  her  away  somewhere — "placed 
her,  the  old  brute,  under  some  she-dragon 
or  other,  who  would  make  her  feed  on  raw 
flesh  and  cobwebs,  AV^th  a  view  of  reducing 
her  strength  and  breaking  her  spirit." 

Mrs.  Morgan,  however,  with  her  usual 
good  sense  and  pi-udence,  recommended  the 
hvely  girl  to  preserve  the  strictest  silence  on 
what  she  had  seen,  and  to  allow  the  other 
servants  to  tind  the  secret  out  for  themselves 
if  they  could.  To-morrow  might  disclose 
more,  but  as  at  present  they  had  nothing 
stronger  than  suspicion,  it  would  be  Avi'ong 
to  speak  of  it,  and  might,  besides,  be  preju- 
dicial to  Miss  Gourlay's  reputation.  Such 
was  the  love  and  respect  which  all  the  family 
felt  for  the  Irind-hearted  and  amiable  Lucy, 
who  was  the  general  advocate  with  her  father 
when  any  of  them  had  incuiTcd  his  dis- 
pleasure, that  on  her  account  alone,  even  if 
dread  of  Sir  Thomas  did  not  loom  like  a 
gathering  storm  in  the  backgi-ound,  not  one 
of  them  ever  seemed  to  notice  her  absence, 
nor  did  the  baronet  himself  until  days  had 
elapsed.  On  the  morning  of  the  third  day 
he  began  to  think,  tliat  perhaps  confinement 
might  have  tamed  her  down  into  somewhat 
of  a  more  amenable  spirit ;  and  as  he  had  in 
the  interval  taken  all  necessary  steps  to 
secure  the  person  of  the  man  who  robbed 
him,  and  offered  a  large  reward  for  his  ap- 


prehension, he  felt  somewhat  satisfied  that 
he  had  done  all  that  could  be  done,  and  was 
consequently  more  at  leisure,  and  also  more 
anxious  to  ascertain  the  temper  of  mind  in 
whicli  he  should  find  her. 

In  the  meantime,  the  delicious  scandal  of 
the  supposed  elopement  was  beginning  to 
creep  abroad,  and,  in  fact,  was  pretty  gen- 
erally rumored  throughout  the  redoubtable 
town  of  Ballytrain  on  the  morning  of  the 
third  or  fourth  day.  Of  course,  we  need 
scarcely  assure  our  intelligent  readers,  that 
the  friends  of  the  jiarties  ai-e  the  very  Last 
to  whom  such  a  scandal  would  be  mentioned, 
not  only  because  such  an  office  is  always 
painful,  but  because  every  one  takes  it  for 
granted  that  they  are  already  aware  of  it 
themselves.  In  the  case  before  us,  such 
was  the  genei'al  ojiinion,  and  Sir  Thomas's 
silence  on  the  subject  was  imputed  by  some 
to  the  natural  delicacy  of  a  father  in  alluding 
to  a  subject  so  distressing,  and  by  others  to 
a  calm,  quiet  spirit  of  vengeance,  which  he 
only  restrained  until  circumstances  should 
place  him  in  a  condition  to  crush  the  man 
who  had  entailed  shame  and  disgrace  upon 
his  name  and  family. 

Such  was  the  state  of  circumstances  upon 
the  third  or  fourth  morning  after  Lucy's 
disappearance,  when  Sir  Thomas  called  the 
footman,  and  desired  him  to  send  INIiss 
Gourlay's  maid  to  him  ;  he  wished  to  speak 
with  her. 

By  this  time  it  was  known  through  the 
whole  establishment  that  Lucy  and  she  had 
both  disappeared,  and,  thanks  to  Nancy — 
to  jDretty  Nancy — "  that  her  own  father,  the 
hard-hearted  old  ANTetch,  had  forced  her  oflE 
— God  knows  where — in  the  dead  of  night." 

The  footman,  who  had  taken  Nancy's 
secret  for  granted  ;  and,  to  tell  the  tnith,  he 
had  it  in  the  most  agreeable  and  authentic 
shape — to  wit,  fi'om  her  owii  sweet  hjjs — 
and  who  could  be  base  enough  to  doubt  any 
communication  so  delightfully  conveyed? — 
the  footman,  we  say,  on  hearing  this  command 
from  his  master,  started  a  little,  and  in  the 
confusion  or  forgetfulness  of  the  moment, 
almost  stared  at  him. 

"  What,  sirrah,"  exclaimed  the  latter  ;  "  did 
you  hear  what  I  said  ?  " 

"  I  did,  sir,"  rejilied  the  man,  still  more 
confused;  "but,  I  thought,  your  honor, 
that " 

"  You  desjiicable  scoundrel !  "  said  his 
master,  stamping,  "what  means  this?  You 
thought !  What  right,  sir,  have  you  to  think, 
or  to  do  anytliing  but  obey  your  orders  fi"om 
me.  It  was  not  to  think,  sir,  I  brought  you 
here,  but  to  do  your  duty  as  footman. 
Fetch  INIiss  Gourlay "s  maid,  sir,  immediately. 
Say  I  desii-e  to  speak  with  her." 


414 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  She  is  not  within,  sir,"  rephed  the  man 
trembhng. 

"  Then  where  is  she,  sir  ?  Why  is  she  ab- 
sent from  her  charge  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  sir.     "We  thought,  sir " 

"  Thinking  again,  you  scoundrel ! — speak 
out,  however." 

"Why,  the  truth  is,  your  honor,  that 
neither  Miss  Gourlay  nor  she  has  been  here 
since  Tuesday  night  last." 

The  baronet  had  been  walking  to  and  fro, 
as  was  his  wont,  but  this  information  j)ara- 
lyzed  him,  as  if  by  a  physical  blow  on  the 
brain.  He  now  went,  or  rather  tottered 
over,  to  his  arm-chair,  into  which  he  drop- 
ped rather  than  sat,  and  stared  at  Gibson 
the  footman  as  if  he  had  forgotten  the  intel- 
ligence just  conveyed  to  him.  In  fact,  his 
confusion  was  such — so  stunning  was  the 
blow — that  it  is  possible  he  did  forget  it. 

"  What  is  that,  Gibson  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  tell 
me  ;  repeat  what  you  said." 

"Why,  your  honor,"  rephed  Gibson, 
"since  last  Tuesday  night  neither  Miss 
Gom-lay  nor  her  maid  has  been  in  this 
house." 

"Was  there  no  letter  left,  nor  any  verbal 
information  that  might  satisfy  us  as  to  where 
they  have  gone  ?  " 

"Not  any,  sir,  that  I  am  aware  of." 

"  Was  her  room  examined  ?  " 

"I  cannot  say,  sir.  you  know,  sir,  I 
never  enter  it  unless  when  I  am  rung  for  by 
Miss  Gourlay  ;  and  that  is  veiy  rarely." 

"  Do  you  think,  Gibson,  that  there  is  any 
one  in  the  house  that  knows  more  of  this 
matter  than  you  do  ?  " 

Gibson  shook  his  head,  and  replied,  "  As 
to  that.  Sir  Thomas,  I  cannot  say." 

The  baronet  was  not  now  in  a  rage.  The 
thing  was  impossible  ;  not  within  the  energies 
of  nature.  He  was  stunned,  stupefied,  ren- 
dered helpless. 

"I  think,"  he  proceeded,  "I  observed  a 
girl  named  Nancy — I  forget  what  else,  Nancy 
something — that  Miss  Gourlay  seemed  to 
like  a  good  deal.  Send  her  here.  But  be- 
fore you  do  so,  may  I  beg  to  know  why  /, 
her  father,  her  natural  guardian  and  pro- 
tector, was  kept  so  long  in  ignorance  of  her 
extraordinary  disappearance  ?  Pray,  IVir. 
Gibson,  satisfy  me  on  that  head  ?  " 

"  I  think,  sir,"  replied  Gibson,  most  un- 
gallantly  shifting  the  danger  of  the  explana- 
tion from  his  ovsm  shoulders  to  the  pretty 
ones  of  Nancy  Forbes — "  I  think,  sir,  Nancy 
Forbes,  the  girl  you  speak  of,  may  know 
more  about  the  last  matter  than  I  do." 

"  AVhat  do  you  mean  by  the  last  mat- 
ter?" 

"  Why,  sir,  the  reason  why  we  did  not  fell 
your  honor  of  it  sooner " 


Sir  Thomas  waved  his  hand,  "  Go,"  he 
added,  "  send  her  here." 

"D — n  the  old  scoundrel,"  thought  Gib- 
son to  himself  ;  "but  that's  a  fine  piece  of 
acting.  Why,  if  he  hadn't  been  aware  of  it 
all  along  he  would  have  throwTi  me  clean  out 
of  the  window,  even  as  the  messenger  of  such 
tidings.  However,  he  is  not  so  deep  as  he 
thinks  himself.  W^e  know  him — see  through 
him — on  this  siibject  at  least." 

"WTien  Nancy  entered,  her  master  gave  her 
one  of  those  stern,  searching  looks  which 
often  made  his  unfortunate  menials  ti'emble 
before  him. 

"What's  your  name,  my  good  girl?" 

"Nancy  Forbes,  sir." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  family  ?  " 

"  I'm  in  the  first  month  of  my  second 
qtiarter,  your  honor,"  with  a  courtesy. 

"You  are  a  pretty  girl." 

Nancy,  with  another  courtesy,  and  a  sim- 
per, which  vanity,  for  the  hfe  of  her,  could 
not  suppress,  "Oh  la,  sir,  how  could  your 
honor  say  such  a  thing  of  a  humble  girl  hke 
me  ?  You  that  sees  so  many  handsome  great 
ladies." 

"  Have  you  a  sweetheart?" 

Nancy  fairly  tittered.  "Is  it  me,  sir — 
why,  who  would  think  of  the  hke  of  me  ? 
Not  one,  sir,  ever  I  had." 

"Because,  if  you  have,"  he  proceeded, 
"  and  that  /  approve  of  him,  I  wouldn't  scru- 
ple much  to  give  you  something  that  might 
enable  you  and  your  husband  to  begin  the 
world  with  comfort." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  very  kind,  your  honor,  but 
I  never  did  anything  to  desarve  so  much 
goodness  at  your  honor's  hands." 

"The  old  -villain  wants  to  bribe  me  for 
something,"  thought  Nancy. 

"  Well,  but  you  may,  my  good  girl.  I  think 
you  are  a  favorite  with  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"  Ha,  ha  ! "  thought  Nancy,  "  I  am  sure  of 
it  now." 

"  That's  more  than  I  know,  sir,"  she  re- 
plied. "Miss  Gourlay — God  bless  and  pro- 
tect her — was  kind  to  every  one ;  and  not 
more  so  to  me  than  to  the  other  servants." 

"  I  have  just  been  informed  by  Gibson, 
that  she  and  her  maid  left  the  Hall  on  Tues- 
day night  last.  Now,  answer  me  truly,  and 
you  shall  be  the  better  for  it.  Have  you  any 
conception,  any  suspicion,  let  us  say,  where 
they  have  gone  to  ?  " 

"  La,  sir,  sure  your  honor  ought  to  know 
that  better  than  me." 

"How  so,  my  pretty  girl?  How  should  I 
know  it  ?   She  told  me  nothing  about  it." 

"  Wliy,  wasn't  it  your  honor  and  Tom 
Gillespie  that  took  her  awaj^  in  the  carriage 
on  that  very  night  ?  " 

Here  now  was  wit  against  wit,  or  at  least 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


415 


cunning  against  cunning.  Nancy,  the  adroit, 
hazarded  an  assertion  of  which  she  was  not 
certain,  in  order  to  probe  the  baronet,  and 
place  him  in  a  position  by  which  she  might 
be  able  by  his  conduct  and  manner  to  satisfy 
herself  whether  her  suspicions  were  well- 
founded  or  not. 

"  But  how  do  you  know,  my  good  girl, 
that  I  and  Gillespie  were  out  that  night  ?  " 

It  is  unnecessary  to  rejoeat  here  circum- 
stances with  which  the  reader  is  already  ac- 
quainted. Nancy  gave  him  the  history  of 
Mrs.  Morgan's  sudden  illness,  and  all  the 
other  facts  ah'eady  mentioned. 

"  But  there  is  one  thing  that  I  still  can- 
not understand,"  rejilied  the  baronet,  "  which 
is,  that  the  disappearance  of  j\Iiss  Gourlay 
was  never  mentioned  to  me  until  I  inquired 
for  her  maid,  whom  I  wished  to  speak 
with." 

"  But  sure  that's  very  natural,  sir,"  rephed 
Nancy  ;  "  the  reason  we  didn't  speak  to  you 
upon  the  subject  was  because  we  thought 
that  it  was  your  honor  who  brought  her 
away  ;  and  that  as  you  took  such  a  late  hour 
in  the  night  for  it,  you  didn't  wish  that  we 
should  know  anything  about  it." 

The  baronet's  eye  fell  upon  her  severely, 
as  if  he  doubted  the  truth  of  what  she  said. 
Nancy's  eye,  however,  neither  avoided  his 
nor  quailed  before  it.  She  now  spoke  the 
truth,  and  she  did  so,  in  order  to  prevent 
herself  and  the  other  servants  from  incm-ring 
his  resentment  by  their  silence. 

"Very  well,"  observed  Sir  Thomas,  calmly, 
but  sternly.  "  I  think  you  have  spoken  what 
you  believe  to  be  the  tinith,  and  what,  for  all 
you  know,  "^nay  be  the  truth.  But  observe  my 
words  :  let  this  subject  be  never  breathed 
nor  uttered  by  any  domestic  in  my  estabHsh- 
ment.  Tell  your  fellow-servants  that  such 
are  my  orders  ;  for  I  swear,  if  I  find  that  any 
one  of  you  shall  speak  of  it,  my  utmost  ven- 
geance shall  pursue  him  or  her  to  death  it- 
self. That  will  do."  And  he  signed  to  her 
to  retire. 


CHAPTER  XVHL 

Dunphy  visits  the  County  Wicklmo — Old  Sam  and 
his    Wife. 

It  was  about  a  week  subsequent  to  the  in- 
terview which  the  stranger  had  with  old 
Dunphy,  unsuccessful  as  our  readers  know 
it  to  have  been,  that  the  latter  and  his  wife 
were  sitting  in  the  back  parlor  one  night  af- 
ter their  little  shop  had  been  closed,  when 
the  following  dialogue  took  place  between 
them  : 

*'  Well,  at  all  events,"  observed  the  old 


k 


man,  "  he  was  the  best  of  them,  and  to  m^ 
own  knowledge  that  same  saicret  lay  hot 
and  heavy  on  his  conscience,  especially  to  so 
good  a  master  and  mistress  as  they  were  to 
him.     The  truth  is,  PoUy,  /'//  do  it." 

"  But  why  didn't  he  do  it  himself?  "  asked 
his  wife. 

"^Vlly? — why?"  he  replied,  looking  at 
her  viith.  his  keen  ferret  eyes — "  why,  don't 
you  know  what  a  weakminded,  timorsome 
creature  he  was,  ever  since  the  height  o'  my 
knee  ? " 

"  Oh,    ay,"   she   returned  ;   "  and  I  hard 
something  about  an  oath,  I  think,  that  they 
'  made  him  take." 

I       "  You  did,"  said  her  husband  ;  "  and  it  was 

I  true,  too.     They  swore  him  never  to  breathe 

a  syllable  of  it  until  his  dying  day — an'  al 

though  they  meant  by  that  that  he  should 

I  never  revale  it  at  all,  yet  he  always  was  ol 

!  opinion  that  he  might  tell  it  on  (hat  day,  but 

on  no  other  one.     And  it  was  his  intention 

to  do  so." 

1  "  Wasn't  it  an  imlucky  thing  that  she  hap- 
pened to  be  out  when  he  could  do  it  with  a 
safe  conscience  ?  "  observed  his  wife. 

"They  almost  threatened  the  life  out  of 
the  poor  creature,"  pursued  her  husband, 
"for  Tom  threatened  to  murder  him  if  he 
betrayed  them  ;  and  Ginty  to  poison  him,  if 
Tom  didn't  keep  his  word — and  I  beheve  in 
my  sowl,  that  the  same  devil's  pair  would  a' 
done  either  the  one  or  the  other,  if  he  had 
broken  his  oath.  Of  the  two,  however,  Gin- 
ty's  the  woi'st,  I  think  ;  and  I  often  believe, 
myself,  that  she  deals  with  the  de\-il ;  but 
that,  I  suppose,  is  bekaise  she's  sometimes 
not  right  in  her  head  still." 

"If  she  doesn't  dale  with  the  devil,  the 
devil  dales  with  her  at  any  rate,"  replied  the 
other.  "  They'll  be  apt  to  gain  their  point, 
Tom  and  she." 

"  Tom,  I  know,  is  just  as  bitther  as  she 
is,"  observed  the  old  man,  "  and  Ginty,  by 
her  promises  as  to  what  she'll  do  for  him, 
has  turned  his  heart  altogether  to  stone  ;  and 
yet  I  know  a  man  that's  bittherer  against  the 
black  fellow  than  either  o'  them.  She  only 
thinks  of  the  luck  that's  before  her  ;  but,  af- 
ther  all,  Tom  acts  more  from  hatred  to  him 
than  fi'om  Ginty's  promises.  He  has  no  bad 
feelin'  against  the  3'oung  man  himself ;  but 
it's  the  others  he's  bent  on  pimishing.  God 
direct  myself,  I  wish  at  any  rate  that  I  never 
had  act  or  hand  in  it.  As  for  your  time  o'  life 
and  mine.  Folly,  you  know  that  age  puts  it 
out  of  our  power  ever  to  be  much  the  bet- 
ther  one  way  or  the  other,  even  if  Ginty  ^0^9 
succeed  in  her  de\alry.  Very  few  years  now 
will  see  us  both  in  our  graves,  and  I  don't 
know  but  it's  safer  to  lave  this  world  with  an 
aisy  conscience,  than  to  face  God  with  the 


416 


WILLIAM  CARLETOirS   WORKS. 


guilt  of  sich  a  black  saicret  as  that  upon 
us." 

"  Well,  but  haven't  you  promised  them 
not  to  teU  ?  " 

"  I  have — an'  only  that  I  take  sich  delight 
in  waitin'  to  see  the  black  scoundrel  punished 
till  his  heai't  '11  burst — I  think  I'd  come  out 
with  it.  That's  one  raison  ;  and  the  other 
is,  that  I'm  afraid  of  the  consequences.  The 
law's  a  dangerous  customer  to  get  one  in  its 
clushes,  an'  who  can  tell  how  we'd  be  dejilt 
with  ?  " 

"  Troth,  an'  that's  true  enough,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"And  when  I  promised  poor  Edward  on 
his  death-bed,"  proceeded  the  old  man,  "  I 
made  him  give  me  a  sartin  time  ;  an'  I  did 
this  in  ordher  to  allow  Ginty  an  oj^portunity 
of  tryin'  her  luck.  If  she  does  not  manage 
her  point  within  that  time,  I'll  fulfil  my  prom- 
ise to  the  dyin'  man." 

"  But,  why,"  she  ask^,  "  did  he  make  you 
promise  to  do  it  when  he  could — ay,  but  I 
forgot.  It  was  jist,  I  sujjpose,  in  case  he 
might  be  taken  short  as  he  was,  and  that  you 
wor  to  do  it  for  him  if  he  hadn't  an  oj^portu- 
nity?  But,  sure,  if  Ginty  succeeds,  there's 
an  end  to  yoiu-  promise." 

"WeU,  I  believe  so,"  said  the  old  man; 
"  but  if  she  does  succeed,  why,  all  I'll 
wondher  at  will  be  that  God  would  allow  it. 
At  any  rate  she's  the  first  of  the  family  that 
ever  brought  shame  an'  disgrace  upon  the 
name.  Not  but  she  felt  her  misfortime  keen 
enough  at  the  time,  since  it  turned  her  brain 
almost  ever  since.  And  him,  the  villain — 
but  no  matter — he  must  be  jDunished." 

"But,"  rephed  the  wife,  "wont  Ginty  be 
punishin'  him  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Polly,  you  know  little  of  the  plans — 
the  deep  plans  an'  plots  that  he's  surrounded 
by.  We  know  ourselves  that  there's  not 
such  a  plotter  in  existence  as  he  is,  barrin' 
them  that's  plottin'  aginst  him.  Lord  bless 
us  !  but  it's  a  quare  world — here  is  both 
parties  schamin'  an'  plottin'  away — all  bent 
on  risin'  themselves  higher  in  it  by  j^ride  and 
dishonesty.  There's  the  high  rogue  and  the 
low  rogue — the  great  Aillain  and  the  little 
villain— musha  !  PoUy,  which  do  you  think 
is  worst,  eh  ?  " 

"  Faith,  I  think  it's  six  o'  one  and  half-a- 
dozen  of  the  other  with  them.  Still,  a  body 
would  suppose  that  the  high  rogue  ought  to 
rest  contented  ;  but  it's  a  hard  thing  they 
say  to  satisfy  the  cravin's  of  man's  heart 
when  pride,  an'  love  of  wealth  an'  power,  get 
into  it." 

"I'm  not  at  all  happy  in  my  mind,  PoUy," 
observed  her  husband,  meditatively  ;  "  I'm 
not  at  aise — and  I  won't  bear  this  state  of 
mind  much  longer.    But,  then,  again,  there's 


my  pension  ;  and  that  I'll  lose  if  I  spake  otrt 
I  sometimes  think  I'll  go  to  the  countrv 
some  o'  these  days,  and  see  an  ould  friend."* 

"  An'  where  to,  if  it's  a  fair  question  ?" 

"  Why,"  he  repUed,  "  maybe  it's  a  fair 
question  to  ask,  but  not  so  fair  to  answer. 
Ay !  I'll  go  to  the  country — I'll  start  in  a  few 
days — in  a  few  daj's  !  No,  savin'  to  me,  but 
I'll  start  to-morrow.  Polly,  I  could  tell  you 
something  if  I  wished — I  say  /  have  a  secret 
that  none  o'  them  knows — ay,  have  I.     Oh, 

God  pardon  me  !     The  d d  thieves,  to 

make  me,  me  above  all  men,  do  the  blackest 
part  of  the  business — an'  to  think  o'  the  way 
they  misled  Edward,  too — who,  after  all, 
would  be  desavin'  poor  Lady  Gourlay,  if  he 
had  tould  her  all  as  he  thought,  although  he 
did  not  know  that  he  would  be  misleadin' 
her.  Yes,  faith,  I'll  start  for  the  country  to- 
morrow, plaise  God  ;  but  hsteu,  Polly,  do 
you  know  who's  in  town  ?  " 

"  Arra,  no  ! — how  could  I  ?  " 

"  Kate  M 'Bride,  so  Ginty  teUs  me  ;  she'tj 
hAon'  with  her.'*^ 

"  And  why  didn't  she  call  to  see  you  ?  " 
asked  his  wife.  "And  yet  God  knows  it's 
no  great  loss ;  but  if  ever  woman  was 
cursed  wid  a  step-daughter,  I  was  wid 
her." 

"  Don't  you  know  ver^'  well  that  we  never 
spoke  since  her  runaway  match  with  M 'Bride. 
If  she  had  married  Cummins,  I'd  a'  given 
her  a  pui'ty  penny  to  help  him  on  ;  but  in- 
stead o'  that  she  cuts  ofl'  with  a  sojer,  be- 
kaise  he  was  well  faced,  and  starts  Mith  him 
to  the  Aist  Indies.  No  ;  I  wouldn't  spake 
to  her  then,  and  I'm  not  sure  I'll  spake  to 
her  now  either  ;  and  yet  I'd  like  to  see  her — 
the  unfortunate  woman.  However,  I'll  think 
of  it ;  but  in  the  mane  time,  as  I  said,  I'U 
start  for  the  country  in  the  mornin'." 

And  to  the  country  he  did  start  the  next 
morning  ;  and  if,  kind  reader,  it  so  happen 
that  you  feel  your  curiosity  in  any  degi'ee 
excited,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  take  a  seat 
in  your  own  imagination,  whether  outside  or 
in,  matters  not,  the  fare  is  the  same,  and 
thus  you  wiD,  at  no  great  cost,  be  able  to 
accompany'  him.  But  before  we  proceed 
further  we  shall,  in  the  first  place,  convey 
you  in  ours  to  the  ultimate  point  of  his 
journey. 

There  was,  in  one  of  the  mountain  dis- 
tricts of  the  county  Wicklow,  that  paradise 
of  our  country,  a  small  white  cottage,  with  a 
neat  flower  plot  before,  and  a  small  orchard 
and  gai'den  behind.  It  stood  on  a  little  em- 
inence, at  the  foot  of  one  of  those  mountains, 
which,  in  some  instances,  abut  fr-om  higher 
ranges.  It  was  then  bare  and  barren  ;  but 
at  present  presents  a  very  dififerent  aspect,  a 
considerable  portion  of  it  having  been  since 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


41» 


reclaimed  and  planted.  Scattered  around  this 
rough  district  were  a  number  of  houses  that 
could  be  classed  with  neither  farm-house  nor 
cabin,  but  as  humble  little  buildings  that 
possessed  a  featui-e  of  each.  Those  who 
dwelt  in  them  held  in  general  four  or  five 
acres  of  rough  land,  some  more,  but  very 
few  less  ;  and  we  allude  to  these  small  tene- 
ments, because,  as  our  readers  are  aware, 
the  wives  of  their  proprietors  were  in  the 
habit  of  eking  out  the  means  of  subsistence, 
and  pacing  their  rents,  by  nursing  illegiti- 
mate children  or  foundlings,  which  upon  a 
proper  understanding,  and  in  accordance 
^sith  the  usual  arrangements,  were  either 
transmitted  to  them  from  the  hospital  of 
that  name  in  Dublin,  or  taken  chai-ge  of  by 
these  women,  and  conveyed  home  fi'om  that 
establishment  itself.  The  childi-en  thus  nur- 
tured were  universally  termed  pai'isheens, 
because  it  was  found  more  convenient  and 
less  expensive  to  send  a  country  foundling 
to  the  hospital  in  Dublin,  than  to  burden 
the  inhabitants  of  the  parish  with  its  main- 
tenance. A  small  sum,  entitling  it  to  be  re- 
ceived in  the  hospital,  was  remitted,  and  as 
this  sum,  in  most  instances,  was  levied  off 
the  parish,  these  wretched  creatures  were 
therefore  called  pa?'i.s/iet'??.s',  that  is,  creatm'es 
aided  by  pai-ish  allowance. 

The  very  handsome  little  cottage  into 
which  we  are  about  to  give  the  reader  ad- 
mittance, commanded  a  singularly  beautiful 
and  picturesque  view.  From  the  little  ele- 
vation on  which  it  stood  could  be  seen  the 
entrancing  vale  of  Ovoca,  winding  in  its  in- 
expressible lovliness  toward  Arklow,  and  di- 
versified with  gi-een  meadows,  orchard  gar- 
dens, elegant  villas,  and  what  was  sweeter 
than  all,  warm  and  comfortable  homesteads, 
more  than  realizing  our  conceptions  of  Ar- 
cadian happiness  and  beauty.  Its  precipi- 
tcTffs"  sides  were  clothed  with  the  most  en- 
chanting variety  of  plantation  ;  whilst,  hke 
a  stream  of  liquid  light,  the  silver  Ovoca 
shone  sparkling  to  the  sun,  as  it  followed, 
by  the  harmonious  law  of  natm-e,  that  gi-ace- 
ful  line  of  beauty  which  characterizes  the 
wmdings  of  this  unrivalled  valley.  The  cot- 
tage which  commanded  this  rich  prospect 
we  have  partially  described.  It  was  white 
as  snow,  and  had  about  it  all  those  traits  of 
neatness  and  good  taste  which  are,  we  regret 
to  say,  so  rare  among,  and  so  badly  imder- 
stood  by,  our  hiunloler  countrymen.  The 
front  wixlls  were  covered  by  honeysuckles, 
rose  trees,  and  wild  brier,  and  the  flower 
plot  in  front  was  so  weU  stocked,  that  its 
summer  bloom  would  have  done  credit  to 
the  skiU  of  an  ordinary  florist.  The  inside 
of  this  cottage  was  equally  neat,  clean,  and 
clieei-ful.  The  floor,  an  vmusual  thing  then, 
14 


was  tiled,  which  gave  it  a  look  of  agreeable 
warmth  ;  the  wooden  vessels  in  the  kitchen 
were  white  ■v\ath  incessant  scouring,  whilst 
the  pewter,  brass,  and  tin,  shone  in  becom- 
ing rivuhy.  The  room  you  entered  was  the 
kitchen,  off  which  was  a  parlor  and  two  bed- 
rooms, besides  one  for  the  servant. 

As  may  be  inferred  from  what  we  have 
said,  the  dresser  was  a  perfect  treat  to  look 
at,  and  as  the  owners  kej^t  a  cow,  we  need 
hardly  add  that  the  dehghtful  fragrance  of 
milk  which  characterizes  eveiy  well-kept 
dairy,  was  perfectly  ambrosial  here.  The 
chairs  were  of  oak,  so  were  the  tables  ;  and 
a  large  arm-chair,  with  a  semicircular  back, 
stood  at  one  side  of  the  clean  hearth,  whilst 
over  the  chimney-piece  hung  a  portrait  of 
General.  Wolfe,  Avith  an  engi-aving  of  the 
siege  of  Quebec.  A  series  of  four  silver 
medals,  enclosed  in  red  morocco  cases,  hav- 
ing the  surface  of  each  protected  by  a  glass 
cover,  hung  from  a  liiiputian  rack  made  of 
mahogany,  at  once  beai'ing  testimony  to  the 
enteii^rise  and  gallantly  of  the  owner,  as 
well  as  to  the  manly  pride  with  which  he 
took  such  especial  pains  to  preserve  these 
proud  rewards  of  his  courage,  and  the  abili- 
ty with  which  he  must  have  discharged  his 
duty  as  a  soldier.  On  the  table  lay  a 
large  Bible,  a  Prayer-book,  and  the  ""WTaole 
Duty  of  Man,"  all  neatly  and  firmly,  but  not 
ostentatiously  bound.  Some  woi*ks  of  a 
military  character  lay  uj)on  a  little  hanging 
shelf  beside  the  dresser.  Over  this  shelf 
hung  a  fishing-rod,  unscrewed  and  neatly 
tied  up  ;  and  upon  the  toj^  of  the  other  books 
lay  one  bound  "\rith  refl  cloth,  in  which  he 
kept  his  flies.  On  one  side  of  the  window 
sills  lay  a  backgammon  box,  with  which  his 
wife  and  himself  amused  themselves  for  an 
hour  or  two  eveiy  evening  ;  i\nd  fixed  in  re- 
cesses intended  for  the  puri^ose,  Sam  Rob- 
erts, for  such  was  his  name,  liaving  "built 
uTe  house  himself,  were  comfortable  cup- 
boards filled  with  a  variety  of  delft,  several 
curious  and  foreign  ornaments,  an  ostrich's 
egg,  a  drinking  cup  made  of  the  polished 
shell  of  a  cocoanut,  whilst  crossed  saltier- 
wise  over  a  portrait  of  himself  and  of  his 
wife,  were  placed  two  feathers  of  the  bird  of 
paradise,  constituting,  one  might  imagine, 
emblems  significant  of  the  haj^py  hfe  they 
led.  But  we  cannot  close  our  description  here. 
Upon  the  good  woman's  bosom,  fastened  to 
her  kerchief,  was  a  locket  which  contained  a 
portion  of  beautiful  brown  hair,  taken  from 
the  youthful  Ijead  of  a  deceased  son,  a  manly 
and  promisin-^f  boy,  who  died  at  the  age  of 
seventeen,  acd  whose  death,  although  it  di<'. 
not  and  could  not  throw  a  permanent  gloom 
over  two  lives  so  innocent  and  happy,  occa- 
sioned, nevertheless,  periodical  recollections 


418 


WILLIAM  OABLETON'S   WOBKS. 


of  profoimcl  and  bitter  soitow.  Old  Sam  had 
his  locket  also,  but  it  was  invisible  ;  its  posi- 
tion being  on  that  heart  whose  affections 
more  resembled  the  enthusiasm  of  idolatrj' 
than  the  love  of  a  parent.  His  wife  was  a 
placid,  contented  looking  old  woman,  with  a 
complexion  exceedingly  hale  and  fresh  for 
her  years ;  a  shrewd,  clear,  benevolent  eye, 
and  a  general  aii'  which  never  fails  to  mark 
that  ease  and  superiority  of  manner  to  be 
found  only  in  those  who  have  had  an  enlarged 
experience  in  Ufe,  and  seen  much  of  the 
world.  There  she  sits  by  the  clear  fire  and 
clean,  comfortable  hearth,  knitting  a  pair  of 
stockings  for  her  husband,  who  has  gone  to 
Dublin.  She  is  tidily  and  even,  for  a  woman 
of  her  age,  tastefully  dressed,  but  still  with  a 
sober  decency  that  showed  her  good  sense. 
Her  cap  is  as  white  as  snow,  with  which  a 
well-fitting  brown  stuff  gown,  that  gave  her  a 
highly  respectable  appearance,  admirablycon- 
trasted.  She  wore  an  apron  of  somewhat 
coai'se  musHn,  that  seemed,  as  it  always  did, 
fresh  from  the  iron,  and  her  hands  were 
covered  with  a  pair  of  thread  mittens  that 
only  came  half-way  down  the  fingers.  Hang- 
ing at  one  side  was  a  three-cornered  pin- 
cushion of  green  silk,  a  proof  at  once  of  a 
character  remarkable  for  thi'ift,  neatness, 
and  industry'.  Whilst  thus  employed,  she 
looks  fi'om  time  to  time  through  a  window 
that  commanded  a  prospect  of  the  road,  and 
seems  affected  by  that  complacent  expression 
of  imeasiness  which,  whilst  it  overshadows 
the  features,  never  disturbs  their  benignity. 
At  length,  a  good-looking,  neat  girl,  their 
servant,  enters  the  cottage  with  a  can  of  new 
milk,  for  she  had  been  to  the  fields  a-milking; 
her  name  is  MoUy  Bpiie. 

"  Molly,"  said  her  mistress,  "  I  wonder  the 
master  has  not  come  yet.  I  am  getting  un- 
easy. The  coach  has  gone  past,  and  I  see 
no  appearance  of  him." 

"  I  suppose,  then,  he  didn't  come  by  the 
coach,  ma'am." 

"  Yes,  but  he  said  he  would." 

"Well,  ma'am,  something  must  'a  pre- 
vented him." 

"Molly,"  said  her  mistress,  smiHng,  "you 
are  a  good  hand  at  teUing  us  John  Thomp- 
son's news  ;  that  is,  any  thing  we  know  our- 
selves." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  but  you  know  many  a  time 
he  goes  to  Dubhn,  an'  doesn't  come  home 
by  the  coach." 

"Yes,  whenever  he  visits  Kilmainham 
Hospital,  and  gets  into  conversation  with 
some  of  his  old  comrades ;  however,  that's 
natural,  and  I  hope  he's  safe." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  rephed  Molly,  looking 
out,  "I  have  betther  news  for  you  than  Jen- 
ny Thompson's  now." 


"  Attention,  Molly  ;  John  Thompson's  the 
word,"  said  her  mistress,  with  the  shghtest 
conceivable  aii*  of  professional  form  ;  for  if 
she  had  a  foible  at  all,  it  was  that  she  gave 
all  her  orders  and  exacted  all  obedience 
from  her  servant  in  a  spirit  of  military  dis- 
cipline, which  she  had  unconsciously  bor- 
rowed fi'om  her  husband,  whom  she  imitated 
as  far  as  she  could.  "  "\Miere,  Molly  ?  Fall 
back,  I  say,  till  I  get  a  peep  at  dear  old 
Sam." 

"There  he  is,  ma'am,"  continued  MoUy, 
at  the  same  time  obeying  her  orders,  "and 
some  other  person  along  with  him." 

"  Yes,  sure  enough ;  thank  God,  thank 
God  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  But  who  can  the 
other  person 'be,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  repHed  MoUy. 
"I  only  got  a  glimj^se  of  them,  but  I  knew 
the  master  at  once.  I  would  know  him 
round  a  corner." 

"  Advance,  then,  girl ;  take  another  look  ; 
reconnoitre,  Molly,  as  Sam  says,  and  see  ii 
you  can  make  out  who  it  is." 

"I  see  him  now  well  enough,  ma'am,"  re- 
phed the  girl,  "  but  I  don't  know  him  ;  he's 
a  stranger.  What  can  bring  a  stranger  here, 
ma'am,  do  you  think  ?  "  she  inquii-ed. 

"  Why  your  kind  master,  of  course,  girl ; 
isn't  that  sufficient?  Whoever  comes  with 
my  dear  old  Sam  is  welcome,  to  be  sure." 

Her  clear,  cloudless  face  was  now  ht  up 
with  a  multiplicity  of  kind  and  hospitable 
thoughts,  for  dear  old  Sam  and  his  fi'iend 
were  not  more  than  three  or  four  perches 
from  the  house,  and  she  could  perceive  that 
her  husband  was  in  an  extraordinary  state  of 
good  humor. 

"  I  know,  Molly,  who  the  strange  man  is 
now,"  she  said.  "  He's  an  old  friend  of  my 
husband's,  named  Dunphy ;  he  was  once  in 
the  same  regiment  with  him  ;  and  I  know, 
besides,  our  own  good  man  has  heard  some 
news  that  has  delighted  him  very  much." 

She  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when 
Sam  and  old  Dunphy  entered. 

"Beck,  my  girl,  here  I  am,  safe  and 
sound,  and  here's  an  old  friend  come  to 
see  us,  and  you  know  how  much  we  are  both 
indebted  tc  him  ;  I  felt.  Beck,  and  so  did 
you,  old  girl,  that  we  must  have  something 
to  love  and  proride  for,  and  to  keep  the 
heart  moving,  but  that's  naturd,  you  know 
— quite  natural — it's  all  the  heart  of  man." 

"Mr.  Dunphy,"  said  Beck — a  cui-tailment 
of  Rebecca — "I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  take  a 
seat ;  how  is  the  old  woman  ?  " 

"  As  tough  as  ever,  Mi-s.  Roberts,  'Deed 
I  had  thought  last  winter  that  she  might 
lave  me  a  loose  leg  once  more  ;  but  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  she's  gatherin'  strength  on 
my  hands,  an'  a  young  wifei  I'm  afraid,  isn't 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


41& 


on  the  cards — ha — ha — ha !  And  how  are 
you  yourself,  ]\Ii*s.  Roberts  ? — but,  indeed, 
one  may  tell  with  hidf  an  eye — fresh  and 
well  you  look,  thank  God  !  " 

"  Doesn't  she,  man  ? "  exclaimed  Sam, 
slapping  him  with  delight  on  the  shoulder  ; 
"  a  woman  that  travelled  htiK  the  world,  and 
unproved  in  every  chmate.  Molly,  atten- 
tion ! — let  us  turn  in  to  mess  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Good  news,  Beck — good  news,  but 
not  tni  after  mess  ;  double-quick,  Molly." 

"  Come,  Molly,  double-quick,"  added  her 
mistress  ;  "  the  master  and  his  friend  must 
be  huugiy  by  this  time." 

Owing  to  the  expeditious  habits  to  which 
Mrs.  Roberts  had  discii:)lined  Molly,  a  smok- 
ing Iiish  stew,  hot  and  savory,  was  before 
them  in  a  few  minutes,  which  the  two  old 
fellows  attacked  with  powers  of  demolition 
that  would  have  shamed  younger  men. 
There  was  for  some  time  a  veiy  significant 
lull  in  the  conversation,  during  which  Molly, 
by  a  hint  fi'om  her  mistress,  put  do^Ti  the 
kettle,  an  act  which,  on  being  obsen'ed  by 
Dunphy,  made  his  keen  old  eye  spai-kle  with 
the  expectation  of  what  it  suggested.  Shovel- 
ful after  shovelful  passed  fi'om  dish  to  plate, 
until  a  very  relaxed  action  on  the  part  of  each 
was  evident. 

"Dunjahy,"  said  Sam,  "I  beUeve  our  fire 
is  beginning  to  slacken  ;  but  come,  let  us 
give  the  enemy  another  round,  the  citadel  is 
nearly  won — is  on  the  point  of  suiTender." 

"  Begad,"  rephed  Dunphy,  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  his  friend's  phi'aseology.  and 
had  seen  some  service,  as  already  intimated, 
in  the  same  regiment,  some  fifty  years  before. 
"  I  must  lay  down  my  arms  for  the  present." 

"No  matter,  friend  Dunphy,  we'll  renew 
the  attack  at  supper  ;  an  easy  mind  brings  a 
good  appetite,  which  is  but  natural ;  it's  all 
the  heart  of  man." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Dunphy, 
replying  to  the  first  of  the  axioms  ;  "I  have 
oft(m  ait  en  a  hearty  dinner  enough  when  my 
mind  was,  God  knows,  anything  but  aisy." 

"  Well,  then,"  rejoined  Sam,  "  when  the 
heart's  down,  a  glass  of  old  stingo,  mixed 
stifi",  will  give  it  a  hft ;  so,  my  old  fellow,  if 
there's  anything  wi-ong  with  you,  we'll  soon 
set  it  to  rights." 

The  table  was  now  cleared,  and  the  word 
"  Hot  wate-r-r,"  was  given,  as  if  Molly  had 
been  on  drill,  as  in  fact,  she  may  be  con- 
sidered to  have  been  eveiy  day  in  the  week  ; 
then  the  sugar  and  whiskey  in  the  same 
tone.  But  whilst  she  is  preparing  and  pro- 
ducing the  materials,  as  they  have  been  since 
termed,  we  shall  endeavor  to  give  an  outline 
of  old  Sam, 

Old  Sam,  then,  was  an  erect,  square-built, 
fine-looking  old  fellow,  with  firm,  massive, 


but  benevolent  features  ;  not,  however,  with- 
out a   dash  of  determination  in  them  that 
added   ver}'  considerably  to   their   interest 
His  eyes  were   gray,   kind,  and   hvely  ;  his 
eyebrows  rather  large,  but  their  expression 
was  either  stem  or  complacent,  according  to 
the   mood   of  the   moment.     That  of  com- 
placency, however,  was  their  general  charac- 
ter.    Upon  the  front  part  of  his  head  he  had 
received  a  severe  wovmd,  which  extended  an 
inch  or  so  down  the  side  of  his  forehead,  he 
had  also  lost  the  two  last  fingers  of  his  left 
hand,  and  received  several  other  wounds  that 
j  were  severe  and  dangerous  when   inflicted, 
I  but  as  their  scars  were  covered  by  his  dress, 
\  they  were  consequently  inrisible.      Simi  was 
at  this  time  close  upon  seventy,  but  so  regu- 
lar had  been  his  habits  of  life,  so  cheerful 
j  and  kind  his  disposition,  and  so  excellent  his 
constitution,  that  he  did  not  look  more  than 
1  fifty-five.     It  was  utterly  impossible  not  to 
I  read  the  fine  old  soldier  in  eveiy  one  of  his 
i  fi'ee,  but  well-disciplined,  movements.      The 
:  black  stock,  the  bold,  erect  head,  the  firm 
but   measui'ed   step,  and    the   existence   of 
I  something  like  mHitaiy  ardor  in  the  eye  and 
\  whole  bearing  ;  or  it  might  be   the   proud 
consciousness  of  haring  bravely  and  faithfully 
I  discharged  his  duty  to  his  king  and  his  coun- 
try' ;  all  this,  we  say,  marked  the  man  with 
j  an  impress  of  such  honest  pride  and  fi-ank 
j  mihtai-y  spirit,  as,  taken  into  consideration 
with  his  fine  figure,  gave  the  very  heau,  ideal 
,  of  an  old  soldier. 

!  When  each  had  mixed  his  tumbler,  Sam, 
brimful  of  the  good  news  to  which  he  had 
alluded,  filled  a  small  glass,  as  was  his  wont, 
and  placing  it  before  Beck,  said  : 

"  Come,  Beck,  attention ! — '  The  king,  God 
bless  him  ! '  Attention,  Dunphy  ! — oflf  with 
it." 

"  The  king,  God  bless  him  ! "  having  been 
duly  honored,  Sam  proceeded  : 

"  Beck,  my  old  partner,  I  said  I  hatl  good 
news  for  you.  Oui*  son  and  his  regiment — 
three  times  eleven,  eleven  times  three— th% 
gallant  thirty-thu'd,  are  in  Dublin." 

Beck  laid  down  her  stocking,  and  nw  eyes 
sparkled  with  delight. 

"  But  that's  not  all,  old  girl,  he  has  risen 
from  the  ranks — his  commission  has  been 
just  made  out,  and  he  is  now  a  commissioned 
officer  in  his  majesty's  service.  But  I  knew 
it  would  come  to  that.  Didn't  I  say  so,  old 
comrade,  eh  ?  " 

"Indeed  you  did,  Sam,"  rephed  his  wife  ; 
"  and  I  thought  as  much  myself.  There  was 
something  about  that  boy  beyond  the  com- 
mon." 

"  Ay,  3'ou  may  say  that,  girl  ;  but  who 
foimd  it  out  first  ?  T\liy,  I  did ;  but  the 
thinjT  'n'fis  natural ,  it's  all  the  heart  of  man — 


420 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


when  that's  in  the  right  place  nothing  will 
go  wrong.  What  do  you  say,  Mend  Dunphy  ? 
Did  xjou  think  it  woiild  ever  come  to  this  ?  " 

"Troth,  I  did  not,  Mr.  Roberts;  but  it's 
you  he  may  thank  for  it." 

"  God  Almighty  first,  Dunphy,  and  me 
afterwards.  Well,  he  shan't  want  a  father, 
at  all  events ;  and  so  long  as  I  have  a  few 
shiners  to  spare,  he  shan't  want  the  means  of 
supporting  his  rank  as  a  British  officer  and 
gentleman  should.  There's  news  for  you, 
Dunphy.  Do  you  hear  that,  you  old  dog — 
eh?" 

"It's  all  the  heart  of  man,  Sam,"  observed 
his  wife,  eying  him  with  affectionate  admira- 
tion. "  When  the  heai-t's  in  the  right  place, 
nothing  will  go  wrong." 

Now,  nothing  gratided  Sam  so  much  as  to 
hear  his  own  apothegms  honored  by  repeti- 
tion. 

"Eight,  girl,"  he  rephed  ;  "shake  hands 
for  that.  Dunphy,  mark  the  tinith  of  that. 
Isn't  she  worth  gold,  you  sinner  ?  " 

"  Troth  she  is,  IMi*.  Eoberts,  and  silver  to 
the  back  o'  that." 

"  What  ?  "  said  Sam,  looking  at  him  with 
oomic  sm-prise,  "  "WTiat  do  you  mean  by 
that,  you  ferret  ?  Why  don't  you  add,  and 
brass  to  the  back  of  that  ? '  By  fife  and 
•irum,  I  won't  stand  this  to  Beck.  Apologize 
nstantly,  sii\"  Then  breaking  into  a  hearty 
Bugh — "he  meant  no  offence.  Beck,"  he 
iwided  ;  "  he  respects  and  loves  you — I  know 
he  does — as  who  doesn't  that  knows  you,  my 
girl?" 

"  WTiat  I  meant  to  say,  IVIr.  Robei-ts " 

"Mrs.  Eoberts,  sir  ;  direct  the  apology  to 
herself." 

"  Well,  then,  what  I  wanted  to  say,  IVIrs. 
Eoberts,  was,  that  all  the  gold,  silver,  and 
brass  in  his  majesty's  dominions—  (God  bless 
him  !  parentheiice,  fi'om  Sam) — couldn't  pur- 
chase you,  an'  would  faU  far  short  of  yoiu- 
value." 

"  Well  done — thank  you,  Dunphy — thank 
you,  honest  old  Dunphy  ;  shake  hands.  He's 
a  fine  old  fellow.  Beck,  isn't  he,  eh  ?  " 

"  I'm  very  much  obhged  to  you,  Mr.  Dun- 
phy ;  but  you  oven-ate  me  a  great  deal  too 
much,"  rephed  ]\Ii*s.   Eoberts. 

"  No  such  thing,  Beck ;  you're  wrong 
there,  for  once  ;  the  thing  couldn't  be  done 
— by  fife  and  drum  !  it  couldn't ;  and  no 
man  has  a  better  right  to  know  that  than 
myself — and  I  say  it." 

Sam,  Hke  all  truly  brave  men,  never  boast- 
ed of  his  military'  exploits,  although  he 
might  weU  have  done  so.  On  the  conti-ary, 
it  was  a  subject  which  he  studiously  avoided, 
and  on  which  those  who  knew  his  modesty 
as  well  as  his  pride  never  ventured.  He  usu- 
ally cut  short  such  as  referred  to  it,  with  : 


"  Never  mind  that,  my  friend  ;  I  did  my 
duty,  and  that  was  all ;  and  so  did  every 
man  in  the  British  army,  or  I  wouldn't  be 
here  to  say  so.     Pass  the  subject." 

Sam  and  Dunjjhy,  at  all  events,  spent  a 
pleasant  evening  ;  at  least,  beyond  question, 
Sam  did.  As  for  Dunphy,  he  seemed  occa-. 
sionally  reheved  by  hearing  Sam's  warm  and 
affectionate  allusions  to  his  son  ;  and,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  appeared,  fi*om  time  to  time, 
to  fall  into  a  mood  that  indicated  a  state  oi 
feeling  between  gloom  and  reflection. 

"It's  extraordinary,  Mr.  Eoberts,"  he  ob- 
seiwed,  after  awakening  from  one  of  these 
reveries  ;  "  it  looks  as  if  Providence  was  in  it." 

"  God  Almighty's  in  it,  sir, — didn't  I  say 
so?  and  under  him,  Sam  Eoberts.  Sir,  I 
observed  that  boy  closely  fi'om  the  beginning. 
He  reminded  me,  and  you  too.  Beck,  didn't 
he,  of  him  that— that — we  lost" — here  he 
j)aused  a  moment,  and  placed  his  hand  upon 
his  heart,  as  if  to  feel  for  something  there 
that  awoke  touching  and  melancholy  re- 
membrances ;  whilst  his  wife,  on  the  other 
hand,  unpinned  the  locket,  and  having 
kissed  it,  quietly  let  fall  a  few  tears  ;  after 
which  she  restored  it  to  its  former  position. 
Sam  cleai'ed  his  voice  a  httle,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded : 

"  Yes  ;  I  could  never  look  at  the  one 
without  thinking  of  the  other  ;  but  'twas  all 
the  heart  of  man.  In  a  week's  time  he 
could  fish  as  well  as  myself,  and  in  a  short 
time  began  to  teach  me.  'Gad  !  he  used  to 
take  the  rod  out  of  my  hand  with  so  much 
kindness,  so  gently  and  respectfully — for, 
mark  me,  Dunphy,  he  respected  me  from 
the  beginning — didn't  he.  Beck  ?  " 

"  He  did,  indeed,  Sam." 

"  Thank  you.  Beck  ;  you're  a  good  crea- 
tui'e.  So  gently  and  respectfully,  as  I  was 
saving,  and  showed  me  in  his  sweet  words, 
and  with  his  smiling  ej'es — yes,  and  his  hair, 
too,  was  the  very  color  of  his  brother's — I  was 
afraid  I  might  forget  that.  Well — yes,  with 
such  smiling  eyes  that  it  was  impossible  not 
to  love  him — I  couldn't  but  love  him — but, 
sure,  it  was  only  natural — aU  the  heart  of 
man,  Dimphy.  'Ned,'  said  I  to  him  one 
day,  '  would  you  Hke  to  become  a  soldier — 
a  soLDiEK,  Ned  ? ' "  And  as  the  old  man  re- 
peated the  word  "soldier"  his  voice  became 
fuU  and  impressive,  his  eyes  sparkled  with 
pride,  and  his  very  form  seemed  to  dilate  at 
the  exulting  reminiscences  and  heroic  asso- 
ciations connected  with  it. 

"  Above  all  things  in  this  life,"  replied  the 
boy  ;  "  but  you  know  I'm  too  young." 

"  '  Never  mind,  my  boy,'  said  I,  '  that's  a 
fault  that  evei-y  day  will  mend  ;  you'U  never 
gi'ow  less  ; '  so  I  consulted  with  Beck  there, 
and  with  you,  Dunphy,  didn't  I  ?  " 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


421 


"You  did,  indeed,  IMr.  Roberts,  and 
woiildn't  do  anything  till  you  had  spoken 
to  me  on  the  subject." 

•'  Right,  Dunjjhy,  right — well,  you  know 
the  rest.  '  Education's  the  point,'  said  I  to 
Beck — ignorance  is  a  bad  inheritance.  What 
would  I  be  to-day  if  I  didn't  write  a  good 
hand,  and  was  a  keen  accountant  !  But  no 
matter,  off  he  went  with  a  decent  outfit  to 
honest  Mainwairing — thirty  pounds  a-yeai' 
— five  yeai's— lost  no  time — was  steady,  but 
always  showed  a  spirii  Couldn't  get  him 
a  commission  then,  for  I  hadn't  come  in  for 
my  Uncle's  legacy,  which  I  got  the  other  day 
—-dashed  him  into  the  ranks  though — and 
here  he  is — a  commissioned  officer — eh,  old 
Dunphy  !  ^YeU,  isn't  that  natural  ?  but  it's 
aU  the  heart  of  man." 

"  It's  wonderful,"  observed  Dunphy,  ru- 
minating, "  it's  wonderful  indeed.  Well, 
now,  ]\Ii*.  Roberts,  it  really  i.s  wonderful.  I 
came  down  here  to  spake  to  you  about  that 
very  boy,  and  see  the  news  I  have  before 
me.  Indeed,  it  is  wonderful,  and  the  hand  o' 
God  is  surely  in  it." 

"  Right,   Dunphy,    that's   the  word  ;  and 
under  him,    in    the  capacity  of  agent  in  the 
business,  book   down   Sam   Roberts,    who's  j 
deeply  thankful  to  God  for  making  him,  if  I  I 
may  say  so,  his  adjutant  in  advancing  the 
boy's  fortunes."  j 

"  Did  you  see  him  to-day,  Sam  ?  "  asked 
^Irs.  Roberts.  i 

"No,"  replied  Sam,  "he  wasn't  in  the  bar- 
racks,, but  I'll  engage  we'll  both  see  him  to- 
morrow, if  he  has  life,  that  is,  unless  he  should  \ 
happen  to  be  on  duty.     If  he  doesn't  come  \ 
to-morrow,  however,  I'll  start  the  day  after  for 
Dublin." 

"  Well,  now,  ]Mr.  Roberts,"  said  Dunphy,  ! 
"if  you  have  no  objection,  I  didn't  cai'e  if  I  ! 
turned  into  bed  ;  I'm  not  accustomed  to  i 
travelin',  and  I'm  a  thi'ifle  fatigued  ;  only  to- 
morrow morning,  i^laise  God,  I  have  some-  | 
thing  to  say  to  you  about  that  boy  that  may  ; 
surprise  you." 

"  Not  a  syllable,  Dunphy,  nothing  about 
Him  that  could  sui^irise  me." 

"WeU,"rephed  the  hesitating  and  cau- 
tious old  man,  "  maybe  I  wiU  surprise  you 
for  all  that." 

This  he  said  whilst  ]Mi's.  Robei-ts  and 
MoUy  Byrne  were  preparing  his  bed  in  one 
of  the  neat  sleeping  rooms  which  stood  ofif 
the  pleasant  kitchen  where  they  sat;  "and 
Usten,  Ml-.  Roberts,  before  I  tell  it,  you 
must  pledge  youi'  honor  as  a  soldier,  that 
until  I  give  you  lave,  you'll  never  breathe  a 
syllable  of  what  I  have  to  mention  to  any 
one,  not  even  to  INIrs.  Roberts." 

"  WTiat's  that?  Keep  a  secret  fi'om  Beck  ? 
Come,  Dunphy,  that's  what  I  never  did,  un- 


less the  word  and  countersign  when  on  duty, 
and,  by  fife  and  drum,  I  never  will  keep 
your  secret  then  ;  I  don't  want  it,  for  as 
sure  as  I  heai-  it,  so  shall  she.  And  is  it 
afraid  of  old  Beck  you  are  ?  By  fife  and 
drum,  sii",  old  Beck  has  more  honor  than 
either  of  us,  and  would  as  soon  take  a  fancy 
to  a  coward  as  betray  a  secret.  You  don't 
know  her,  old  Dunphy,  you  don't  know  her, 
or  you  wouldn't  spake  as  if  you  feared  that 
she's  not  truth'  and  honesty  to  the  back- 
bone." 

"  I  beUeve  it,  ^Ir.  Roberts,  but  they  say, 
afther  all,  that  once  a  woman  gets  a  secret, 
she  tliinks  herself  in  a  sartin  way,  until  she's 
deHvered  of  it." 

Sam,  who  liked  a  joke  very  well,  laughed 
heartily  at  this,  bad  as  it  was,  or  rather  he 
laughed  at  the  shrewd,  ludici'ous,  but  satiri- 
cal grin  with  which  old  Dunphy 's  face  was 
puckered  whilst  he  uttered  it. 

"  But,  sii',"  said  he,  resuming  his  gravity, 
"Beck,  I'd  have  you  to  know,  is  not  like 
other  women,  by  which  I  mean  that  no  other 
woman  could  l^e  compared  to  her.  Beck's 
the  queen  of  women,  upon  my  soul  she  is  ; 
and  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that  if  you  tell  me 
the  secret,  in  half  an  hoiu-'s  time  shell  be  as 
well  acquainted  with  it  as  either  of  us.  I 
have  no  notion,  Dvmphy,  at  this  time  of  hfe, 
to  separate  my  mind  fi'om  Beck's  ;  my  con- 
science, sir,  is  my  store-room  ;  she  has  a 
key  for  it,  and,  by  fife  and  drum,  I'm  not 
going  to  take  it  fi'om  her  now.  Do  you 
think  Beck  would  treat  old  Sam  so  ?  No. 
And  my  nile  is,  and  ever  has  been,  treat  your 
wife  with  confidence  if  you  respect  her,  and 
expect  confidence  in  yovir  turn.  No,  no  ; 
jDoor  Beck  must  have  it  if  /  have  it.  The 
truth  is,  I  have  no  secrets,  and  never  had.  I 
keep  none,  Dimphy,  and  that's  but  natiiral ; 
however,  it's  ah  the  heai-t  of  man." 

The  next  morning  the  two  men  took  an 
early  walk,  for  both  were  in  the  habit  of 
rising  betimes.  Dunphy,  it  would  appear, 
was  one  of  those  individuals,  who,  if  they 
ever  perform  a  praiseworthy  act,  do  it  rather 
from  weakness  of  character  and  fear,  than 
fi'om  a  principle  of  conscientious  rectitude. 
After  having  gone  to  bed  the  previous  night 
he  lav  awake  for  a  considei*able  time  debating 
\\-ith  himself  the  pui-jjort  of  his  visit,  iuro  and 
CO/!,  without  after  all,  being  able  to  accom- 
pHsh  a  detennination  on  the  subject.  He 
was  timid,  cunning,  slirewd,  avai'icious,  and 
possessed,  besides,  a  large  portion  of  that 
pecuUar  superstition  which  does  not  restrain 
from  iniquity,  although  it  renders  the  mind 
anxious  and  apprehensive  of  the  consequen- 
ces. Now  the  honest  fellow  with  whom  he 
had  to  deal  was  the  reverse  of  all  this  in 
even-  possible  phase  of  his  charact«*.  being 


422 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


candid,  conscientious,  fearless,  and  straight- 
forward. "NMiatever  he  felt  to  be  his  duty, 
that  he  did,  regardless  of  all  opinion  and  fiU 
consequences.  He  was,  in  fact,  an  indepen- 
dent man,  because  he  always  acted  from 
right  principles,  or  rather  fi'om  right  im- 
pulses ;  the  tiiith  being,  that  the  virtuous 
action  was  performed  before  he  had  allowed 
himself  time  to  reason  upon  it.  Every  one 
must  have  obsei'ved  that  there  is  a  rai-e  class 
of  men  whose  feelings,  always  on  the  right 
side,  are  too  quick  for  theii*  reason,  which  they 
generously  anticipate,  and  have  the  proposed 
\ii-tue  completed  before  either  reason  or  pru- 
dence have  had  time  to  argue  either  for  or 
against  the  act.  Old  Sam  was  one  of  the 
latter,  and  our  readers  may  easily  perceive 
the  contrast  which  the  two  individuals  pre- 
sented. 

After  about  an  hour's  walk  both  returned 
to  breakfast,  and  whatever  may  have  been 
the  conversation  that  took  place  between 
them,  or  whatever  extent  of  confidence 
Dunphy  reposed  in  old  Sam,  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  his  glee  tl^is  morning  was 
infinitely  gi'eater  than  on  the  preceding 
evening,  although,  at  Dunphy 's  earnest  re- 
quest, considerably  more  subdued.  Nay, 
the  latter  had  so  far  succeeded  with  old  Sam 
as  to  induce  him  to  promise,  that  for  the 
present  at  least,  he  would  forbear  to  com- 
municate it  to  his  wife.  Sam,  however, 
would  under  no  cu'cumstances  promise  this 
until  he  should  first  hear  the  nature  of  it, 
upon  which,  he  said,  he  would  then  judge 
for  himself.  After  hearing  it,  however,  he 
said  that  on  Dunphj^'s  own  account  he  would 
not  breathe  it  even  to  her  without  his  per- 
mission. 

"  Mind,"  said  Dunphy,  at  the  conclusion 
of  their  dialogue,  and  with  his  usual  caution, 
"  I  am  not  mrtin  of  what  I  have  mentioned  ; 
but  I  hope,  plaise  God,  in  a  short  time  to  be 
able  to  prove  it ;  and,  if  not,  as  nobody 
knows  it  but  yourself  an'  me,  why  there's  no 
harm  done.  Dear  knows,  I  have  a  strong 
reason  for  lettin'  the  matter  lie  as  it  is,  even 
if  my  suspicions  are  true  ;  but  my  conscience 
isn't  aisy,  ]\Ir.  Roberts,  an'  for  that  raisou  I 
came  to  spake  to  you,  to  consult  with  you, 
and  to  have  your  advice." 

"  And  ray  advice  to  you  is,  Dunphy,  not 
to  attack  the  enemy  until  your  plans  are 
properly  laid,  and  aU  your  forces  in  a  good 
position.  The  thing  can't  be  proved  now, 
you  say  ;  very  well ;  you'd  be  only  a  fool  for 
attempting  to  prove  it." 

"  I'm  not  sayin',"  said  the  cautious  old  sin- 
ner again,  "that  it  can  be  proved  at  any 
time,  or  proved  at  all — that  is,  for  a  mrtinty  ; 
but  I  think,  afther  a  time,  it  may.  There's 
a  person  not  now  in  the  country,  that  will  be 


back  shortly,  I  hope ;  and  if  any  one  can 

prove  what  I  mentioned  to  you,  that  person 
Cfxn.  I  know  we'd  make  a  powerful  fiiend  by 
it,  but " 

Here  he  squirted  his  thin  tobacco  spittle 
"  out  owi'e  his  beard,"  but  added  nothing 
further. 

"Dunphy,  my  fine  old  fellow,"  said  Sara, 
"  it  was  veiy  kind  of  you  to  come  to  me  upon 
this  point.  You  know  the  aft'ection  I  have 
for  the  young  man ;  thank  you,  Dunphy ; 
but  it's  natural — it's  all  the  heart  of  man. 
Dimphy,  how  long  is  it,  now,  since  you  and 
I  messed  together  in  the  gallant  eleven  times 
thi-ee?  Fifty  years,  I  think,  Dunphy,  oi 
more.  You  were  a  smaa-t  fellow  then,  and 
became  servant,  I  think,  to  a  young  captain — 
what's  this  his  name  was  ?  oh  !  I  remember 
— Gourlay  ;  for,  Dunphy,  I  remember  the 
name  of  every  officer  in  our  regiment,  since 
I  entered  it ;  when  they  joined,  when  they 
exchanged,  sold  out,  or  died  like  brave  men 
in  the  field  of  battle.  It's  upwards  of  fifty. 
By  the  way,  he  left  us — sold  out  immediately 
after  his  father's  death." 

"Ay,  ould  Sii"  Edward — a  good  man  ;  but 
he  had  a  woman  to  his  wife,  and  if  ever 
there  was  a  divil — Lord  bless  us  ! — in  any 
woman,  there  was  one,  and  a  choice  bad  one, 
too,  in  her.  The  present  barrownight.  Sir 
Thomas,  is  as  hke  her  as  if  she  had  spat  him 
out  of  her  mouth.  The  poor  ould  man,  Sir 
Edward,  had  no  rest  night  or  day,  because 
he  woioldn't  get  himself  made  into  a  lord,  or 
a  peer,  or  some  high-flowoi  title  of  the  -kind  ; 
and  all  that  she  herself  might  rank  as  a 
nobleman's  lady,  although  she  was  a  '  lady,' 
by  title,  as  it  was,  which,  God  knows,  was 
more  than  she  desarved,  the  thief." 

"  Ah,  she  was  difierent  fi-om  Beck,  Dun- 
phy. Talking  of  wives,  have  I  not  a  right 
to  feel  thankful  that  God  in  his  goodness 
gifted  me  with  such  a  blessing  ?  You  don't 
know  what  I  owe  to  her,  Dunphy.  "\Mien  I 
was  sick  and  wounded — I  bear  the  marks  of 
fifteen  severe  wounds  upon  me — when  I  was 
in  fever,  in  ague,  in  jaundice,  and  several 
other  complaints  belonging  to  the  difi'erent 
countries  we  w^ere  in,  there  she  was — there 
she  iva.%  Diuijjhy ;  but  enough  said  ;  ay,  and 
in  the  field  of  battle,  too,"  he  added,  immedi- 
ately forgetting  himself,  "lying  like  a  log, 
my  tongue  black  and  burning.  Oh,  yes, 
Beck's  a  great  creature ;  that's  aU,  now 
— that's  all.  Come  in  to  breakfast,  and  now 
you  shaU  know  what  a  fi*esh  egg  means,  for 
we  have  lots  of  poultiy." 

"  Many  thanks  to  you,  Mr.  Roberts,  I  and 
my  ould  woman  know  that." 

"  Tut — nonsense,  man  ;  lots  of  poultrj^,  I 
say — always  a  pig  or  two,  and  never  with- 
out a  ham  or  a'tlitch,  you  old  dog.     Except 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


423 


the  welfare  of  that  boy,  we  have  nothing  on 
earth,  thank  God,  to  trouble  us  ;  but  that's 
natural — it's   all   the   heart   of  man,    Dun- 

After  ha^^ngf  made  a  luxurious  breakfast, 
Dunphy,  who  felt  that  he  could  not  readily 
remain* away  fi'om  his  little  shop,  bade  this 
most  affectionate  and  worthy  couple  good-by 
and  proceeded  on  his  way  home. 

This  hesitating  old  man  felt  anything  but 
comfortable  since  the  partial  confidence  he 
had  placed  in  old  Sam.  It  is  true,  he 
stated  the  purport  of  his  disclosure  to  him 
as  a  contingency  that  might  or  might  not 
happen  ;  thus,  as  he  imagined,  keeping  him- 
self on  the  safe  side.  But  in  the  meantime, 
he  felt  anxious,  apprehensive  and  alarmed, 
even  at  the  lengths  to  which  his  superstitious 
fears  had  driven  him  ;  for  he  felt  now  that 
one  class  of  terrors  had  only  superinduced 
another,  without  destroying  the  first.  But 
so  must  it  ever  be  with  those  timid  and  pu- 
sillanimous villains  who  strive  to  impose  up- 
on their  consciences,  and  hesitate  between 
right  and  wi-ong. 

On  his  way  home,  however,  he  determined 
to  visit  the  baiTacks  in  which  the  thirty-third 
regiment  lay,  in  order,  if  possible,  to  get  a 
fui'tive  glance  at  the  young  ensign.  In  this 
he  was  successful.  On  entering  the  barrack 
square,  he  saw  a  gi'oup  of  officers  chatting 
together  on  the  north  side,  and  after  inquir- 
ing from  a  soldier  if  Ensim^Roberts  was 
among  them,  he  was  answered  Th  fhe  affirma- 
tive. 

"  There  he  is,"  said  the  man,  "  standing 
with  a  whip  in  his  hand — that  tall,  handsome 
young  feUow." 

Dunphy,  who  was  svifficiently  near  to  get 
a  clear  riew  of  him,  was  instantly  struck  by 
his  surprising  resemblance  to  ^liss  Goui'lay, 
whom  he  had  often  seen  in  town. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Interview  between  Trailcudgel  and  the  Stranger — A 
Peep  at  Lord  Dunroe  and  his  Friend. 

It  was  on  the  morning  that  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay  had  made  the  disastrous  discovery 
of  the  flight  of  his  daughter — for  he  had  not 
yet  heard  the  spreading  inimor  of  the  im- 
aginary elopement — that  the  stranger,  on 
his  way  from  Father  M'Mahon's  to  the  Mitre, 
was  met  in  a  lonely  part  of  the  road,  near 
the  priest's  house,  by  a  man  of  huge  stature 
and  savage  appearance.  He  was  literally  in 
rags ;  and  lus  long  beard,  gaunt  features, 
and  eyes  that  glared  as  if  with  remorse, 
distraction,  or  despair,  absolutely  constituted 


him  an  alarming  as  well  as  a  painful  specta" 
cle.  As  he  approached  the  stranger,  with 
some  obvious  and  urgent  pui-pose,  trailing 
after  him  a  weapon  that  resembled  the  club 
of  Hercules,  the  latter  paused  in  his  step 
and  said, 

"  Vfhsit  is  the  matter  -vrith  you,  my  good 
fellow  ?  You  seem  agitated.  Do  you  want 
anything  with  me  ?  Stand  back,  I  will  per- 
mit you  to  come  no  nearer,  tiU  I  know  your 
purpose.     I  am  armed." 

The  wretched  man  put  his  hand  upon  his 
eyes,  and  groaned  as  if  his  heart  would 
burst,  and  for  some  moments  was  unable  to 
make  any  reply. 

"  What  can  this  mean  ? "  thought  the 
stranger  ;  "  the  man's  features,  though  wild 
and  hollow,  are  not  those  of  a  xniffian." 

"  My  good  friend,"  he  added,  speaking 
in  a  milder  tone,  "  you  seem  distressed. 
Pray  let  me  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

j      "Don't  be  angiy  with  me,"  replied  the 

I  man,  addressing  him  with  dry,  parched  lips, 

j  whilst  his  Herculean  breast  heaved  up  and 

down  with  agitation  ;  "  I  didn't  intend  to  do 

;  it,  or  to  break  in  upon  it,  but  now  I  must, 

j  for  it's  Hfe  or  death  with  the  three  that's  left 

1  me  ;  and  I  durstn't  go  into  the  town  to  ask  it 

!  there.      I  have  lost  four  ah-eady.     !Maybe, 

'  sir,  you  could  change  this  pound  note  for 

!  me  ?    For  the  sake  of  the  Almighty,  do  ;  as 

you  hope  for  mercy  don't  refuse  me.     That's 

\  all  I  ask.     I  know  that  3'ou  stop   in  the  inn 

[  in    the   town   there   above — that    you're   a 

fi-iend  of  our  good  priest's — and  that  you 

are  weU  spoken  of  by  every  one." 

Now,  it  fortunately  happened  that  the 
stranger  had,  on  leaving  the  inn,  put  thirty 
shillings  of  sQver  in  his  pocket,  not  only 
that  he  might  distribute  thi'ough  the  hands 
of  Father  M'Mahon  some  portion  of  assist- 
ance to  the  poor  whom  that  good  man  had 
on  his  hst  of  distress,  but  visit  some  of  the 
hovels  on  his  way  back,  in  order  personally 
to  witness  their  condition,  and,  if  necessai-y, 
relieve  them.  The  priest,  however,  was 
from  home,  and  he  had  not  an  oj^portunity 
of  carrying  the  other  portion  of  his  inten- 
tions into  effect,  as  he  was  only  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  from  the  good  man's  residence,  and  no 
hovels  of  the  desciiption  he  wished  to  visit 
had  3'et  presented  themselves. 

"  Change  for  a  poimd  !"  he  exclaimed,  with 
a  good  deal  of  surpi-ise.  "  ^^^3y,  from  your 
appearance,  poor  fellow,  I  should  scarcely 
suspect  to  find  such  a  sum  in  your  possession. 
Did  you  expect  to  meet  me  here  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  priest, 
to  open  my  heart  to  him,  for  if  I  don't,  I 
know  I'll  be  ragin'  mad  before  forty-eiglit 
hours.     Oh,  sii-,  if  you  have  it,  make  ha-slc  , 


i24 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


every  minute  may  cost  me  a  life  that's  dearer 
to  me  a  thousand  times  than  my  own.  Here's 
the  note,  sir." 

The  stranger  took  the  note  out  of  his  hand, 
and  on  looking  at  the  face  of  it  made  no  ob- 
servation, but,  upon  mechanically  tvu-ning 
up  the  back,  apparently  without  any  purpose 
of  examining  it,  he  started,  looked  keenly  at 
the  man,  and  seemed  svmk  in  the  deepest 
possible  amazement,  not  unreheved,  how- 
ever, by  an  air  of  satisfaction.  The  sudden 
and  mysterious  disappearance  of  Fenton, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  discovery  of  the 
note  which  he  himself  had  given  him,  and 
now  in  the  possession  of  a  man  whose  appear- 
ance was  both  desperate  and  suspicious,  filled 
him  with  instant  apprehensions  for  the  safety 
of  Fenton. 

His  brow  instantly  became  stem,  and  in  a 
voice  full  of  the  most  imequivocal  determina- 
tion, he  said, 

"  Pray,  sir,  how  did  you  come  by  this 
note  ?  " 

"By  the  temptation  of  the  de\il ;  for  al- 
though it  was  in  my  possession,  it  didn't  save 
my  two  other  darhns  fi'om  djing.  A  piece 
of  a  slate  would  be  as  useful  as  it  was,  for  I 
couldn't  change  it— I  durstn't." 

"  You  committed  a  robbery  for  this  note, 
sir?" 

The  man  glared  at  him  with  something 
like  incipient  fury,  but  paused,  and  looking 
on  him  with  a  more  soiTowful  aspect,  replied, 

"That  is  what  the  world  will  call  it,  I  sup- 
pose ;  but  if  you  wish  to  get  anything  out  of 
me,  change  the  tone  of  your  voice.  I  haven't 
at  the  present  time,  much  command  over  my 
temper,  and  I'm  now  a  desperate  man, 
though  I  wasn't  always  so.  Either  give  me 
the  change  or  the  note  back  again." 

The  stranger  eyed  him  closely.  Although 
desperate,  as  he  said,  still  there  were  symp- 
toms of  an  honest  and  manly  feeling,  even  in 
the  very  bursts  of  passion  which  he  suc- 
ceeded with  such  effort  in  restraining. 

"  I  repeat  it,  that  this  note  came  into  youi- 
hands  by  an  act  of  robber^' — perhaps  of 
murder." 

"  Miu-der !  "  replied  the  man,  indignantly. 
"Give  me  back  the  note,  sir,  and  provoke 
me  no  farther." 

"  No,"  rei^lied  the  other,  "  I  shall  not ;  and 
you  must  consider  yourself  my  prisoner. 
You  not  only  do  not  deny,  but  seem  to  admit, 
the  charge  of  robbery,  and  you  shall  not  pass 
out  of  my  hands  until  you  render  me  an  ac- 
count of  the  per.son  fi'om  whom  you  took  this 
note.  You  see,"  he  added,  producing  a  case 
of  pistols — for,  in  accordance  with  the  hint 
he  had  received  in  the  anonymous  note,  he 
resolved  never  to  go  out  without  them — "  I 
api  armed,  and  that  resistance  is  useless." 


The  man  gave  a  proud  but  ghastly  smile, 
as  he  repHed — dropping  his  stick,  and  pull- 
ing from  his  bosom  a  pair  of  pistols  much 
larger  and  more  dangerous  than  those  of  the 
stranger, 

"  You  see,  that  if  you  go  to  that  I  have  the 
advantage  of  you." 

"  Tell  me,"  I  repeat,  "  what  has  become  oi 
]\Ir.  Fenton,  fi'om  whom  you  took  it." 

"  Fenton  !  "  exclaimed  the  other,  with  sur- 
prise ;  "is  that  the  poor  young  man  that's 
not  right  in  his  head  ?  " 

"The  same." 

"  Well,  I  know  nothing  about  him." 

"  Did  you  not  rob  him  of  this  note  ?  " 

"  No." 

"You  did,  sir;  this  note  was  in  his  pos- 
session ;  and  I  fear  you  have  murdered  him 
besides.  You  must  come  with  me," — and  as 
he  spoke,  our  friend,  Trailcudgel,  saw  two 
pistols,  one  in  each  hand,  levelled  at  him. 
"  Get  on  before  me,  sir,  to  the  town  of  Bally- 
train,  or  resist  at  yovu'  peiil." 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  the  two  pis- 
tols, taken  fi'om  Sir  Thomas  Goiuiay,  were 
levelled  at  the  stranger. 

"  Now,"  said  the  man,  whilst  his  eyes  shot 
fire  and  his  brow  darkened,  "  if  it  must  be, 
it  must ;  I  only  want  the  sheddin'  of  blood 
to  fill  up  my  misery  and  guilt ;  but  it  seems 
I'm  doomed,  and  I  can't  help  it.  Sir,"  said 
he,  "  think  of  yourself.  If  I  submit  to  become 
your  prisoner,  my  Hfe's  gone.  You  don't 
know  the  Aillain  you  are  goin'  to  hand  me 
over  to.  I'm  not  afi'aid  of  you,  nor  of  any- 
thing, but  to  die  a  disgi-aceful  death  through 
hvi  means,  as  I  must  do." 

"  I  w^ill  hear  no  reasoning  on  the  subject," 
replied  the  other ;  "go  on  before  me." 

The  man  kept  his  pistols  jDresented,  and 
there  they  stood,  looking  sternly  into  each 
other's  faces,  each  determined  not  to  yield, 
and  each,  probably,  on  the  brink  of  eternity. 

At  lengih  the  man  dropped  the  muzzles  of 
the  weapons,  and  holding  them  reversed,  ap- 
proached the  stranger,  saying,  in  a  voice  and 
with  an  expression  of  feeling  that  smote  the 
other  to  the  heart, 

"I  will  be  conqueror  still,  su'.  Instead" of 
goin'  with  3'ou,  you  will  come  with  me. 
There  ai-e  my  jDistols.  Onl}'  come  to  a  house 
of  misery  and  sorrow  and  death,  and  you  will 
know  all." 

"  This  is  not  treachery',"  thought  the  stran- 
ger. "There  can  be  no  mistaking  the 
anguish — the  agony — of  that  voice  ;  and 
those  large  tears  bear  no  testimony  to  the 
crime  of  murder  or  robbeiy." 

"  Take  my  pistols,  sir,"  the  other  repeated, 
"  only  follow  me." 

"  No,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  keep  them  : 
I  fear  you  not — and  what  is  more,  I  do  noi 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


425 


now  even  suspect  you.  Here  are  thirty 
shillings  in  silver — but  you  must  allow  me  to 
keep  this  note." 

We  need  not  describe  anew  the  scene  to 
which  poor  Trailcudgel  introduced  him.  It 
is  enough  to  say,  that  since  his  last  appear- 
ance in  our  pages  he  had  lost  two  more  of 
his  children,  one  by  famine  and  the  other  by 
fever  ;  and  that  when  the  stranger  entered 
his  hovel — that  hbel  upon  a  human  habita- 
tion— that  disgrace  to  landlord  inhumanity 
— he  saw  stretched  out  in  the  stillness  of 
death  the  emaciated  bodies  of  not  less  than 
four  human  beings — to  wit,  this  "WTctched 
man's  wife,  their  daughter,  a  sweet  girl 
nearly  grown,  and  two  little  ones.  The  hus- 
band and  father  looked  at  them  for  a  little, 
and  the  stranger  saw  a  singiilar  working  or 
change,  taking  place  on  his  featvu-es.  At 
length  he  clasped  his  hands,  and  first  smiled 
-then  laughed  outright,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Thank  God  that  they,"  pointing  to  the 
dead,  "  are  saved  from  any  more  of  this," — 
but  the  scene — the  eftbrt  at  composure — the 
sense  of  his  guilt — the  condition  of  the  sur- 
vivors— exhaustion  from  want  of  food,  all 
combined,  overcame  him,  and  he  fell  sense- 
less on  the  floor. 

The  stranger  got  a  porringer  of  water, 
bathed  his  temples,  opened  his  teeth  with 
an  old  knife,  and  having  poured  some  of  it 
down  his  throat,  di'agged  him — and  it  re- 
quired all  his  strength  to  do  so,  although  a 
powerful  man — over  to  the  cabin-door,  in 
order  to  get  him  within  the  influence  of  the 
fresh  air.  At  length  he  recovered,  looked 
wildly  about  him,  then  gazed  up  in  the  face 
of  the  stranger,  and  made  one  or  two  deep 
respirations. 

"I  see,"  said  he,  "I  remember — set  me 
sittin'  upon  this  httle  ditch  beside  the  door 
— but  no,  no — "  he  added,  starting — "  come 
away — I  must  get  them  food — come — quick, 
quick,  and  I  will  tell  you  as  we  go  along." 

He  then  repeated  the  history  of  his  ruin 
by  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  of  the  robbery,  and 
of  the  scene  of  death  and  destitution  which 
drove  him  to  it. 

"And  was  it  fi-om  Sir  Thomas  you  got 
this  note  ?  "  asked  the  stranger,  whose  inter- 
est was  now  deeply  excited. 

"  From  him  I  got  it,  sir  ;   as  I  tould  you," 
he  rephed,  "  and  I  was  on  my  way  to  the 
priest  to  give  him  up  the  money  and  the 
_  pistols,  when  the  situation  of  my  children,  of 

■  my  family,  of  the  Hrin'  and  the  dead,  over- 
s' came  me,  and  I  was  tempted  to  break  in 
B  upon  one  pound  of  it  for  their  sakes.  Sir, 
^L  my  life's  in  your  hands,  but  there  is  some- 
HL  thing  in  your  face  that  tells  my  heart  that 
^■L  you  won't  betray  me,  especially  afther  what 
^H     you  have  seen." 


The  stranger  had  been  a  silent  and  atten- 
tive listener  to  this  narrative,  and  after  he 
had  ceased  he  spoke  not  for  some  time.  He 
then  added,  emphatically  but  quickly,  and 
almost  aljruptly  : 

"Don't  fear  me,  my  poor  fellow.  Your 
secret  is  as  safe  as  if  you  had  never  disclosed 
it.  Here  are  other  notes  for  you,  and  in  the 
meantime  place  yourself  in  the  hands  of 
your  priest,  and  enable  him  to  restore  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  his  money  and  his  pistols. 
I  shall  see  you  and  your  family  again." 

The  man  riewed  the  money,  looked  at  him 
for  a  moment,  burst  into  tears,  and  hurried 
away,  without  saying  a  word,  to  procure  food 
for  himself  and  his  children. 

Our  readers  need  not  imagine  for  a  mo- 
ment that  the  scenes  with  which  we  have  en- 
deavored to  present  them,  in  the  wretched 
hut  of  Trailcudgel,  are  at  all  overdra^vn.  In 
point  of  fact,  they  fall  far  short  of  thousands 
which  might  have  been  "witnes-sed,  and  were 
witnessed,  diiring  the  years  of  '47,  '48,  '49, 
and  this  present  one  of  '50.  "We  are  aware 
that  so  many  as  twenty-three  human  beings, 
of  all  ages  and  sexes,  have  been  found  by 
pubUc  ofiicers,  all  Ipng  on  the  same  floor, 
and  in  the  same  bed — if  bed  it  can  be  termed 
— nearly  one-fourth  of  them  stiffened  and 
putrid  corpses.  The  survivors  weltering  in 
filth,  fever,  and  famine,  and  so  completely 
maddened  by  despair,  delirium,  and  the 
rackings  of  intolerable  pain,  in  its  severest 
shapes — aggravated  by  thirst  and  hunger — 
that  all  the  impvdses  of  nature  and  afifection 
were  not  merely  banished  from  the  heart, 
but  superseded  by  the  most  frightful  peals 
of  insane  mirth,  cinielty,  and  the  horrible 
appetite  of  the  ghoul  and  vampire.  Some 
were  found  teaiing  the  flesh  from  the  bodies 
of  the  carcasses  that  were  stretched  beside 
them.  Mothers  tottered  oflf  under  the  woful 
excitement  of  misery  and  frenzy,  and  threw 
their  wretched  children  on  the  sides  of  the 
highways,  leaving  them  there,  "nath  shouts 
of  mirth  and  satisfaction,  to  perish  or  be 
saved,  as  the  chances  might  turn  out-  -whilst 
fathers  have  been  known  to  make  a  wolfish 
meal  upon  the  dead  bodies  of  their  own  ofi- 
spring.  We  might,  therefore,  have  carried  on 
our  description  up  to  the  very  highest  point 
of  imaginable  horror,  without  going  beyond 
the  tnith. 

It  is  well  for  the  world  that  the  schemes 
and  projects  of  ambition  depend  not  in  their 
fulfilment  upon  the  means  and  instiximents 
with  which  they  are  sought  to  be  accom- 
pHshed.  Had  Sii*  Thomas  Gourlay,  for  in- 
stance, not  treated  his  daughter  with  such 
brutal  cruelty,  an  intennew  must  have  takex 
place  between  her  and  Lord  Cullamore, 
which  would,  as  a  matter  of  course,  have 


<26 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


put  an  end  forever  to  her  father's  hopes  of 
the  high  rank  for  which  he  was  so  anxious 
to  saciifice  her.  The  good  old  nobleman, 
failing  of  the  inten-ieAv  he  had  expected, 
went  immediately  to  London,  with  a  hope, 
among  other  objects,  of  being  in  some  way 
useful  to  his  son,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
more  than  two  years,  the  latter  having  been, 
during  that  period,  making  the  usual  tour  of 
the  Continent. 

On  the  second  day  of  his  arrival,  and  after 
he  had  in  some  degi'ee  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  the  voyage — by  which,  on  the 
whole,  he  was  rather  improved — he  resolved 
to  call  upon  Dunroe,  in  pursuance  of  a  note 
which  he  had  written  to  him  to  that  effect, 
being  unwilling  besides  to  take  him  \in- 
awares.  Before  he  arrives,  however,  we 
shall  take  the  hberty  of  looking  in  ujDon  his 
lordship,  and  thus  enable  oui-selves  to  form 
some  opinion  of  the  materials  which  consti- 
tuted that  young  nobleman's  character  and 
habits. 

The  accessories  to  these  habits,  as  expo- 
nents of  his  life  and  character,  were  in  ad- 
mirable keeping  with  both,  and  a  shght 
glance  at  them  will  be  sufficient  for  the 
reader. 

His  lordship,  who  kept  a  small  estabhsh- 
ment  of  his  own,  now  hes  in  a  verj'  elegantly 
furnished  bedroom,  with  a  table  beside  his 
bed,  on  which  are  dressings  for  his  woiind, 
phials  of  medicines,  some  loose  comedies, 
and  a  volume  stiU  more  objectionable  in 
point  both  of  taste  and  morals.  Beside  him 
is  a  man,  whether  young  or  of  the  middle 
age  it  is  difficult  to  say.  At  the  first  glance, 
his  general  appearance,  at  least,  seemed 
rather  juvenile,  but  after  a  second — and  still 
more  decidedly  after  a  third — it  was  e\T[dent 
to  the  spectator  that  he  could  not  be  under 
forty.  He  was  dressed  in  quite  a  youthful 
style,  and  in  the  very  extreme  of  fashion. 
This  person's  features  were  good,  regular, 
absolutely  symmetrical ;  yet  was  there  that 
in  his  countenance  which  you  could  not  rel- 
ish. The  face,  on  being  examined,  bespoke 
the  Ufe  of  a  battered  rake  ;  for  although  the 
complexion  was  or  had  been  naturally  good, 
it  was  now  set  in  too  high  a  color  for  that  of 
a  young  man,  and  was  hardened  into  a  cer- 
tain appearance  which  is  produced  on  some 
features  by  the  struggle  that  takes  place  be- 
tween dissipation  and  health.  The  usual 
obseiTation  in  such  cases  is — "with  what  a 
constitution  has  that  man  been  blessed  on 
whose  countenance  the  symptoms  of  a  hard 
life  are  so  slightly  perceptible."  The  symp- 
toms, however,  are  there  in  every  case,  as 
£hey  were  on  his.  This  man's  countenance, 
we  say,  at  the  first  glance,  was  good,  and  his 
9ye  seemed  indicative  of  great  mildness  and 


benignity  of  heart — yet  here,  again,  was  a 
drawback,  for,  upon  a  stricter  examination 
of  that  organ,  there  might  be  read  in  it  the 
expression  of  a  spirit  that  never  permitted 
him  to  utter  a  single  word  that  was  not  as- 
sociated with  some  selfish  calculation.  Add 
to  this,  that  it  was  unusually  small  and 
feeble,  intimating  dupHcity  and  a  want  of 
moral  energy  and  candor.  In  the  mere 
face,  therefore,  there  was  something  which 
you  could  not  like,  and  which  would  have 
prejudiced  you,  as  if  by  instinct,  against  the 
man,  were  it  not  that  the  phant  and  agreeable 
tone  of  his  conversation,  in  due  time,  made 
you  forget  everything  except  the  fact  that 
Tom  Norton  was  a  most  delightful  fellow, 
with  not  a  bit  of  selfishness  about  him,  but  a 
warm  and  fiiendly  wish  to  oblige  and  serve 
every  one  of  his  acquaintances,  as  far  as  he 
could,  and  with  the  gi'eatest  good-will  in  the 
world.  But  Tom's  excellence  did  not  rest 
here.  He  was  disinterested,  and  fi-equently 
went  so  far  as  almost  actually  to  quarrel 
wdth  some  of  liis  friends  on  their  refusing  to 
be  guided  by  his  advice  and  experience. 
Then,  again,  Tom  was  generous  and  dehcate, 
for  on  finding  that  his  dissuasions  against 
some  particular  course  had  been  disregarded, 
and  the  consequences  he  had  predicted  had 
actually  followed,  he  was  too  magnanimous 
ever  to  harass  them  by  useless  expostula- 
tions or  vain  reproofs  ;  such  as — "I  told  you 
how  it  would  happen  " — "  I  advised  you  in 
time" — "you  would  not  hsten  to  reason" — 
and  other  postliminious  apothegms  of  the 
same  character.  No,  on  the  contrary,  he 
maintained  a  considerate  and  gentlemanly 
silence  on  the  subject— a  cu'cumstance  which 
saved  them  from  the  embarrassment  of  much 
self-defence,  or  a  painful  admission  of  their 
error — and  not  only  satisfied  them  that  Tom 
was  honest  and  unselfish,  but  modest  and 
forbearing.  It  is  time,  that  an  occasional 
act  or  solecism  of  manner,  somewhat  at  vari- 
ance with  the  conventional  usages  of  polite 
society,  and  an  odd  \Tilgarism  of  expression, 
were  shght  blemishes  which  might  be 
brought  to  his  charge,  and  would  probably 
have  told  against  any  one  else.  But  it  was 
well  known  that  IVIi'.  Norton  admitted  him- 
self to  be  a  Connaught  gentleman,  with  some 
of  the  rough  habits  of  his  country,  as  well  ol 
manner  as  of  phraseology,  about  him  ;  and 
it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  a  Connemara 
gentleman,  no  matter  how  liigh  his  birth 
and  connection,  could  at  once,  or  at  aU, 
divest  himself  of  these  jnquavt  and  agreeable 
peculiarities. 

So  much  for  Tom,  who  had  been  for  at 
least  a  couple  of  years  pre%dous  to  his  pres- 
ent appearance  fairly  domesticated  with  his 
lordship,    acting  not   only  as   his    "guide, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


427 


philosopher,  and  friend,"  but  actually  as 
major-domo,  or  general  steward  of  the  estab- 
lishment, even  condescending  to  pay  the  ser- 
vants, and  kindly  undert;ikiug  to  rescue  his 
friend,  who  was  ignorant  of  business,  from 
the  disagreeable  trouble  of  coming  in  contact 
with  tradesmen,  and  making  occasional  dis- 
bvirsements  in  matters  of  which  Lord  Dun- 
roe  knew  Uttle  or  nothing.  Tom  was  indeed 
a  most  invaluable  friend,  and  his  lordship 
considered  it  a  veiy  fortunate  night  on  which 
they  first  became  acquainted  ;  for,  although 
he  lost  to  the  tune  of  five  hundred  pounds  to 
him  in  one  of  the  most  fashionable  gaming- 
houses of  London,  yet,  as  a  compensation — 
and  more  than  a  compensation — for  that  loss, 
he  gained  Tom  in  return. 

His  lordship  was  lying  on  one  side  in  bed, 

with   the   Memoirs  of  on   the  pQlow 

beside  him,  when  Tom,  who  had  only  entered 
a  few  minutes  before,  on  looking  at  the  walls 
of  the  apartment,  exclaimed,  "What  the 
deuce  is  this,  my  lord  '?  Ai'e  you  aware  that 
your  father  will  be  here  in  a  coujDle  of  houi-s 
from  this  time?"  and  he  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"  Oh,  ay  ;  the  old  peer,"  rephed  his  lord- 
ship, in  a  languid  voice,  "  coming  as  a  mis- 
sionary to  reform  the  profane  and  infidel.  I 
\\'ish  he  would  let  me  alone,  and  subscribe  to 
the  MissionaiT  Society  at  once." 

"  But,  my  dear  Dunroe,  are  you  asleep  ?  " 

"  Very  nearly,  I  beheve.     I  ^ish  I  was." 

"  But  what's  to  be  done  with  certain  cf 
these  pictures?  You  don't  intend  his  lord- 
ship should  see  them,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Xo  ;  certainly  not,  Tom.  We  must  have 
them  removed.  Will  you  see  about  it,  Tom, 
like  a  good  feUow  ?  Stow  them,  however,  in 
some  safe  place,  whei-e  they  won't  be  in- 
jured." 

"  Those  five  must  go,"  said  Norton. 

"No,"  rej^Hed  his  lordship,  "let  the  ^lag- 
dalen  stay  ;  it  will  look  like  a  tendency  to 
repentance,  you  know,  and  the  old  peer  may 
like  it." 

"  Dunroe,  my  dear  fellow,  you  know  I 
make  no  pretence  to  rehgion  ;  but  I  don't 
rehsh  the  tone  in  which  you  generally  speak 
of  that  most  respectable  old  nobleman,  your 
father." 

"Don't  you,  Tom?  Well,  but,  I  say,  the 
idea  of  a  most  respectable  old  nobleman  is 
rather  a  shabby  affair.  It's  merely  the  priri- 
lege  of  age,  Tom.  I  hope  I  shall  never  Hve 
to  be  termed  a  most  respectable  old  noble- 
man. Pshaw,  my  dear  Tom,  it  is  too  much. 
It's  a  proof  that  he  wants  character." 

"  I  wish,  in  the  mean  time,  Dunroe,  that 
you  and  I  had  as  much  of  that  same  com- 
modity as  the  good  old  peer  covdd  spare 
us." 


I      "Well,  I  suppose  you  do,  Tom  ;  I  dare 
say.     My  sister  is  coming  with  him  too." 

"Yes  ;  so  he  says  in  the  letter." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must  endure  that  also; 
an  aristocratic  lecture  on  the  one  hand,  and 
the  uncouth  affections  of  a  hoiden  on  the 
other.     It's  hard  enough,  though." 

Tom  now  rang  the  bell,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments a  servant  entered. 

"  Wilcox,"  said  Norton,  "get  Taylor  and 
M'Intyre  to  assist  you  in  remo\'ing  those  five 
pictures  ;  place  them  carefully  in  the  green 
closet,  which  you  will  lock.' 

"  Yes,  carf'fully,  Wilcox,"  said  his  lordship ; 
"  and  afterwards  give  the  key  to  ]SIr.  Nor- 
ton." 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  paintings  were  re- 
moved, and  the  conversation  began  where  it 
had  been  left  off. 

"  This  double  A-isit,  Tom,  will  be  a  great 
bore.  I  wish  I  could  avoid  it — philosophiz- 
ed by  the  father,  beslobbered  by  the  sister— 
faugh  ! " 

"  These  books,  too,  my  lord,  had  better  be 
put  aside,  I  think." 

"  WeD,  I  suppose  so  ;  lock  them  in  that 
drawer." 

Norton  did  so,  and  then  proceeded.  "Now, 
my  dear  Dunroe " 

"Tom,"  said  his  lordship,  interrupting 
him,  "  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say — 
try  and  put  yoin-self  into  something  like  mor- 
al trim  for  the  old  peer — is  not  that  it?  Do 
you  know,  Tom,  I  have  some  thoughts  of  be- 
coming rehgious  ?  "\Miat  is  rehgion,  Tom  ? 
You  know  we  were  talking  about  it  the  oth- 
er day.  You  said  it  was  a  capital  thing  for 
the  world — that  it  sharpened  a  man,  and  put 
him  up  to  an}i;hing,  and  so  on." 

''What  has  put  such  a  notion  into  your 
head  now,  my  lord  ?  " 

"I  don't  know — nothing,  I  beheve.  Can 
religion  be  taught,  Tom  ?  Could  one,  for  in- 
stance, take  lessons  in  it  ?  " 

"  For  what  purpose  do  you  propose  it,  my 
lord?" 

"  I  don't  know — for  two  or  three  purposes, 
I  beheve." 

"  Will  your  lordship  state  them  ?  " 

"  ^Miy,  Tom,  I  should  wish  to  do  the  old 
peer  ;  and  touching  the  bai'onet's  daughter, 
who  is  said  to  be  very  conscientious — which 
I  suppose  means  the  same  thing  as  rehgion — 
I  should  ^vish  to " 

"To  do  her  too,"  added  Norton,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so  ;  but  I  forget  Don't  the 
pas'ns  teach  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  by  precept,  most  of  them 
do  ;  not  so  many  by  example." 

"  But  it's  the  theory  only  I  want     You 


tf28 


WILLIAM   c'AHLjfTOJV  S    WOItA:^. 


don't  eappose  I  intend  to  practice  religion, 
Tom,  I  hope?" 

"No,  my  lord,  I  have  a  different  opinion 
of  your  principles." 

"  Could  you  hire  me  a  pas'n,  to  give  les- 
sons in  it — say  two  a  week — I  shall  require 
to  know  something  of  it ;  for,  my  dear  Tom, 
you  are  not  to  be  told  that  twelve  thousand 
a  year,  and  a  beautiful  girl,  ai'e  worth  mak- 
ing an  effort  for.  It  is  true  she — Miss 
Gourlay,  I  mean — is  not  to  be  spoken  of  in 
comparison  AAdth  the  cigar-man's  daughter  ; 
but  then,  twelve  thousand  a  year,  Tom  ! — 
and  the  good  old  peer  is  threatening  to  cur- 
tail my  allowance.  Or  stay,  Tom,  would  hy- 
pocrisy do  as  well  as  rehgion  ?  " 

"  Every  bit,  my  lord,  so  far  as  the  world 
goes.  Indeed,  in  point  of  fact,  it  requires  a 
veiy  keen  eye  to  discover  the  difference  be- 
tween them.  For  one  that  practises  religion, 
there  are  five  thousand  who  practise  hypoc- 
risy " 

"  Could  I  get  lessons  in  hypocrisy?  Are 
tjiere  men  set  apart  to  teach  it?  Are  there, 
for  instance,  professors  of  hypocrisy  as  there 
are  of  music  and  dancing  ?  " 

"Not  exactly,  my  lord  ;  but  many  of  the 
professors  of  rehgion  come  very  nearly  to  the 
same  point." 

"How  is  that,  Tom?  Explain  it,  Hke  a 
good  feUow." 

"  Why  a  great  number  of  them  deal  in  both 
— that  is  to  say,  they  teach  the  one  by  their 
doctrine,  and  the  other  by  their  example. 
In  different  words,  they  inculcate  rehgion  to 
others,  and  practise  hj'pocrisy  themselves." 

"I  see — that  is  clear.  Then,  Tom,  as  they 
— the  pas'ns  I  mean — are  the  best  judges 
of  the  matter,  of  course  hypocrisy  must  be 
more  useful  than  religion,  or  they — and  such 
an  immense  majority  as  you  say — -would  not 
practise  it." 

"  More  useful  it  unquestionably  is,  my 
lord." 

"Well,  in  that  case,  Tom,  try  and  find  me 
out  a  good  hypocrite,  a  sound  fellow,  who 
properly  understands  the  subject,  and  I  will 
take  lessons  from  him.  My  terms  avlU  be 
liberal,  say " 

"Unfortunately  for  your  lordship,  there 
are  no  professors  to  be  had  ;  but,  as  I  said, 
it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  Engage  a  pro- 
fessor of  religion,  and  whilst  you  pretend  to 
study  his  doctrine,  make  a  point  also  to  study 
his  life,  and  ten  to  one  but  you  wiU  close 
your  studies  admirably  qualified  to  take  a  de- 
gree in  h^'pocrisy,  if  there  were  such  an  hon- 
or, and  that  you  wish  to  imitate  your  teach- 
er. Either  that,  my  lord,  or  it  may  tend  to 
cure  you  of  a  leaning  toward  hypocrisy  as 
long  as  you  live." 

"  Well^  I  wish  I  >;Tjltl  jaake  some  progress 


in  either  one  or  the  other,  it  matters  nol 
which,  provided  it  be  easier  to  learn,  and 
more  useful.  We  must  think  about  it,  Tom. 
You  will  remind  me,  of  course.  Was  Sil 
George  here  to-day  ?  " 

"No,  my  lord,  but  he  sent  to  inquire." 

"  Nor  Lord  Jockej^'ille  ?  " 

"  He  drove  tandem  to  the  door,  but  didn't 
come  in.  The  other  members  of  our  set 
have  been  tolerably  regular  in  their  in- 
quiries, especially  since  they  were  undeceiv» 
ed  as  to  the  danger  of  your  wound." 

"  By  the  way,  Norton,  that  was  a  d d 

cool  fellow  that  pinked  me ;  he  did  the 
thing  in  quite  a  self-possessed  and  gentle- 
manly way,  too.  However  it  was  my  own 
fault ;  I  forced  him  into  it.  You  must 
know  I  had  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was 
endeavoring  to  injure  me  in  a  certain 
quarter ;  in  short,  that  he  had  made  some 
progress  in  the  affections  of  Lucy  Gourlay. 
I  saw  the  attentions  he  paid  to  her  at  Paris, 
when  I  was  sent  to  the  right  about.  In 
short — but  hang  it — there — that  will  do — let 
us  talk  no  more  about  it — I  escaped  narrow- 
ly—that is  aU." 

"And  I  must  leave  you,  my  lord,  for  I  as- 
sure you  I  have  many  things  to  attend  to, 
Those  creditors  are  unreasonable  scoundrels, 
and  mvist  be  put  off  with  soft  words  and 
hard  promises  for  some  time  longer.  That 
Irish  wine-merchant  of  yours,  however,  is  a 
model  to  eveiy  one  of  his  tribe." 

"Ah,  that  is  because  he  knows  the  old 
peer.  Do  you  know,  Tom,  after  all,  I  don't 
think  it  so  disreputable  a  thing  to  be  termed 
a  respectable  old  nobleman  ;  but  still  it  in- 
dicates want  of  individual  character.  Now, 
Tom,  I  think  I  have  a  character.  I  mean 
an  original  character.  Don't  every  one  al- 
most say — I  allude,  of  course,  to  every  ont. 
of  sense  and  penetration — Dunroe's  a  char- 
acter— quite  an  original — an  enigma — a 
sphinx — an  inscription  that  cannot  be  de- 
cij)hered — an  illegible  dog — eh — don't  they, 
Tom?" 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  my  lord.  Even  I, 
who  ought  to  know  you  so  weU,  can  make 
nothing  of  you." 

"  Well,  but  after  all,  Tom,  my  father's 
name  overshadows  a  great  number  of  my  ve- 
nialities.  Dunroe  is  wild,  they  sa}',  but  then 
he  is  the  son  of  a  most  respectable  old 
nobleman ;  and  so,  many  of  them  shrug 
and  pity,  when  they  woiild  otherwise  assaU 
and  blame." 

"  And  I  hope  to  Uve  long  enough  to  see 
you  a  most  respectable  old  '  character '  yel^ 
my  dear  Dunroe.  I  must  go  as  your  repre- 
sentative  to   these  d d   ravenous   duns 

But  mark  me,  comport  yourself  in  your  fa- 
ther's and  sister's  presence  as  a  young  man 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


429 


somewhat  meditating  upon  the  reformation 
of  his  life,  so  that  a  favorable  impression 
may  be  made  here,  and  a  favorable  report 
reach  the  baronet's  fair  daughter.  Au 
revoir  !  " 


CHAPTER  XX 

Interview  between  Lords  CuH'imore,  Dunrog,  and 
Lady  Emily  —  Tom  Norton'' s  Aristocracy  fails 
Him — His  Reception  by  Lord  CuUamore. 

At  the  hour  appointed,  Lord  Dunroe's 
father  and  sister  an-ived.  The  old  peer,  as 
his  son  usually,  but  not  in  the  most 
reverential  spirit,  termed  him,  on  entering 
his  sleeping  chamber,  paused  for  a  moment 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  as  if  to  ascertain 
his  precise  state  of  health ;  but  his  sister. 
Lady  Emily,  -v^dth  all  the  warmth  of  a  young 
and  affectionate  heart,  pure  as  the  morning 
dew-drop,  ran  to  his  bedside,  and  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  stooped  down  and  kissed  him, 
exclaiming  at  the  same  time, 

"  My  dear  Dunroe  ;  but  no — I  hate  those 
cold  and  formal  titles — they  are  for  the 
world,  but  not  for  brother  and  sister.  My 
dear  John,  how  is  your  wound  ?  Thank  God, 
it  is  not  dangerous,  I  hear.  Ai-e  you  better? 
Will  you  soon  be  able  to  rise?  My  dear 
brother,  how  I  was  alarmed  on  hearing  it ; 
but  there  is  another  kiss  to  help  to  ciu'e 
you." 

"  My  dear  Emily,  what  the  deuce  are  you 
about  ?  I  tell  you  I  have  a  prejudice  against 
kissing  female  relations.  It  is  too  tame, 
and  somewhat  of  a  bore,  child,  especially  to 
a  sick  man." 

His  father  now  approached  him  with  a 
grave,  but  by  no  means  an  unfeeling  coun- 
tenance, and  extending  his  hand,  said,  "I 
fear,  John,  that  this  has  been  a  foolish 
business ;  but  I  am  glad  to  find  that,  so  far  as 
your  personal  danger  was  concerned,  you 
have  come  off  so  safely.  How  do  you  find 
yoiu'seK  ?  " 

"  Rapidly  recovering,  my  lord,  I  thank 
you.  At  fii'st  they  considered  the  thing 
serious ;  but  the  bullet  only  grazed  the  rib 
sUghtly,  although  the  flesh  wound  was,  for 
a  time,  troublesome  enough.  I  am  now, 
however,  fi'ee  from  fever,  and  the  wound  is 
closing  fast." 

Whilst  this  brief  dialogue  took  place. 
Lady  Emily  sat  on  a  chair  by  the  bedside, 
her  large,  brilliant  eyes  no  longer  fiUed  with 
tears,  but  open  with  astonishment,  and  we 
may  as  well  add  with  pain,  at  the  utter  in- 
difference wdth  which  her  brother  received 
her  affectionate  caresses.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments'  reflection,    however,    her    generous 


heart  supposed  it  had  discovered  his  apo 

logy- 

"Ah,"  thought  the  sweet  girl,  "I  had  for- 
gotten his  wound,  and  of  course  I  must  have 
occasioned  him  great  pain,  which  his  deli- 
cacy placed  to  a  different  motive.  He  did 
not  wish  to  let  me  know  that  I  had  hurt 
him."  And  her  countenance  again  beamed 
with  the  joy  of  an  innocent  and  unsuspect- 
ing spirit. 

"But,  Dunroe,"  she  said — "John,  I  mean, 
won't  3'ou  soon  be  able  to  get  up,  and  to 
walk  about,  or,  at  aU  events,  to  take  an  air- 
ing with  us  in  the  carriage  ?  Will  you  not, 
dear  John  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  hope  so,  Emily.  By  the  way, 
Emily,  you  have  grown  quite  a  woman  since 
I  saw  you  last.  It  is  now  better  than  two 
years,  I  think,  since  then." 

"  How  did  you  like  the  Continent,  John  ?  " 
"  "Why,  my  dear  girl,  how  is  this  ?  "What 
sympathy  can  yoxi  feel  with  the  experience 
of  a  young  fellow  like  me  on  the  Continent  ? 
When  you  know  the  world  better,  my  dear 
girl,  you  will  feel  the  impropriety  of  asking 
such  a  question.  Pray  be  seated,  my  lord." 
Lord  Cullamore  sat,  as  if  unconsciously, 
in  an  arm-chau-  beside  the  table  on  which 
were  placed  his  son's  dressings  and  meai- 
cines,  and  resting  his  head  on  his  hand  for 
a  moment,  as  if  suffering  pain,  at  length 
raised  it,  and  said, 

"No,  Dunroe  ;  no.  I  trust  my  innocent 
gu-1  will  never  Hve  to  feel  the  impropriety  of 
asking  a  question  so  natural." 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  not,  my  lord,  with  all 
my  heart,"  replied  Dunroe.  "  Have  you  been 
presented,  Emily  ?  Have  you  been  brought 
out  ?  " 

"  She  has  been  presented,"  said  her  father, 
"  but  not  brought  out ;  nor  is  it  my  inten- 
tion, in  the  obvious  sense  of  that  word,  that 
she  ever  shaU." 

"  Oh,  your  lordship  perhaps  has  a  tenden- 
cy to  Popery,  then,  and  there  is  a  convent 
in  the  background  ?  Is  that  it,  my  good 
lord  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling. 

"  No,"  rf  plied  his  father,  who  could  not 

help  smiling  in  return,   "not  at  aU,  John. 

Emily  wiU  not  require  to  be  brought  out, 

nor  paraded  through  the  debasing  foi-mali- 

ties  of  fashion.     She  shall  not  be  excluded 

from  fashion,  certainly ;  but  neither  shall  I 

I  suffer  her  to  run  the  vulgar  gatmtlet  of  heart- 

'  less   dissipation,  wliich  too  often   hardens, 

:  debases,  and  cori-upts.     But  a  truce  to  this  ; 

'  the  subject  is  painful  to  me  ;  let  us  change 

it." 

i  The  last  observation  of  Dunroe  to  his 
'  sister  startled  her  so  much  that  she  blushed 
j  deeply,  and  looked  with  that  fascinating  tira- 
I  idity  which  is  ever   associated    with   inno- 


430 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


oence  and  purity  from  her  brother  to  her 
father. 

"Have  I  said  anything  -wrong,  papa?" 
she  asked,  when  Lord  CuUamore  had  ceased 
to  speak. 

"  Nothing,  my  love,  nothing  but  precisely 
what  was  natural  and  right.  Dunroe's  reply, 
however,  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other, 
and  he  ought  to  have  known  it." 

"WeU  now,  Emily,"  said  her  brother,  "I 
don't  regret  it,  inasmuch  as  it  has  enabled 
me  to  satisfy  myself  upon  a  point  which  I 
have  frequently  heard  disputed — that  is, 
whether  a  woman  is  capable  of  blushing  or 
not.  Now  I  have  seen  you  blush  with  my 
own  eves,  Emily  ;  nay,  upon  my  honor,  you 
blush  again  this  moment." 

"  Dunroe,"  observed  his  father,  "you  are 
teasing  your  sister  ;  forbear." 

"  But  don't  you  see,  my  lord,"  persisted 
his  son,  "the  absolute  necessity  for  giving 
her  a  com^se  of  fashionable  life,  if  it  were  only 
to  remove  this  constitutional  blemish.  If 
it  were  discovered,  she  is  ruined  ;  to  blush 
being,  as  youi'  lordship  knows,  contrary  to 
all  the  laws  and  statutes  of  fashion  in  that 
case  made  and  provided." 

"Dimi'oe,"  said  his  father,  "I  intend  you 
shall  spend  part  of  the  summer  and  all  the 
autumn  in  Ireland,  with  us." 

"Oh,  yes,  John,  you  must  come,"  said  his 
sister,  clapping  her  snow-white  hands  in  ex- 
ultation at  the  thought.  "  It  will  be  so  de- 
lightful." 

"Ireland  !"  exclaimed  Dunroe,  with  well- 
feigned  surprise  ;  "  pray  where  is  that,  my 
lord  ?  " 

"Come,  come,  John,"  said  his  father, 
smiling  ;  "be  serious." 

"  Ii'eland  !  "  he  again  exclaimed  ;  "  oh,  by 
the  way,  that's  an  island,  I  think,  in  the 
Pacific — is  it  not  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  his  father  ;  "a  more  inap- 
propriate position  you  could  not  have  pos- 
sibly found  for  it." 

"  Is  not  that  the  happy  countiy  where  the 
people  hve  without  food  ?  Where  they  lead 
a  hfe  of  independence,  and  stai've  in  such 
an  heroic  spii-it  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Dunroe,"  said  his  father,  seri- 
ously, "never  sport  with  the  miseries  of  a 
people,  especially  when  that  people  are  your 
own  countr^'men." 

"  My  lord,"  he  replied,  disregarding  the 
rebuke  he  had  received,  "  for  Heaven's  sake 
conceal  that  disgraceful  fact.  Remember,  I 
am  a  yovmg  nobleman  ;  call  me  profligate — 
spendthrift — debauchee — anything  you  wiU 
but  an  Irishman.  Don't  the  Irish  refuse 
beef  and  mutton,  and  take  to  eating  each 
other  ?  What  can  be  said  of  a  people  who, 
to  please  their  betters,  practise  starvation  as 


their  natural  pastime,  and  dramatize  hunger 
to  pamper  their  most  affectionate  lords  and 
masters,  who,  whilst  the  latter  witness  the 
comedy,  make  the  performers  pay  for  their 
tickets?  And  yet,  although  the  cannibal 
system  floiu'ishes,  I  fear  they  find  it  any- 
thing but  a  Sandivich  island." 

"  Papa,"  said  Lady  Emily,  in  a  whisper, 
and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  I  fear  John's 
head  is  a  little  unsettled  by  his  illness." 

"  You  will  injure  yourself,  mj  dear  Dun- 
roe," said  his  father,  "  if  you  talk  so  much." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  good  lord  and  father. 
But  I  think  I  recollect  one  of  their  bills  of 
performance,  which  runs  thus  :  "  On  Sat- 
urday, the  25th  inst.,  a  tender  and  affection- 
ate father,  stuffed  by  so  many  cubic  feet  of 
cold  wind,  foul  air,  all  resulting  fi'om  ex- 
termination and  the  benevolence  of  a  hu- 
mane landlord,  vnU.  in  the  very  wantonness 
of  repletion,  feed  upon  the  dead  body  of  his 
own  child — for  which  entertaining  perfor- 
mance he  will  have  the  satisfaction,  subse- 
quently, of  enacting  with  success  the  inter- 
esting character  of  a  felon,  and  be  comforta- 
bly lodged  at  his  Majesty's  expense  in  the 
jail  of  the  county.'  *  WTiy,  my  lord,  how 
could  you  expect  me  to  acknowledge  such  a 
country?  However,  I  must  talk  to  Tom 
Norton  about  this.  He  was  born  in  the 
country  you  speak  of — and  yet  Tom  has  an 
excellent  appetite ;  eats  like  other  people  ; 
abhors  stai'vation  ;  and  is  no  cannibal.  It 
is  true,  I  have  fi'equently  seen  him  ready 
enough  to  eat  a  fellow — a  perfect  raw-head- 
and-bloodj^-bones — for  which  reason,  I  sup- 
pose, the  principle,  or  instinct,  or  whatever 
you  call  it,  is  still  latent  in  his  constitution. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  whenever  Tom 
gnashed  his  teeth  at  any  one  ci,  la  cannibale, 
if  the  other  gnashed  his  teeth  at  him,  all  the 
cannibal  disappeared,  and  Tom  was  quite 
harmless." 

"  By  the  way,  Dunroe,"  said  his  father, 
"who  is  this  Tom  Norton  you  speak  of  ?  " 

"He  is  my  most  particular  fi-iend,  my 
lord — my  companion — and  traveled  with  me 
over  the  Continent.  He  is  kind  enough  to 
take  charge  of  my  affairs :  he  pays  my  ser- 
vants, manages  my  tradesmen  —  and,  in 
shoi't,  is  a  man  whom  I  could  not  do  with- 
out. He's  up  to  everything  ;  and  is  alto- 
gether indispensable  to  me." 

Lord  CuUamore  paused  for  some  time, 
and  seemed  for  a  moment  absorbed  in  some 
painful  reflection  or  reminiscence.  At  length 
he  said, 

"This  man,  Dunroe,  must  be  very  useful 
to  you,  if  he  be  what  you  have  just  described 

*  This  alludes  to  a  dreadful  fact  of  cannibalism, 
wliicb  occurred  in  the  South  of  Ireland  in  184G. 


TEE  BLACK  BAROJ^ET. 


431 


him.  Does  he  also  manage  your  correspond- 
ence ?  " 

"  He  does,  my  lord  ;  and  is  possessed  of  my 
most  unlimited  confidence.  In  fact,  I  could 
never  get  on  without  him.  My  affairs  are 
in  a  state  of  the  most  inextricable  confusion, 
and  were  it  not  for  his  sagacity  and  pru- 
dence, I  coiild  scarcely  contrive  to  live  at  all. 
Poor  Tom  ;  he  abandoned  fine  prospects 
in  order  to  devote  himself  to  my  service." 

"  Such  a  friend  must  be  invaluable,  John," 
observed  his  sister.  "  They  say  a  friend,  a 
true  friend,  is  the  rarest  thing  in  the  world ; 
and  when  one  meets  such  a  fiiend,  they 
ought  to  appreciate  him." 

"Very  tnie,  Emily,"  said  the  Earl ;  "  very 
true,  indeed."  He  spoke,  however,  as  if  in 
a  state  of  abstraction.  "  Norton  ! — Norton. 
Do  you  know,  John,  who  he  is  ?  Anything 
of  his  origin  or  connections  ?  " 

"Nothing  whatever,"  repHed  Dimroe ; 
"  unless  that  he  is  well  connected — he  told 
me  so  himself — too  well,  indeed,  he  hinted, 
to  render  the  situation  of  a  dependent  one 
which  he  should  wish  his  relatives  to  be- 
come acquainted  with.  Of  course,  I  re- 
spected his  deHcacy,  and  did  not,  conse- 
quently, press  him  fui-ther  upon  the  point." 

"  That  was  considerate  on  your  part,"  re- 
plied the  Earl,  somewhat  dryly  ;  "  but  if  he 
be  such  as  you  have  described  him,  I  agree 
with  Emily  in  thinking  he  must  be  invalu- 
able. And  now,  John,  with  respect  to  an- 
other afiair — but  perhaps  this  interview  may 
be  injurious  to  yo\u'  health.  Talking  much, 
and  the  excitement  attending  it,  may  be 
bad,  you  know." 

"  I  am  not  easily  excited,  my  lord,"  re- 
plied Dtmroe  ;  "  rather  a  cool  fellow  ;  unless, 
indeed,  when  I  used  to  have  dims  to  meet. 
But  now  Norton  manages  all  that  for  me. 
Proceed,  my  lord." 

"  Yes,  but,  John,"  observed  Lady  Emily, 
"  don't  let  affection  for  papa  and  me  allow 
you  to  go  beyond  your  strength." 

"  Never  mind,  Emily  ;  I  am  all  right,  if 
this  wound  were  healed,  as  it  will  soon  be. 
Proceed,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  then,  my  dear  Dunroe,  I  am 
anxious  you  should  know  that  I  have  had  a 
long  conversation  with  Sii'  Thomas  Gourlay, 
upon  the  subject  of  your  marriage  with  his 
beautiful  and  accompHshed  daughter." 

"  Yes,  the  Black  Baronet ;  a  confounded 
old  scoundrel  by  all  accounts." 

"You  forget,  sir,"  said  the  Earl,  sternly, 
"that  he  is  father  to  your  future  wife." 

"DevHish  sorry  for  it,  my  lord.  I  wish 
Lucy  was  daughter  to  any  one  else — but  it 
matters  not ;  I  am  not  going  to  marry  the 
black  fellow,  but  twelve  thousand  a  year  and 
A  pretty  girl.     I  know  a  prettier,  though." 


"Impossible,  John,"  replied  Lady  Emily, 
with  enthusiasm.  "  I  really  think  Lucy  Gour- 
lay the  most  lovely  girl  I  have  ever  seen — 
the  most  amiable,  the  most  dignified,  the 
most  accompHshed,  the  most — dear  John, 
how  happy  I  shall  be  to  call  her  sister !  " 

"  Dunroe,"  proceeded  his  father,  "I  beg 
you  consider  this  affair  seriously — solemnly 
— the  happiness  of  such  a  girl  as  Lucy  Gour- 
lay is  neither  to  be  sported  with  nor  perilled. 
You  will  have  much  to  reform  before  you  can 
become  worthy  of  her.  I  now  tell  you  that 
the  reformation  must  be  eff'ected,  sincerely 
and  thoroughly,  before  I  shall  ever  give  my 
consent  to  your  imion  with  her.  There  must 
be  neither  dissimulation  nor  hypocrisy  on 
your  part.  Your  conduct  must  speak  for 
you,  and  I  must,  fi'om  the  clearest  evidence, 
be  perfectly  satisfied  that  in  manying  you 
she  is  not  wrecking  her  peace  and  happiness, 
by  committing  them  to  a  man  who  is  in- 
capable of  appreciating  her,  or  who  is  insen- 
sible to  what  is  due  to  her  great  and  shining 
virtues." 

"It  would  be  dreadful,  John,"  said  his  sis- 
ter, "if  she  should  not  feel  happy.  But  if 
John,  papa,  requires  reformation,  I  am  sure 
he  will  reform  for  Lucy's  sake." 

"  He  ought  to  reform  from  a  much  higher 
principle,  my  dear  child,"  repUed  her  father. 

"  And  so  he  will,  papa.  Will  you  not,  dear 
brother  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  my  lord,"  said  Dunroe, 
"  I  had  a  conversation  this  very  morning  up- 
on the  subject  with  Tom  Norton." 
j      "I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear  son.    It  is 
I  not  too  late — it  is  never  too  late — to  amend 
I  the   life  ;  but  in   this  instance  there  is  an 
;  event  about  to  take  place  which  renders  a 
1  previous  reformation,  in  its  truest  sense,  ab- 
solutely indispensable." 

"  My  lord,"  he  repHed,  "  the  truth  is,  I  am 
deteiTnined  to  try  a  course  of  religion.  Tom 
Norton  tells  me  it  is  the  best  thing  in  the 
world  to  get  through  life  with." 

"  Tom  Norton  might  have  added  that  it  is 
a  much  better  thing  to  get  through  deaith 
with,"  added  the  Earl,  gi-avely. 

"  But  he  appears  to  understand  it  admir- 
ably, my  lord,"  replied  Dunroe.  "He  says 
it  quickens  a  mans  intellects,  and  not  only 
prevents  him  from  being  imposed  upon  by 
knaves  and  sharpers,  but  enables  him,  by 
putting  on  a  long  face,  and  using  certain 
cabalistic  phrases,  to  overreach — no,  not  ex- 
actly that,  but  to — let  me  see,  to  steer  a  safe 
course  through  the  world  ;  or  something  to 
that  effect.  He  says,  too,  that  rehgious  folks 
always  come  best  off*  and  pay  more  attention 
to  the  things  of  this  Hfe,  than  any  one  else  ; 
and  that,  in  consequence,  they  thrive  and 
prosper   under  it     No   one,    he  says,  gets 


432 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


credit  so  fr<8<}ly  as  a  man  that  is  supposed  to 
be  religious.  Now  this  sti-uck  me  quite 
forcibly,  as  a  thing  that  might  be  very  use- 
ful to  me  in  getting  out  of  my  embarrass- 
ments. But  then,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
go  to  church,  I  beUeve — to  pray — sing 
psalms — read  the  Bible — and  subscribe  to 
societies  of  some  kind  or  other.  Now  all  that 
would  be  very  troublesome.  How  does  a 
person  pray,  my  lord  ?  Is  it  by  repeating 
the  Ten  Commandments,  or  reading  a  re- 
ligious book  ? " 

Despite  the  seriousness  of  such  a  subject, 
Lord  Cullamore  and  his  daughter,  on  glanc- 
ing at  each  other,  could  scai'cely  refrain  fi-om 
smiUng. 

"Now,  I  can't  see,"  proceeded  Dunroe, 
"how  either  the  one  or  the  other  of  the  said 
commandments  would  sharpen  a  man  for  the 
world,  as  Tom  Norton's  reHgion  does." 

The  good  old  Earl  thought  either  that  his 
son  was  afifecting  an  ignorance  on  the  subject 
which  he  did  not  feel,  or  that  his  ignorance 
was  in  reality  so  gi'eat  that  for  the  present, 
at  least,  it  was  useless  to  discuss  the  matter 
with  him. 

"I  must  say,  my  dear  Dunroe,"  he  added, 
in  a  kind  and  indtdgent  voice,  "  that  your 
Hi'st  conceptions  of  reformation  are  very  ori- 
ginal, to  say  the  least  of  them." 

"  I  grant  it,  my  lord.  Every  one  knows 
ihat  all  my  views,  acts,  and  expressions  are 
original.  '  Dunroe's  a  perfect  original '  is  the 
general  expression  among  my  friends.  But 
on  the  subject  of  religion,  I  am  willing  to  be 
put  into  training.  I  told  Tom  Norton  to 
look  out  and  hire  me  a  pas'n,  or  somebody, 
to  give  me  lessons  in  it.  Is  there  such  a 
thing,  by  the  way,  as  a  Religious  Grammar  ? 
If  so,  I  shall  provide  one,  and  make  myself 
master  of  all  the  rules,  cases,  inflections,  in- 
terjections, groans,  exclamations,  and  so  on, 
connected  with  it.  The  Bible  is  the  diction- 
ary, I  believe  ?  " 

Poor  Lady  Emily,  like  her  father,  could 
not  for  the  life  of  her  suppose  for  a  moment 
that  her  brother  was  serious :  a  reflection 
that  relieved  her  from  much  anxiety  of  mind 
and  embarrassment  on  his  account. 

"Papa,"  said  she,  whilst  her  beautiful 
features  were  divided,  if  we  may  so  say,  be- 
tween smiles  and  tears,  "papa,  Dunroe  is 
only  jesting  ;  I  am  sure  he  is  only  jesting, 
and  does  not  mean  any  serious  disrespect  to 
rehgion." 

"  That  may  be,  my  dear  Emily  ;  but  he 
will  allow  me  to  tell  him  that  it  is  the  last 
subject  upon  which  he,  or  any  one  else, 
should  jest.  Whether  you  are  in  jest  or 
earnest,  nvy  dear  Dunroe,  let  me  advise  you 
to  bring  the  moral  courage  and  energies  of 
a  man  to  the  contemplation  of  your  life,  in 


the  first  place  ;  and  in  the  next,  to  its  Im* 
provement.  It  is  not  reading  the  Bible,  nor 
repeating  prayers,  that  wOl,  of  themselves, 
malce  you  religious,  unless  the  heai't  is  in 
earnest ;  but  a  correct  knowledge  of  what 
is  right  and  wrong — in  other  words,  of  hu- 
man duty — -^-ill  do  much  good  in  the  first 
place  ;  with  a  firm  resolution  to  avoid  the 
evil  and  adopt  the  good.  Remember  that 
you  are  accountable  to  the  Being  who  placed 
you  in  this  life,  and  that  your  duty  here 
consists,  not  in  the  indulgence  of  wild  and 
licentious  passions,  but  in  the  higher  and 
nobler  ones  of  rendering  as  many  of  your 
fellow-creatures  happy  as  you  can  :  for  such 
a  course  will  necessarily  insure  happiness  to 
yourself.  This  is  enough  for  the  present', 
as  soon  as  you  recover  your  strength  you 
shall  come  to  Ii-eland." 

"  When  I  recover  my  strength  ! "  he  ex- 
claimed. "Ay,  to  be  eaten  like  a  titbit. 
Heavens,  what  a  delicious  morsel  a  piece  of 
a  young  peer  would  be  to  such  fellows  !  but 
I  Avill  not  run  that  horrible  risk.  Lucy  must 
come  to  me — I  am  sure  the  prospect  of  a 
countess's  coronet  ought  to  be  a  sufficient 
inducement  to  her.  But,  to  think  that  I 
should  run  the  risk  of  being  shot  from  be- 
hind a  hedge — made  a  component  part  of  a 
midnight  bonfire,  or  entombed  in  the  bowels 
of  some  Patagonian  cannibal,  savagely  glad 
to  feed  upon  the  hated  Saxon  who  has  so 
often  fed  upon  him  ! — No,  I  repeat,  Lucy,  if 
she  is  to  be  a  countess,  must  travel  in  this 
direction." 

The  indelicacy  and  want  of  all  considera- 
tion for  the  feelings  of  his  father,  so  obvious 
in  his  heartless  allusion  to  a  fact  which  could 
only  result  from  that  father's  death,  satisfied 
the  old  man  that  any  refoi'mation  in  his  son 
was  for  the  present  hopeless,  and  even  Lady 
Emily  felt  anxious  to  put  £in  end  to  the  visit 
as  soon  as  possible. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  his  father,  as  they 
were  taking  their  leave,  "I  have  had  an 
unpleasant  letter  from  m}"-  brother,  in  which 
he  states  that  he  wrote  to  you,  but  got  no 
answer." 

"I  never  received  a  letter  from  him,"  re- 
plied his  lordship  ,  "  none  ever  reached  me  ; 
if  it  had,  the  very  novelty  of  a  communication 
fi'om  such  a  quarter  would  have  prevented 
me  from  forgetting  it." 

"  I  should  think  so.  His  letter  to  me,  in- 
deed, is  a  strange  one.  He  utters  enigmatic 
cal  threats " 

"  Come,  I  like  that — I  am  enigmatical 
myself — you  see  it  is  in  the  family." 

"  Enigmatical  threats  which  I  cannot  un- 
derstand, and  desires  me  to  hold  myself 
prepared  for  certain  steps  which  he  is  about 
to  take,  in  justice  to  what  he  is  pleased  tc 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


43& 


term  his  own  claims.  However,  it  is  not 
worth  notice.  But  this  Norton,  I  am  anx- 
ious to  see  him,  Dunroe — will  you  request 
him  to  call  upon  me  to-morrow  at  twelve 
o'clock  ? — of  course,  I  feel  desirous  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  a  man  wlio  has  proved 
himself  such  a  warm  and  sterhng  friend  to 
my  son." 

"Undoubtedly,  my  lord,  he  shall  attend 
on  you — I  shall  take  care  of  that.  Good-by, 
my  lord — good  by,  Emily — good — good — my 
dear  girl,  never  mind  the  embrace — it  is 
quite  undignified — anything  but  a  patrician 
usage,  I  assure  you." 

Now  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  give 
our  readers  a  clearer  conception  of  Lord 
Dunroe's  character  than  is ,  to  be  found  in 
ihe  preceding  dialogue.  This  young  gentle- 
man was  one  of  those  who  wish  to  put  every 
j)erson  who  enters  into  conversation  with 
Ihem  completely  at  fault.  It  was  one  of  his 
tvhiras  to  aftect  ignorance  on  many  subjects 
Kith  which  he  was  very  well  acquainted. 
His  ambition  was  to  be  considered  a  char- 
acter ;  and  in  order  to  carry  this  idea  out, 
he  very  frequently  spoke  on  the  most  com- 
monplace topics  as  a  man  might  be  supposed 
to  do  who  had  just  dropped  from  the  moon. 
He  thought,  also,  that  there  was  something 
aristoci'atic  in  this  fictitious  ignorance,  and 
that  it  raised  him  above  the  common  herd 
of  those  who  could  talk  reasonably  on  the 
ordinary  topics  of  conversation  or  hfe.  His 
ambition,  the  reader  sees,  Avas  to  be  consid- 
ered original.  It  had  besides,  this  advan- 
tage, that  in  matters  where  his  ignorance 
is  anything  but  feigned,  it  brought  him  out 
safely  under  the  protection  of  his  accustomed 
Jiabit,  without  suffering  from  the  imputation 
of  the  ignorance  he  affected.  It  was,  indeed, 
the  ambition  of  a  vain  and  siUy  mind  ;  but 
provided  he  could  work  out  this  paltry  joke 
upon  a  grave  and  sensible  though  unsus- 
pecting individual,  he  felt  quite  delighted  at 
the  feat,  and  took  the  person  thus  imposed 
vipon  into  the  number  of  his  favorites.  It 
was  upon  this  principle  among  others  that 
Norton,  who  pretended  never  to  see  through 
his  flimsy  irony,  contrived  to  keep  in  his  fa- 
vor, and  to  shape  him  according  to  his 
wishes,  whilst  he  made  the  weak-minded 
young  man  believe  that  everything  he  did 
and  every  step  he  took  was  the  result  of  his 
own  deliberate  opinion,  whereas  in  fact  he 
was  only  a  puppet  in  his  hands. 

His  father,  who  was  natui-aUy  kind  and 
indulgent,  felt  deeply  gi'ieved  and  mortified 
by  the  reflections  arising  from  this  visit. 
Dui'ing  the  remainder  of  the  day  he  seemed 
Avrapped  in  thought  ;  but  we  do  not  attempt 
to  assert  that  the  dialogue  with  his  son  was 
the  sole  cause  of  this.     He  more  than  once 


took  out  his  brother's  letter  which  he  read 
with  surpi'ise,  not  unmingled  with  strong 
curiosity  and  pain.  It  was,  as  he  said,  ex- 
tremely enigmatical, whilst  at  the  same  time  it 
contained  evidences  of  that  deplorable  spirit 
which  almost  uniformly  embitters  so  deeply 
the  feuds  which  arise  from  domestic  miscon- 
cei^tions.  On  this  point,  however,  we  shall 
enable  thei-eader  to  judge  for  himself.  The 
letter  was  to  the  following  effect : 

"My  Lord  Cull.\more. — It  is  now  nine 
months  and  upwards  since  I  addressed  a 
letter  to  your  son ;  and  I  wrote  to  him  in 
preference  to  you,  because  it  had  been  for 
many  years  my  intention  never  to  have  re- 
newed or  held  any  communication  whatso- 
ever with  you.  It  was  on  this  account, 
therefore,  that  I  opened,  or  endeavored  to 
open,  a  con'esi3ondence  with  him  rather  thai* 
with  his  father.  In  this  I  have  been  disap 
pointed,  and  my  object,  which  was  not  an 
unfriendly  one,  fimstrated.  I  do  not  regret, 
however,  that  I  have  been  treated  ■nith  con- 
tempt. The  fact  cancelled  the  foolish  in- 
dulgence with  which  an  exhibition  of  com- 
mon courtesy  and  politeness,  if  ndt  a  better 
feehng,  on  the  part  of  your  son,  might  have 
induced  me  to  treat  both  you  and  him.  As 
matters  now  stand  between  us,  indulgence 
is  out  of  the  question  ;  so  is  compromise.  I 
shall  now  lose  little  time  in  urging  claims 
which  you  will  not  be  able  to  withstand. 
Whether  you  suspect  the  nature  of  these 
claims  or  not  is  more  than  I  know.  Be 
that,  however,  as  it  may,  I  can  assure  you 
that  I  had  resolved  not  to  disturb  your  last 
days  by  prosecuting  them  during  your  life- 
time. That  resolution  I  have  now  rescinded, 
and  all  that  remains  for  me  to  say  is,  that  as 
little  time  as  possible  shall  be  lost  in  enforc- 
ing the  claims  I  aUude  to,  in  justice  to  m,f 
family. 

"  I  am,  my  Lord  Cullamore, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"Richard  Stapleton." 

This  strange  and  startling  commimication 
caused  the  good  old  man  much  uneasiness, 
even  although  its  object  and  purpose  were 
altogether  beyond  his  comprehension.  The 
only  solution  that  occurred  to  him  of  the 
mystery  which  ran  through  it,  was  that  it 
must  have  been  WTitten  under  some  miscon- 
cejDtion  or  delusion  for  which  he  could  not 
account.  Anotlier  key  to  the  difficulty — one 
equally  replete  Avith  distress  and  alanu — was 
that  his  brother's  reason  had  probably  be- 
come unsettled,  and  that  the  communication 
in  question  was  merely  the  emanation  of 
mental  alienation.  And,  indeed,  on  this 
point   only  could  he  account  for  the  mis- 


iSi 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


carriage  of  the  letter  to  bis  son,  which  prob- 
ably had  never  been  -written  at  all,  and  ex- 
isted onlv  in  the  disturbed  imagination  of 
his  unfortunate  brother. 

At  all  events,  the  contents  of  this  docu- 
ment, Hke  those  mysterious  presentiments 
of  e\\\.  which  sometimes  ai'e  said  to  precede 
calamity,  hung  hke  a  weight  upon  his  mind, 
view  them  as  he  might.  He  became  nervous,  ; 
depressed,  and  gloomy,  pleaded  illness  as 
an  apology  for  not  dining  abroad  ;  remain- 
ed alone  and  at  home  during  the  whole 
evening,  but  arose  the  next  morning  in 
better  spirits,  and  when  our  fiiend  Tom 
Norton  presented  himself,  he  had  regained 
sufficient  equanimity  and  composure  to  pay 
proper  attention  to  that  faithful  and  fi'iendly 
gentleman. 

Now  Tom,  who  resolved  to  make  an  im- 
pression, as  it  is  termed,  was  dressed  in  the 
newest  and  most  fashionable  morning  visit 
costume,  di'ove  up  to  the  hall-door  at  that 
kind  of  breakneck  pace  with  which  your 
celebrated  whips  dehght  to  astonish  the 
multitude,  and  throwing  the  reins  to  a 
servant,  desired,  if  he  knew  how  to  pace  the 
horse  up  and  down,  to  do  so  ;  otherwise  to 
remember  that  he  had  a  neck. 

The  sei-vant  in  question,  a  stout,  compact 
fellow,  with  a  rich  ^lilesian  face  and  a  mel- 
low brogue,  looked  at  him  with  a  steady  but 
smiling  eye. 

'•  Have  a  neck,  is  it  ?  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  by 
my  sowl,  an'  it's  sometimes  an  inconvenience 
to  have  that  same.  My  own  opinion  is,  sir, 
that  the  neck  now  is  jist  one  of  the  tenderest 
joints  in  the  body." 

Norton  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with 
an  oftended  and  haughty  stare. 

"  If  you  are  incapable  of  diiving  the  landau, 
sir,"  he  repHed,  "call  some  one  who  can; 
and  don't  be  impertinent." 

"  Incapable,"  repUed  the  other,  with  a  cool 
but  hiunorous  kind  of  gravity  ;  "  troth,  then 
it's  disgrace  I'd  bring  on  my  taicher  if  I 
couldn't  sit  a  saddle  an'  handle  a  whip  with 
the  best  o'  them.  And  wid  regard  to  the 
neck,  sir,  many  a  man  has  escaped  a  worse 
fall  than  one  from  the  box  or  the  saddle." 

Norton  drew  himself  up  with  a  highly  in- 
dignant scowl,  and  turning  his  frown  once 
more  upon  this  most  impertinent  menial, 
encountered  a  look  of  such  comic  familiarity, 
easy  assurance,  and  droU  indiiierence,  as  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  match.  The  beau 
started,  stared,  again  pulled  himself  to  a 
still  greater  height — as  if  by  the  dignity  of 
the  attitude  to  set  the  other  at  fault — frowned 
more  awfully,  then  looked  bluster,  and  once 
more  surveyed  the  broad,  knowing  face  and 
sifmificant  lausrhinsr  eves  that  were  fixed 
upon  bim — set,  as  they  were,  m  the  centre 


of  a  broad  grin — after  which  he  pulled  up 
his  collar  with  an  air — taking  two  or  three 
strides  up  and  dowm  with  what  he  intended 
as  aristocratic  dignity — 

"Hem!  ahem!  "What  do  yoti  mean, 
sii-?" 

To  this,  for  a  time,  there  was  no  reply ; 
but  there,  instead,  were  the  laughing  fascin- 
ators at  work,  fixed  not  only  upon  him,  but 
in  him,  piercing  him  through  ;  the  knowing 
grin  still  increasing  and  gathering  force  of 
expression  by  his  own  confusion. 

"Curse  me,  sir,  I  don't  understand  this 
insolence.  "VMiat  do  you  mean?  Do  you 
know  who  it  is  you  treat  in  this  manner  ?  " 

Again  he  stretched  himself,  pulled  up  his 
collar  as  before,  displavdng  a  rich  diamond 
ring,  then  taking  out  a  valuable  gold  watch, 
glanced  at  the  time,  and  putting  it  in  his 
fob.  looked  enormously  big  and  haughty,  ex- 
claiminfT  acain,  with  a  frown  that  was  in- 
tended  to  be  a  stunner — after  again  pacmg 
up  and  dovm  with  the  genuine  tone  and 
carriage  of  true  nobility — 

"I  say,  sir,  do  you  know  the  gentleman 
whom  you  ai'e  treating  with  such  imperti- 
nence ?  Perhaps  you  mistake  me,  on  account 
of  a  supposed  resemblance,  for  some  former 
acquaintance  of  yoiu's.  If,  so,  correct  your- 
self ;  I  have  never  seen  you  tiU  this  mo- 
ment." 

There,  however,  was  the  grin,  and  there 
were  the  eyes  as  before,  to  which  we  must 
add  a  small  bit  of  pantomime  on  the  part  of 
Morty  O'Flaherty,  for  such  was  the  sei-vant's 
name,  which  bit  of  pantomime  consisted  in 
his  (Morty 's)  la}-ing  his  forefinger  very  know- 
ingly alongside  his  nose,  exclaiming,  in  a 
cautious  and  fr-iendly  voice  however, 

"  Barney,  achora,  don't  be  alai-med ; 
there's  no  harm  done  yet.  You're  safe  if  you 
behave  yourself." 

"WTiatl"  said  Norton.  "By  the  bones 
of  St.  Patrick  but  you  are  Morty  O'Fla- 
herty !  Confound  it,  my  dear  Morty,  why 
didn't  you  make  yourself  known  at  once  ?  it 
would  have  reUeved  both  of  us." 

"  One  of  us,  you  mane,"  repHed  Mortj', 
with  a  wink. 

"Upon  my  soul  I  am  glad  to  see  you, 
Morty.  And  how  ai-e  you,  man  ahve '?  In  a 
snug  berth  here,  I  see,  with  the  father  of 
my  friend.  Lord  Dunroe. 

"  Ha  !  "  exclaimed  Morty,  shrewdly  ;  "  is 
that  it?  Yowx  friend;  Oh,  I  see.  Nate  as 
ever,  like  a  clane  sixpence.  Well,  Barney, 
the  world  will  have  its  way." 

"  Ay,  Morty,  and  we  must  comply  with  it. 
Some  it  brings  up,  and  others  it  brings 
down." 

"  "Whisht,  now,  Barney,"  said  Morty  ;  '•'  let 
1  by-gones  be  by-gones.     That  it  didn't  bring 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


435 


you  up,  be  thankful  to  a  gracious  Providence 
and  a  light  pair  o'  heeLs  ;  that's  all  And 
what  are  you  now  ?  " 

"  No  longer  Bamev  - Brpn>  &t  ^^1  rate," 
replied  the  other.  "My  name,  at  present,  is 
Norton." 

"  At  present  !  Upon  my  sowl,  Barney,  so 
far  as  names  goes,  you're  a  walkin'  cata- 
logue."' 

"  Thomas  Norton,  Esquire  ;  residing  with 
that  distinguished  young  nobleman.  Lord 
Dunroe,  as  his  bosom  fi'iend  and  insepara- 
ble companion." 

"Hem  !  I  see,"  said  Morty,  with  a  shrug, 
which  he  meant  as  one  of  compassion  for  the 
aforesaid  Lord  Dimroe  ;  "  son  to  my  masther. 
Well,  God  pity  him,  Barney,  is  the  worst  I 
"snsh  him.  You  ^yill  take  cai'e  of  him  ;  you'll 
tache  him  a  thing  or  two — and  that's  enough. 
But,  Barney " 

"  Curse  Barney — Mr.  Norton's  the  word." 

"  Well,  !Mr.  Norton — ah,  'Six.  Norton, 
there's  one  person  you'll  not  neglect." 

"  "S\Tio  is  that,  Moi-ty?" 

"Faith,  your  mothers  son,  achora..  How- 
ever, you  know  the  proverb — '  A  bximt  child 
dreads  the  fire.'  You  have  a  neck  still,  Bar- 
ney— beg  pardon,  Mr.  Norton — don't  forget 
that  fact." 

"  And  111  take  care  of  the  said  neck,  be- 
Heve  me,  Morty  ;  I  shall  keep  it  safe,  never 
fear. " 

"  Take  care  you  don't  keep  it  a  httle  too 
safe.  A  word  to  the  wise  is  enough.  Bar — 
Mr.  Norton." 

"  It  is,  Morty  ;  and  I  trust  you  will  re- 
member that  thjit  is  to  be  a  regulation  be- 
tween \is.  '  A  close  mouth  is  the  sign  of  a 
wise  head,'  too  ;  and  there's  a  comrade  for 
your  proverb — but  we  ai'e  talking  too  long. 
Listen  ;  keep  my  secret,  and  I  will  make  it 
worth  your  while  to  do  so.  You  may  ruin 
me,  without  serving  yourself ;  but  as  a  proof 
that  you  will  find  me  your  fiiend,  I  will  shp 
you  five  guineas,  as  a  recompense,  you 
know,  for  taking  cm-e  of  the  landau  and 
horses.  In  short,  if  we  work  into  each  other's 
hands  it  will  be  the  better  for  us  both." 

"  I'U  keep  your  saicret,"  repUed  honest 
INIorty,  "  so  long,  Barney — hem  I  !Mr.  Nor- 
ton— as  you  keep  yourself  honest ;  but  III 
dirty  my  hands  wid  none  o'  yovu-  money. 
If  I  was  willin'  to  betray  you,  it's  not  a 
bribe  would  prevent  me." 

Mr.  Norton,  in  a  few  moments,  was  ushered 
into  the  presence  of  Lord  Cullamore. 

On  entering  the  apai'tment,  the  old  noble- 
man, with  easy  and  native  courtesy,  rose  up, 
ind  received  him  with  every  mark  of  atten- 
tion and  respect. 

"I  am  happy,  ^Ir.  Norton,"  he  proceeded, 
*'  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  thank  you  for 


j  the  friendship  and  kindness  which  my  son. 

Lord  Dimroe,  has  been  so  fortimate  as  to 

j  receive  at  your  hands.     He  speaks  of  you 

1  with   such   warmth,  and   in  terms  of  such 

high  esteem,  that  I  felt  naturally  anxious  to 

!  make    your    acquaintance,    as    his    friend. 

Pray  be  seated." 

Norton,  who  was  a  quick  and  ready  fel- 
low, in  more  senses  than  one,  bowed  lowly, 
and  with  everj-  mark  of  the  deepest  respect ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  he  certainly  started 
upon  a  high  and  a  rather  hazai-dous  theory — 
to  wit,  that  of  a  man  of  consequence,  who 
wished  to  be  considered  with  respect  to  Dun- 
roe  rather  as  a  patron  than  a  dependent 

The  fellow,  we  should  have  stated  to  the 
reader,  was  originally  fi'om  Kerry,  though 
he  adopted  Connaught,  and  consequently 
had  a  tolerable  acquaintance  with  Latin  and 
Greek — an  acquisition  which  often  stood 
him  in  stead  through  life  ;  joined  to  which  was 
an  assurance  that  nothing  short  of  a  scrutiny 
such  as  Morty  O'Flaherty's  could  conquer. 

"I  assure  you,  my  lord,"  he  repKed,  "  you 
qviite  overrate  any  tiifiing  sendees  I  may 
have  rendered  to  my  friend  Dunroe.  Upon 
my  soul  and  honor  you  do.  I  have  done 
nothing  for  him — that  is,  nothing  to  speak 
of.  But  the  truth  is,  I  took  a  fancy  to  Diui- 
roe  ;  and  I  do  assure  you  again,  Lord  Cul- 
lamore, that  when  I  do  take  a  fancy  to  any 
person — a  rare  case  with  me,  I  grant — I 
would  go  any  possible  lengths  to  serve  him. 
Every  man  has  his  whim,  my  lord,  and  that 
is  mine.  I  hope  your  lordship  had  a  pleas- 
ant trip  across  Channel  ?  " 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Mr.  Norton  ;  but  I  have 
been  for  some  time  past  in  delicate  health, 
and  am  not  now  so  capable  of  bearing  the  trip 
as  formerly.  Still  I  feel  no  reason  to  com- 
plain, although  f:vr  from  strong.  Dunroe,  1 
perceive,  is  reduced  considei-ably  by  his 
wound  and  the  consequent  confinement" 

"  Oh,  natiuivQy,  of  course,  my  lord  ;  but 
a  few  days  now  -will  set  him  upon  his  legs." 

"  That,  it  seems  to  me.  Mi-.  Norton,  was  a 
very  foolish  and  unpleasant  afliiir  altogether." 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  so,  my  lord.  It 
was  altogether  \n-ong  on  the  jxai-t  of  Dunroe  ; 
and  so  I  told  him." 

"Could  you  not  have  prevented  it,  Mr. 
Norton  ?  " 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  very  good,  Lord  Cullamore. 
Ask  me  could  I  prevent  or  check  a  flash  oi 
hghtning.  Upon  my  soul  and  honor,  the 
thing  was  over,  and  my  poor  friend  down, 
before  you  could  say  Jack  Robinson — hem  ! 
— as  we  say  in  Connaught." 

"You  have  tni veiled,  too,  with  my  son, 
Mr.  Norton,  and  he  is  perfectly  sensible  of 
the  services  you  have  rendered  him  during 
his  tour." 


-iJG 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S     WORKS. 


"  God  forbid,  my  Lord  Cullamore,  that  I 
should  assume  any  superiority  over  poor, 
kind-hearted,  and  honorable  Dunroe ;  but  as 
you  are  his  father,  my  lord,  I  may — and 
with  pride  and  satisfaction  I  do  it — put  the 
matter  on  its  proper  footing,  and  say,  that 
Dunroe  travelled  with  me.  The  thing  is 
neither  here  nor  there,  of  course,  nor  would 
I  ever  allude  to  it  unless  as  a  proof  of  my  re- 
gard and  affection  for  him." 

"That  only  enhances  your  kindness,  Mr. 
Norton." 

"  Why,  my  lord,  I  met  Dunroe  in  Paris — 
no  matter,  I  took  him  out  of  some  difficulties 
and  prevented  him  from  getting  into  more. 
He  had  been  set  by  a  clique  of — but  I  will 
not  dwell  on  this,  it  looks  like  egotism — I 
said  before,  I  took  a  fancy  to  him — for  it 
frequently  happens,  my  good  lord,  that  you 
take  a  fancy  to  the  person  you  have  served." 

"True  enough,  indeed,  Mr.  Norton." 

"  I  am  fond  of  travelling,  and  was  about  to 
make  my  fourth  or  fifth  tour,  when  I  met 
your  son,  surrounded  by  a  crew  of — but  I 
have  alluded  to  this  a  moment  ago.  At  all 
events,  I  saw  his  danger — a  young  man  ex- 
posed to  temptation — the  most  alluring  and 
perilous.  Well,  my  lord,  mine  was  a  name 
of  some  weight  and  authority,  affording  just 
the  kind  of  countenance  and  protection  your 
son  required.  Well,  I  travelled  with  him, 
guarded  him,  guided  him,  for  as  to  any  in- 
convenience 1  may  myself  have  experienced 
in  taking  him  by  the  most  comprehensive 
routes,  and  some  other  matters,  they  are  not 
worth  naming.  Of  course  I  introduced  him 
to  some  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of 
France — to  the  Marquis  De  Fogleville,  for 
instance,  the  Count  Rascallion,  Baron  Snot- 
tellin,  and  some  others  of  the  first  rank  and 
nobility  of  the  country.  The  pleasure  of  his 
societv,  however,  more  than  compensated  me 
for  all." 

"  But,  pardon  me,  Mr.  Norton,  I  believe 
the  title  and  family  of  De  Fogleville  have 
been  extinct.  The  last  of  them  was  guillo- 
tined not  long  since  for  an  attempt  to  steal 
the  crown  jewels  of  France,  I  think." 

"  True,  my  lord,  you  are  perfectly  right, 
the  unhappy  man  was  an  insane  legitimist ; 
but  the  title  and  estates  have  been  revived  in 
the  person  of  another  member  of  the  family, 
the  present  marquis,  Avho  is  a  nobleman  of 
high  consideration  and  honor." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  I  wfis  not  aware  of  that, 
Mr.  Norton,"  said  his  lordship.  "I  am  quite 
surprised  at  the  extent  of  your  generosity 
and  goodness  to  my  son." 

"  But,  my  lord,  it  is  not  my  intention  to 
give  up  Dunroe  or  abandon  the  poor  fellow 
yet  awhile.  I  am  determined  to  teach  him 
economy  in  managing  his  affairs,  to  make  him 


know  the  value  of  time,  of  money,  and  of 
system,  in  everything  pertaining  to  life  and 
business.  Nor  do  I  regret  what  1  have  done, 
nor  what  I  propose  to  do  ;  far  from  it,  my 
lord.  All  I  ask  is,  that  he  will  always  look: 
upon  me  as  a  friend  or  an  elder  brother,  and 
consult  me,  confide  in  me,  and  come  to  me, 
in  fact,  or  write  to  me,  whenever  he  may 
think  I  can  be  of  service  to  him." 

"And  in  his  name,  of  course,  I  may  at 
least  thank  you,  Mr.  Norton,"  replied  the 
Earl,  with  a  slight  irony  in  his  manner,  "not 
only  for  all  you  have  done,  but  for  all  you 
propose  to  do,  as  you  say." 

Norton  shook  his  head  peremptorily. 
"  Pardon  me,  my  lord,  no  thanks.  I  am 
overpaid  by  the  pleasure  of  rankmg  Dunroe 
among  the  number  of  my  friends." 

"  You  are  too  kind,  indeed,  Mr.  Norton ; 
and  I  trust  my  son  will  be  duly  grateful,  as 
he  is  duly  sensible  of  all  you  have  done  for 
him.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Norton,  you  alluded 
to  Connaught.  You  are,  I  presume,  an  Irish- 
man? " 

"I  am  an  Irishman,  my  lord." 

"  Of  course,  sir,  I  make  no  inquiry  as  to 
your  individual  family.  I  am  sure  from  what 
I  have  seen  of  you  they  must  have  been,  and 
are,  persons  of  worth  and  consideration  ; 
but  I  wished  to  ask  if  the  name  be  a  numer- 
ous one  in  Ireland,  or  rather,  in  your  part  of 
it — Connaught?" 

"Numerous,  my  lord,  no,  not  very  numer- 
ous, but  of  the  first  respectability." 

"  Pray,  is  your  father  living,  Mr.  Norton? 
If  he  be,  why  don't  you  bring  him  among  us? 
And  if  you  have  any  brother,  I  )ieed  scarcely 
say  what  pleasure  it  would  afford  me,  having, 
as  you  are  aware,  I  presume  some  influence 
with  ministers,  to  do  anything  I  could  for 
him,  should  he  require  it ;  probably  in  the 
sliape  of  a  foreign  appointment,  or  something 
that  way.  Anything,  Mr.  Norton,  to  repay  a 
portion  of  what  is  due  to  you  by  my  family." 

"I  thank  your  lordship,"  replied  Tom. 
"  My  poor  father  was,  as  too  many  other 
Irish  gentlemen  have  been,  what  is  termed  a 
hard  goer  (the  honest  man  was  ahorse  jockey 
like  mj'self,  thought  Tom) — and  indeed  ran 
through  a  great  deal  of  property  during  the 
latter  part  of  his  life  (when  he  was  hunts- 
man to  Lord  Eattlecap,  he  went  through 
many  an  estate)." 

"Well,  but  your  brother?" 

"  Deeply  indebted,  my  lord,  but  I  have  no 
brother  living.  Poor  Edward  ^i(^  get  a  for- 
eign apjiointment  many  years  ago  (he  was 
transported  for  horse  stealing),  by  the  influ- 
ence of  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  our 
judges,  who  stronglv  advised  him  to  accept 
it,  and  returned  his  name  to  government  as 
a  worthy  and  suitable  candidate      He  died 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


437 


there,  my  lord,  in  the  discharge  of  his  ap- 
pointed duties.  Poor  Ned,  however,  was 
never  fond  of  public  business  under  govern- 
ment, and,  indeed,  accepted  the  appointment 
m.  question  with  great  reluctance." 

"  The  reason  why  I  made  these  inquiries 
about  the  name  of  Norton,"  said  Lord  Culla- 
tnore,  "  is  this.  There  was,  several  years 
ago,  a  respectable  female  of  the  name,  who 
held  a  confidential  situation  in  my  family ;  I 
have  long  lost  sight  of  her,  however,  and 
would  be  glad  to  know  whether  she  is  living 
or  dead." 

("  My  sister-in-law,"  thought  Tom.)  "  I 
fear,"  he  replied,  "I  can  render  you  no  in- 
formation on  that  point,  my  lord  ;  the  last 
female  branch  of  our  part  of  the  family  was 
my  grandmother,  who  died  about  three  years 
ago." 

At  this  moment  a  servant  entered  the 
apai'tment,  bearing  in  his  hand  a  letter,  for 
which  office  he  had  received  a  bribe  of  half- 
a-crown.  "I  beg  pardon,  my  loxxl,  but 
there's  a  woman  at  tliQ  hall-door,  who  wishes 
this  letter  to  be  handed  to  that  gentleman  ; 
but  I  fear  there's  some  mistake,"  he  added, 
"  it  is  directed  to  Barney  Bryan.  She  in- 
sists he  is  here,  and  that  she  saw  him  come 
into  the  house." 

"Barney  Bryan,"  said  Tom,  with  great 
coolness  ;  "  show  me  the  letter,  for  I  think  I 
know  something  about  it.  Yes,  I  am  right. 
It  is  an  insane  woman,  my  lord,  wife  to  a 
jockey  of  mine,  who  broke  his  neck  riding 
my  celebrated  horse.  Black  and  all.Black,  on 
the  Curragh.  The  poor  creature  cannot  be- 
heve  that  her  husband  is  dead,  and  thinks 
that  I  enjoy  that  agreeable  privilege.  The 
circumstance,  indeed,  was  a  melancholy  one  ; 
but  I  have  supported  her  ever  since." 

Morty  O'Flaherty,  who  had  transferred 
his  charge  to  other  hands,  fearing  that  ]\Iis- 
ter  Norton  might  get  into  trouble,  now  came 
to  the  rescue. 

"Pray,"  said  Tom,  quick  as  lightning,  "is 
that  insane  creature  below  still,  a  poor  wo- 
man whose  husband  broke  his  neck  riding  a 
race  for  me  on  the  Curragh,  and  she  thinks 
Uiat  I  stand  to  her  in  that  capacity  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  she  says,"  added  the  man  who 
brought  the  letter,  "that  this  gentleman's 
name  is  not  Norton,  but  Biyan — Barney 
Bryan,  I  think — and  that  he  is  her  husband, 
exactly  as  the  gentleman  says. " 

"Just  so,  my  lord,"  said  Tom,  smiling; 
"poor  thing  !  what  a  melancholy  delusion." 

"I  was  present  at  the  accident,  !Mr.  Nor- 
ton," added  Morty,  boldly,  "  and  remember 
the  circumstance,  in  throth,  very  well. 
Didn't  the  poor  woman  lose  her  senses  by  it  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Tom,  "I  have  just  men- 
tioned the  cii-cumstance  to  his  lordship." 


"  And— beg  pardon,  Mr.  Norton — doesn't 
she  take  you  for  her  husband  from  that  day 
to  this?" 

"  Yes,  so  I  have  said." 

"Oh,  God  help  her,  poor  thing!  Isn't 
she  to  be  pitied  ?  "  added  Morty,  with  a  dry 
roguish  glance  at  IVIr.  Norton  ;  "  throth,  she 
has  a  hard  fate  of  it.  Howaniver,  she  is 
gone.  I  got  her  oflf,  an'  now  the  place  is 
clear  of  the  unfortunate  creatm'e.  The  lord 
look  to  her  ! " 

The  sen'ants  then  withdrcAv,  and  Norton 
made  his  i^arting  bow  to  Lord  Cullamore, 
whom  we  now  leave  to  his  meditations  on 
the  subject  of  this  interview. 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

A  Spy  Eewarded — Sir  Tliomns  Gourlay  Charged 
Home  by  the  Stranger  with  the  Removal  and  Dis- 
appearance of  his  Brother's  Son. 

We  left  the  Black  Baronet  in  a  frame  of 
mind  by  no  means  to  be  envied  by  our 
readers.  The  disappearance  of  his  daughter 
and  her  maid  had  stunned  and  so  completely 
prostrated  him,  that  he  had  not  sufficient 
energy  even  for  a  burst  of  his  usual  dark 
and  overbearing  resentment.  In  this  state 
of  mind,  however,  he  was  better  able  to  re- 
flect upon  the  distressing  occurrence  that 
had  happened.  He  bethought  him  of  Lucy's 
delicacy,  of  her  sense  of  honor,  her  unifoi'm 
propriety  of  conduct,  her  singular  self-re- 
spect, and  after  all,  of  the  complacent  spirit 
of  obedience  with  which,  in  everything  but 
her  contemplated  union  with  Lord  Dunroe, 
she  had,  during  her  whole  life,  and  under 
the  most  trying  circumstances,  accommo- 
dated herself  to  his  '\\'ishes.  He  then  re- 
flected ujDon  the  fact  of  her  maid  having  ac- 
companied her,  and  con  eluded,  very  naturally, 
that  if  she  had  resolved  to  elope  with  this 
hateful  sti'anger,  she  would  have  done  so  in 
pui-suance  of  the  precedent  set  by  most 
yoimg  ladies  who  take  such  steps — that  is, 
unaccompanied  by  any  one  but  her  lover. 
From  this  ^•iew  of  the  case  he  gathered  com- 
fort, and  was  beginning  to  feel  his  mind 
somewhat  more  at  ease,  when  a  servant  en- 
tered to  say  that  Mr.  Crackenfudge  requested 
to  see  him  on  particular  business. 

"  He  has  come  to  annoy  me  about  that 
confounded  magistracy,  I  suppose,"  ex- 
claimed the  baronet.  "  Have  you  any  no- 
tion what  the  worthless  scovmdrel  wants, 
Gibson?" 

"  Not  the  least,  your  honor,  but  he  seems 
brimful  of  something." 

"  Ay,  brimful  of  ignorance,  and  of  imper- 


438 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOUKS. 


tinence,  too,  if  lie  dvirst  show  it ;  yes,  and  of 
as  much  pride  and  oppression  as  could  well 
be  contained  in  a  miserable  cai'cass  like  his. 
As  he  is  a  sneaking,  vigilant  rascal,  however, 
and  has  a  great  deal  of  the  spy  in  his  com- 
position, it  is  not  impossible  that  he  may  be 
able  to  give  me  some  information  touching 
the  disappearance  of  I\Iiss  Goui'lay." 

Gibson,  after  making  his  bow,  withdrew, 
and  the  redoubtable  Crackenfudge  was 
ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  baronet. 

The  first  thing  the  former  did  was  to  sur- 
vey the  countenance  of  his  patron,  for  as 
sucii  he  wished  to  consider  him  and  to  find 
him.  There,  then,  Sir  Thomas  sat,  stem 
but  indifferent,  with  precisely  the  expression 
of  a  tiger  lying  gloomily  in  his  den,  the  nat- 
ural ferocity  "in  grim  repose  "  for  the  time, 
but  evidently  ready  to  blaze  up  at  an}i:hing 
that  might  disturb  or  provoke  him.  Had 
Crackenfudge  been  gifted  with  either  tact  or 
experience,  or  any  enlarged  knowledge  of 
the  human  heart,  especially  of  the  deep, 
dark,  and  imjDetuous  one  that  beat  in  the 
bosom  then  before  him,  he  would  have 
studied  the  best  and  least  alarming  manner 
of  conveying  intelligence  calcvdated  to  pro- 
duce such  tenific  effects  upon  a  man  like  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay.  Of  this,  however,  he 
knew  nothing,  although  his  oAvn  intercourse 
with  him  might  have  well  taught  him  the 
necessai'v  lesson. 

"Well,  jMi\  Crackenfudge,"  said  the  lat- 
ter, without  moving,  "what's  WTong  now? 
"What's  the  news  ?  " 

"  There's  nothing  wrong.  Sir  Thomas,  and 
a've  good  news." 

The  baronet's  eye  and  brow  lost  some  of 
their  gloom  ;  he  arose  and  commenced,  as 
was  his  custom,  to  walk  across  the  room. 

"  Pray  what  is  this  good  news,  ]\Ir.  Crack- 
enfudge ?  Will  you  be  kind  enough,  without 
any  unnecessary  circumlocution,  to  favor 
youi*  friends  with  it  ?  " 

"With  pleasure.  Sir  Thomas,  because  a' 
know  you  are  anxious  to  hear  it,  and  it  deeply 
concenas  you." 

Sir  Thomas  paused,  turned  rotmd,  looked 
at  him  for  a  moment  with  an  impatient 
scowl ;  but  in  the  meaningless  and  simpering 
face  before  him  he  could  read  nothing  but 
what  appeai'ed  to  him  to  be  an  impudent 
chuckle  of  satisfaction  ;  and  this,  indeed,  was 
no  more  than  what  Crackenfudge  felt,  who 
had  altogether  forgotten  the  nature  of  the 
communication  he  was  about  to  make, 
dreadful  and  disastrous  as  it  was,  and 
thought  only  of  the  claim  upon  Sir  Thomas's 
influence  which  he  was  about  to  establish 
with  reference  to  the  magistracy.  It  was 
the  reflection,  then,  of  this  train  of  httle 
ambition   which  Sir  Thomas    read   in    his 


countenance,  and  mistook  for  some  commu- 
nication that  might  relieve  him,  and  set  his 
mind  probablj-  at  ease.  The  scowl  we 
allude  to  accordingly  disappeai-ed,  and  Sir 
Thomas,  after  the  glance  we  have  recorded, 
said,  checking  himself  into  a  milder  and 
more  encouraging  tone  : 

"  Go  on,  ]Mi\  Crackenfudge,  let  us  hear  it 
at  once." 

"  Well,  then.  Sir  Thomas,  a'  told  you  a'd 
keep  my  eye  on  that  chap." 

"  On  whom?  name  him,  sir." 

"A'  can't.  Sir  Thomas  ;  the  feUow  in  the 
inn." 

"  Oh !  what  about  him  ?  " 

"  WTiy  he  has  taken  her  off. 

"Taken  whom  off?  "  shouted  the  baronet, 
in  a  voice  of  thunder.  "You  contemptiblfi 
scoundrel,  whom  has  he  taken  off?  " 

"  Your  daughter.  Sir  Thomas — IMiss  Gour- 
lay. They  went  together  in  the  '  Fly '  on 
Tuesday  night  last  to  Dublin  ;  a'  followed  in 
the  'Flash  of  Lightning,'  and  seen  them  in 
conversation.     Daudj'  Dulcimer,  who  is  your 

friend For  God's   sake,  Sii"  Thomas,  be 

quiet.  You'll  shake  me— a-a-ach — Sii- — 
Thom-a-as — w-wi-will  vou  not  take  my — my 
— h-hfe " 


"You  lie  like  a  villain,  you  most  con- 
temptible rej)tile,"  shouted  the  other. 
"  My  daughter,  sirrah,  never  eloped  with  an 
adventurer.  She  never  eloped  at  all,  sir. 
She  durst  not  eloj^e.  She  knows  what  my 
vengeance  would  be,  sirrah.  She  knows, 
you  lying  whelp  of  perdition,  that  I  would 
pursue  herseK  and  her  paramoiir  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth  ;  that  I  would 
shoot  them  both  dead — that  I  would  trample 
upon  and  spurn  their  worthless  carcasses, 
and  make  an  example  of  them  to  all  time, 
and  through  all  eternity.  And  you — you 
prying,  intermeddling  scoundrel — how  durst 
you — you  petty,  beggarly  tyrant — hated  and 
desjDised  b}'  poor  and  rich — was  it  to  mock 
me " 

"  Sir  Thom-a-as,  a'm — a'm — I — I — a  ach — 
ur-ur-ui'-mur-murd-murd-er-er-err-errr." 

"  Was  it  to  jeer  and  sneer  at  me — to  insult 
me — you  miserable  knave — to  diive  me  mad 
— into  raging  frenzy — that  you  came,  with  a 
smirk  of  satisfaction  on  yoiu'  face,  to  com- 
municate the  disgrace  and  dishonor  of  my 
family — the  ruin  of  my  hopes — the  frustra- 
tion of  my  ambition — of  all  I  had  set  my 
heai-t  on,  and  that  I  perilled  my  soul  to  ac- 
complish? Yes,  you  \illain,  your  eye  was 
smiling — elate — your  heart  was  glad — for, 
siiTah,  you  hate  me  at  heai*t." 

"  God  !  oh,  oh  !  a'm — a'm — ur-iuT-virrr — 
whee-ee-ee-hee-hee-hee.  God  ha-har-ha-have 
mer-mer-mercy  on  my  sinf-sinfu-l  sou-so- 
soiil !  a'm  gone." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


439 


"  ^^^,  you  hate  me,  villain,  and  this  is  a 
triumph  to  you  ;  every  one  hates  me,  and 
every  one  ^vill  rejoice  at  my  shame.  I  know 
it,  you  accursed  miscreant,  I  feel  it ;  and  in 
return  I  hate,  with  more  than  the  mahgnity 
of  the  de^Tl,  every  hum-.in  creature  that  God 
has  made.  I  have  been  at  enmity  with 
them,  and  in  that  enmity  I  shall  persist ; 
deep  and  dai'k  as  hell  shall  it  be,  and  unre- 
lenting as  the  vengeance  of  a  de\'il.  There," 
he  added,  throwing  the  almost  senseless 
body  of  Crackenfudge  over  on  a  sofa,  "  there, 
you  may  rest  on  that  sofa,  and  get  breath  ; 
get  breath  quickly,  and  mark,  obey  me." 

"  Yes,  Sir  Thomas,  a^vill ;  a'll  do  anj'thing, 
provided  that  you'll  let  me  escape  with  my 
life.  God  !  a'm  nearly  dead,  the  fire's  not 
out  of  my  eyes  yet." 

"Silence,  you  wretched  slave!"  shouted 
the  baronet,  stamping  with  rage ;  '•  not 
another  word  of  complaint,  but  listen  to  me 
— listen  to  me,  I  say  :  go  on,  and  let  me 
heai-,  fully  and  at  large,  the  withering  historj' 
of  this  burning  and  most  flagitious  disgrace." 

"  But  if  a'  do,  you'll  only  beat  and  throttle 
me  to  death.  Sir  Thomas." 

"  ^^^lether  I  may  or  may  not  do  so,  go  on, 
villain,  and — go  on,  that  quickly,  or  by 
heavens  I  shall  tear  the  venomous  heart  from 
youi*  body,  and  trample  the  black  inteUigence 
out  of  it.     Proceed  instantly." 

With  a  face  of  such  distress  as  our  readers 
may  weU  imagine,  and  a  voice  whose  quavers 
of  terror  were  in  admirable  accordance  with 
it,  the  unfortunate  Crackenfudge  related  the 
circumstance  of  Lucy's  visit  to  DubHn,  as  he 
considered  it,  and,  in  fact,  so  far  as  he  was 
acquainted  with  her  motions,  as  it  appeared 
to  him  a  decided  elopement,  without  the 
possibility  of  entertaining  either  doubt  or 
mistake  about  it. 

In  the  meantime,  how  shall  we  describe 
the  savage  fiuy  of  the  baronet,  as  the  trem- 
bling wretch  proceeded  ?  It  is  impossible. 
His  rage,  the  vehemence  of  his  gestures,  the 
spasms  that  seemed  to  seize  sometimes  upon 
his  featm-es  and  sohietimes  upon  his  Hmbs, 
as  well  as  upon  different  parts  of  his  body, 
ti'ansformed  him  into  the  appearance  of 
something  that  was  unnatural  and  frightful. 
He  bit  his  lips  in  the  effort  to  restrain  these 
tremendous  paroxysms,  until  the  bloody 
foam  fell  in  red  flakes  from  his  mouth,  and 
as  portions  of  it  were  carried  by  the  violence 
of  his  gesticulations  over  several  parts  of  his 
face,  he  had  more  the  appearance  of  some 
bloody-fanged  ghoul,  reeking  from  the  spoil 
of  a  midnight  grave,  than  that  of  a  human 
being. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "  how  did  it  happen  that 
— brainless,  worthless,  and  beneath  all  con- 
tempt, as  you  are,  most  execrable  scoundrel 


— you  suffered  that  adroit  ruffian.  Dulcimer 
— whom  I  shall  punish,  never  fear — how 
came  it,  you  despicable  libel  on  nature  and 
common  sense — that  you  allowed  him  to 
humbug  you  to  your  face,  to  laugh  at  you, 
to  scorn  you,  to  spit  upon  you,  to  poke  your 
ribs,  as  if  you  were  an  idiot,  as  you  are,  and 
to  kick  you,  as  it  were,  in  everj'  imaginable 
part  of  your  worthless  carcass — how  did  it 
come,  I  say,  that  you  did  not  watch  them 
pi'operly,  that  you  did  not  get  them  imme- 
diately arrested,  as  you  ought  to  have  done, 
or  that  you  did  not  do  more  than  would 
merely  enable  you  to  chronicle  my  disgrace 
and  misery  ?  " 

"A'  did  all  a'  could,  Sir  Thomas.  A' 
searched  through  all  Dublin  for  hex  without 
success  ;  but  as  to  where  he  has  her,  a'  can't 
guess.  The  first  thing  a'  did,  after  takin'  a 
sleep,  was  to  come  an'  tell  you  to-day  ;  for 
a'  travelled  home  by  last  night's  coach.  You 
ought  to  do  something,  Sir  Thomas,  for 
every  one  has  it  now.  It's  through  all  Bal- 
lytrain.     'Deed  a'  pity  you.  Sir  Thomas." 

Now  this  unfortunate  being  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  last  brief  silence  of  the 
baronet  resulted  fi-om  some  reasonable  at- 
tention to  what  he  (Crackenfudge)  had  been 
saying,  whereas  the  fact  was,  that  his  terri- 
ble auditor  had  been  transfixed  into  the 
highest  and  most  uncontrollable  fit  of  indig- 
nation by  the  substance  of  his  words. 

"  ^Miat  I  "  said  he,  in  a  voice  that  made 
Crackenfudge  leap  at  least  a  foot  fi-om  the 
sofa.  "  You  pity  me,  do  you  I — you,  you 
diabohcal  eavesdropper,  you  pity  me  !  Sa- 
cred heaven  !  And  again,  you  searched 
through  all  Dublin  for  my  daughter  ! — carry- 
ing her  disgrace  and  infamy  wherever  you 
appeared,  and  advertising  them  as  you  went 
along,  like  an  emissaiy  of  shame  and  cal- 
umny, as  you  are.  Yes,"  said  he,  as  he 
foamed  with  the  fury  of  a  raging  bull  ;  "  '  I 
— I — I,'  you  might  have  said,  '  a  nameless 
whelp,  spinmg  from  the  dishonest  chppings 
of  a  counter — I,  I  s:iy,  am  in  quest  of  ^liss 
Gourlay,  who  has  eloped  with  an  adventurer, 
an  impostor — with  a  brushmaker's  clerk." 

"  A  tooth -bnish  manufacturer,  Sir  Thomas, 
and,  you  know,  they  ai-e  often  made  of 
ivorj-." 

"  Come,  you  intermeddling  rascal,  I  must 
either  tear  you  asunder  or  my  brain  will 
burst  ;  I  will  not  have  such  a  worthless  hfe 
as  yours  on  my  hands,  however  ;  you  vermin, 
out  with  you  ;  I  might  have  borne  anything 
but  yoiu'  compassion,  and  even  that  too  ;  but 
to  blazon  through  a  gaping  metroijolis  the 
infamy  of  my  family — of  all  that  was  dear  to 
me — to  turn  the  name  of  my  child  into  a 
polluted  word,  which  modest  lips  would  feel 
ashamed  to  utter  ;  nor,  lastly,  can  I  forgive 


440 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


you  the  ciime  of  making  me  suffer  this  mad 
and  imexampled  agony." 

Action  now  took  the  place  of  words,  and 
had,  indeed,  come  in  as  an  auxiliary  for 
some  time  previous.  He  seized  the  unfor- 
tunate Crackenfudge,  and  as,  with  red  and 
dripping  lips,  he  gave  vent  to  the  fui-ious 
eruptions  of  his  fiery  spirit,  like  a  living 
Vesuvius — for  we  know  of  no  other  com- 
parison so  appropriate — he  kicked  and 
cuffed  the  wretched  and  unlucky  intelligen- 
cer, untn  he  fairly  threw  him  out  at  the 
hall-door,  which  he  himself  shut  after 
him. 

"Begone,  villain!"  he  exclaimed;  "and 
may  you  never  die  till  you  feel  the  torments 
which  you  have  kindled,  hke  the  flames  of 
hell,  within  me  !  " 

On  entering  the  room  again,  he  found, 
however,  that  with  a  being  even  so  wretched 
and  contemptible  as  Crackenfudge,  there 
had  departed  a  portion  of  his  strength.  So 
long  as  he  had  an  object  on  which  to  launch 
his  fury,  he  felt  that  he  could  still  sustain 
the  battle  of  his  passions.  But  now  a  heavy 
sense  came  over  him,  as  if  of  something 
which  he  could  not  understand  or  analyze. 
His  heart  sank,  and  he  felt  a  nameless  and 
indescribable  terror  "within  him — a  terror, 
he  thought,  quite  distinct  from  the  conduct 
of  his  daughter,  or  of  anything  else  he  had 
heard.  He  had,  in  fact,  lost  all  perception 
of  his  individual  misery,  and  a  moral  gloom, 
black  as  night,  seemed  to  cover  and  mingle 
with  those  fiery  tortures  which  were  con- 
suming him.  An  apprehension,  also,  of  im- 
mediate dissolution  came  over  him  —  his 
memory  grew  gi-adually  weaker  and  weaker, 
until  he  felt  himself  no  longer  able  to  ac- 
count for  the  scene  which  had  just  taken 
place  ;  and  for  a  brief  period,  although  he 
neither  swooned  nor  fainted,  nor  fell  into  a 
fit  of  any  kind,  he  experienced  a  stupor  that 
amounted  to  a  complete  unconsciousness  of 
being,  if  we  except  an  undying  impression 
of  some  great  evil  which  had  befallen  him, 
and  which  lay,  like  a  grim  and  insatiable 
monster,  tearing  up  his  heart.  At  length, 
by  a  ^'iolent  effort,  he  recovered  a  little,  be- 
came once  more  conscious,  walked  about  for 
some  time,  then  surveyed  himself  in  the 
glass,  and  what  between  the  cadaverous  hue 
of  his  face  and  the  flakes  of  red  foam  which 
we  have  described,  when  taken  in  connection 
with  his  thick,  midnight  brows,  it  need  not 
be  wondered  at  that  he  felt  alarmed  at  the 
state  to  which  he  awakened. 

After  some  time,  however,  he  rang  for 
Gibson,  who,  on  seeing  him,  started. 

"  Good  God,  sir  !  "  said  he,  quite  alarmed, 
"  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"I  did  not  ring  for  you,  sir,"  he  rephed, 


"to  ask  impertinent  questions.  Send  Gil- 
lespie to  me." 

Gibson  withdrew,  and  in  the  mean  time 
his  master  went  to  his  dressing-room,  where 
he  washed  himself  fi'ee  of  the  bloody  evi- 
dences of  his  awful  passions.  This  being 
done,  he  returned  to  the  librar}',  where,  in 
a  few  minutes,  Gillespie  attended  him." 

"Gillespie,"  he  exclaimed,  "do  you  feax 
God  ?  " 

"I  hope  I  do.  Sir  Thomas,  as  well  as 
another,  at  any  rate." 

"  Well,  then,  begone,  for  you  are  useless 
to  me — begone,  sirrah,  and  get  me  some  one 
that  fears  neither  God  nor  devil." 

"Why,  Sir  Thomas,"  re j^lied  the  ruffian, 
who,  having  expected  a  job,  felt  anxious  to 
retrieve  himself,  "as  to  that  matter,  I  can't 
say  that  I  ever  was  overburdened  with  much 
fear  of  either  one  or  other  of  them.  In- 
deed, I  believe,  thank  goodness,  I  have  a« 
little  religion  as  most  people." 

"  Are  you  sure^  sirrah,  that  you  have  ns) 
conscience  ?  " 

"  Why — hem — I  have  done  things  for 
your  honor  before,  you  know.  As  to  reli- 
gion, however,  I'll  stand  upon  having  aa 
little  of  it  as  e'er  a  man  in  the  barony.  I 
give  up  to  no  one  in  a  want  of  that  commodi- 
ity." 

"  What  proof  can  you  afford  me  that  you 
are  free  from  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  blow  me  if  I  know  the  twelve 
commandments,  and,  besides,  I  was  only  at 
church  three  times  in  my  life,  and  I  fell 
asleep  under  the  sermon  each  time ;  reUgion, 
sii",  never  agreed  with  me." 

"  To    blazon   my   shame  ! — bad  enough  ; 

but  the  ruin  of  my  hopes,  d -n  you,  sir, 

how  durst  you  publish  my  disgrace  to  the 
world  ?  " 

"  I,  your  honor  !  I'U  take  my  oath  I  never 
breathed  a  syllable  of  it  ;  and  you  know 
yourself,  sir,  the  man  was  too  drunk  to  be 
able  to  speak  or  remember  anything  of  what 
happened." 

"  Sir,  you  came  to  mock  and  jeer  at  me  ; 
and,  besides,  you  are  a  Har,  she  has  not 
eloped." 

"I  don't  understand  you.  Sir  Thomas," 
said  Gillespie,  who  saw  at  once  by  his  mas- 
ter's disturbed  and  wandeiing  eye,  that  the 
language  he  uttered  was  not  addressed  to 
him. 

"  What — what,"  exclaimed  the  latter,  ris- 
ing up  and  stretching  himself,  in  order  to 
call  back  his  scattered  faculties.  "  Eh, 
Gillespie  ! — what  brought  you  here,  sirrah  ? 
Ai-e  you  too  come  to  triumph  over  the  am- 
bitious projector?  What  am  I  saying?  I 
sent  for  you,  Gillespie,  did  I  not  ?  " 

"  You  did,  Sir  Thomas  ;    and  with  regard 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


441 


to  what  we  were  speaking  about — I  mean 
religion — I'll  houlcl  a  pound  note  with 
Charley  Corbet,  when  he  comes  back,  that  I 
have  less  of  it  than  him  ;  and  we'U  both 
leave  it  to  your  honor,  as  the  best  judge  ; 
now,  if  I  have  less  of  it  than  Charley,  I 
think  I  deserve  the  preference." 

The  baronet  looked  at  him,  or  rather  in 
the  direction  where  he  stood,  which  induced 
Gniespie  to  supjDose  that  he  was  paying  the 
strictest  attention  to  what  he  said. 

"  Besides,  I  once  caught  Charley  at  his 
prayers,  Sir  Thomas  ;  but  I'd  be  glad  to  see 
the  man  that  ever  caught  me  at  them — that's 
the  chat." 

Sir  Thomas  placed  his  two  hands  upon 
liis  eyes  for  as  good  as  a  minute,  after  which 
he  removed  them,  and  stared  about  him 
Uke  one  awakening  from  a  disturbed  dream. 

"Eh? — Begone,  Gillespie  ;  I  believe  I  sent 
for  you,  but  you  may  go.     I  am  unwell,  and  ; 
not  in  a  condition  to  speak  to  you.    When  I  ! 
want  you  agaiu,  you  shall  be  sent  for."  j 

"  I  don't  care  a  d about  either  hell  or  : 

the  devil,  Sir  Thomas,  especially  when  I'm 
drunk  ;  and  I  once,  for  a  wager,  outswore 
Squire  Leatherings,  who  was  so  deaf  that  I 
was  obliged  to  swear  with  my  mouth  to  the 
end  of  his  ear-trumpet.  I  was  backed  for 
fifty  guineas  bv  Colonel  Brimstone,  who  was  ; 
head  of  the  HeUfire  Club."  I 

The  baronet  signed  to  him  impatiently  to  ! 
begone,  and  this  wox-thy  moralist  withdrew,  ' 
exclaiming  as  he  went : 

"Take  my  word  for  it,  you  wiU  find 
nothing  to  your  hand  equal  to  myself ;  and 
if  there's  anything  to  be  done,  curse  me  but 
I  deserve  a  preference.  I  think  merit 
ought  to  have  its  reward  at  any  rate." 

Sir  Thomas,  we  need  not  say,  felt  ill  at 
ease.  The  tumults  of  his  mind  resembled 
those  of  the  ocean  after  the  violence  of  the 
tempest  has  swept  over  it,  lea^'ing  behind 
that  dark  and  angry  agitation  Avhich  indi- 
cates the  awful  extent  of  its  power.  After 
taking  a  turn  ox  two  through  the  room,  he 
felt  fatigued  and  drowsy,  with  something 
like  a  feeling  of  approaching  iUness.  Yield- 
ing to  this  heaviness,  he  stretched  himself 
on  a  sofa,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  fast 
asleep. 

AU  minds  naturally  vicious,  or  influenced 
by  the  impulses  of  bad  and  irregular  pas- 
sions, are  essentially  vulgar,  mean,  and  cow- 
ardly. Our  baronet  was,  beyond  question, 
a  striking  proof  of  this  truth.  Had  he  pos- 
sessed either  dignity,  or  one  spark  of  gentle- 
manly feeling,  or  self-respect,  he  would  not 
have  degraded  himself  from  what  ought  to 
have  been  expected  from  a  man  in  his  posi- 
tion, by  his  \'iolence  to  the  worthless  'ftTetch, 
Crackenfudge,  who  was  sUght,  compai-atively 


feeble,  and  by  no  means  a  match  for  him  in 
a  personal  contest.  The  only  apology  that 
can  be  offered  for  him  is,  that  it  is  probable 
he  was  scarcely  conscious,  in  the  whirlwind 
and  tempest  of  his  passions,  that  he  allowed 
himself  to  act  such  a  base  and  unmanly  part 
to  a  person  who  had  not  AviUingly  offended 
him,  and  who  was  entitled,  whilst  under  his 
roof,  to  forbearance,  if  not  protection,  even 
in  virtue  of  the  communication  he  had 
made. 

After  sleeping  about  an  hour,  he  arose 
considerably  refreshed  in  body ;  but  the 
agony  of  mind,  although  diminished  in  its 
strength  by  its  own  previous  paroxysms,  was 
stiU  intense  and  bitter.  He  got  up,  sur- 
veyed himself  once  more  in  the  glass,  adjust- 
ed his  dress,  and  helped  himself  to  a  glass 
or  two  of  Madeira,  which  was  his  usual  spe- 
cific after  these  internal  contlicts. 

This  day,  however,  was  destined  to  be  one 
of  trial  to  him,  although  by  no  means  his 
last ;  neither  was  it  ordained  to  bring  forth 
the  final  ordeals  that  awaited  him.  He  had 
scarcely  time  to  reflect  upon  the  measures 
which,  under  the  present  circumstances,  he 
ought  to  pursue,  although  he  certainly  was 
engaged  in  considering  the  matter,  when 
Gibson  once  more  entered  to  let  him  know 
that  a  gentleman  requested  the  favor  of  a 
short  interriew. 

"  "What  gentleman  ?  Who  is  he  ?  I'm 
not  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  see  any  stranger 
— I  mean,  Gibson,  that  I'm  not  well." 

"  Sorry  to  hear  it,  sir ;  shall  I  teU  the 
gentleman  you  can't  see  him  ?  " 

"  Yes — no — stay  ;  do  vou  know  who  he 
is  ?  " 

"  He  is  the  gentleman,  sir,  who  has  been 
stopping  for  some  time  at  the  Mitre." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  the  baronet,  boun- 
cing to  his  feet. 

"  Yes,  sir."  ^ 

If  some  notorious  felon,  red  with  half-a- 
dozen  murders,  and  who,  having  broken 
jail,  left  an  empty  noose  in  the  hands  of  the 
hangman,  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  re- 
turn and  oft'er  himself  up  for  instant  execu- 
tion to  the  aforesaid  hangman,  and  eke  to 
the  sheriff,  we  assert  that  neither  sheriff  nor 
hangman,  nor  hangman  nor  sheriff,  aiTange 
them  as  you  may,  could  feel  a  thousandth 
part  of  the  astonishment  which  seized  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  on  learning  the  fact  con- 
veyed to  him  by  Gibson.  Sir  Thomas,  how- 
ever, after  the  first  natural  stai-t,  became,  if 
we  may  use  the  expression,  deadly,  fear- 
fully calm.  It  was  not  poor,  contemptible 
Crackenfudge  he  had  to  deal  with  now,  but 
the  prime  offender,  the  gi-eat  felon  himself, 
the  author  of  his  shame,  the  \illain  who 
poured   in   the   fire   of  perdition  upon  hia 


442 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


heart,  who  blasted  his  hopes,  crumbled  into 
ruin  all  his  schemes  of  ambition  for  his 
daughter,  and  turned  her  very  name  into  a 
byword  of  pollution  and  guilt.  This  was  the 
man  whom  he  was  now  about  to  get  into  his 
power ;  the  man  who,  besides,  had  on  a  for- 
mer occasion  bearded  and  insulted  him  to 
his  teeth ; — the  skulking  adventurer  afraid 
to  disclose  his  name — the  low-born  impos- 
tor, Uving  by  the  rinsings  of  foul  and  fetid 
teeth — the  base  upstart — the  thief— the  man 
who  robbed  and  absconded  from  his  employ- 
er r  and  this  AVTetch,  this  cipher,  so  low  in 
the  scale  of  society  and  life,  was  the  indi- 
xddual  who  had  left  him  what  he  then  felt 
himself  to  be — a  thing  crushed,  disgraced, 
trodden  in  the  dust — and  then  his  daugh- 
ter! 

"Gibson,"  said  he,  "show  him  into  a 
room — say  I  will  see  him  presently-,  in  about 
ten  minutes  or  less ;  deliver  this  message, 
and  return  to  me." 

In  a  few  moments  Gibson  again  made  his 
appearance. 

"Gibson,"  continued  his  master,  "where 
is  Gillespie  ?     Send  him  to  me." 

"Gillespie's  gone  into  Ballytrain,  sir,  to 
get  one  of  the  horses  iired." 

"  Gibson,  you  are  a  good  and  faithful  ser- 
vant. Go  to  my  bedi'oom  and  fetch  me  my 
pistols." 

"  My  God,  Sir  Thomas  !  oh,  sir,  for  heav- 
en's sake,  avoid  violence  !  The  expression 
of  youi-  face.  Sir  Thomas,  makes  me  trem- 
ble." 

Sir  Thomas  spoke  not,  but  by  one  look 
Gibson  felt  that  he  must  obey  him.  On  re- 
turning A\-ith  the  arms,  his  master  took  them 
out  of  his  hands,  opened  the  pans,  shook 
and  stirred  the  powcler,  examined  the  flints, 
saw  that  they  were  shai'p  and  firm,  and  hav- 
ing done  so,  he  opened  a  drawer  in  the  table 
at  which  he  usually  ^\Tote,  and  there  placed 
them  at  full  cock.  Gibson  <;ould  perceive 
that,  although  unnaturally  calm,  he  was  nev- 
ertheless in  a  state  of  great  agitation  ;  for 
whilst  examining  the  pistols,  he  observed 
that  his  hand  trembled,  although  his  voice 
was  low,  condensed,  and  firm. 

"  For  God's  sake.  Sir  Thomas !  for  the 
Almighty  God's  sake — " 

"Go,  Gibson,  and  desire  the  'gentleman' 
to  walk  uj) — show  him  the  way." 

Sir  Thomas's  mind  was,  no  doubt,  in  a 
tumult ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  was  the 
agitation  of  a  man  without  courage.  After 
Gibson  had  left  the  room,  he  grew  absolutely 
nervous,  both  in  mind  and  bod}',  and  felt  as 
if  he  were  unequal  to  the  conflict  that  he 
expected.  On  hearing  the  firm,  manly  tread 
of  the  stranger,  hLs  heart  sank,  and  a  consid- 
erable portion  of  his  violence   abandoned 


him,  though  not  the  ungenerous  purpose 
which  the  result  of  their  inteniew  might 
possibly  render  necessai-y.  At  all  events,  ha 
felt  that  he  was  about  to  meet  the  stranger 
in  a  much  more  subdued  spii'it  than  he  had 
expected  ;  simply  because,  not  being  natiu*- 
ally  a  brave  or  a  firm  man,  his  coiorage,  and 
consequently  his  resentment,  cooled  in  pro- 
portion as  the  distance  between  them  dimin- 
ished. 

Sir  Thomas  was  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  fire  as  the  stranger  entered.  The  man- 
ner of  the  latter  was  cool,  but  cautious,  and 
his  bow  that  of  a  joerfect  gentleman.  The 
baronet,  sui-jDrised  into  more  than  he  had 
intended,  bowed  haughtily  in  return — a 
mark  of  respect  which  it  was  not  his  inten- 
tion to  have  paid  him. 

"I  presume,  sir,"  said  he,  "that  I  under- 
stand the  object  of  this  \isit  ?  " 

"You  and  I,  Sir  Thomas  Gom-lay,"  re- 
phed  the  stranger,  "have  had  one  interview 
ah'eady — and  but  one  ;  and  I  am  not  aware 
that  anything  occmred  then  between  us  that 
could  enable  you  to  account  for  my  presence 
here." 

"Well,  sir,  perhaps  so,"  replied  the  baro- 
net, with  a  sneer  ;  "  but  to  what  may  I  at- 
tribute the  honor  of  that  distinguished  pres- 
ence ?  " 

"I  come.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  to  seek  for 
an  explanation  on  a  subject  of  the  deepest 
importance  to  the  ^scriy  iinder  whose  wishes 
and  instinictions  I  act." 

"  That  party,  sii-,"  replied  the  baronet, 
who  alluded  to  his  daughter,  "has  forfeited 
every  right  to  give  you  instructions  on  that, 
or  any  other  subject  where  I  am  concerned. 
And,  indeed,  to  speak  candidly,  I  hardly 
know  whether  more  to  admire  her  utter 
want  of  all  shame  in  deputing  you  on  such  a 
mission,  or  your  o"mi  immeasurable  effron- 
tery in  undei-taking  it." 

"Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  repUed  the  stran- 
ger, with  a  proud  smile  on  his  lips,  "  I  beg 
to  assure  you,  once  for  all,  that  it  is  not  my 
intention  to  notice,  much  less  return,  such 
language  as  you  have  now  applied  to  me. 
Whatever  you  may  forget,  sir,  I  entreat  you 
to  remember  that  you  are  addressing  a  gen- 
tleman, who  is  anxious  in  this  inten-iew,  as 
well  as  upon  all  occasions  when  we  may 
meet,  to  treat  you  Avith  courtesy.  And  I 
beg  to  say  now,  that  I  regi'et  the  warmth  of 
my  language  to  you,  though  not  unprovoked, 
on  a  former  occasion." 

"Oh,  much  obliged,  sir,"  replied  the  barO' 
net,  vrith  a  low,  ironical  inclination  of  the 
head,  indicative  of  the  most  withering  con- 
tempt ;  "  much  obhged,  sir.  Perhaps  you 
would  honor  me  with  yom-  patronage,  too. 
I  dare  say  that  'will  be  the  next  courtesy 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


44a 


Well,  I  can't  say  but  I  am  a  fortunate  fellow. 
Will  you  have  the  goodness,  however,  to 
proceed,  sii",  and  open  your  negotiations? 
unless,  in  the  time  diplomatic  spirit,  you 
wish  to  keep  me  in  ignorance  of  its  real  ob- 
ject." 

"  It  is  a  task  that  I  enter  upon  with  gi-eat 
pain,"  reiDlied  the  other,  without  noticing 
the  ofifensive  politeness  of  the  baronet,  "  be- 
cause I  am  aware  that  there  are  associations 
connected  with  it,  which  you,  as  a  father, 
cannot  contemplate  without  profound  sor- 
row." 

"  Don't  rest  assured  of  that,"  said  Sir 
Thomas.  "Your  philosophy  may  lead  you 
astray  there.  A  sensible  man,  sir,  never  re- 
grets that  which  is  worthless." 

The  stranger  looked  a  good  deal  sm-prised  ; 
however,  he  opened  the  negotiation,  as  the 
baronet  said,  in  due  form. 

"I  believe,  Su'  Thomas  Gourlay,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  you  remember  that  the  son  and 
heir  of  your  late  brother,  Sir  Edward  Goui*- 
lay,  long  deceased,  disappeared  very  mysteri- 
ously some  sixteen  or  eighteen  years  ago, 
and  has  been  lost  to  the  family  ever  since, " 

"Oh,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  with 
no  little  siu'prise,  "I  beg  your  j^ardon. 
Yovu*  exordium  was  so  singularly  clear,  that 
I  did  not  imderstand  you  before.  Pray 
proceed." 

"  I  trust,  then,  you  understand  me  now, 
sir,"  replied  the  stranger  ;  "and  I  trust  you 
will  understand  me  better  before  we  pai*t." 

The  baronet,  in  spite  of  his  hauteur  and 
contemptuous  sarcasm,  began  to  feel  un- 
easy ;  for,  to  speak  tnith,  there  was  in  the 
stranger's  words  and  manner,  an  earnestness 
of  purpose,  joined  to  a  cool  and  manly  spii'- 
it,  that  could  not  be  treated  Hghtly,  or  with 
indifference. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  proceeded  the 
stranger 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  other, 
interrupting  him  ;  "  plain  Thomas  Govu-lay, 
if  you  please.     Is  not  that  your  object  ?  " 

"  Truth,  sir,  is  om-  object,  and  justice,  and 
the  restoration  of  the  defi*auded  oi-phan's 
rights.  These,  sir,  are  our  objects ;  and 
these  we  shall  endeavor  to  establish.  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay,  you  know  that  the  son  of 
your  brother  lives." 

"  Indeed !  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  disguise  it — conceal  it  as  you 
wiU.  You  know  that  the  son  of  your 
brother  lives.     I  repeat  that  emphatically." 

"  So  I  perceive.  You  are  e^'idently  a  very 
emphatic  gentleman." 

"If  truth,  sir,  constitute  emphasis,  you 
shall  find  me  so." 

"  I  attend  to  you,  sir  ;  and  I  give  you  no- 
tice, that  when  you   shall  have  exhausted 


yourself,  I  have  my  explanation  to  demand ; 
and,  I  promise  you,  a  terrible  one  you  shall 
find  it." 

This  the  wily  baronet  said,  in  order,  if 
possible,  to  confound  the  stranger,  and 
throw  him  out  of  the  directness  of  his  pur- 
pose. In  this,  however,  he  found  himself 
mistaken.     The  other  proceeded  : 

"  You,  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  did,  one 
night  about  eighteen  years  ago,  as  I  said, 
engage  a  man,  disguised  in  a  mask  for  the 
purpose  of  conceahng  his  features,  to  kidnap 
your  brother's  child  from  Red  Hall — from 
this  very  house  in  which  we  both  stand." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  "I 
forgot  that  cii'cumstance  in  the  blaze  of  yonr 
eloquence  ;  perhaps  you  ■\^ill  have  the  good- 
ness to  take  a  seat ; "  and  in  the  same  spirit 
of  bitter  sarcasm,  he  motioned  him  with 
mock  courtesy,  to  sit  down.  The  other, 
pausing  only  until  he  had  spoken,  pro- 
ceeded : 

"  You  engaged  this  man,  I  repeat,  to  kid- 
nap your  brother's  son  and  heir,  under  the 
pretence  of  bringing  him  to  see  a  pupjiet- 
show.  Now,  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  jH-oceed- 
ed  the  stranger,  "suppose  that  the  fi'iends 
of  this  child,  kidnapped  by  you,  shall  suc- 
ceed in  proving  this  fact  b}'  incontestable 
CAidence,  in  what  position  will  you  stand  be- 
fore the  world  ?  " 

"  Much  in  the  same  position  in  which  I 
stand  now.  In  Red  Hall,  as  its  rightful 
proprietor,  A\dth  my  back  probably  to  the 
fire,  as  it  is  at  present." 

It  is  undeniable,  however,  that  despite  all 
this  haughty  coolness  of  the  baronet,  the 
charge  involved  in  the  statement  advanced 
b}^  the  stranger  stunned  him  beyond  belief ; 
not  simply  because  the  other  made  it,  for 
that  was  a  mere  secondary-  consideration,  but 
because  he  took  it  for  granted  that  it  never 
could  have  been  made  unless  through  the 
medium  of  treachery  ;  and  we  all  know  that 
when  a  criminal,  whether  great  or  small,  has 
reason  to  believe  that  he  has  been  betrayed, 
his  position  is  not  enviable,  inasmuch  as  all 
sense  of  security  totters  fi'om  under  him. 
The  stranger,  as  he  proceeded,  watched  the 
features  of  his  auditor  closely,  and  could  per- 
ceive that  the  sti-uggle  then  going  on  be- 
tween the  tumult  of  ahu-m  within  and  the 
effoi-t  at  calmness  A\-ithout,  was  more  than, 
with  all  his  affected  irony  and  stoicism,  he 
could  conceal. 

"But,  perhaps,"  proceeded  the  baronet, 
"  you  who  presume  to  be  so  well  acquainted 
with  the  removiil  of  my  brother's  child,  may 
have  it  in  youi*  power  to  afford  me  some  in- 
formation on  the  disappeai-ance  of  my  own. 
I  wish  you,  however,  to  observe  this  distinc- 
tion.    As  the  history  you  have  given  hap* 


*44 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


pens  to  be  pure  fiction,  I  should  wish  the 
other  to  be  nothing  but  truth." 

"  The  loss  of  your  child  I  regret,  sir"  (Sir 
Thomas  bowed  as  before),  "but  I  am  not 
here  to  speak  of  that.  You  perceive  now 
that  we  have  got  a  clew  to  tliis  painful  mys- 
tery— to  this  great  crime.  A  portion  of  the 
veil  is  raised,  and  j'ou  may  rest  assured  that 
it  shall  not  fsiU  again  until  the  author  of  this 
injustice  shall  be  fuUy  exposed.  I  do  not 
wish  to  use  harsher  language." 

"  As  to  that,"  replied  Sir  Thomas,  "  use  no 
unnecessary'  dehcacy  on  the  subject.  Thank 
God,  the  English  language  is  a  copious  one. 
Use  it  to  its  full  extent.  You  ■nill  find  all  its 
power  necessary  to  establish  the  pretty  con- 
spiracy you  ai'e  develoijing.  Proceed,  sir,  I 
am  quite  attentive.  I  really  did  not  imagine 
I  could  have  felt  so  much  amused.  Indeed, 
I  am  very  fortunate  in  this  respect,  for  it  is 
not  eveiy  man  who  could  have  such  an  ex- 
cellent farce  enacted  at  his  0"svn  fireside." 

"All  this  langviage  is  well,  and  no  doubt 
very  witty,  Sii-  Thomas  ;  but,  beheve  me,  in 
the  end  you  will  find  this  matter  anything 
but  a  fai'ce.  Now,  su",  I  crave  your  attention 
to  a  proposal  which  I  am  about  to  make  to 
you  on  this  most  distressing  subject.  Ee- 
store  this  young  man  to  his  mother — use 
whatever  means  you  may  in  bringing  this 
about.  Let  it  apjiear,  for  instance,  that  he 
was  discovered  accidentally,  or  in  such  a  way, 
at  least,  that  yom-  name  or  agency,  either 
now  or  formerly,  may  in  no  manner  be  con- 
nected with  it.  On  these  terms  you  shall  be 
permitted  to  enjoy  the  title  and  property 
dming  your  hfe,  and  every  necessary  guar- 
antee to  that  effect  shall  be  given  you.  The 
heai-t  of  Lady  Gourlay  is  neither  in  your 
present  title  nor  your  present  property,  but 
in  her  child,  whom  that  heart  yearns  to  re- 
cover. This,  then.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  is 
the  condition  which  I  propose  ;  and,  mark 
me,  I  propose  it  on  the  alternative  of  our  us- 
ing the  means  and  materials  already  in  our 
hands  for  your  exposure  and  conviction 
should  you  reject  it." 

"  There  is  one  quality  about  you,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  baronet,  "  which  I  admire  extreme- 
ly, and  that  is  your  extraordinaiy  modesty. 
Nothing  else  could  jjromj^t  you  to  stand  up 
and  charge  a  man  of  in}-  rank  and  character, 
on  my  own  hearth,  with  the  very  re.spectable 
crime  of  kidnapping  my  brother's  child. 
Extremely  modest,  indeed  !  But  how  you 
should  come  to  be  engaged  in  this  vindic- 
tive plot,  and  how  you,  above  all  men  living, 
should  have  the  assurance  to  thus  insult  me, 
is  a  mystery  for  the  present.  Of  course,  you 
see,  you  are  aware,  that  I  treat  eveiy  word 
you  have  uttered  with  the  utmost  degi-ee  of 
contempt  and  scorn  which  the  language  is 


capable  of  expressing.  I  neither  know  noi 
care  who  may  have  prompted  you,  or  misled 
you ;  be  that,  however,  as  it  may,  I  have 
only  simply  to  state  that,  on  this  subject  I 
defy  them  as  thoroughly  as  I  despise  you. 
On  another  subject,  however,  I  experience 
toward  you  a  different  feeling,  as  I  shall 
teach  you  to  understand  before  you  leave 
the  room." 

"  This  being  yoiu'  reply,  I  must  discharge 
my  duty  fuUy.  Pray  mark  me,  now,  Sir 
Thomas.  Did  you  not  give  instmctions  to 
a  certain  man  to  take  youi*  brother's  child 
out  of  your  ^jq^/i — out  of  your  sight — out  of 
your  hearing?  And,  Sir  Thomas,  was  not 
that  man  very  liberally  rewarded  for  that  act  ? 
I  pray  you,  sir,  to  think  seriously  of  this,  as 
I  need  not  say  that  if  you  persist  in  reject- 
ing om*  conditions,  a  serious  matter  you  will 
find  it." 

Another  contemptuous  inclination,  and 
"  you  have  my  reply,  sii',"  was  all  the  baro- 
net could  trust  himself  to  say. 

"  I  now  come  to  a  transaction  of  a  more 
recent  date,  Sii'  Thomas." 

"Ah!"  said  the  baronet,  "I  thought  1 
should  have  had  the  pleasure  of  introducing 
the  discussion  of  that  transaction.  You  really 
are,  however,  quite  a  universal  genius — so 
clear  and  eloquent  upon  all  toj)ics,  that  I 
suppose  I  may  leave  it  in  your  hands." 

"  A  young  man,  named  Fen  ton,  has  sud- 
denly disappeared  fi'om  this  neighborhood.* 
"  Lideed !  Why,  I  must  siu-ely  hve  at  the 
antijDodes,  or  in  the  moon,  or  I  covdd  not 
plead  such  ignorance  of  those  great  events." 
"You  are  aware.  Sir  Thomas,  that  the 
person  passing  under  that  name  is  your 
brother's  son — the  legitimate  heir  to  the 
title  and  property  of  which  you  are  in  the 
unjust  possession." 

Another  bow.  "I  thank  you,  sir.  I 
really  am  deriving  much  informatioa  at 
your  hands." 

"Now  I  demand.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  in 
the  name  of  his  injured  mother,  what  you 
have  done  with  that  young  man  ?  " 

"It  would  be  useless  to  conceal  it,"  re- 
pHed  the  other.  "  As  you  seem  to  know 
everything,  of  course  you  know  that.  To 
your  ovm  knowledge,  therefore,  I  beg  most 
respectfully  to  refer  j'ou." 

"  I  have  only  another  observation  to  make, 
Sir  Thomas  Gom-lay.  You  remember  last 
Tuesday  night,  when  you  di'ove  at  an  un- 
seasonable hour  to  the  towTi  of ?    Now, 

sir,  I  use  your  words,  on  that  subject,  to 
your  oicm  knoivledge  I  beg  most  respectfully 
to  refer  you.     I  have  done." 

Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  when  effort  was  neces- 
sary, could  certainly  play  an  able  and  adroit 
part.    There  was  not  a  chai-ge  brought  against 


THE    BLACK    BARONET. 


445 


him  in  the  preceding  conference  that  did 
not  sink  his  heart  into  the  deepest  dismay  ; 
yet  did  he  contrive  to  throw  over  his  whole 
manner  and  bearing  such  a  veil  of  cold,  hard 
dissimulation  as  it  was  nearly  impossible  to 
penetrate.  It  is  true,  he  saw  that  he  had 
an  acute,  sensible,  independent  man  to  deal 
with,  wliose  keen  e3'e  he  felt  was  reading 
every  feature  of  his  face,  and  every  motion 
of  his  body,  and  weighing,  as  it  were,  with 
a  practised  hand,  the  fores  and  import  of 
every  word  he  uttered.  He  knew  tliat  mere- 
ly to  entertain  the  subject,  or  to  discuss  it 
at  all  with  anything  like  seriousness,  would 
probably  have  exposed  him  to  the  risk  of 
losing  liis  temper,  and  thus  placed  himself 
in  the  power  of  so  sharp  and  impurturbable 
an  antagonist.  As  the  dialogue  proceeded, 
too,  a  portion  of  his  attention  was  transferred 
from  the  topic  in  question  to  the  individual 
who  introduced  it.  His  language,  his  man- 
ner, liis  dress,  his  tont  ensemble  were  un- 
questionably not  only  those  of  an  educated 
gentleman,  but  of  a  man  who  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  life  and  society,  and  who  ap- 
peared to  speak  as  if  he  possessed  no  une- 
quivocal position  in  both. 

"  Who  the  devil,"  thought  he  to  himself 
several  times,  "can  this  person  be?  How 
iloes  he  come  to  speak  on  behalf  of  Lady 
Gourlay  ?  Surely  such  a  man  cannot  be  a 
brush  manufacturer's  clerk — and  he  has 
very  little  the  look  of  an  impostor,  too." 

AH  this,  however,  could  not  free  liim  from 
the  deep  and  deadly  conviction  that  the 
friends  of  his  brother's  widow  were  on  his 
trail,  and  that  it  required  the  whole  united 
powers  of  his  faculties  for  deception,  able 
and  manifold  as  they  were,  to  clieck  his  pur- 
suers and  throw  them  off  the  scent.  It  was 
now,  too,  that  his  indignation  against  his 
daughter  and  him  who  had  seduced  her  from 
his  i-oom  began  to  deepen  in  his  heart.  Had 
he  succeeded  in  seeing  her  united  to  Lord 
Dunroe,  previous  to  any  exposure  of  liim- 
self — supposing  even  that  discovery  was  pos- 
sible— his  end,  the  great  object  of  bis  life, 
was,  to  a  certain  extent,  gained.  Xow,  how- 
ever, that  that  hope  was  out  of  the  question, 
and  treacliery  evidently  at  work  against  him, 
he  felt  that  gloom,  disappointment,  shame, 
and  ruin  were  fast  gathering  round  him. 
He  was,  indeed,  every  way  hemmed  in  and 
hampered.  It  was  clear  that  this  stranger 
was  not  a  man  to  be  either  cajoled  or  bul- 
lied. He  read  a  spirit — a  sparkle — in  his 
eye,  which  taught  him  thattlie  brutality  in- 
flicted upon  the  unfortunate  Cracken fudge, 
and  such  others  as  he  knew  he  might  tram- 
ple on,  would  never  do  here. 

As  matters  stood,  however,  he  thought 
the  onlv  chance  of  throwing  the  strauL'er  off 


his  guard  was  to  take  him  by  a  coup  de  main. 
With  this  purpose,  lie  went  over,  and  sitting 
down  to  his  desk  before  the  drawer  that 
contained  his  pistols,  thus  placing  himself 
between  the  stranger  and  the  door,  he  turned 
upon  him  a  look  as  stern  and  determined 
as  he  could  possibly  assume  ;  and  we  must 
remark  here,  that  he  omitted  no  single  con- 
sideration connected  witli  the  subject  he 
was  about  to  introduce  that  was  calculated 
to  strengthen  his  determination. 

"Now,  sir,"  said  he,  "in  the  first  place, 
may  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  where  you 
have  concealed  my  daughter?  I  will  have 
no  equivocation,  sir,"  he  added,  raising  his 
voice — "no  evasion,  no  falsehood,  but  in 
one  plain  word,  or  in  as  many  as  may  be 
barely  necessary,  say  where  you  have  con- 
cealed Miss  Gourlay." 

"Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  replied  the  other, 
"lean  understatid  your  feelings  upon  this 
subject,  and  I  can  overlook  much  that  you 
may  say  in  connection  with  it ;  but  neither 
upon  that  nor  any  other,  can  I  permit  the 
imputation  of  falsehood  against  m3'self. 
You  are  to  observe  this,  sir,  and  to  forbear 
the  repetition  of  such  an  insult.  My  reply 
is  brief  and  candid  :  I  know  not  where  Miss 
Gourlay  is,  upon  my  honor  as  a  gentleman." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  sir,  that  you 
and  she  did  not  elope  in  the  same  coach  on 
Tuesday  night  last  ?  " 

"  I  do,  sir ;  and  I  beg  to  tell  you,  that 
such  a  suspicion  is  every  way  unworthy  of 
your  daughter." 

"  Take  care,  sir  ;  you  were  seen  together 
in  Dublin." 

"  That  is  true.  I  had  the  honor  of  trav- 
elling in  th6  same  coach  with  her  to  the 
metropolis ;  but  I  was  altogether  uncon- 
scious of  being  her  fellow-traveller  until  we 
arrived  in  Dublin.  A  few  brief  words  of 
conversation  I  had  with  her  in  the  coach 
and  nothing  more." 

"  And  you  presume  to  say  that  you  know 
not  where  she  is — that  you  are  ignorant  of 
the  place  of  her  retreat?  " 

"  Yes,  I  presume  to  say  so.  Sir  Thomas  ;  I 
have  already  pledged  my  honor  as  a  gentle- 
man to  that  effect,  and  I  shall  not  repeat  it." 

"  As  a  gentleman  ! — but  how  do  I  know 
that  you  are  a  man  of  honor  and  a  gentle- 


man 


9  " 


"Sir  Thomas,  don't  allow  your  passion 
or  prejudice  to  impose  upon  your  judgment 
and  penetration  as  a  man  of  the  world.  I 
know  you  feel  this  moment  that  you  are 
addressing  a  man  who  is  both  ;  and  your 
own  heart  tells  you  that  every  word  I  have 
uttered  respecting  Miss  Gourlay  is  true." 

"You  will  excuse  me  there,  sir,"  replied 
the  baronet.     "  Your  position  in  this  neigh- 


446 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


oorhood  is  anything  but  a  guarantee  to  the 
truth  of  what  you  say.  If  you  be  a  gentle- 
man— a  man  of  honor,  "why  Hve  here,  incog- 
nito, afi'aid  to  declare  your  name,  or  your 
rank,  if  you  have  any  ? — why  lie  perdu,  like 
a  man  under  disgrace,  or  who  had  fled  from 
justice  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  I  beg  you  to  rest  satisfied 
that  I  am  not  under  disgrace,  and  that  I  have 
motives  for  concealing  my  name  that  are  dis- 
interested, and  even  honorable  to  myself,  if 
they  were  known." 

"  Pray,  will  you  answer  me  another  ques- 
tion— Do  you  haiDpen  to  know  a  firm  in  Lon- 
don named  Grinwell  and  Co.  ?  they  are  tooth- 
brush manufacturers  ?  Now,  mark  my  words 
well — I  say  Grinwell  and  Co.,  tooth-binish 
manufacturers." 

*'  I  have  until  this  moment  never  heard  of 
Grinwell  and  Co.,  tooth-brush  manufac- 
turers." 

"Now,  sir,"  repHed  Sir  Thomas,  "all  this 
may  be  very  well  and  very  true  ;  but  there  is 
one  fact  that  you  can  neither  deny  nor  dis- 
pute. You  have  been  paying  your  addresses 
clandestinely  to  my  daughter,  and  there  is  a 
mutual  attachment  between  you." 

"  I  love  your  daughter— I  will  not  deny  it." 

"  She  returns  your  affections  ?  " 

"I  cannot  reply  to  anything  invohdng 
Miss  Gourlay's  opinions,  who  is  not  here  to 
explain  them  ;  nor  is  it  generous  in  you  to 
force  me  into  the  presumptuous  task  of  in- 
terpreting her  sentiments  on  such  a  subject." 

"The  fact,  however,  is  this.  I  have  for 
some  years  entertained  other  and  different 
views  with  respect  to  her  settlement  in  life. 
You  may  be  a  gentleman,  or  you  may  be  an 
impostor  ;  but  one  thing  is  certain,  you  have 
taught  her  to  contravene  my  wishes — to  de- 
spise the  honors  to  which  a  dutiful  obedience 
to  them  would  exalt  her — to  spurn  my  af- 
fection, and  to  tramj)le  on  my  authority. 
Now,  sir,  listen  to  me.  Renounce  her — give 
up  all  claims  to  her — mthdraw  every  pre- 
tension, now  and  forever ;  or,  by  the  living 
God  !  you  shall  never  carry  your  hfe  out  of 
this  room.  Sooner  than  have  the  noble  de- 
sign which  I  proposed  for  her  frustrated  ; 
sooner  than  have  the  projects  of  my  whole 
hfe  for  her  honorable  exaltation  ruined,  I 
could  bear  to  die  the  death  of  a  common 
felon.  Here,  sii',  is  a  proposition  that  ad- 
mits of  only  the  one  fatfd  and  deadly  al- 
ternative. You  see  these  pistols  ;  they  are 
heavily  loaded  ;  and  you  know  my  pui-pose  ; 
— it  is  the  purpose,  let  me  tell  you,  of  a  re- 
solved and  desperate  man." 

"  I  know  not  how  to  account  for  this  vio- 
lence. Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  replied  the 
stranger  with  singular  coolness  ;  "all  I  can 
Bay  is,  that  on  me  it  is  thrown  away." 


"  Refuse  the  compliance  with  the  prop* 
osition  I  have  made,  and  by  heavens  you 
have  looked  upon  your  last  sun.  The  pistols, 
sir,  are  cocked  ;  if  one  fails,  the  other  won't." 

"This  outrage.  Sir  Thomas,  upon  a  stran- 
ger, in  your  own  house,  under  the  protection 
of  your  own  roof,  is  as  monstrous  as  it  is 
cowardly." 

"My  roof,  sir,  shall  never  afibrd  protection 
to  a  villain,"  said  the  baronet,  in  a  loud  and 
furious  voice.  "  Renounce  my  daughter,  and 
that  quickly.  No,  sir,  this  roof  wiU  afford 
you  no  protection." 

"  Well,  sii-,  I  cannot  help  that,"  replied  the 
stranger,  deliberately  taking  out  of  his 
breast,  where  they  were  covered  by  an  out- 
side coat,  a  case  of  excellent  pistols,  which 
he  instantly  cocked,  and  held  ready  for 
action :  "If  your  roof  won't,  these  good 
friends  will.  And  now,  Sir  Thomas,  hear 
me  ;  lay  aside  your  idle  weapons,  which, 
were  I  even  unarmed,  I  would  disregai'd  as 
much  as  I  do  this  moment.  Our  interview 
is  now  closed  ;  but  before  I  go,  let  me  en- 
treat you  to  reflect  upon  the  conditions  I 
have  offered  you  ;  reflect  upon  them  deeply 
• — yes,  and  accejot  them,  otherwise  you  will 
involve  yourself  in  all  the  consequences  of  a 
guilty  but  unsuccessful  ambition — in  con- 
tempt— infamy — and  ruin." 

The  baronet's  face  became  exceedingly 
blank  at  the  exhibition  of  the  fire-arms. 
Pistol  for  pistol  had  been  utterly  out  of  the 
range  of  his  calculations.  He  looked  upon 
the  stranger  with  astonishment,  not  un- 
mingled  with  a  considerable  portion  of  that 
wholesome  feehng  which  begets  self-preser- 
vation. In  fact,  he  was  struck  dumb,  and 
uttered  not  a  syllable  ;  and  as  the  stranger 
made  his  parting  bow,  the  other  could  only 
stai'e  at  him  as  if  he  had  seen  an  apparition. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

Lucy  at  Summerfield  Cottage. 

On  his  way  to  the  inn,  the  stranger  could 
not  avoid  admiring  the  excellent  sense  and 
prudence  displayed  by  Lucy  Gourlay,  in  the 
brief  dialogue  which  we  have  ah-eady  detailed 
to  ovir  readers.  He  felt  clearly,  that  if  he 
had  followed  up  his  natural  impulse  to  as- 
certain the  place  of  her  retreat,  he  would 
have  placed  himself  in  the  very  position 
which,  knowing  her  father  as  she  did,  she 
had  so  correctly  anticipated.  In  the  mean- 
time, now  that  the  difficulty  in  this  respect, 
which  she  had  apprehended,  was  over,  his 
anxiety  to  know  her  present  residence  re- 
turned upon  him  with  full  force.     Not  that 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


447 


he  thought  it  consistent  with  delicacy  to  in- 
trude himself  upon  her  presence,  without 
first  obtaining  her  permission  to  that  effect. 
He  was  well  and  painfully  aware  that  a 
lying  report  of  their  elopement  had  gone 
abroad,  but  as  he  did  not  then  know  that  this 
calumny  had  been  principally  circulated  by 
unfortunate  Crackenfudge,  who,  however, 
was  the  dupe  of  Dandy  Dulcimer,  and  con- 
sequently took  the  fact  for  granted. 

Lucy,  however,  to  whom  we  must  now 
return,  on  arri\ing  at  the  neat  cottage 
already  alluded  to,  occasioned  no  small  sur- 
prise to  its  proprietor.-  The  family,  when 
the  driver  knocked,  were  all  asleep,  or  at 
least  had  not  arisen,  and  on  the  door  being 
opened  by  a  broad-faced,  good-humored 
looking  servant,  who  was  desired  to  go  to  a 
lady  in  the  chaise,  the  woman,  after  rubbing 
her  eyes  and  yawning,  looked  about  her  as 
if  she  were  in  a  dream,  exclaiming,  "  Lord 
bless  us !  and  divil  a  sowl  o'  them  out  o'  the 
blankets  yet ! " 

"  You're  nearly  asleep,"  said  the  driver  ; 
"  but  I'll  hould  a  testher  that  a  tight  crapper 
would  soon  brighten  your  eye.  Come, 
come,"  he  added,  as  she  yawned  again, 
"  shut  your  pittaty  trap,  and  go  to  the  young 
lady  in  the  chaise." 

The  woman  settled  her  cap,  which  was 
awry,  upon  her  head,  by  plucking  it  quickly 
over  to  the  opposite  side,  and  hastily  tying 
the  strings  of  her  apron,  so  as  to  give  herself 
something  of  a  tidy  look,  she  proceeded, 
barefooted,  but  in  slippers,  to  the  chaise. 

"Will  you  have  the  kindness,"  said  Lucy, 
in  a  very  sweet  voice,  "  to  say  to  !Mrs.  Norton 
that  a  young  friend  of  hers  wishes  to  see 
her." 

"  And  teU  her  to  skij?,"  added  Alley 
Mahon,  "and  not  keep  us  here  all  the 
blessed  mornin'." 

"  IVIrs.  Norton  !  "  exclaimed  the  woman  ; 
"  I  don't  know  any  sich  parson  as  that. 
Miss." 

"  Why,"  said  Lucy,  putting  her  head  out 
of  the  chaise,  and  re-examining  the  cottage, 
"  surely  this  is  where  my  friend  ]\L:s.  Norton 
did  live,  certainly.  She  must  have  changed 
her  residence,  Alley.  This  is  most  un- 
fortunate !  What  are  we  to  do  ?  I  know 
not  where  to  go." 

"WTiisht!  IMiss,"  said  ^Vlley,  "we'll  put 
her  through  her  catechiz  again.  Come  here, 
my  good  woman  ;  come  fomd  ;  don't  be 
ashamed  or  afeard  in  the  presence  of  ladies. 
Who  does  hve  here  ?  " 

"]\L:.  Mainwarin',"  repHed  the  servant, 
omitting  the  "  IMiss,"  not-withstanding  that 
Alley  had  put  in  her  claim  for  it  by  using  the 
plural  number. 

"  This  is  distressing — most  unfortunate  !  " 


exclaimed  Lucy  ;  "  how  long  has  this  gentle* 
man — IVIr.  — Mr. " 

"  Mainwarin',  Miss,"  added  the  woman, 
respectfully. 

"She's  a  stupid  lookin'  sthreel,  at  all 
events,"  said  Alley,  half  to  herself  and  half  to 
her  mistress. 

"Yes,  Mainwaring,"  continued  Lucy; 
"  how  long  has  he  been  living  here  ?  " 

"  Troth,  and  that's  more  than  I  can  tell 
you.  Miss,"  replied  the  woman;  "I'm  from 
the  county  Wexford  myself,  and  isn't  more 
than  a  month  here." 

Whilst  this  Uttle  dialogue  went  on,  or 
rather,  we  should  say,  after  it  was  concluded, 
a  tapping  was  heard  at  one  of  the  windows, 
and  a  signal  given  with  the  finger  for  the 
servant  to  return  to  the  house.  She  did  so  ; 
but  soon  presented  herself  a  second  time  at 
the  chaise  door  with  more  agreeable  inteUi- 
gence. 

"  You're  right,  IMiss,"  said  she  ;  "  the  mis- 
tress desired  me  to  ask  you  in  ;  she  seen  you 
from  the  windy,  and  desired  me  to  bring 
your  things  too  ;  you're  to  come  in,  then, 
]\Ess,  you,  an'  the  sarvint  that's  along  wid 
you." 

On  entering,  an  intelligent,  respectable- 
looking  female,  of  lady-Hke  manners,  shook 
hands  with  and  even  kissed  Lucy,  who  em- 
braced her  with  much  aflfection. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Norton,"  she  said.  "  how 
much  surprised  you  must  feel  at  this  abrupt 
and  unseasonable  visit." 

"  How  much  dehghted,  you  mean,  my 
dear  iMiss  Gourlay  ;  and  if  I  am  surprised, 
I  assure  you  the  surprise  is  an  agreeable 
one." 

"  But,"  said  the  innocent  gifl,  "  your  ser- 
vant told  me  that  you  did  not  hve  here,  and 
I  felt  so  much  distressed  !  " 

"  Well,"  replied  IMrs.  Norton,  "  she  was 
right,  in  one  sense :  if  Mrs.  Norton  that  teas 
does  not  hve  here,  Mrs.  Mainwaring  that  is 
certainly  does — and  feels  both  proud  and 
flattered  at  the  honor  IMiss  Gourlay  does  her 
humble  residence." 

"  How  is  this  ?  "  said  Lucy,  smiling  ;  "  you 
have  then " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  have  changed  my  condi- 
tion, as  the  phrase  goes  ;  but  neither  my 
heart  nor  my  affections  to  you,  !Mis3  Gour- 
lay. Pray  sit  down  on  this  sofa.  Youi 
maid,  I  presume,  !Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lucy  ;  "  and  a  faithful  crea- 
ture has  she  proved  to  me,  Mrs.   Nor , 

but  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  deiir  madam ; 
how  am  I — oh,  yes,  ^Ii-s.  Mainwaring ! " 

"  Nancy,"  said  the  latter,  "  take  this  young 
woman  with  you,  and  make  her  comfortable. 
You  seem  exhausted,  IMiss  Gourlay  ;  shall  ] 
get  some  tea  ?  " 


448 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJST'S  WORKS. 


"  Thank  you,    Mrs.  Nor Mainwaring, 

no  ;  we  have  had  a  hasty  cup  of  tea  in  Dub- 
lin. But  if  it  will  not  be  troublesome,  I 
should  like  to  go  to  bed  for  a  time." 

Mi's.  Mainwaiing  flew  out  of  the  room, 
and  called  Nancy  Gallaher.  "  Nancy,  pre- 
pare a  bed  immediately  for  this  lady  ;  her 
maid,  too,  will  probably  require  rest.  Pre- 
pare a  bed  for  both." 

She  was  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  room 
as  she  spoke  ;  then  returning  with  a  bunch 
of  keys  dangling  from  her  finger,  she  glanc- 
ed at  INIiss  Gourlay  with  that  shght  but  deli- 
cate and  considerate  curiosity  which  arises 
only  from  a  friendly  warmth  of  feeling — but 
said  nothing. 

•*  My  dear  ]\Irs.  Mainwaring,"  said  Lucy, 
who  understood  her  look,  "  I  feel  that  I  have 
acted  very  wrong.  I  have  fled  fi-om  my 
father's  house,  and  I  have  taken  refuge  with 
you.  I  am  at  jwesent  confused  and  exhaust- 
ed, but  when  I  get  some  rest,  I  wiU  give 
you  an  explanation.  At  present,  it  is  sufli- 
cient  to  say  that  papa  has  taken  my  mar- 
riage with  that  odious  Lord  Dunroe  so 
strongly  into  his  head,  that  nothing  short  of 
my  consent  Mill  satisfy  him.  I  know  he 
loves  me,  and  thinks  that  rank  and  honor, 
because  they  gratify  his  ambition,  will  make 
me  happy.  I  know  that  that  ambition  is  not 
at  all  personal  to  himself,  but  indulged  in  and 
nurtured  on  my  account,  and  for  my  advance- 
ment in  life.     How  then  can  I  blame  him  ?  " 

"Well,  my  child,  no  more  of  that  at  pres- 
ent ;  you  want  rest." 

"  Yes,  IVIrs.  Mainwaring,  I  do  ;  but  I  am 
very  wretched  and  unhappy.  Alas!  you 
know  not,  my  dear  fi'iend,  the  dehght  which 
I  have  always  experienced  in  obeying  papa 
in  everv'thing,  with  the  exception  of  this 
hateful  union  ;  and  now  I  feel  something 
hke  remorse  at  having  abandoned  him." 

She  then  gave  a  brief  account  to  her  kind- 
hearted  friend  of  her  journey  to  Dublin  by 
the  "  Fly,"  in  the  first  instance,  suppressing 
one  or  two  incidents  ;  and  of  her  second  to 
Mrs.  Mainwaring's,  who,  after  hearing  that 
she  had  not  slept  at  all  during  the  night, 
would  permit  no  further  conversation  on 
that  or  any  other  subject,  bvit  hurried  her  to 
bed,  she  herself  acting  as  her  attendant. 
Having  seen  her  comfortably  settled,  and 
carefully  tucked  her  up  with  her  own  hands, 
she  kissed  the  fair  giii,  exclaiming,  "  Sleep, 
my  love  ;  and  may  God  bless  and  protect 
you  from  evil  and  unhappiness,  as  I  feel  cer- 
tain He  will,  because  you  deserve  it." 

She  then  left  her  to  repose,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  Lucy  was  fust  asleep. 

Whilst  this  little  dialogue  between  Lucy 
and  Mrs.  Mainwaring  was  proceeding  in  the 
parlor  of  Suninierficld  cottage,  another  was 


running  parallel  with  it  between  the  two 
servants  in  the  kitchen. 

"  God  bless  me,"  said  Nancy  Gallaher,  ad- 
dressing Alley,  "  you  look  shockin'  bad  af- 
ther  so  early  a  journey  !  I'll  get  you  a  cup 
o'  tay,  to  put  a  bloom  in  your  cheek." 

"  Thank  you,  kindly,  ma'am,"  repHed 
Alley,  with  a  toss  of  her  head  which  imphed 
anything  but  gratitude  for  this  allusion  to 
her  complexion :  "a  good  sleep,  ma'am,  wiU 
bring  back  the  bloom — and  that's  aisy  done, 
ma'am,  to  any  one  who  has  youth  on  their 
side.  The  color  will  come  and  go  then,  but 
let  a  wrinkle  alone  for  keej^in'  its  ground." 

This  was  accompanied  by  a  significant 
glance  at  Nancy's  face,  on  which  were  legi- 
ble some  rather  unequivocal  traces  of  that 
description.  Honest  Nancy,  however,  al- 
though she  saw  the  glance,  and  understood 
the  insinuation,  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of 
either — the  fact  being  that  her  whole  spirit 
was  seized  with  an  indomitable  curiosity, 
which,  like  a  restless  famihar,  insisted  on 
being  gratified. 

In  the  case  of  those  who  undertake  jour- 
neys similar  to  that  which  Lucy  had  just  ac- 
comphshed,  there  may  be  noticed  almost  by 
every  eye  those  evidences  of  haste,  alarm, 
and  anxiety,  and  even  distress,  which  to  a 
certain  extent  at  least  tell  then*  own  tale,  and 
betray  to  the  obseiwer  that  all  can  scarcely 
be  right.  Now  Nancy  Gallaher  saw  this, 
and  having  drawn  the  established  conclusion 
that  there  must  in  some  way  be  a  lover  in 
the  case,  she  sat  down  in  form  before  the 
fortress  of  Alley  Mahon's  secret,  with  a  firm 
determination  to  make  herself  mistress  of  it, 
if  the  feat  were  at  all  practicable.  In  Alley, 
however,  she  had  an  able  general  to  compete 
with — a  general  who  resolved,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  make  a  sortie,  as  it  were,  and  attack 
Nancy  by  a  series  of  bold  and  unexpected 
manoeuvres. 

Nancy,  on  her  part,  having  felt  her  first 
error  touching  Alley's  complexion,  resolved 
instantly  to  rej^air  it  by  the  substitution  of  a 
compliment  in  its  stead. 

"  Throth,  an'  it'll  be  many  a  day  till 
there's  a  wrinkle  in  your  face,  avourneen — 
an'  now  that  I  look  at  j^ou  agin — a  pretty 
an'  a  sweet  face  it  is.  'Deed  it's  many  a  day 
since  I  seen  two  sich  faces  as  yours  and  the 
other  young  lady's ;  but  anyway,  you  had 
betther  let  me  get  you  a  comfortable  cup  o' 
tay — afther  your  long  journey.  Oh,  then, 
butr  that  beautiful  creature  has  a  sorrowful 
look,  poor  thing." 

These  words  were  accompanied  by  a  most 
insinuating  glance  of  curiosity,  mingled  up 
with  an  air  of  strong  benevolence,  to  show 
Alley  tliat  it  proceeded  only  from  the  purest 
of  good  feeling. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


440 


*  Thank  you,"  replied  Alley,  "  I  will  take  a 
cup  sure  enough.  "What  family  have  you 
here  ?  if  it's  a  fair  question." 

"  Sorra  one  Lut  ourselves,"  repHed  Nancy, 
without  making  her  much  the  wiser. 

"  "^ut,  I  mane,"  proceeded  Alley,  "  have 
you  children  ?  bekase  if  you  have  I  hate 
them." 

"Neither  chick  nor  child  there  will  be 
under  the  roof  wid  you  here,"  responded 
Nancy,  whilst  putting  the  dry  tea  into  a  tin 
tea-pot  that  had  seen  service  ;  "  there's  only 
the  three  of  us — that  is,  myself,  the  mis- 
thress,  and  the  masther — for  I  am  not  count- 
in'  a  shp  of  a  gii-1  that  comes  in  every  day  to 
do  odd  jobs,  and  some  o'  the  rough  work 
about  the  house." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose,"  said  Alley,  indifferently, 
"  the  childre's  all  married  off  ?  " 

"  There's  only  one,"  rephed  Nancy  ;  "  and 
indeed  you're  right  enough — she  is  mamed, 
and  not  long  either — and,  in  truth,  I  don't 
envy  her  the  husband  she  got.  Lord  save 
and  guard  us  !  I  know  I  wouldn't  long  keep 
my  senses  if  I  had  him." 

"  AMiy  so?  "  asked  Alley.  "  Has  he  two 
heads  upon  him  ?  " 

"  Ti'oth,  no,"  rephed  the  other  ;  "but  he's 
what  they  call  a  mad  docther,  an'  keejjs  a 
rheumatic  asylum — that  manes  a  place  where 
they  put  mad  people,  to  prevent  them  fi'om 
doin'  harm.  They  say  it  would  make  the 
hail'  stand  on  yom-  head  like  nettles  even  to  go 
into  it.  How^ever,  that's  not  what  I'm  think- 
in'  of,  but  tbat  darlin'  lookin'  creature  that's 
wid  the  misthi-ess.  The  Lord  keep  sorrow 
and  cross-fortune  from  her,  poor  thing — for 
she  looks  unhappy.  AviUish  !  ai-e  you  and 
she  related  ?  for,  as  I'm  a  sinner,  there's  a  re- 
semblance in  your  faces — and  even  in  yoiu- 
figui-es — only  you're  something  rounder  and 
fiiller  thim  she  is." 

"Isn't  she  lovely?"  returned  Alley,  mak- 
ing the  most  of  the  compliment.  "  Sure, 
wasn't  it  in  Dublin  her  health  was  drunk 
as  the  gi'eatest  toast  in  Ii'eland."  She  then 
added  after  a  pause,  "  The  Lord  knows  I 
wouldn't " 

"  Wouldn't  wlxat — avourneen  ?  " 

"J  was  just  thinkin',  that  I  wouldn't  marrj' 
a  mad  docther,  if  there  was  ne'er  another 
man  in  L-eland.  A  mad  docther !  Oh, 
beetha.  Then  will  you  let  us  know  the 
name  that's  vipon  him  ? "  she  added  in  a 
most  wheedhng  tone. 

"His  name  is  Scareman,  my  misthress 
tells  me — he's  relalecTTD'y  the  mother's  side 
to  the  Moontides  of  Ballycrazy,  in  the  bar- 
ony of  Quai'ther  Chft — an-ah,  what's  this 
yoiir  name  is,  avourneen  ?  " 

"  Alley  Mahon  I  w-as  christened,"  replied 
her  new  fiiend  ;  "  but,"  she  added,  with  an 
15 


air  of  modest  dignity  that  was  inimitable  in 
its  way — "  in  regard  of  my  place  as  maid  o* 
honor  to  Lady  Lucj',  I'm  usually  called  Mis3 
Mahon,  or  Miss  Alley.  My  mistress,  for  her 
own  sake,  in  ordher  to  keep  up  her  conse' 
quence,  you  persave,  doesn't  hke  to  hear  mc 
called  anything  else  than  either  one  ol 
t'other  of  them." 

"  And  it's  all  right,"  rephed  the  other. 
"WeU,  as  I  was  going  to  say,  that  Mi's. 
Mainwaring  is  breakin'  her  heart  about  this 
unforthunate  marriage  of  her  daughter  to 
Scareman.  It  seems — but  this  is  between 
oiirselves — it  seems,  my  deai-,  that  he's  a 
dark,  hard-hearted  scrub,  that  'id  go  to  hell 
or  farther  for  a  shilhn',  for  a  penn}-,  ay,  or 
for  a  farden.  An'  the  servant  that  was  here 
afore  me — a  clean,  good-natured  girl  she 
was,  in  throth — an'  got  maiTied  to  a  black- 
smith, at  the  cross-roads  beyant — tould  me 
that  the  scrames,  an'  yells,  an'  howlins,  and 
roarins — the  cursin'  and  blasphaymin' — an' 
the  laughin',  that  she  said  was  worse  than 
all — an'  the  rattlin'  of  chains — the  Lord  save 
us — would  make  one  think  themselves  more 
in  hell  than  in  any  place  upon  this  world. 
And  it  appears  the  villain  takes  dehght  in  it, 
an'  makes  lashins  of  money  by  the  trade." 

"The  sorra  give  him  good  of  it!"  ex- 
claimed Alley  ;  "  an'  I  can  tell  you,  it's  Lad}' 
Lucy — (divil  may  care,  thought  she — I'U 
make  a  lady  of  her  at  any  rate — this  igno- 
rant creature  doesn't  know  the  difier)  it's 
Lad}--  Lucy,  I  say,  that  wiU  be  soil"}'  to  hear 
of  this  same  marriage — for  you  must  know 
— what's  this  your  name  is  ?  " 

"Nancy  Gallaher,  dear." 

"  And  were  you  ever  married,  Nancy  ?  " 

"  If  I  wasn't  the  fau't  w'as  my  own,  ahagur  1 
but  I'll  tell  you  more  about  that  some  day. 
No,  then,  I  was  not,  thank  God  !  " 

"  Thank  God  !  Well,  throth,  it's  a  quare 
thing  to  thank  God  for  that,  at  any  rate." 
This,  of  course,  was  parenthetical.  "  AVeU, 
my  dear,"  proceeded  Alley,  "you  must  know 
that  ]\Irs.  Scareman  before  her  miu-riage — 
of  course,  she  was  then  IMiss  Norton — acted 
in  the  kippacity  of  tutherer  general  to  Lady 
Lucy,  except  durin'  three  months  that  she 
was  ill,  and  had  to  go  to  England  to  thi^ 
the  wathers." 

"  "\Miat  wathers  ?  "  asked  Nancy.  "  Haven't 
we  plenty  o'  wather,  an'  as  good  as  they 
have,  at  home  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Alley,  who  some- 
times, as  the  reader  may  have  j^erceived, 
drew  upon  an  imagination  of  no  ordinary 
fertility ;  "in  England  they  have  sjjakin' 
birds,  singiu'  trees,  and  goolden  wathei'. 
So,  as  I  was  savin',  while  she  went  to  thry 
the  goolden  wather " 

"  Troth,  if  ever  I  get  poor  health,  I'll  go 


450 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


thexe  myself,"  observed  Nancy,  with  a  gleam 
of  natiiral  humor  in  her  clear  blue  eye." 

"  WeU,  while  she  went  to  thry  this  goolden 
wather,  her  mother,  IMrs.  Norton,  came  in 
her  place  as  tutlierer  general,  an'  that's  the 
way  they  became  acquainted — Lady  Lucy 
and  her.  But,  my  dear,  I  want  to  tell  you 
a  saicret." 

We  are  of  opinion,  that  if  Nancy's  cap  had 
been  off  at  the  moment,  her  two  ears  might 
have  been  observed  to  erect  themselves  on 
each  side  of  her  head  T\ith  pm-e  and  unadul- 
terated curiosity. 

"Well,  ]\Iiss  Alley,  what  is  it,  ahagur?" 

"  Now,  you  won't  breathe  this  to  any  hu- 
man creature  ?  " 

"Is  it  me  ?  An*ah  !  little  you  know  the 
woman  you're  spakin'  to.  Divil  a  mortal 
could  beat  me  at  keepin'  a  saicret,  at  any 
rate  ;  an'  when  you  teU  me  this,  maybe  I'll 
let  you  know  one  or  two  that'll  be  worth 
hearin'." 

"Well,"  continued  Alley,  "it's  this— 
Never  call  my  mistress  Lady  Lucy,  because 
she  doesn't  like  it." 

This  was  an  apple  fi*om  the  shores  of  the 
Dead  Sea  Nancy's  face  bore  all  the  sudden 
traces  of  disappointment  and  mortification  ; 
and,  fi'om  a  principle  of  retahation,  she  re- 
solved to  give  her  companion  a  morsel  from 
the  same  fmit. 

"Now,  Nancy,"  continued  the  former, 
"  what's  this  you  have  to  tell  us  ?  " 

"  But  you  swear  not  to  breathe  it  to  man, 
woman,  or  child,  boy  or  gii'l,  rich  or  poor, 
livin'  or  dead  ?  " 

"  Sartainly  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  it's  this.  I  understand  that 
Docthor  Scareman  isn't  likely  to  have  a 
family.  Now,  ahagur,  if  you  spake,  I'm 
done,  that's  all." 

Ha\dng  been  then  called  away  to  make 
arrangements  necessaiy  to  Lucy's  comfort, 
their  dialogue  was  terminated  before  she 
could  worm  out  of  Alley  the  cause  of  her 
mistress's  visit. 

"  She's  a  cunnin'  ould  hag,"  said  the 
latter,  when  the  other  had  gone.  "I  see 
what  she  wants  to  get  out  o'  me  ;  but  it's  not 
for  nothing  Miss  Lucy  has  ti-usted  me,  an'  I'm 
not  the  gui  to  betray  her  secrets  to  them 
that  has  no  right  to  know  them." 

This,  indeed,  was  ti-ue.  Poor  Alley  Mahon, 
though  a  verj'  neat  and  handsome  girl,  and 
of  an  appearance  decidedly  respectable,  was 
nevertheless  a  good  deal  vulgai-  in  her  con- 
versation. In  lieu  of  this,  however,  not- 
withstanding a  large  stock  of  vanity,  she 
was  gifted  with  a  strong  attachment  to  her 
mistress,  and  had  exhibited  many  trjdng 
proofs  of  truthfulness  and  secrecy  under 
circumstances  where  most  femaJ^s  in  her 


condition  of  life  would  have  given  way.  At 
a  matter  of  course,  she  was  obHged  to  re- 
ceive her  master's  bribes,  otherwise  she 
would  have  been  instantly  dismissed,  as  one 
who  jjresumed  to  favor  Lucy's  interest  and 
oppose  his  owti.  Her  fertihty  of  fancy^ 
however,  joined  to  deep-rooted  affection  fbr 
his  daughter,  enabled  her  to  return  as  a  re- 
compense for  Su'  Thomas's  bribes,  that  de- 
scription of  one-sided  ti-uth  which  transfuses 
fiction  into  its  own  character  and  spuit,  just 
as  a  drop  or  two  of  any  coloiing  fluid  wiU 
tinge  a  lai*ge  poriion  of  water  with  its  own 
hue.  Her  rej^hes,  therefore,  when  sifted 
and  examined,  always  bore  in  them  a  suffi- 
cient portion  of  truth  to  enable  her,  on  the 
strong  point  of  veracity  on  which  she  boldly 
stood,  to  bear  herself  out  with  triumph ; 
owing,  indeed,  to  a  slight  dash  in  her  de- 
fence of  the  coloiing  we  have  described. 
Lucy  felt  that  the  agitation  of  mind,  or 
rather,  we  should  say,  the  agony  of  spirit 
which  she  had  been  of  late  forced  to  strug- 
gle with,  had  affected  her  health  more  than 
she  could  have  anticipated.  That  and  the 
unusual  fatigue  of  a  long  journey  in  a  night 
coach,  eked  out  by  a  jolting  drive  to  Wick- 
low  at  a  time  when  she  required  refresh- 
ment and  rest,  told  upon  her  constitution, 
although  a  natiu-ally  healthy  one.  For  the 
next  three  or  four  days  after  her  anival  at 
Summerfield  Cottage,  she  experienced  symp- 
toms of  shght  fever,  apparent^  nervous. 
Eveiy  attention  that  could  be  paid  to  her 
she  received  at  the  hands  of  ]\Ii*s.  Mainwaiing, 
and  her  owti  maid,  who  seldom  was  a  mo- 
ment fi'om  her  bedside.  Two  or  thi'ee 
times  a  day  she  was  seized  "uith  fits  of  moj)- 
ing,  diu'ing  which  she  deplored  her  melan- 
choly lot  in  hfe,  feared  she  had  offended  her 
kind  hostess  by  intniding,  without  either 
notice  or  announcement,  lapon  the  quiet  har- 
mony of  her  family,  and  begged  her  again 
and  again  to  forgive  her  ;  adding,  "  That  as 
soon  as  her  recovery  should  be  established, 
she  woidd  return  to  her  father's  house  to 
die,  she  hoped,  and  join  mamma  ;  and  this," 
she  said,  "  was  her  last  and  only  consola- 
tion." 

IVIrs.  Mainwaring  saw  at  once  that  her  com- 
plaint was  principally  on  the  nei'\'es,  and  lost 
no  time  in  asking  permission  to  call  in  medi- 
cal advice.  To  this,  Lucy,  whose  chief  ob- 
ject was  to  remain  unknowTi  and  in  secrecy 
for  the  present,  strouglj'  objected  ;  but  by 
tbe  mild  and  affectionate  remonstrances  oi 
Mrs.  Mainwaring,  as  well  as  at  the  earnest 
entreaties  of  Alley,  she  consented  to  allow  a 
physician  to  be  called  in. 

This  step  was  not  more  judicious  than 
necessary.  The  physician,  on  seeing  her,  at 
once  pronounced  the  complaint  a  nervous 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


451 


fever,  but  hoped  that  it  would  soon  }-ield  to 
proper  treatment.  He  prescribed,  and  saw 
her  every  second  day  for  a  week,  after  which 
she  gave  evident  symptoms  of  imijrovement. 
Her  constitution,  as  we  have  said,  was  good  ; 
and  nature,  in  spite  of  an  anxious  mind  and 
disagreeable  reflections,  bore  her  comjiletely 
out  of  danger. 

It  was  not  until  the  first  day  of  her  ap- 
pearance in  the  parlor  subsequent  to  her  ill- 
ness, that  she  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
Mr.  Mainwiu-ing,  of  whom  his  wife  spoke  in 
terms  of  great  tenderness  and  affection. 
She  found  him  to  be  a  gentlemanly  person 
of  great  good  sense  and  delicacy  of  feeling. 

"  I  regret,"  said  he,  after  the  usual  intro- 
duction had  taken  place,  "  to  have  been  de-. 
prived  so  long  of  kno^\ing  a  young  lady  of 
whose  goodness  and  many  admirable  quah- 
ties  I  have  heard  so  much  fi'om  the  hps  of 
Mrs.  Mainwaring.  It  is  true  I  knew  her  af- 
fectionate nature,"  he  added,  with  a  look  of 
more  than  kindness  at  his  wife,  "  and  I  al- 
lowed something  for  high  coloring  in  your 
case.  Miss  Gourlay,  as  well  as  in  others,  that 
I  could  name  ;  but  I  now  find,  that  with  all 
her  good- will,  she  sometimes  fails  to  do  jus- 
tice to  the  oiiginal." 

"  And,  my  dear  John,  did  I  not  tell  you 
so?"  replied  his  wife,  smiling  ;  "  but  if  you 
make  other  allusions,  I  am  sure  Miss  Gourlay 
can  befu:  me  out."  : 

"  She  has  more  than  borne  you  out,  my  | 
dear,"  he  replied,  purposely  misunderstand- 
ing her.      "  She  has  more  than  borne  you  i 
out  ;    for,  truth  to  tell,    you   have  in  !Miss 
Gouiiay's  case  fallen  fai-  short  of  what  I  see  ! 
she  is."  I 

"  But,  IMr.  Mainwaring,"  said  Lucy,  smil- 
ing in  her  tuni,  "  it  is  certainly  very  strange 
that  she  can  please  neither  of  us.  The  out- 
line she  gave  me  of  your  character  was  quite 
shocking.  She  said  you  were — what's  this 
you  said  of  him,  !Mi'S.  Mainwaring — oh,  it 
was  very  bad,  sh-.  I  think  we  must  deprive 
her  of  Etll  claim  to  the  chai^acter  of  an  artist. 
Do  you  know  I  was  afraid  to  meet  the  origi- 
nal, in  consequence  of  the  gloomy  colors  in 
which  she  sketched  what  she  intended,  I  sup- 
pose, should  be  the  likeness." 

"  Well,  my  dear  !Miss  Gourlay,"  obsei-ved 
^Irs.  Muinwaring,  "  now  that  I  have  failed  in 
doing  justice  to  the  portraits  of  two  of  my 
dearest  friends,  I  think  I  will  bum  my  pal- 
ette and  bi-ushes,  and  give  up  portrait  paint- 
ing in  future." 

IMr.  Mainwaring  now  rose  up  to  take  his 
usual  stroll,  but  turning  to  Lucy  before  he 
went,  he  said, 

"At  all  events,  my  dear  !Miss  Gourlay, 
what  between  her  painting  and  the  worth  of 
the   original,    permit   me   to   say   that  this  : 


house  is  your  home  just  as  long  as  you  wisL 
Consider  ^Ii's.  ^Mainwaring  and  me  as  par- 
ents to  you  ;  willing,  nay,  most  anxious,  in 
every  sense,  to  contribute  to  your  comfort 
and  happiness.  We  are  not  poor,  ^Miss 
Gourlay  ;  but.  on  the  contrarj',  both  inde-= 
pendent  and  wealthy.  You  must,  therefore, 
want  for  nothing.  I  am,  for  as  long  as  may 
be  necessaiy,  your  parent,  as  I  said,  and 
your  banker  ;  and  if  you  will  pennit  me  the 
honor,  I  would  wish  to  a<ld,  your  friend. 
'  Good-by,  my  deai-  child,  I  am  going  to  take 
my  daily  ramble  ;  but  I  am  sure  you  are  in 
I  safe  hands  when  I  leave  you  in  my  dear 
M^rtha'^.     Good-by,  my  love." 

The  amiable  man  took  his  golden-headed 
cane,  and  sauntered  out  to  amuse  himself 
among  the  fields,  occa.sionally  going  into  the 
town  of  Wicklow,  taking  a  glance  at  the  pa- 
pers in  the  hotel,  to  which  he  generally  add- 
ed a  glass  of  ale  and  a  pipe. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  left  them  that  Lu- 
cy enjoyed  an  opportunity  of  pouring  out,  at 
ftdl  length,  to  her  deUcate-minded  and  fciith- 
ful  fiiend,  the  cause  of  her  flight  from  home. 
This  narrative,  however,  was  an  honorable 
proof  of  the  considerate  forbeai*ance  she 
evinced  when  necessarily  alluding  to  the 
character  and  conduct  of  her  father.  Were 
it  not,  in  fcict,  tljat  Mrs.  ^Mainwaring  had  from 
personal  opportunity  been  enabled  to  thor- 
oughly understand  the  temper,  feehngs,  and 
piinciples  of  the  worthy  baronet,  she  would 
have  naturally  concluded  that  Lucy  was  a 
disobedient  girl,  and  her  father  a  man  who 
had  committed  no  other  error  than  that  of 
miscalculating  her  hapjiiness  from  motives  of 
excessive  affection. 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  heard  it  all  with  a  calm 
and  matronly  benignity  that  soothed  poor 
Lucy  ;  for  it  was  for  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
disclosed  the  actual  state  of  her  feelings  to  any 
one,  with  the  exception  of  her  late  mother. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Miss  Govurlay " 

"Call  me  Lucy,  !Mrs.  Miin waring,"  said 
the  affectionate  girl,  wiping  her  eyes,  for  we 
need  not  assure  our  readers  that  the  recital 
of  her  sufferings,  no  matter  how  much  soft- 
ened do%vn  or  modified,  cost  her  many  a 
bitter  tear. 

"  I  will  indeed,  my  love,  I  will,  Lucy,"  sli« 
replied,  kissing  her  cheek,  "if  it  gratifies 
you.  Wliy  should  I  not  ?  But  you  know 
the  distance  there  is  between  us." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  dear  !Mrs.  Mainwaring,  no. 
What  are  the  cold  forms  of  the  world  but 
disguises  and  masks,  under  which  the  har- 
dened and  heartless  put  themselves  in  a 
position  of  false  eminence  over  the  humble 
and  the  good.  The  good  are  all  equal  ovef 
the  earth,  no  matter  what  their  relative  sit- 
uations may  be  ;  and  on  this  account,  not* 


452 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


witlistandiiig  my  rank,  I  am  scarcely  worthy 
to  sit  at  your  feet." 

IMrs.  Main  waring,  with  a  kind  of  affection- 
ate enthusiasm,  put  her  hand  upon  the 
beautiful  giii's  hand,  and  was  atjout  to 
speak  ;  but  she  paused  for  more  than  half  a 
minute,  during  which  space  her  serene  and 
benevolent  face  assumed  an   expression  of 

{)rofound  thought  and  seriousness.  At 
ength  she  sighed  rather  deeply,  and  said, 

"  My  deal-  Lucy,  it  is  too  bad  that  the 
happiness  of  such  a  girl  as  you  should  be 
wrecked  ;  but,  worst  of  all,  that  it  should  be 
wrecked  upon  a  most  unprincipled  profligate. 
Tou  know  the  humbleness  of  my  bii'th  ;  the 
daughter  of  a  decent  farmer,  wL  felt  it  a 
duty  to  give  his  children  the  only  boon,  ex- 
cept his  blessing,  that  he  had  to  bestow  upon 
them — a  good  education.  Well,  my  dear 
child,  I  beg  that  you  ■^ill  not  be  dishearten- 
ed, nor  suffer  your  spmts  to  di'oop.  You 
will  look  sui-prised  when  I  tell  you  that  I 
think  it  more  than  probable,  if  I  am  capable 
of  judging  your  father's  heart  aright,  that  I 
shall  be  able  b}'  a  short  interview  with  him 
to  change  the  whole  cuiTent  of  his  ambition, 
and  to  biing  about  such  a  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing against  Lord  Dunroe,  as  may  prevent 
him  fi'om  consenting  to  youi*  union  with  that 
nobleman  under  any  cu'cumstances.  Nay, 
not  to  stop  here  ;  but  that  I  shall  cause  him 
to  look  ujDon  the  breaking  up  of  this  con- 
temjDlated  mamage  as  one  of  the  greatest 
blessings  that  could  befall  his  family." 

"  Such  an  event  might  be  possible,"  rephed 
Lucy,  "  were  I  not  unfortimately  satisfied 
that  papa  is  already  aware  of  Dunroe's  loose 
habits  of  hfe,  which  he  views  ordy  as  the 
giddiness  of  a  young  and  buoyant  spirit  that 
marriage  would  reform.  He  says  Duni'oe  is 
only  sowing  his  wild  oats,  as,  with  false  in- 
dulgence, he  is  pleased  to  term  it.  "Under 
these  cii'cumstances,  then,  I  fear  he  would 
meet  you  with  the  same  arguments,  and  as 
they  satisfy  himseK  so  you  will  find  him 
cling  to  the  dangerous  theory  they  estab- 
hsh." 

"  But,  Lucy,  my  dear  child,  you  are  quite 
mistaken  in  your  estimate  of  the  arguments 
which  I  shoiild  use,  because  you  neither  can 
know  nor  suspect  their  import.  They  apply 
not  at  all  to  Lord  Dunroe's  morals,  I  assure 
you.  It  is  enough  to  say,  at  present,  that  I 
am  not  at  liberty  to  disclose  them  ;  and,  in- 
deed, I  never  intended  to  do  so  ;  but  as  a 
knowledge  of  the  secret  I  possess  may  not 
only  promote  your  happiness,  but  reheve 
you  from  the  persecution  and  misery  you 
endure  on  this  young  nobleman's  account,  I 
thmk  it  becomes  my  duty  to  have  an  inter- 
view Tvith  your  father  on  the  subject." 

"  Before  you  do  so,  my  dear  madam,"  re- 


plied Lucy,  "it  is  necessary  that  I  should 
put  you  in  possession  of — of — "  there  was 
here  a  hesitation,  and  a  blush,  and  a  confu- 
sion of  manner,  that  made  IVIi's.  Main  waring 
look  at  her  with  some  attention. 

"Take  care,  Lucy,"  she  said  smiling  ;  "a 
previous  engagement,  I'll  warrant  me.  I 
see  you  blush." 

"  But  not  for  its  object,  Mrs.  IMainwaring," 
she  rephed.  "However,  you  are  right ;  and 
paj^a  is  aware  of  it." 

"  I  see,  Lucy ;  and  on  that  account  he 
wishes  to  hui'iy  on  this  hated  marriage  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"  And  what  peculiar  dislike  has  papa 
against  the  object  of  your  choice  ? — are  you 
aware  ?  " 

"  The  same  he  would  entertain  against  any 
choice  but  his  own — his  gi-eat  ambition. 
The  toil  and  labor  of  all  his  thoughts,  hopes, 
and  calcvdations,  is  to  see  me  a  countess  before 
he  dies.  I  know  not  whether  to  consider 
this  as  affection  moved  by  the  ambition  oi 
life,  or  ambition  stimulated  by  affection." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Lucy,  I  fear  very  much  that 
if  youi'  papa's  heart  were  analyzed  it  would 
be  found  that  he  is  more  anxious  to  gi'atify 
his  owTi  ambition  than  to  promote  your  hap- 
piness, and  that,  consequently,  his  interest 
in  the  matter  altogether  absorbs  yours.  But 
we  need  not  discuss  this  now.  You  say  ha 
is  awai-e  of  yoiu-  attachment  ?  " 

"  He  is  ;  I  myself  confessed  it  to  him." 

"Is  he  aware  of  the  name  and  condition  in 
life  of  your  lover  ?  " 

"  Alas,  no  !  IMi's.  Main  waring.  He  has  seen 
him,  but  that  is  all.  He  expressed,  how- 
ever, a  fierce  and  ungovernable  cuiiosity  to 
know  who  and  what  he  is  ;  but,  vmfortunate- 
ly,  my  lover,  as  you  call  him,  is  so  pecuharly 
circumstanced,  that  I  could  not  disclose 
either  the  one  or  the  other." 

"  But,  my  dear  Lucy,  is  not  this  secrecy, 
this  clandestime  conduct,  on  the  part  of  your 
lover,  wrong?  Ought  you,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  entertain  an  attachment  for  any 
jDcrson  who  feels  either  afraid  or  ashamed  to 
avow  his  name  and  rank?  Paixlon  me,  my 
love." 

Lucy  rose  up,  and  IVIrs.  Mainwaiing  felt 
somewhat  alarmed  at  the  length  she  had 
gone,  especially  on  obserring  that  the  lovely 
girl's  face  and  neck  were  oversjDread  with  a 
deep  and  burning  blush. 

"  Pardon  you,  my  dear  madam  !  Is  it  for 
uttering  sentiments  worthy  of  the  purest 
friendship  and  affection,  and  such  only  as  I 
would  expect  to  proceed  fr-om  your  hps? 
But  it  is  necessarj'  to  state,  in  my  own  de- 
fence, that  beloved  mamma  was  aware  of, 
and  sanctioned  our  attachment.  A  mystery 
there  is,  unquestionably,   about  my  lover; 


THE  BLACK  BAlZONET. 


453 


but  it  is  one  with  which  ^he  was  acquainted, 
for  she  told  me  so.  It  is  not,  however,  upon 
this  mysteiy  or  that  mystery — but  upon  the 
truth,  honor,  dehcacy,  disinterestediiess,  of 
him  to  whom  I  have  yielded  my  heart,  that  I 
speak.  In  ti-ue,  pure,  and  exalted  love,  my 
dear  iMrs.  Mainwaiing,  there  is  an  intuition 
of  the  heart  which  enables  the  soul  to  see 
into  and  comprehend  its  object,  with  a  com- 
pleteness of  success  as  certain  and  effectual 
as  the  mission  of  an  angel.  "Wlien  such  love 
exists — and  such  only — all  is  soon  known — 
the  spirit  is  satisfied  ;  and,  except  those  les- 
sons of  happiness  and  delight  that  are  before 
it,  the  heart,  on  that  subject,  has  nothing 
more  to  learn.  This,  then,  is  my  reply  ; 
and  as  for  the  mystery- 1  speak  of,  every  day 
is  bringing  us  nearer  and  nearer  to  its  dis- 
closvu'e,  and  the  knowledge  of  his  worth." 

Mi's.  !Mainwaring  looked  on  with  wonder. 
Lucy's  beauty  seemed  to  brighten,  as  it  were 
with  a  divine  light,  as  she  uttered  these  glow- 
ing words.  In  fact,  she  appeared  to  undergo 
a  trausfigin-ation  fi-om  the  mortal  state  to 
the  angelic,  and  exemphfied,  in  her  own  per- 
son— now  radiant  with  the  highest  and  holi- 
est enthusiasm  of  love — all  that  di\'ine  purity, 
all  that  noble  pride  and  heroic  devotedness 
of  heart,  by  which  it  is  actuated  and  inspired. 
Her  eyes,  as  she  proceeded,  filled  ^ith  tears, 
and  on  concluding,  she  thi'ew  herself,  weep- 
ing, into  her  friend's  anns,  exclaiming, 

"Alas  !  my  dear,  dear  ^Lrs.  Main  waring,  I 
am  not  worthy  of  him." 

^Irs.  ^Mainwaiing  kissed,  and  cherished, 
and  soothed  her,  and  in  a  short  time  she  re- 
covered herself,  and  resumed  an  aspect  of 
her  usual  calm,  dignified,  yet  graceful 
beauty. 

"  AJas ! "  thought  her  friend,  as  she  looked 
on  her  with  mingled  compassion  and  admi- 
ration, "this  love  is  either  for  happiness  or 
death.  I  now  see,  after  all,  that  there  is 
much  of  the  father's  character  stamped  into 
her  spirit,  and  that  the  same  energy  with 
which  he  ])ui*sues  ambition  actuates  his 
daughter  in  love.  Each  will  have  its  object, 
or  die." 

"  Well,  my  love,"  she  excliximed  aloud,  "  I 
am  som*  Ave  permitted  our  conversation  to 
take  such  a  tura,  or  to  cany  us  so  far.  You 
are,  I  fear,  not  yet  strong  enough  for  any- 
thing calculated  to  affect  or  agitate  you." 

"The  introduction  of  it  was  necessary,  my 
dear  madam,"  replied  Lucy;  "for  I  need 
not  say  that  it  was  my  object  to  mention  the 
subject  of  onr  attachment  to  you  before  the 
close  of  ovu:  conversation." 

"  "Well,  at  all  events,"  repHed  IMrs.  !Main- 
waring,  "we  shall  go  and  have  a  walk 
through  the  fields.  The  sun  is  bright  and 
warm  ;  the  Uttle  bum  below,  and  the  thou- 


sand larks  above,  antH  give  us  their  melody ; 
and  Cracton's  park — our  own  little  three- 
cornered  paddock — will  present  us  with  one 
of  the  sweetest  oljjeets  in  the  humble  land- 
scape— a  green  field  almost  white  with  dai» 
sies — pardon  the  little  blunder,  Lucy — thus 
constituting  it  a  poem  for  the  heart,  wTitten 
by  the  hand  of  nature  herself." 

Lucy,  who  enjoyed  natural  scenery  with 
the  high  enthusiasm  that  was  pecvdiar  to  her 
character,  was  delighted  at  the  proposal,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  both  the  ladies  sauntered 
out  tkrough  the  orchai-d,  which  was  now 
white  and  fragi-ant  with  blossoms. 

As  they  went  along,  !Mrs.  ]\Iainwaring  be- 
gan to  mention  some  particulars  of  her  mar- 
riage ;  a  circumstance  to  which,  owing  to 
Lucy's  ilhiess,  she  had  not  until  then  had  an 
opjiortiuiity  of  adverting. 

"  The  truth  is,  nu'  dear  Luc}-,"  she  pro- 
ceeded, "  I  am  naturally  averse  to  lead  what 
is  termed  a  solitary  life  in  the  world.  I  wish 
to  have  a  fiiend  on  whom  I  can  occasionally 
rest,  as  upon  a  support.  You  know  that  I 
kept  a  boarding-school  in  the  metrojiohs  for 
many  years  after  my  return  fi-om  the  Conti- 
nent. That  I  was  successful  and  saved  some 
money  are  facts  which,  perhaps,  you  don't 
know.  Loss  of  health,  however,  caused  me 
to  resign  the  establishment  to  Emily,  your 
fonner  governess  ;  but,  unfortunately,  her 
health,  like  mine,  gave  way  under  the  sever- 
ity of  its  duties.  She  accordingly  disposed 
of  it,  and  accepted  the  important  task  of 
superintending  the  general  course  of  j'our 
education,  aided  by  aU  the  necessary  and 
usual  masters.  To  this,  as  you  are  aware, 
she  applied  herself  with  an  assiduity  that 
was  beyond  her  yet  infirm  state  of  health. 
She  went  to  Cheltenham,  where  she  recov- 
ered strength,  and  I  undertook  her  duties 
until  her  return.  I  then  sought  out  for 
some  quiet,  pretty,  secluded  spot,  where  I 
could,  upon  the  fruits  of  my  o\n\  industry, 
enjoy  innocently  and  peacefully  the  decline 
of,  I  ti-ust,  a  not  imuseful  life.  Fortunately, 
I  found  our  present  abode,  which  I  piu-chased, 
and  which  has  been  occasionally  honored  by 
your  i^resence,  as  well  as  by  that  of  your 
beloved  mamma.  Sevei-al  years  passed,  and 
the  Asidow  was  not  unhappy  ;  for  my  daugh- 
ter, at  my  sohcitation,  gave  up  her  profes- 
sion as  a  goveiTiess,  and  came  to  reside  with 
me.  In  the  meantime,  we  happened  to  meet 
at  the  same  pai-ty  two  individuals — gentle- 
men— who  had  subsequently  the  honor  of 
ean'j'ing  off  the  mother  and  daughter  with 
flying  colors.  The  one  was  Dr.  Scareman. 
to  whom  Emily— my  dear,  unfortunrrtf'girl. 
had  the  misfortune  to  get  mamed.  He  was 
a  chirk-faced,  but  handsome  man — that  is  to 
say,  he  could  bear  a  fii'st  glance  or  two,  but 


454 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


was  incapable  of  standing  anything  like  a 
close  scrutiny.  He  passed  as  a  physician  in 
good  practice,  but  as  the  maniage  was — 
what  no  marriage  ought  to  be — a  hasty  one 
— we  did  not  discover,  until  too  late,  that  the 
practice  he  boasted  of  consisted  principally 
m  the  management  of  a  naad-house.  He  is, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  both  cruel  and  penurious 
— at  once  a  miser  and  a  tyrant — and  if  his 
conduct  to  my  child  is  not  kinder  and  more 
generous,  I  shall  feel  it  my  duty  to  bring 
her  home  to  myself,  where,  at  all  events,  she 
can  calculate  upon  peace  and  affection.  The 
doctor  saw  that  Emily  was  beautiful — knew 
that  she  had  money — and  accordingly  hui'- 
ried  on  the  ceremony. 

"  Such  is  the  history  of  poor  Emily's  mar- 
riage.    Now  for  my  own. 

"  IVIi'.  IMainwai-ing  was,  Hke  myself,  a  per- 
son who  had  been  engaged  in  educating  the 
young.  For  many  years  he  had  conducted, 
with  gi-eat  success,  a  boarding-school  that 
soon  became  eminent  for  the  number  of 
brilliant  and  accomjoUshed  men  whom  it  sent 
into  society  and  the  institutions  of  the  coun- 
try. Like  me,  he  had  saved  money — like  me 
he  lost  his  health,  and  hke  me  his  destiny 
conducted  him  to  this  neighborhood.  We 
met  several  times,  and  looked  at  each  other 
with  a  good  deal  of  curiosity  ;  •  he  anxious 
to  know  what  kind  of  animal  an  old  school- 
mistress was,  and  I  to  ascertain  with  what 
tribe  an  old  school-master  should  be  classed. 
There  was  something  odd,  if  not  comical,  in 
this  scmtiny  ;  and  the  best  of  it  all  was,  that 
the  more  closely  we  inspected  and  investi- 
gated, the  more  accm-ately  did  we  discover 
that  we  were  counterparts — as  exact  as  the 
two  sides  of  a  tally,  or  the  teeth  of  a  rat-trap 
— with  pardon  to  dear  ]\Ir.  Main  waring  for 
the  nasty  comparison,  whatever  may  have 
put  it  into  my  head.  He,  in  fact,  was  an 
old  school-master  and  a  widower ;  I  an 
old  school-mistress  and  a  widow  ;  he  wanted 
a  fi'iend  and  companion,  so  did  I.  Each 
finding  that  the  other  led  a  solitary  life,  and 
only  required  that  solace  and  agreeable  so- 
ciety, which  a  kind  and  rational  companion 
can  most  assuredly  bestow,  resolved  to  take 
the  other,  as  the  good  old  phrase  goes,  for 
better  for  worse  ;  and  accordingly  here  we 
are,  thank  God,  with  no  care  but  that  Avhicli 
proceeds  fi'om  the  unfortunate  mistake  which 
poor  Emily  made  in  her  marriage.  The  sj^irit 
that  cemented  our  hearts  was  friendship,  not 
love  ;  bvit  the  holiness  of  marriage  has  con- 
secrated that  friendship  into  affection,  which 
the  sweet  intercourse  of  domestic  life  has 
softened  into  something  still  more  agreeable 
and  tender.  My  girl's  marriage,  my  dear 
Lucy,  is  the  only  painful  thought  that  throws 
its  shadow  across  our  hap2)ines8." 


"Poor  Emily,"  sighed  Lucy,  "how  Httl« 
did  that  calm,  sweet-tempered,  and  patient 
gii'l  deseiTC  to  meet  such  a  husband.  But 
perhaj^s  he  may  yet  improve.  If  gentleness 
and  affection  can  soften  a  heart  by  time  and 
perseverance,  his  may  yet  become  human." 

Such  was  the  simple  history  of  this  ami- 
able couple,  who,  although  enjoying  as  much 
haj^piness  as  is  usually  allotted  to  man  and 
woman,  were  not,  however,  free  from  those 
characteristic  traces  that  enabled  their  fiiends 
to  recog-nize  without  much  difficulty  the  pre- 
vious habits  of  their  lives. 

"Mrs.  Mainwaring,"  said  Lucy,  "I  must 
write  to  my  father,  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of 
the  anguish  he  will  feel  at  my  sudden  and 
mysterious  disaj)i)earance.  It  will  set  him 
distracted,  perhajDS  cause  illness." 

"  Until  now,  my  dear  child,  you  know  you 
had  neither  time,  nor  health,  nor  strength 
to  do  so ;  but  I  agree  with  you,  and  think 
without  doubt  you  ought  to  make  his  mind 
as  easy  upon  this  point  as  possible.  At  the 
same  time  I  do  not  see  that  it  is  necessary 
for  3^ou  to  give  a  clew  to  your  present  resi- 
dence. Perhaps  it  would  be  better  that  I 
should  see  him  before  you  think  of  returning; 
but  of  that  we  "ndll  si:)eak  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  or  during  to-morrow,  when  we  shall 
have  a  little  more  time  to  consider  the  mat- 
ter j)roj)erly,  and  determine  what  may  be  the 
best  steps  to  take." 


CHAPTER   XXHL 

A  Lunch  ill  Summei'Jield  Cottage. 

The  little  spot  they  strolled  in  was  beauti- 
ful, from  the  natural  simjDlicity  of  the  sweet 
but  humble  scenery  around  them.  They 
traversed  it  in  every  direction  ;  sat  on  the 
sunny  side  of  grassy  eminences,  gathered 
wild  flowers,  thi-ew  pebbles  into  the  Httle 
prattling  stream  that  ran  over  its  stony  bed 
before  them  ;  listened  to  and  talked  of  and 
enjoyed  the  music  of  the  birds  as  they  turned 
the  very  ah-  and  hedges  into  harmony.  Lucy 
thought  how  hapi^y  she  could  be  in  such  a 
calm  and  delightful  retreat,  with  the  society 
of  the  man  she  loved,  far  from  the  intrigue, 
and  i^ride,  and  vanity,  and  ambition  of  life  ; 
and  she  could  scarcely  help  shi;ddering  when 
she  reflected  upon  the  track  of  criminal  am- 
bition and  profligacy  into  which,  for  the  sake 
of  an  empty  and  perhaps  a  painful  title,  her 
father  wished  to  drag  her. 

This  train  of  thought,  however,  was  dissi- 
pated by  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Mainwaring, 
who  had  returned  fi'om  his  stroU,  and  came 
out  to  seek  for  them,  accompanied  by  a  young 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


455 


I 


oflScer  of  very  elegant  and  ^gentlemanly  ap- 
pearance, whom  he  introdiK.-od  as  Captain 
iloberts,  of  the  33d,  then  quartered  in  Dub- 
lin. 

As  an  apology  for  the  fact  of  Mr.  Main- 
waring  having  introduced  a  stranger  to  Lucy, 
under  circumstances  where  privacy  was  so 
desiraV)le,  it  may  be  necessary  to  say  hei'e, 
that  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  out  of  delicacy  to 
Lucy,  forbore  to  acquaint  him  even  with  a 
hint  at  the  cause  of  her  visit,  so  far  as  Lucy, 
on  the  morning  of  her  arrival,  had  hastily 
and  briefly  communicated  it  to  her.  This 
she  was  resolved  not  to  do  without  her  ex- 
press permission. 

"  Allow  me,  ladies,  to  present  to  you  my 
friend,  Captain  Roberts,  of  the  33d — or,  as 
another  older  friend  of  mine,  his  excellent 
father,  terms  it,  the  tlu-ee  times  eleven — by 
the  way,  not  a  bad  j^araphrase,  and  worthy 
of  a  retired  school-master  hke  myself.  It 
is  turning  the  multiphcatiou  table  into  a 
vocabulary  and  making  it  perform  mihtary 
duty." 

After  the  usual  formalities  had  been  gone 
through,  Mr.  Mainwaring,  who  was  in  pecu- 
Harly  exeellent  spirits,  proceeded  : 

"  Of  course  you  know,  every  officer  when 
introduced  or  travelling  is  a  captain — Cap- 
tain— a  good  travelling  name  I — Vide  the  play- 
books,  jyassim.  My  young  friend,  however, 
is  at  the  present — you  remember  as  in  pi'es- 
enti,  Edward — only  an  ensign,  but,  jjlease 
God,  old  as  some  of  us  are,  ]\li'S.  M.  to  mt 
— ahem  !  we  will  live  to  shake  hands  with 
him  as  caj^tain  yet." 

"You  mean,  of  course,  my  dear,"  said  his 
wife,  "  that  I  will  live  to  do  so  ;  the  youngest, 
as  the  proverb  has  it,  hves  longest.  No  man, 
Mr.  Roberts,  "SAdll  more  regret  the  impi'oba- 
bility  of  verifying  his  own  wishes  than  Mr. 
Mainwaring."  j 

"  Ah,  Martha  !  you're  always  too  hard  for  [ 
me,"  he  replied,  laughing.  "  ]5ut  you  must 
know  that  this  young  officei",  of  whom  I  feel 
so  proud,  is  an  old  pupil  of  mine,  and  re- 
ceived his  education  at  my  feet.  I  conse- 
quently feel  a  more  than  usual  interest  in 
him.  But  come,  we  lose  time.  It  is  now 
past  two  o'clock,  and,  if  I  don't  mistake, 
there's  a  bit  of  cold  ham  and  chicken  to  be 
had,  and  my  walk  has  prepared  me  for  lunch, 
as  it  usually  does,  and  besides,  Martha, 
there's  an  old  fiiend  of  mine,  his  father, 
waiting  for  our  return,  to  whom  I  must  in- 
troduce you  both,  ladies,  as  a  sample  of  the 
fine  old  soldier,  who  is  a  capital  version  of 
human  nature."  I 

On  reaching  the  cottage  they  found  oiu*  \ 
worthy  friend,  old  Sam  Roberts,  in  the  gai'- 
den,   throwing   crumbs  of  liread  to  a  busy 
little  Hock  of  sparrows,  behind  one  of  the 


back  windows  that  opened  into  it.  Hia 
honest  but  manly  face  was  lit  up  with  all  the 
eager  and  boisterous  enjoyment  of  a  child 
whilst  observing  with  simple  delight  the 
fierce  and  angry  quarrels  of  the  parents,  as 
they  fought  on  behalf  of  their  young,  for  the 
good  things  so  providentially  cast  in  their 
way. 

"Come,  now,"  said  Sam,  "I'm  commis- 
sai-y -general  for  this  day,  and,  for  a  miracle, 
an  honest  one — fight  fair,  you  wretches — 
but  I  don't  wonder  at  the  spunk  you  show, 
for  the  rations,  I  can  tell  you,  are  better, 
poor  things,  than  you  are  accustomed  to. 
Hello,  there  !  you,  sii- — you  big  fellow — you 
hulk  of  a  cock — what  business  have  you 
here  ?  This  is  a  quarrel  among  the  ladies, 
sirrah,  who  are  mothers,  and  it  is  for  their 
young  ones — on  behalf  of  theii'  children  — 
they  are  showing  tight ;  and  you,  sir,  you 
overgro^vn  glutton,  are  stuffing  yourself, 
Uke  many  another  *  foul  bird '  before  you, 
^^^th  the  pubhc  property.  Shame,  you  little 
vulture  !  Don't  you  see  they  fly  away  when 
they  have  gotten  an  allowance,  and  give  it 

to  their  stiU'ving  children  ?  D your  j^rin- 

ciple,  sir,  it's  a  bad  one.  You  think  the 
strongest  ought  to  take  most,  do  you  ? 
Bravo !  Well  done,  my  little  woman.  Go 
on,  3'ou  have  right  and  natiu'e  on  your  side 
— that's  it,  peck  the  glutton — he's  a  rascal 
— a  public  officer — a  commis.saiT-general 
that — lay  on  liim — well  done — never  mind 
military  discipUne — he's  none  of  your  officer 
— he's  a  robber — a  bandit — and  neitlier  a 
soldier  nor  a  gentleman — b}'  fife  and  di'um, 
that's  well  done.  But  it's  all  natui'e — all 
the  heart  of  man." 

"  Well,  old  friend,"  said  he,  "  and  so  this 
is  your  good  lady.  How  do  you  do,  ma'am  ? 
By  fife  and  drum,  "Mr.  Mainwaring,  but  it's 
a  good  match.  You  were  made  for  one 
another.  And  this  young  lady  your  daugh- 
ter, ma'ani  ?  How  do  you  do,  ]\Iiss  INIain- 
waring  ?  " 

"My deal*  Mr.  Roberts,"  said  ^lainwaring, 
"  we  ai*e  not  so  hapjn'  as  to  claim  this  young 
lady  as  a  daughter.  She  is  3Iiss  Gourlay, 
daughter  to  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  of  Red  Hall, 
now  here  upon  a  visit  for  the  good  of  her 
health." 

"  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Govu'lay  ?  I  am 
happy  to  say  that  I  have  seen  a  young  lady 
that  I  have  heai'd  so  much  of — so  much,  I 
ought  to  say,  that  was  good  of." 

Lucy,  as  she  replied,  blushed  deeply  at 
this  unintentional  mention  of  her  name,  and 
Mrs.  Mainwaring,  signing  to  her  husband, 
by  putting  her  finger  on  her  hps,  hinted  to 
him  that  he  had  done  AATong. 

Old  S:im,  however,  on  receiving  this  intel- 
ligence, looked  occasionally,  with  a  great  deaj 


456 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ef  interest,  from  Lucy  to  the  yoiing  officer, 
and  again  from  the  young  officer  to  Lucy ; 
and  as  he  did  it,  he  uttered  a  series  of  ejacu- 
lations to  himself,  which  "were  for  the  most 
part  inaudible  to  the  rest.  "  Ha  ! — dear  me  ! 
— God  bless  me  ! — veiy  strange  ! — right,  old 
Corbet — right  for  a  thousand — natiu-e  will 
prove  it — not  a  doubt  of  it — God  bless  me  ! 
— how  very  like  they  are  ! — perfect  brother 
and  sister  ! — bless  me — it's  extraordinary — 
not  a  doubt  of  it.     Bravo,  Ned  !  " 

"  Come,  ladies,"  said  ]\Ir.  Main  waring  ; 
"  come,  my  friend,  old  Sam,  as  you  like  to 
be  called,  and  you,  Edwai'd,  come  one,  come 
all,  till  we  try  the  cold  ham  and  chicken. 
Miss  Gou — ehem — come,  Lucy,  my  dear, 
the  short  cut  through  the  window ;  you  see 
it  opens,  and  now,  Martha,  your  hand  ;  but 
there  is  old  Sam's.  Well  done,  Sam  ;  your 
soldier's  ever  gallant.  Hell?  Miss — help  the 
young  lady  up  the  steps,  Edwai'd.  Good  ! 
he  has  anticipated  me."  ^ 

Li  a  few  minutes  they  were  enjoying 
their  limch,  diu-iug  which  the  conversation 
became  very  agreeable,  and  even  animated. 
Young  Roberts  had  nothing  of  the  mihtary 
puppy  about  him  whatsoever.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  deportment  was  modest,  manly, 
and  unassuming.  Sensible  of  his  father's 
humble,  but  yet  respectable  position,  he 
neither  attempted  to  swagger  himself  into 
imjiortance  by  an  aifectation  of  supeiior 
breeding  or  contempt  for  his  parent,  nor 
did  he  manifest  any  of  that  sullen  tacitur- 
nity which  is  fr-equently  preserved,  as  a 
proof  of  superiority,  or  a  mask  for  conscious 
ignorance  and  bad  breeding  ;  the  fact  being 
generally  forgotten  that  it  is  an  exponent  of 
both. 

"  So,  Edward,  you  like  the  army,  then  ?  " 
inquired  Mx.  Mainwaring. 

"  I  do,  sir,"  repUed  young  Roberts ;  "it's  a 
noble  profession." 

"  Right,  Ned — a  noble  profession — that's 
the  word,"  said  old  Sam  ;  "and  so  it  is,  my 
boy,  and  a  brave  and  a  generous  one." 

Lucy  Goui'lay  and  the  young  soldier  had 
occasionally  glanced  at  each  other  ;  and  it 
might  have  been  observed,  that  whenever 
they  did  so,  each  seemed  surprised,  if  not 
actually  confused. 

"Is  it  difficult,  Edward,"  asked  Mainwar- 
ing, after  they  had  taken  wine  together,  "  to 
purchase  a  commission  at  present  ?  " 

"It  is  not  very  eas}'  to  procure  commis- 
sions just  now,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  but 
you  know,  IVIr.  Mainwaring,  that  I  had  the 
honor  to  be  raised  from  the  ranks." 

"  Bravo,  Ned  !  "  exclaimed  old  Sam,  slap- 
ping him  him  on  the  back  ;  "  I  am  glad  to 
see  that  you  take  that  honor  in  its  true  light. 
Thousands  maj  have  money  to  buy  a  com- 


mission, but  give  me  the  man  that  has  merit 
to  deseiTe  it ;  especially,  Ned,  at  so  young 
an  age  as  youi-s." 

"  You  must  have  distinguished  yourself 
sfr,"  observed  Lucy,  "otherwise  it  is  quite 
unusual,  I  think,  to  witness  the  promotion 
from  the  ranks  of  so  young  a  man." 

"I  only  endeavored  to  do  my  duty, 
madam,"  rejjUed  Roberts,  bowing  modestly, 
whilst  something  hke  a  blush  came  over  his 
cheek. 

"Never  mind  him.  Miss  Gourlay,"  ex- 
claimed Sam — "  never  mind  ;  he  did  dis- 
tinguish himself,  and  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion, too,  and  well  deserved  his  pi'omotion. 
"When  one  of  the  British  flags  was  seized  upon 
and  boi'ne  off,  after  the  brave  fellow  whose 
duty  it  was  to  defend  it  -Rath  his  life  had 
done  so,  and  was  cut  down  by  three  French 
soldiers,  our  gentleman  here,  for  all  so 
modest  as  he  looks,  pursued  them,  fought 
single-handed  against  the  three,  rescued  the 
flag,  and,  on  his  way  back,  met  the  general, 
who  chanced  to  be  a  spectator  of  the  exploit ; 
when  passing  near  him,  bleeding,  for  he 
had  been  smartly  wounded,  the  general  rides 
over  to  him.  '  Is  the  officer  who  bore  that 
flag  killed  ? '  he  asked.  '  He  is,  general,'  re- 
phed  Ned. — 'You  have  rescued  it?' — 'I 
have,  sir.' — 'What  is  youi*  name?' — He 
told  him. — '  Have  you  received  an  educa- 
tion ? ' — '  A  good  education,  general.'—'  Very 
good,' proceeded  the  general.  'You  have 
recovered  the  flag,  you  sa}' ?  ' — 'I considered 
it  my  duty  either  to  die  or  to  do  so,  general,' 
rephed  Ned.- — '  Well  said,  soldier,'  returned 
the  general,  '  and  well  done,  too  :  as  for  the 
flag  itself,  you  must  only  keep  it  for  your 
pains.  Your  commission,  yoiuig  man,  shall 
be  made  out.  I  will  take  charge  of  that  my- 
self.'— There,  now,  is  the  history  of  his  pro- 
motion for  you." 

"It  is  highly  honorable  to  him  in  every 
sense,"  observed  Lucy.  "  But  it  was  an  aw- 
ful risk  of  life  for  one  man  to  pursue  three." 

"  A  soldier,  madam,"  replied  Roberts,  bow- 
ing to  her  for  the  compliment,  "  in  the  mo- 
ment of  danger,  or  Avhen  the  flag  of  his  sov- 
ereign is  hkely  to  be  sullied,  should  never 
remember  that  he  has  a  hfe  ;  or  remember 
it  only  that  it  may  be  devoted  to  the  glory 
of  his  country  and  the  maintenance  of  her 
freedom." 

"  That's  well  said,  Edward,"  obsei^ed  Mr. 
Mainwaring  ;  "  very  well  expressed  indeed. 
The  clauses  of  that  sentence  all  follow  in  a 
neat,  consecutive  order.  It  is,  indeed,  aa 
well  p\it  together  as  if  it  were  an  exercise." 

Edward  could  not  help  smihng  at  this  un- 
conscious trait  of  the  old  school-master  peep- 
ing out. 

"That  general    is    a    fine  old    fcijow," 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


457 


said  Sam,  "  and  knew  how  to  reward  time 
courage.  But  you  see,  IMr.  Mainwaring 
and  ladies,  it's  all  natural,  all  the  heart  of 
man." 

"There's  IMi-.  Mitchell,  our  clergyman," 
observed  IMi-si* Main waniig,  looking  out  of 
the  window;  "I  wish  he  would  come  in. 
Shall  I  call  him,  dear  ?  " 

"Never  mind  now,  my  love,"  rephed  her 
husband.  "  I  like  the  man  well  enough  ;  he 
is  rehgious,  they  say,  and  chaiitable,  but 
his  early  education  unfortunately  was  neg- 
lected. His  sermons  never  hang  well  to- 
gether ;  he  fi'equently  omits  the  exordmni, 
and  often  winds  them  up  ^vithout  the  peror- 
ation at  all.  Then  he  mispronounces  shock- 
ingly, and  is  full  of  false  quantities.  It  was 
only  on  last  Sunday  that  he  laid  the  accent 
on  i  in  DaUlah.  Such  a  man's  sermons,  I 
hm  sorry  to  say,  can  do  any  educated  man 
little  good.  Here's  a  note,  my  love,  from 
Airs.  Fletcher.  I  met  the  sei'vant  coming 
over  with  it,  and  took  it  fi-om  him.  She 
wishes  to  hear  from  you  in  an  houi"  or  two  : 
it's  a  party,  I  think." 

He  threw  the  note  over  to  his  wife,  who, 
after  apologizing  to  the  company,  opened, 
and  began  to  read  it. 

Honest  old  ^lainwai-iug  was  an  excellent 
man,  and  did  a  groat  deal  of  good  in  a  quiet 
way,  considering  his  sphere  of  life.  In  at- 
tending to  the  sermon,  however,  when  at 
church,  he  laid  himself  back  in  his  pew,  shut 
his  eyes,  put  the  end  of  his  gold-headed  cane 
to  his  lijis,  and  set  a  criticising.  If  all  the 
rhetorical  rules  were  duly  obsen-ed,  the  lan- 
guage clear,  and  the  pai'ts  of  the  sermon 
well  arranged,  and  if,  besides,  there  was 
neither  false  accent,  nor  false  quantity,  nor 
any  bad  grammar,  he  pronounced  it  admira- 
ble, and  praised  the  preacher  to  the  skies. 
Anything  short  of  this,  however,  he  looked 
upon  not  only  as  a  failure,  but  entertained 
strong  doubts  of  the  man's  orthodoxy,  as 
well  as  of  the  purity  of  his  doctrine. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  replied  ]Mi-s.  Mainwaring, 
after  having  glanced  over  the  note,  "  you  are 
right  ;  it  is  a  piU'ty  ;  and  we  are  both  asked  ; 
but  I  wonder,  above  all  things,  that  INIiss 
Fletcher  should  never  cross  her  t's  ;  then 
the  tails  of  her  letters  are  so  long  that  they 
go  into  the  line  below  them,  which  looks  so 
slovenly,  and  shows  that  her  writing  must 
have  been  very  much  neglected.  I  also 
know  another  fair  neighbor  of  ours  who 
actually  i)uts  'for '  before  the  infinitive  mood, 
and  flourishes  her  large  letters  like  copper- 
plate capitals  that  are  only  fit  to  appear  in  a 
merchant's  books." 

"But  you  know,  my  dear,"  said  her  hus- 
band, "  that  she  is  a  gi-ocer's  widow,  and, 
it  is  said,  used  to  keep  his  accounts." 


"  That  is  very  obvious,  my  dear  ;  for,  in- 
deed, most  of  her  invitations  to  tea  are  more 
hke  bills  duly  furnished  than  anything  else. 
I  remember  one  of  them  that  ran  to  the  fol- 
lowing eflect : 

"  '  ^Ii's.  Allspice  presents  compliments  to 
Messrs.  ^Mainwaring  k.  Co.- — to  -srit,  Miss 
Norton  ' — this  was  my  daughter — '  begs  to 
be  favored,  per  return  of  post,  as  to  whethei 
it  will  suit  convenience /or  to  come  on  next 
Tuesday  evening,  half-past  seven,  to  take  a 
cup  of  the  best  flavored  soucliong,  7.s-.  Grf. 
per  lb.,  and  white  lump,  Jamaica,  l.s.  per 
ditto,  with  a  nice  assortment  of  cakes,  manu- 
factured by  ourselves.  Punctuality  to  ap- 
pointment expected.' " 

"  Well,  for  my  part,"  said  Sara,  "I  must 
say  it's  the  entertainment  I'd  look  to  both  ^vith 
her  and  the  parson,  and  neither  the  language 
nor  the  wiiting.  ISIi's.  ]\Liiii waring,  ■will  you 
allow  me  to  propose  a  toast  ma'a  m  ?  It's  for 
a  fine  creature,  in  her  way;  a  lily,  a  jewel." 

"  With  pleasure,  ls\x.  Rol)erts,"  said  that 
lady,  smihng,  for  she  knew  old  Sam  must  al- 
ways have  his  o\mi  way. 

"  Well,  then,  fill,  fill,  each  of  you.  Come, 
]\Iiss  Gourlay,  if  only  for  the  novelty  of  the 
thing ;  for  I  dare  say  you  never  drank  a 
toast  before.  Ned,  fill  for  her.  You're  an 
excellent  woman,  Mrs.  ]\Iainwaiing  :  and  he 
was  a  lucky  old  boy  that  got  you  to  smooth 
down  the  close  of  his  respectable  and  useful 
life — at  least,  it  was  once  useful — but  we 
can't  be  useful  always — well,  of  his  hai-mless 
Ufe — ay,  that  is  nearer  the  thing.  Yes,  Mrs. 
Mainwaring,  by  all  accounts  you  are  a  most 
excellent  and  invaluable  woman,  and  deseiTe 
all  honor." 

]\Ii's.  Mainwaring  sat  with  a  comely  simper 
upon  her  good-natured  face,  looking  down 
with  a  peculiar  and  modest  appreciation  of 
the  forthcoming  compliment  to  herself. 

"  Come  now,"  Sara  went  on,  "  toyoui'legs. 
You  all,  I  suppose,  know  who  I  raean.  Stand, 
if  you  please,  ^liss  Gourlay.  Head  well  up, 
and  shoulders  a  little  more  scjuared,  ^Iain- 
waring.     Here  now,  are  you  all  ready  ?  " 

"  All  ready,"  responded  the  gentlemen, 
highly  amused. 

"  Well,  then,  here's  my  Beck's  health ! 
and  long  life  to  her  !  She's  the  pearl  of 
■ft'ives,  and  deser\es  to  live  forever !  " 

A  fit  of  good-humored  laughter  followed 
old  Sam's  toast,  in  which  Mrs.  ^lainwaring 
not  only  came  in  for  an  ample  share,  but 
joined  veiy  heai'tily  herself ;  that  worthy 
lady  taking  it  for  gnmted  that  old  Sam  was 
about  to  propose  the  health  of  the  hostess, 
sat  still,  while  the  rest  rose ;  even  Lucy 
stood  ui>,  with  her  usual  grace  and  good- 
nature, antl  put  the  glass  to  her  lips ;  and 
as  it  was  the  impression  that  the  compli- 


458 


WILLIAM  CABLET  ON 'S  WOBKS. 


ment  was  meant  for  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  the 
thing  seemed  very  like  what  is  vulgarly 
called  a  bite,  uiDon  the  part  of  old  Sam,  who 
in  the  meantime,  had  no  earthly  conception 
of  anj^thing  else  than  that  they  all  thorough- 
ly understood  him,  and  were  awai'e  of  the 
health  he  was  about  to  give. 

"  "WTiat !  "  exclaimed  Sam,  on  witnessing 
their  mirth  ;  "by  fife  and  drum,  I  see  noth- 
ing to  laugh  at  ia  anj-thing  connected  with 
my  Beck.  I  always  make  it  a  point  to  drink 
the  old  girl's  health  when  I'm  fi'om  home  ; 
for  I  don't  know  how  it  happens,  but  I  think 
I'm  never  half  so  fond  of  her  as  when  we're 
sepai'ated." 

"But,  :Mr.  Eoberts,"  said  Mi's.  Main  war- 
ing, laughing,  "I  assui-e  you,  from  the 
comphments  you  paid  me,  I  took  it  for 
granted  that  it  was  my  health  you  were 
about  to  projjose." 

"Ay,  but  the  compliments  I  paid  you, 
ma'am,  were  all  in  compHment  to  old  Beck  ; 
but  next  to  her,  by  fife  and  drum,  you  de- 
serve a  bumper.  Come,  Mainwariug,  get  to 
legs,  and  let  us  have  her  health.  Attention, 
now  ;  head  well  up,  sir ;  shoulders  square ; 
eye  on  your  wife." 

"  It  shall  be  done,"  repHed  Main  waring, 
entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  joke.  "  If  it 
were  ambrosia,  she  is  worthy  of  a  brimmer. 
Come,  then,  fill  your  glasses.  Edward,  at- 
tend to  IVIiss  Gourlay.  Sam,  help  IVIrs. 
Mainwaring.  Here,  then,  my  dear  Martha  ; 
like  two  winter  apples,  time  has  only  mel- 
lowed us.  We  have  both  nin  pai'allel  cour- 
ses in  hfe  ;  you,  in  instructing  the  softer 
and  more  yielding  sex  ;  I,  the  nobler  and 
more  manly." 

"  KeejD  strictly  to  the  toast,  Matthew,"  she 
replied,  "  or  I  shall  rise  to  defend  oui'  sex. 
You  yielded  fii'st,  you  know.     Ha,  ha,  ha !  " 

"As  the  stronger  jdelds  to  the  weaker, 
from  courtesy  and  compassion.  However, 
to  proceed.  We  have  both  conjugated  amo 
before  we  ever  saw  each  other,  so  that  our 
recuiTence  to  the  good  old  verb  seemed 
somewhat  like  a  Saturday's  repetition.  As 
for  doceo,  we  have  been  both  engaged  in 
enforcing  it,  and  successfully,  Martha" — here 
he  shook  his  purse — "  during  the  best  por- 
tion of  our  lives  ;  for  which  we  have  made 
some  of  the  most  brilliant  members  of  so- 
ciety our  debtors.  Lego  is  now  one  of  our 
principal  enjoyments  ;  sometimes  under  the 
shadow  of  a  spreading  tree  in  the  orchard, 
during  the  serene  eflftilgence  of  a  summer's 
eve  ;  or,  what  is  still  more  comfortable,  be- 
fore the  cheering  blaze  of  the  winter's  fire, 
the  blinds  down,  the  shutters  closf»«l,  the 
arm-chair  beside  the  table— on  that  ii*h\e  an 
open  book  and  a  warm  tumbler — and  IViartha, 
the  best  of  wives- 


"  Attention,  Mainwaring ;  my  Beck's  ex« 
cepted." 

"Martha,  the  best  of  wives — old  Sam's 
Beck  always  excej^ted — sitting  at  my  side. 
As  for  audio,  the  tnith  is,  I  have  been  forced 
to  experience  the  din  and  racket  of  that 
same  verb  duiing  the  greater  portion  of  my 
hfe,  in  more  senses  than  I  am  wiUing  to  de- 
scribe. I  did  not  imagine,  in  my  bachelor 
days,  that  the  fermenting  tumult  of  the 
school-room  could  be  surpassed  by  a  single 
instrument ;  but,  alas  ! — well,  it  matters  not 
now  ;  all  I  can  say  is,  that  I  never  saw  her — 
heai'd  I  mean,  for  I  am  on  audio — that  the 
performance  of  that  same  single  instniment 
did  not  fui'nish  me  with  a  painful  praxis  of 
the  nine  pai'ts  of  speech  all  going  together  ; 
for  I  do  beheve  that  nine  tongiies  aU  at 
work  could  not  have  matched  her.  But 
peace  be  with  her !  she  is  silent  at  last,  and 
cannot  hear  me  now.  I  thought  I  myself 
jDossessed  an  extensive  knowledge  of  the 
langTiages,  but,  alas  I  was  nothing ;  as  a 
linguist  she  was  without  a  rival.  However, 
I  pass  that  over,  and  retiuia  to  the  subject 
of  my  toast.  Now,  my  dear  Martha,  since 
heaven  gifted  me  with  you " 

"Attention,  Mainwaring  !  Eyes  up  to  the 
ceiling,  sir,  and  thank  God  !  " 

Mainwaring  did  so  ;  but  for  the  life  of 
him  could  not  help  throwing  a  httle  comic 
spirit  into  the  action,  adding  in  an  under- 
tone that  he  wished  to  be  heard.  "  Ah,  my 
dear  Sam,  how  glad  I  am  that  you  did  not 
bid  me  go  farther.  However,  to  i^roceed — 
No,  my  dear  Martha,  ever  since  our  most 
felicitous  conjugation,  I  hardly  know  what 
the  exemjDlary  verb  audio  means.  I  could 
scarcely  translate  it.  Oiu's  is  a  truly  gram- 
matical union.  Not  the  nominative  case 
with  verb — not  the  relative  with  the  ante- 
cedent— not  the  adjective  with  the  substan- 
tive— affords  a  more  appropriate  illustration 
of  conjugal  harmony,  than  does  our  matri- 
monial existence.  Peace  and  quietness,  how- 
ever, are  on  your  tongue — affection  and 
charity  in  yom-  heart — benevolence  in  your 
hand,  which  is  seldom  extended  empty  to 
the  poor — and,  altogether,  you  are  worthy 
of  the  high  honor  to  which," — this  he  added 
with  a  bit  of  good-natured  irony — "partly 
from  motives  of  condescension,  and  partly, 
as  I  said,  fi-om  motives  of  compassion,  I 
have,  in  the  fulness  of  a  benevolent  heai't, 
exalted  you."     The  toast  was  then  drank. 

"  Attention,  ladies  ! "  said  Sam,  who  had 
been  looking,  as  before,  from  the  young  offi- 
cer to  Lucy,  and  vice  verm — "  Mainwai-ing, 
atttention !  Look  upon  these  two — upon  IMiss 
Gourlay,  here,  and  upon  Ned  Roberts — and 
tell  me  if  you  don't  think  there's  a  strong 
likeness." 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


459 


The  attention  of  the  others  was  instantly 
directed  to  an  examination  of  the  parties  in 
question,  and  most  certainly  they  were 
struck  with  the  extraoixlinar\-  i-esemblance. 

"  It  is  very  remai'kable,  indeed,  ]VIr.  Rob- 
erts," obsen-ed  their  hostess,  looking  at  them 
again  ;  "and  what  coniinns  it  is  the  fact, 
that  I  noticed  the  circumstance  almost  as 
soon  as  ]Mr.  Roberts  joined  us.  It  is  cer- 
tainly Tery  strange  to  find  such  a  resem- 
blance in  persons  not  at  all  related." 

Lucy,  on  finding  the  eyes  of  her  fiiends 
upon  her,  could  not  avoid  blusliing  ;  nor 
was  the  young  ofiicer's  complexion  ^^ithout  a 
somewhat  deeper  tinge. 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  IMainwaring,  smiling, 
"  the  question  is,  which  we  are  to  consider 
compUmented  by  this  extraordinary  like- 
ness." 

"  The  gentleman,  of  course,  IMrs.  ^lain war- 
ing," replied  Sam. 

"  Unquestionably,"  said  Edward,  bowing 
to  Lucy  ;  "I  never  felt  so  much  flattered  in 
my  life  before,  nor  ever  can  again,  unless  by 
a  similar  compaiison  with  the  same  fair 
object." 

Another  blush  on  the  part  of  Lucy  follow- 
ed this  deUcate  comphment,  and  old  Sam 
exclaimed : 

"  Attention,  Mainwaring !  and  you,  ma'am," 
— addressing  jMi's.  ^lainwaiing.  "  Now  did 
vou  ever  see  brother  and  sister  more  like  ? 
eh ! " 

"  Very  seldom  ever  saw  brother  and  sister 
80  like,"  replied  Mainwaring.  "  Indeed,  it  is 
most  extraordinaiy." 

"  Wondei-ful !  upon  my  word,"  exclaimed 
his  wife. 

"Hum  ! — Well,"  proceeded  Sam,  "it  is,  I 
beheve,  verj'  odd — very — and  may  be  not, 
either — may  be  not  so  odd.  Ahem  ! — and 
yet,  still — however,  no  matter,  it's  all  natu- 
ral ;  all  the  heart  of  man — eh  !  Mainwaring  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,  !Mr.  Roberts  ;  I  suppose  so." 

After   old  Sam   and   his   son   had  taken 
their  departirre.  Lucy  once  more  adverted  to  ' 
the  duty  as  well  as  the  necessity  of  acquaint- 
ing her  father  with  her  safety,  and  thus  re- 
Heving  his  mind  of  much  anxiety  and  trou- 
ble.    To  this  her  friend  at  once  consented.  [ 
Tlie  baronet,  in  the  meantime,  felt  consider-  t 
ably  the  worse  for  those  dreadfid  conflicts 
which  had  swept  down  and  annihilated  all 
that  ever  had  any  tendency  to  humanity  or  ; 
goodness  in  his  heart.    He  felt  unwell — that  \ 
is  to  say,  he  experienced  none  of  those  sj-mp- } 
toms  of  iUness  which  at  once  determine  the 
nature  of  any  specific  malady.     The  sensa- 
tion, however,  was  that  of  a  strong  man,  who 
finds  his  frame,  as  it  were,  shaken — who  is 
aware   that  something  of  a  nameless  appre- 
hension connected   with  his   health   hangs  ; 


over  him,  and  whose  mind  is  filled  with  a 
sense  of  gloomy  depression  and  restlessness, 
for  which  he  neither  can  account  nor  refer 
to  any  particular  sovirce  of  anxiety,  although 
such  in  reality  may  exist.  It  appeared  to  be 
some  terrible  and  gigantic  h^'pochondriasis 
— some  waking  nightmare— coming  over  him 
like  the  sha<low  of  his  disappointed  ambition, 
blighting  his  strength,  and  warning  him,  that 
when  the  heai-t  is  made  the  battle-field  of 
the  passions  for  too  long  a  period,  the  physi- 
cal powers  wdl  ultimately  suffer,  until  the 
body  becomes  the  victim  of  the  spirit. 

Yet,  not^rithstanding  this  feeling.  Sir 
Thomas's  mind  was  considerably  rehevect. 
Lucy  had  nol  eloped  ;  but  then,  the  rumor 
of  her  eloi^ement  had  gone  abroad.  This, 
indeed,  was  bitter ;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
time — circumstances — the  reappearance  of 
this  most  mysterious  stranger — and  most  of 
all,  Lucy's  high  character  for  all  that  was 
great  and  good,  dehcate  and  honorable, 
would  ere  long,  set  her  right  with  the  world. 
Nothing,  he  felt,  however,  wovdd  so  quickly 
and  decidedly  effect  this  as  her  return  to  her 
father's  roof ;  for  this  necessaiy  step  would 
at  once  give  the  He  to  calumny. 

In  order,  therefore,  to  ascertain,  if  possi- 
ble, the  place  of  her  jiresent  concealment,  he 
resolved  to  remove  to  his  metropoUtan  resi- 
dence, having  taken  it  for  granted  that  she 
had  sought  shelter  there  vrith  some  of  her 
friends.  Anxious,  nervous,  and  gloomy,  ho 
ordered  his  carriage,  and  in  due  time  arrived 
in  Dublin. 

Thither  the  stranger  had  preceded  him. 
The  latter,  finding  that  Ballytrain  could  no 
longer  be  the  scene  of  his  operations,  also 
sought  the  metropohs.  Fenton  had  disap- 
peai'ed — Lucy  was  no  longer  there.  His 
fx-iend  Biniey  was  also  in  town,  and  as  in 
town  his  business  now  lay,  to  town  therefore 
he  went. 

In  the  meantime,  we  must  turn  a  little  to 
our  fi-iend  Crackenfudge,  who,  after  the 
rough  handling  he  had  received  from  the 
baronet,  went  home,  if  not  a  sadder  and  a 
wiser,  at  least  a  much  sorer  man.  The  un- 
fortunate WTetch  was  sadly  ba.sted.  The 
furious  bai'onet,  knovring  the  creature  he 
was,  had  pitched  into  him  in  awfi^  style. 
He  felt,  however,  when  cooled  down,  that  he 
had  gone  too  far  ;  and  that,  for  the  sake  of 
Lucy,  and  in  order  to  tie  up  the  miserable 
wretch's  babbling  tongue,  it  was  necessary 
that  he  should  make  some  ajwlogy  for  such 
an  unjustifiable  outrage.  He  accordingly 
wrote  him  the  following  letter  before  he  went 
to  town  : 

"  De.\r  Sm, — The  nature  of  the  commvmi- 
cation  which,  I  am  sure  fi'om  kind  feehnga, 


460 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


you  made  to  me  the  other  daj',  had  such  an 
effect  upon  a  temper  naturally  choleric,  that 
I  fear  I  have  been  guilty  of  some  violence  to- 
wai'd  you.  I  am,  unfortunately,  subject  to 
paroxysms  of  this  sort,  and  while  under  their 
influence  feel  utterly  unconscious  of  what  I 
do  or  say.  In  your  case,  will  you  be  good 
enough  to  let  me  know — whether  I  treated 
you  kindly  or  otherwise  ;  for  the  fact  is,  the 
paroxysm  I  speak  of  assumes  an  affectionate 
character  as  well  as  a  \iolent  one.  Of  what  I 
did  or  said  on  the  occasion  in  question  I  have 
no  earthly  recollection.  In  the  meantime,  I 
have  the  satisfaction  to  assui-e  you  that  ]\Iiss 
Gourlay  has  not  eloped,  but  is  residing  with 
a  fi'iend,  in  the  metrojDoUs.  I  have  seen  the 
gentleman  to  whom  you  alluded,  and  am  sat- 
isfied that  their  jovu*ney  to  town  was  pui-ety 
axjcidental.  He  knows  not  even  where  she 
is  ;  but  I  do,  and  am  quite  easy  on  the  sub- 
ject. Have  the  kindness  to  mention  this  to 
all  your  friends,  and  to  contradict  the  report 
of  her  elopement  wherever  and  whenever  you 
hear  it. 

"  Truly  yours, 

Thomas  Gourlay. 
"  Periwinkle  Crackenfudge,  Esq. 

"  P.  S. — In  the  meantime,  will  you  obHge 
me  by  sending  up  to  my  address  in  town  a 
list  of  your  claims  for  a  seat  on  the  magis- 
terial bench.  Let  it  be  as  clear  and  well 
worded  as  you  can  make  it,  and  as  authentic. 
You  may  color  a  httle,  I  suppose,  but  let  the 
grovmdwork  be  tnith — if  you  can  ;  if  not  truth 
— then  that  which  comes  as  neai*  it  as  possible. 
Truth,  5'ou  know,  is  always  better  than  a  he, 
unless  where  a  he  happens  to  be  better  than 
truth. 

"T.  G." 

To  this  characteristic  epistle  our  be- 
drubbed  friend  sent  the  following  reply : 

"My  dear  Sir  Thomas, — A'  would  give 
more  than  a'll  mention  to  be  gifted  with  your 
want  of  memory  respecting  what  occurred 
the  other  day.  Never  man  had  such  a  mem- 
oiy  of  that  dread^l  transaction  as  a'  have  ; 
from  head  to  heel  a'm  all  memory' ;  fi*om 
heel  to  head  a'm  all  memory — up  and  down 
— round — about — across — here  and  there, 
and  everywhere — a'm  all  memory  ;  but  in 
one  particvdar  place,  Sir  Thomas — ah  !  there's 
where  a'  suffer — however,  it  doesn't  make 
no  matter  ;  a'  only  say  that  you  taught  me 
the  luxury  of  an  easy  chair  and  a  soft  cushion 
ever  since.  Sir  Thomas. 

"  Your  letter.  Sir  Thomas,  has  given  me 
great  comfort,  and  has  made  me  rejoice,  al- 
though it  is  with  groans  a'  do  it,  at  the 
whole  transaction.    If  you  succeed  in  getting 


me  the  magistracy,  Sir  Thomas,  it  will  be 
the  most  blessed  and  delightful  basting  that 
ever  a  lucky  man  got.  If  a'  succeed  in  being 
turned  into  a  bony  fidy  Hve  magistrate,  to  be 
called  '  your  worship,'  and  am  to  have  the 
right  of  fining  and  flogging  and  committing 
the  people,  as  a'  wish  and  hope  to  do, 
then  a'U  say  that  the  hand  of  Providence  was 
in  it,  as  well  as  yoiu-  foot.  Sir  Thomas.  Now, 
that  you  have  explained  the  circumstance,  a' 
feel  veiy  much  honored  by  the  drubbing  a' 
got.  Sir  Thomas ;  and,  indeed,  a'  don't 
doubt,  after  all,  but  it  was  meant  in  kind- 
ness, as  you  say,  Sir  Thomas  ;  and  a'm  sure 
besides.  Sir  Thomas,  that  it's  not  every  one 
you'd  condescend  to  dinib,  and  that  the  man 
you  would  drub,  Sir  Thomas,  must  be  a  per- 
son of  some  consequence.  A'  wiU  send  you 
up  my  claims  as  a  magistrate  some  of  these 
days — that  is,  as  soon  as  a'  can  get  some 
long-headed  fellow  to  make  them  out  for 
me. 

"  And  have  the  honor  to  be,  my  dear  Sir 
Thomas,  j^our  much  obhged  and  favored 
humble  sei-vant. 

"  Periwinkle  Crackentudob. 

"Sir  Thomas  Gom-lay,  Bart." 


CHAPTER  ^XIV. 

An  Irish  Watchhouse  in  the  time  of  the  '''■  Cliarlies." 

Another  subject  which  vexed  the  baronet 
not  a  little  was  the  loss  of  his  money  and 
pistols  by  the  robbery  ;  but  what  he  stiJl  felt 
more  bitterly,  was  the  failure  of  the  authori- 
ties to  trace  or  arrest  the  robber.  The 
vengeance  which  he  felt  against  that  individ- 
ual lay  like  a  black  venomous  snake  coiled 
round  his  heart.  The  loss  of  the  money 
and  the  fire-arms  he  might  overlook,  but  the 
man,  who,  in  a  few  moments,  taught  him  to 
know  himself  as  he  was — who  dangled  him, 
as  it  were,  over  the  very  precipice  of  heU — 
with  all  his  iniquities  ujDon  his  head,  the 
man  who  made  him  feel  the  crimes  of  a 
whole  hfe  condensed  into  one  fearful  mo- 
ment, and  showed  them  to  him  dai'kened 
into  horror  by  the  black  hghtning  of  per- 
dition ;  such  a  man,  we  sa}',  he  could  never 
forgive.  It  was  in  vain  that  large  rewards 
were  subscribed  and  offered,  it  was  in  vain 
that  every  effort  was  made  to  discover  the 
culprit.  Not  only  was  there  no  trace  of  hira 
got,  but  other  robberies  had  been  committed 
by  a  celebrated  highwayman  of  the  day, 
named  Finnerty,  whom  neither  bribe  nor 
law  could  reach. 

Our  readers  may  remember,  with  reference 
to  tlie  robbery  of  the  baronet,  the  fact  of 


THE  BLACJs:  BARONET. 


46i 


Trailcudgel's  having  met  the  stranger  on  his 
way  to  disclose  all  the  circumstances  to  the 
priest,  and  that  he  did  not  proceed  farther 
on  that  occasion,  having  understood  that 
Father  M'Mahon  was  from  home.  Poor 
Trailcudgel,  who,  as  the  reader  is  aware,  was 
not  a  robber  either  from  piinciple  or  habit, 
and  who  only  resorted  to  it  when  driven  by 
the  agonizing  instincts  of  natm-e,  felt  the 
guilt  of  his  crime  bitterly,  and  could  enjoy 
rest  neither  night  nor  day,  until  he  had  done 
Avhat  he  conceived  to  be  his  duty  as  a 
Christian,  and  which  was  all  he  or  any  man 
could  do  :  that  is,  rej^ent  for  his  crime,  and 
return  the  propei-ty  to  him  from  whom  he 
had  taken  it.  This  he  did,  as  it  is  usually 
done,  through  the  medium  of  his  pastor  ; 
and  on  the  very  day  after  the  baronet's  de- 
liai*ture  both  the  money  and  pistols  were 
ileposited  in  Father  M'Mahon's  hands. 

In  a  few  days  afterwards  the  worthy  priest, 
liiiding,  on  iuquu'y,  that  Sir  Thomas  had 
?;one  to  Dublin,  where,  it  was  said,  he  deter- 
lained  to  reside  for  some  time,  made  up  his 
i.iind  to  follow  him,  in  order  to  restore  him 
\  he  property  he  had  lost.  This,  however, 
was  not  the  sole  purpose  of  his  \isit  to  the 
metropolis.  The  letter  he  had  given  the 
stranger  to  Corbet,  or  Dunphy,  had  not,  he 
was  soiTj^  to  find,  been  productive  of  the 
object  for  which  it  had  been  Avritten.  Per- 
haps it  was  impossible  that  it  could  ;  but 
still  the  good  priest,  who  was  as  shrewd  in 
many  things  as  he  was  benevolent  and  chari- 
table in  all,  felt  strongly  impressed  with  a 
belief  that  this  old  man  was  not  wholly  ig- 
norant, or  rather  unconnected  with  the  dis- 
appearance of  either  one  or  the  other  of  the 
lost  cliildren.  Be  this,  however,  as  it  may, 
he  prepared  to  see  the  baronet  for  the  pur- 
pose aheady  mentioned. 

He  accordingly  took  his  place — an  inside 
one — in  the  redoubtable  "  Fly,"  which,  we 
may  add,  was  the  popular  vehicle  at  the 
time,  and  ^\Tapping  himself  up  in  a  thick 
frieze  cloak,  or  great  coat,  with  standing 
collar  that  buttoned  up  across  his  face  to 
the  ;very  eyes,  and  j^utting  a  shu't  or  two, 
and  some  other  small  matters,  into  a  httle 
buntUe — tj-ing,  at  the  same  time,  a  cotton 
kerchief  over  his  hat  and  chin — he  started 
on  his  visit  to  the  metropohs,  having  very 
much  the  appearance  of  a  determined  char- 
acter, whose  dress  and  aspect  were  not, 
however,  such  as  to  disarm  suspicion.  He 
felt  much  more  careful  of  the  baronet's 
pocket-book  than  he  did  of  his  own,  and 
contrived  to  place  it  in  an  inside  pocket, 
which  being  rather  small  for  it,  he  was 
obhged  to  rip  a  httle  in  order  to  give  it  ad- 
mittance. The  case  of  pistols  he  slipped 
into  the  pockets  of  his  jock,  one  in  each, 


without  ever  having  once  examined  them,  oi 
satisfied  himself — simple  man — as  to  whethe* 
they  were  loaded  or  not.  His  own  pocket- 
book  was  carelessly  placed  in  the  right-hand 
pocket  of  the  aforesaid  jock,  along  with  one 
of  the  pistols. 

The  night  was  agreeable,  and  nothing 
worth  recording  took  place  until  they  had 

come  about  five  miles  on  the  side  of , 

when  a  loud  voice  ordered  the  coachman  to 
stop. 

"  Stop  the  coach,  sir ! "  said  the  voice, 
with  a  good  deal  of  reckless  and  bitter  ex- 
pression in  it ;  "  stop  the  coach,  or  you  are  a 
dead  man." 

Several  pistols  were  instantly  leveled  at 
both  coachman  and  guard,  and  the  same 
voice,  which  was  thin,  distinct,  and  vray, 
proceeded — "  Keep  all  steady  now,  boys, 
and  shoot  the  first  that  attempts  to  move. 
I  will  see  what's  to  be  had  inside." 

He  went  immediately  to  the  door  of  the 
"Fly,"  and  opening  it,  held  up  a  dark  lan- 
tern, which,  whilst  it  clearly  showed  him 
the  dress,  countenances,  and  condition  of  the 
passengers,  thoroughly  concealed  his  own. 

The  priest  happened  to  be  next  him,  and 
was  consequently  the  first  person  on  whom 
this  rather  cool  demand  was  made. 

"  Come,  sir,"  said  the  highwayman,  "  fork 
out,  if  you  please  ;  and  be  quick  about  it,  if 
you're  wise." 

"Give  a  body  time,  if  you  plaise,"  re- 
sponded the  priest,  who  at  that  moment  had 
about  him  all  the  marks  and  tokens  of  y. 
farmer,  or,  at  least,  of  a  man  who  wished  to 
pass  for  one.  "  I  think,"  he  added,  "  if  you 
knew  who  you  had,  you'd  not  only  pass  me 
by,  but  the  verj'  coach  I'm  travelin'  in. 
Don't  be  unaisy,  man  ahve,"  he  proceeded  ; 
"have  patience — for  patience,  as  everybody 
knows,  is  a  ATxtue — do,  then,  have  patience, 
or,  maybe — oh  !  ay  ! — here  it  is — here  is 
what  you  want — the  very  thing,  I'U  be  bound 
— and  you  must  have  it,  too."  And  the  poor 
man,  in  the  hurry  and  alai-m  of  the  moment, 
pulled  out  one  of  the  bai'onet's  pistols. 

The  robber  whipped  away  the  lantern,  and 
instantly  disappeared.  "  By  the  tiu-n,  boys," 
said  he,  "  it's  Finnerty  himself,  disguised 
like  a  farmer.  But  he's  mad  to  travel  in  a 
pubhc  coach,  and  the  beaks  on  the  lookout 
for  him.  Hello  !  all's  right,  coachman  ;  drive 
on,  we  won't  disturb  you  //iw  night,  at  all 
events.  Gee  hup  ! — off  you  go  ;  and  off  we 
go — with  empty  pockets." 

It  happened  that  this  language,  which  the 
robber  did  not  intend  to  have  reached  the 
ears  of  the  passengers,  was  heard  neverthe- 
less, and  from  this  moment  until  they  changed 

horses  at there  was  a  dead  sUence  in 

the  coach. 


462 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


On  that  occasion  one  gentleman  left  it, 
and  he  had  scai-cely  been  half  a  minute  gone 
when  a  person,  very  much  in  the  garb  and 
bearing  of  a  modem  detective,  put  in  his 
head,  and  instantly  withdrew  it,  exclaiming, 

"  Cui'se  me,  it's  a  hit — he's  inside  as  snug 
as  a  rat  in  a  trap.  Up  mth  you  on  top  of 
the  coach,  and  we'll  pin  him  when  we  reach 
town.  'Gad,  this  is  a  windfall,  for  the  re- 
ward is  a  heavj'  one. — If  we  could  now  man- 
age the  baronet's  business,  we  were  made 
men." 

He  then  returned  into  the  coach,  and 
took  his  seat  right  opposite  the  priest,  in 
order  the  better  to  watch  his  motions,  and 
keep  him  completely  under  his  eye. 

"  Dangerous  traveling  by  night,  sir,"  said 
he,  addressing  the  priest,  anxious  to  draw 
his  man  into  conversation. 

"By  night  or  by  day,  the  rGads  are  not 
very  safe  at  the  present  time,"  repUed  his 
reverence. 

"  The  danger's  principally  by  night, 
though,"  observed  the  other.  "  This  Fin- 
neriy  is  playing  the  devil,  they  say ;  and  is 
hard  to  be  nabbed  by  all  accounts." 

The  observation  was  received  by  several 
hums,  and  hems,  and  has,  and  very  signi- 
ficant ejaculations,  whilst  a  fat,  wealthy-look- 
ing fellow,  who  sat  beside  the  peace-officer 
— -for  such  he  was— in  attempting  to  warn 
him  of  Finnerty's  presence,  by  pressing  on 
his  foot,  unfortunately  pressed  upon  that  of 
the  priest  in  mistake,  who  naturally  inter- 
preted the  hems  and  has  aforesaid  to 
apply  to  the  new-corner  instead  of  himseK. 
This  cannot  be  matter  of  surprise,  inasmuch 
as  the  priest  had  his  ears  so  completely  m\if- 
fled  up  with  the  collar  of  his  jock  and  a  thick 
cotton  kerchief,  that  he  heard  not  the  allu- 
sions which  the  robber  had  made  outside 
the  coach,  when  he  mistook  him  for  Fin- 
nerty.  He  consequently  peered  very  keenly 
at  the  last  speaker,  who  to  tell  the  truth, 
had  probably  in  his  villanous  features  ten 
times  more  the  character  and  visage  of  a 
highwayman  and  cutthroat  than  the  re- 
doubtalDle  Finnerty  himself. 

"It's  a  wonder,"  said  the  priest,  "that 
the  unfortunate  man  has  not  been  taken." 

"  Hum  !  "  exclaimed  the  officer  ;  "  unfor- 
tunate man.  My  good  fellow,  that's  very 
mild  talk  when  speaking  of  a  robber.  Don't 
you  know  that  all  robbers  deserve  the  gal- 
lows, eh?" 

"  I  know  no  such  thing,"  replied  the  priest. 
"  Many  a  man  has  Hved  by  robbing,  in  his 
day,  that  now  lives  by  catching  them  ;  and 
many  a  poor  fellow,  as  honest  as  e'er  an  in- 
dividual in  this  coach " 

"  That's  very  shocking  language,"  observed 
a  thin,  prim,  red-nosed  lady,  with  a  vinegar 


aspect,  who  sat  erect,  and  apparently  fear, 
less,  in  the  corner  of  the  coach — "very 
shocking  language,  indeed.  Vhy,  my  good 
man,  should  you  form  any  such  vf^e  kim- 
parison  ?  " 

"Nevermind,  ma'am;  never  mind,"  said 
the  officer,  whose  name  was  Darbj' ;  "let 
him  proceed  ;  fi-om  what  he  is  about  to  say, 
I  sha'n't  be  siirprised  if  he  justifies  robbery 
— not  a  bit — but  wiU  be  a  good  deal,  if  he 
don't.     Go  on,  my  good  fellow." 

"  Well,"  proceeded  the  priest,  "  I  was  go- 
ing to  say,  that  many  a  poor  wi'etch,  as 
honest     as     e'er     an    individual,    man    or 


Here  there  was,  on  the  part  of  the  lady, 
an  indignant  toss  of  the  head,  and  a  glance 
of  supreme  scorn  leveled  at  the  poor  priest ; 
whilst  Darby,  like  a  man  who  had  generously 
undertaken  the  management  of  the  whole 
discussion,  said,  with  an  air  of  conscious 
abihty,  if  not  something  more,  "  never  mind 
him,  ma'am  ;  give  him  tether." 

"  As  honest,"  persisted  the  priest,  "  as  e'er 
an  individual,  man  or  woman,  in  this  coach 
— and  maybe,  if  the  truth  were  known,  a 
good  deal  honester  than  some  of  them." 

"Good,"  observed  the  officer;  "I  agree 
with  you  in  that — right  enough  there." 

The  \inegar  lady,  now  apprehensive  that 
her  new  ally  had  scandalously  abandoned  her 
interests,  here  di'opped  her  eyes,  and  crossed 
her  hands  upon  her  breast,  as  if  she  had 
completely  withdi-awn  herself  fi'om  the  con- 
versation. 

"I  finds,"  said  she  to  herself,  in  a  con- 
temptuous soliloquy,  "  as  how  there  aint  no 
gentleman  in  this  here  wehicle." 

"Just  i^ay  attention,  ma'am,"  said  the 
officer — "just  pay  attention,  that's  all." 

This,  however,  seemed  to  have  no  effect — 
at  least  the  lady  remained  in  the  same  atti- 
tude, and  made  no  rej)ly. 

"Suppose  now,"  proceeded  the  priest, 
"that  an  unfoi'tunate  father,  in  times  of 
scarcity  and  famine,  should  sit  in  his  miser- 
able cabin,  and  see  about  him  six  or  seven  of 
his  family,  some  dying  of  fever,  and  others 
dying  from  want  of  food  ;  and  suppose  that 
he  was  driven  to  despair  by  reflecting  that 
unless  he  forced  it  fi'om  the  rich  who  wotdd 
not  out  ©f  their  abundance  prevent  his  chil- 
dren from  starving,  he  can  procure  them  re- 
Hef  in  no  other  way,  and  they  must  die  in 
the  agonies  of  hunger  before  his  face.  Sup- 
pose this,  and  that  some  wealth}'  man,  with- 
out symjjathy  for  his  fellow-creatures,  regai'd- 
less  of  the  cries  of  the  jDoor — heartless,  am- 
bitious, and  oppressive  ;  and  suppose  besides 
that  it  was  this  very  heartless  and  oppressive 
man  of  wealth  who,  by  his  pride  and  tyranny, 
and  unchristian  vengeance,  drove  that  pool 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


463 


man  and  liis  wretched  family  to  the  state  I 
have  painted  them  for  you,  in  that  cold  and 
dreary  hovel ;  suppose  all  this,  I  say,  and 
that  that  wretched  poor  man,  his  heart 
bursting,  and  his  brain  whirling,  stimulated 
by  affection,  goaded  by  hunger  and  in- 
describable misery;  suppose,  I  say,  that  in 
the  madness  of  despaii*  he  sallies  out,  and 
happens  to  meet  the  very  individual  who 
brought  him  and  his  to  such  a  dreadful  state 
— do  you  think  that  he  ought  to  let  him 
pass " 

"I  see,"  interrupted  the  officer,  "without 
bleeding  him  ;  I  knew  you  would  come  to 
that — go  along." 

"  That  he  ought  to  let  that  wealthy  op- 
pressor pass,  and  allow  the  wife  of  his  bosom 
and  his  gasping  little  ones  to  perish,  whilst 
he  knows  that  taking  that  assistance  fi'om 
him  by  violence  which  he  ought  to  give 
freely  wovdd  save  them  to  society  and  him  ? 
Mark  me,  I'm  not  justifying  robbeiy.  Every 
general  male  has  its  exception  ;  and  I'm  only 
supposing  a  case  where  the  act  of  robbeiy 
may  be  more  entitled  to  compassion  than  to 
punishment — but,  as  I  said,  I'm  not  defend- 
ing it." 

"  Ain't  you,  faith  ?  "  repHed  the  officer  ;  "  it 
looks  de^ilish  Hke  it,  though.  Don't  you 
think  so,  ma'am  ?  " 

"I  never  listens  to  no  nonsense  like  that 
ere,"  repUed  the  lady.  "  All  I  say  is,  that  a 
gentleman  as  I've  the  honor  of  being  ac- 
quainted with,  'as  been  robbed  the  other 
night  of  a  pocket-book  stuffed  Avith  bank- 
notes, and  a  case  of  Hii'ish  pistols  that  he 
kept  to  shoot  robbers,  and  sich  other  wulgar 
wretches  as  is  to  be  found  nowhere  but  in 
Hireland." 

"  Stuffed  !  "  exclaimed  the  priest,  disdain- 
fully ;  "  as  much  stuffed,  ma'am,  as  you  are." 

The  officer's  veiy  veins  tingled  with  dehght 
on  healing  the  admission  which  was  involved 
in  the  simple  priest's  exclamation.  He  kept 
it,  however,  to  himself,  on  account  of  the 
large  reward  that  lay  in  the  background. 

"  I  stuffed  !  "  exclaimed  the  indignant  lady, 
whose  thin  face  had  for  a  considerable  time 
been  visible,  for  it  was  long  past  da\\Ti  ;  "I 
defy  you,  sir,"  she  replied,  '*  you  large,  nasty, 
Hirish  farmer,  as  feeds  upon  nothing  but  ta- 
ters.  I  stuffed  \ — no  lady — you  nasty  farmer 
— goes  without  padding,  which  is  well  known 
to  any  man  as  is  a  gentleman.  But  stuffed  ! 
I  defy  you,  nasty  Paddy  ;  I  was  never  stuffed. 
Those  as  stuff  use  'oss  'aii- ;  now  I  never  uses 
'ess  'air." 

"  If  you  weren't  stuffed,  then,"  rephed  the 
priest,  who  took  a  natiu'al  disrehsh  to  her  af- 
fectation of  pride  and  haughtiness,  knowing 
her  as  he  now  did — "  many  a  better  woman 
was.     If  you  weren't,  ma'am,  it  wasn't  your 


own  fatdt.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  English 
cook  need  never  be  at  a  loss  for  plenty  to 
stuff  herself  with." 

This  was  an  extingmsher.  The  heaven  of 
her  complexion  was  instantly  concealed  by  a 
thick  cloud  in  the  shape  of  a  veil.  She  laid 
herself  back  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,' 
and  maintained  the  silence  of  a  .vanquished 
woman  during  the  remainder  of  the  journey. 

On  arriving  in  towTi  the  passengers,  as  is 
usual,  betook  themselves  to  their  respective 
destinations.  Father  M'Mahon,  with  his 
small  bundle  under  liis  arm,  was  about  to  go 
to  the  Brazen  Head  Tavern,  when  he  found 
himself  tapped  on  the  shoulder  by  our  friend 
Darby,  who  now  held  a  pistol  in  his  hand, 
and  said  : 

"  There  ai'e  eight  of  us,  j\Ii'.  Finnerty,  and 
it  is  useless  to  shy  Abraham.  You're  bagged 
at  last,  so  come  off  quietly  to  the  office." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  replied  the 
priest,  who  certainly  felt  surprised  at  seeing 
himself  surrounded  by  so  many  constables, 
for  it  was  imjDossible  any  longer  to  mistake 
them.  "  What  do  you  mean,  my  friend  ?  or 
who  do  you  suppose  me  to  be  ?  " 

The  constable  gave  him  a  knowing  wink, 
adding  with  as  knowing  an  au' — "  It's  no  go 
here,  my  lad — safe's  the  word.  Tramp  for 
the  office,  or  we'll  clap  on  the  wiist-buttons. 
"We  know  you're  a  shy  cock,  ls\x.  Finnerty, 
and  rather  modest,  too — that's  the  cut. 
Simpson,  keep  the  right  arm  fast,  and,  you, 
GanibTe,  the  left,  whilst  we  bring  up  the 
rear.  In  the  meantime,  before  he  proceeds 
a  step,  I,  as  senior,  wiU  take  the  hberty  to — 
just — ^see — what — is — here,"  whilst,  suiting 
the  word  to  the  action,  he  first  drew  a  pistol 
fi'om  the  left  pocket,  and  immediately  after 
another  fi'om  the  right,  and — shades  of  Fre- 
ney  and  O'Hanlon  ! — the  redoubtable  pocket- 
book  of  Sir  Thomas  Gouiiay,  each  and  all 
marked  not  only  with  his  crest,  but  his  name 
and  title  at  fuU  length. 

The  priest  was  not  at  a  moment's  loss  how 
to  act.  Perceiring  their  mistake  as  to  his 
identity,  and  feehug  the  force  of  appearances 
against  him,  he  desired  to  be  conducted  at 
once  to  the  office.  There  he  knew  he  could 
think  more  calmly  uj)on  the  steps  necessaiy 
to  his  liberation  than  he  could  in  a  crowd 
which  was  enlarging  every  moment,  on  its 
being  understood  that  Finnerty,  the  cele- 
brated highwayman,  had  been  at  length 
taken.  Not  that  the  crowd  gave  expression 
to  any  feeling  or  ebullition  that  was  at  all 
unfiiendly  to  him.  So  far  from  that,  it 
gathered  round  him  with  strong  expressions 
of  sympathy  and  compassion  for  his  unhappy 
fate.  Many  were  the  anecdotes  reported  to 
each  other  by  the  spectators  of  his  human- 
ity— his   chaiity — his    benevolence    to    the 


464 


WILLTAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS- 


poor ;  and,  above  all,  of  his  intrepidity  and 
courage  ;  for  it  may  be  observed  here — and 
■^e  leave  morahsts,  metaphysicians,  and  po- 
litical economists  to  draw  whatever  inferences 
they  please  from  the  fact — but  fact  it  is — 
that  in  no  instance  is  any  man  who  has 
violated  the  law  taken  up  pubUcly,  on  Irish 
ground,  whether  in  iovfn.  or  countrj%  that 
the  people  do  not  uniformly  express  the 
warmest  sympathy  for  him,  and  a  strong 
manifestation  of  enmity  against  his  captors. 
Whether  this  may  be  interpreted  favorably  or 
othei'wise  of  our  countrymen,  we  shall  not 
imdertake  to  determine.  As  Sir  Roger  de 
Coverly  said,  perhaps  much  might  be  ad- 
vanced on  both  sides. 

On  entering  the  watch-house,  the  heart  of 
the  humane  priest  was  painfully  oppressed 
at  the  scenes  of  uproar,  confusion,  debauch- 
ery, and  shameless  profligacy,  of  which  he 
saw  either  the  present  exhibition  or  the  un- 
questionable evidences.  There  was  the  lost 
and  hardened  female,  uttering  the  wild 
screams  of  intoxication,  or  poruing  forth  from 
her  dark,  filthy  place  of  confinement  torrents 
of  polluted  mu'th  ;  the  juvenile  pickpocket, 
ripe  in  all  the  ribald  wit  and  traditional 
slang  of  his  profession  ;  the  ruffian  burglar, 
with  strong  animal  frame,  daik  eyebrows, 
low  forehead,  and  face  full  of  coarseness  and 
brutahty ;  the  open  robber,  reckless  and 
jocular,  indifferent  to  consequences,  and 
holding  his  life  only  in  trust  for  the  hang- 
man, or  for  some  determined  opponent  who 
may  treat  him  to  cold  lead  instead  of  pure 
gold  ;  the  sneaking  thief,  cool  and  cowardly, 
ready-witted  at  the  extricating  falsehood — for 
it  is  well  known  that  the  thief  and  har  are 
convertible  terms — his  eye  feeble,  cunning, 
and  circumspective,  and  his  whole  appeai-- 
ance  redolent  of  dupHcity  and  fraud  ;  the 
receiver  of  stolen  goods,  affecting  much  hon- 
est simplicity  ;  the  good  creature,  whether 
man  or  woman,  appai-ently  in  great  distress, 
and  wondering  that  industrious  and  unsus- 
pecting people,  struggling  to  bring  up  their 
families  in  honesty  and  decency,  should  be 
imposed  upon  and  taken  in  by  people  that 
one  coiddn't  think  of  suspecting.  There, 
too,  was  the  servant  out  of  place,  who 
first  a  forger  of  dischai'ges,  next  became 
a  thief,  and  heroically  adventuring  to  the 
dignity  of  a  burglar  for  which  he  had  neither 
skill  nor  daring,  was  made  prisoner  in  the 
act ;  and  there  he  sits,  half  drunk,  in  that 
corner,  repenting  his  failure  instead  of  his 
crime,  forgetting  his  cowardice,  and  making 
moral  resolutions  with  himself,  that,  should 
he  escape  now,  he  will  execute  the  next 
burglary  in  a  safe  and  virtuous  state  of 
sobriety.  But  we  need  not  proceed  :  there 
was  the  idle  and  drunken  mechanic,  or,  per- 


haps, the  wife,  whose  Saturday  night  visita 
to  the  tap-room  in  order  to  fetch  him  home, 
or  to  rescue  the  wages  of  his  industry  from 
the  pubHcan,  had  at  length  corrupted  her- 
self. 

Two  other  characters  were  there  which  we 
cannot  overlook,  both  of  whom  had  passed 
through  the  world  with  a  strong  but  holy 
scorn  for  the  errors  and  faiUngs  of  their 
feUow-creatiu'es.  One  of  them  was  a  man  of 
gross,  carnal- looking  features,  trained,  as  it 
seemed  to  the  uninitiated,  into  a  severe  and 
sanctified  expression  by  the  sheer  force  of 
rehgion.  His  face  was  full  of  godly  intoler- 
ance against  eveiything  at  variance  with  the 
one  thing  needful,  whatever  that  was,  and 
against  all  who  did  not,  Hke  himself,  travel 
on  fearlessly  and  zealously  Zionwai-d.  He 
did  not  feel  himself  justified  in  the  use  of 
common  and  profane  language  ;  and,  con- 
sequently, his  vocabularv'  was  taken  piinci- 
paUy  fi'om  the  Bible,  which  he  called  "the 
Lord's  word."  Sunday  was  not  Sunday  with 
him,  but  "the  Lord's  day; "and  he  never 
went  to  chvu'ch  in  his  life,  but  always  to 
"  service."  Like  most  of  his  class,  however, 
he  seemed  to  be  influenced  by  that  extraor- 
dinary anomaly  which  chai-acterizes  the 
saints — that  is  to  say,  as  great  a  reverence 
for  the  name  of  the  devil  as  for  that  of  God 
himself  ;  for  in  his  whole  Hfe  and  conversa- 
tion he  was  never  known  to  pronounce  it  as 
we  have  "s\^ritten  it.  Satan — the  enemy — the 
destroyer,  were  the  names  he  applied  to 
him  :  and  this,  we  presume,  lest  the  world 
might  suspect  that  there  subsisted  any 
private  famiHarity  between  them.  His  great 
ruhng  piinciple,  however,  originated  in  what 
he  termed  a  godless  system  of  reHgious 
hberality  ;  in  other  words,  he  attributed  all 
the  calamities  and  scoui'ges  of  the  land  to 
the  influence  of  Popeiy,  and  its  toleration 
by  the  powers  that  be.  He  was  a  big-boned, 
coarse  man,  with  black,  greasy  hair,  cut 
short ;  projecting  cheek-bones,  that  argued 
great  cnielty  ;  dull,  but  lascivious  eyes  ;  and 
an  upper  hp  like  a  dropsical  sausage.  We 
forget  now  the  locahty  in  which  he  had  com- 
mitted the  offence  that  had  caused  him  to  be 
brought  there.  But  it  does  not  much 
matter  ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  he  was 
caught,  about  three  o'clock,  perambulating 
the  streets,  considerably  the  worse  for  liquor^ 
and  not  in  the  best  society.  Even  as  it  was, 
and  in  the  veiy  face  of  those  who  had  de- 
tected him  so  circumstanced,  he  was  raihng 
against  the  ungodliness  of  oui'  "  rulers,"  the 
degeneracy  of  human  nature,  and  the  awful 
scourges  that  the  existence  of  Popery  was 
bringing  on  the  land. 

As  it  happened,  however,  this  worthy  rep- 
resentative of  his  class  was  not  without  a 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


465 


counterpart  among  the  moral  inmates  of  the  ] 
watch-house.  Another  man,  who  was  kno^vTi 
among  his  fiiends  as  a  Cathohc  voteen,  or 
devotee,  happened  to  have  been  brought  to 
the  aame  estabhshment,  much  in  the  same 
circumstances,  and  for  some  similar  offence. 
When  compared  together,  it  was  really  cu- 
rious to  observe  the  extraordinary  resem- 
blance which  these  two  men  bore  to  each 
other.  Each  was  dressed  in  sober  clothes, 
for  your  puiitan  of  every  creed  mu.st,  like  his 
progenitors  the  Phaiisees  of  old,  have  some 
pecuhaiity  in  his  dress  that  will  gain  him 
credit  for  religion.  Their  features  were 
marked  by  the  same  dark,  suUen  shade 
which  betokens  intolerance.  The  devotee  was 
thinner,  and  not  so  large  a  man  as  the  other  ; 
but  he  ma<;le  up  in  the  cunning  energy  which 
glistened  from  liis  eyes  for  the  want  of 
physical  strength,  as  compared  with  the 
Protestant  saint ;  not  at  all  that  he  was 
deficient  in  it  per  sf,  for  though  a  smaller 
man,  he  was  better  built  and  more  compact 
than  his  brother.  Indeed,  so  nearly  identi- 
cal was  the  expression  of  their  features — the 
sensuid  ^lilesian  mouth,  and  naturally  amor- 
ous temperament,  h}i)Ocrisized  into  formal- 
ity, and  darkened  into  bitterness  by  bigotrj* 
— that  on  discovering  each  other  in  the 
watch-house,  neither  could  for  his  life  deter- 
mine whether  the  man  before  him  belonged 
to  idolatrous  Rome  on  the  one  hand,  or  the 
arch  heresy  on  the  other. 

There  they  stood,  exact  counterparts,  each 
a  thousand  times  more  anxious  to  damn  the 
other  than  to  save  himself.  They  were  not 
long,  however,  in  discovering  each  other, 
and  in  a  moment  the  jargon  of  controversy 
rang  loud  and  high  amidst  the  uproar  and 
confusion  of  the  place.  The  Protestant 
saint  attributed  all  the  iniquity  by  which 
the  land,  he  said,  was  overflowed,  and  the 
judgments  under  which  it  was  righteously 
suffering,  to  the  guUt  of  our  rulers,  who  for- 
got God,  and  connived  at  Poperj*.  J 

The  Popish  saint,  on  the  other  hand,  as-  ! 
serted  that  so  long  as  a  fat  and  oppressive 
heresy  was  permitted  to  trample  upon  the 
people,  the  country  could  never  prosper. 
Tlie  other  one  said,  that  idolatiy — Popish 
idolatry- — was  the  cause  of  aU  ;  and  that  it 
was  the  scourge  by  which  "  the  Lord  "  was 
inflicting  judicial  punishment  upon  the  coun- 
try at  lai-ge.  If  it  were  not  for  that  he  would 
not  be  in  such  a  sink  of  iniquity  at  that  mo- 
ment. Popish  idolatiy  it  was  that  brought 
him  there  ;  and  the  abominations  of  the 
Romish  harlot  were  desolating  the  land. 

The  other  replied,  that  pei'haps  she  was 
the  only  harlot  of  the  kind  he  would   run  i 
away  fiom  ;  and  maintained,  tluit  uutd  all 
heresy  was  aboUshed,  and  rooted  out  at  the  ; 


countrj',  the  curse  of  God  would  sit  upon 
them,  as  the  comipt  law  chiu'ch  does  now  in 
the  shape  of  an  overgrown  nightmare. 
A\Tiat  brought  Ixim,  who  was  ready  to  die 
for  his  persecuted  church,  here  ?  He 
could  tell  the  heretic ; — it  was  Protestant 
ascendancy,  and  he  could  prove  it ; — yes, 
Protestant  ascendancy,  and  nothing  else,  was 
it  that  brought  him  to  that  house,  its  rep- 
resentative, in  which  he  now  stood.  He 
maintained  that  it  resembled  a  watch-house  ; 
was  it  not  fuU  of  ^\-ickedness,  noise,  and 
blasphemy  ;  and  were  there  any  two  creeds 
in  it  that  agreed  together,  and  did  not  tight 
like  de^•ils? 

How  much  longer  this  fierj'  discussion 
might  have  proceeded  it  is  difficult  to  saj'. 
The  constable  of  the  night,  finding  that  the 
two  hjiiocritical  vagabonds  were  a  nuisance 
to  the  whole  place,  had  them  hiindcufi'ed  to- 
gether, and  both  placed  in  the  black  hole  to 
finish  their  argiunent. 

Li  shori,  there  was  aroimd  the  good  man 
— vice,  with  all  her  discordant  sounds  and 
hideous  aspects,  clanging  in  his  ear  the  mul- 
titudinous din  that  arose  from  the  loud  and 
noisy  tumult  of  her  bnital,  drunken,  and 
debauched  votaries. 

The  priest,  who  respected  his  cloth  and 
character,  did  not  lay  aside  his  jock,  nor  ex- 
pose himself  to  the  coarse  jests  and  mffianly 
insolence  with  which  the  vagabond  minions 
of  justice  were  in  those  days  accustomed  to 
treat  their  prisoners.  He  inquired  if  he 
could  get  a  person  to  carry  a  message  from 
him  to  a  man  named  Corbet,  Hving  at  25 
Constitution  Hill ;  adding,  tliat  he  would 
compensate  him  fau'ly.  On  thi.s,  one  of 
those  idle  loungers  or  orderhes  about  such 
places  offered  himself  at  once,  and  said  he 
would  bring  any  message  he  ■wished,  pro- 
vided he  forked  out  in  the  first  instance. 

"  Go,  then,"  said  the  priest,  handing  him 
a  piece  of  silver,  "  to  No.  25  Constitution 
Hill,  where  a  man  named  Corbet — what  am 
I  saving — Dunphy,  hves,  and  tell  him  to  come 
to  me  immediately." 

"  Ha  ! "  said  Darby,  laying  his  finger  along 
his  nose,  as  he  spoke  to  one  of  his  associ- 
ates, "  I  smell  an  alias  there.  Good  ;  first 
Corbet  and  then  Dunphy.  WTiat  do  you  call 
that?  That  chaj)  is  one  of  the  connection. 
Take  the  message,  Skipton  ;  mark  him  well, 
and  let  him  be  here,  if  i>ossible,  before  we 
bring  the  prisoner  to  Sir  Thomas  Goui-lay's." 

The  fellow  winked  in  reply,  and  approach- 
ing the  priest,  asked, 

"  "What  message  have  you  to  send,  Mr.  Fin- 
nerty  ?  " 

"Tell  him  —  but  stay;  obUge  me  with 
a  shp  of  paper  and  a  pen,  I  will  write  it 
do^Ti." 


^66 


WILLIAM  CAMLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Yes,  that's  better,"  said  Darby.  "  Noth- 
ing like  black  and  white,  you  know,"  he 
added,  aside  to  Skipton. 

Father  M'Miihon  then  wrote  do\N'n  his  of- 
fice only  ;  simply  saving,  "  The  ptuish  priest 
of  BaUytrain  wishes  to  see  Anthony  Dunphy 
as  soon  as  he  can  come  to  him." 

This  description  of  himself  excited  roars 
of  laughter  thi'oughout  the  oifice  ;  nor  could 
the  good-natured  priest  himself  help  smiling 
at  the  ludicrous  contrast  between  his  real 
character  and  that  which  had  been  affixed 
upon  him. 

"  Confoimdme,"  said  Darby,  "but  that's 
the  best  alias  I  have  heard  this  many  a  day. 
It's  as  good  as  Tom  Green's  that  was  hanged, 
and  who  always  stuck  to  his  name,  no  mat- 
ter how  often  he  changed  it.  At  one  time 
it  was  Ivy,  at  another  Laurel,  at  another 
Yew,  and  so  ofi,  poor  fellow,  until  he  swung." 
Skipton,  the  messenger,  took  the  shp  of  pa- 
per with  high  glee,  and  proceeded  on  his 
embassy  to  Constitution  HUl. 

He  had  scarcely  been  gone,  when  a  tumult 
reached  their  ears  fi-om  outside,  in  which 
one  voice  was  heard  considerably  louder  and 
deeper  than  the  rest ;  and  almost  immedi- 
ately afterwards  an  old  acquaintance  of  the 
reader's,  to  wit,  the  worthy  student,  Am- 
brose Gray,  in  a  very  respectable  state  of 
intoxication,  made  bis  appearance,  charged 
with  dininkenness,  riot,  and  a  blushing  reluc- 
tance to  pay  Lis  taveni  reckoning.  IVIi'.  Gray 
was  dragged  in  at  very  httle  expense  of  cere- 
mony, it  must  be  confessed,  but  with  some 
prospective  damage  to  his  tailor,  his  clothes 
having  received  considerable  abrasions  in 
the  scuffle,  as  well  as  his  complexion,  which 
was  beautifully  variegated  with  tints  of  black, 
blue,  and  yeUow. 

"WeU,  Mr.  Gray,"  said  Darby,  "back 
once  more  I  see?  Wliy,  you  couldn't  live 
without  us,  I  think.     What's  this  now  ?  " 

"A  deficiency  of  assets,  most  potent,"  re- 
phed  Gray,  with  a  hiccough — "  unable  to 
meet  a  rascally  tavern  reckoning  ; "  and  as 
Mr.  Gray  siwke  he  thrust  his  tongue  into 
his  cheek,  intimating  by  this  significant  act 
his  high  respect  for  'Mx.  Darby. 

"You  had  better  remember,  sir,  that  you 
are  addressing  the  senior  officer  here,"  said 
the  latter,  highly  offended. 

"  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  senior, 
I  don't  forget  it ;  nor  that  the  grand  senior 
can  become  a  most  gentlemanly  ruffian 
whenever  he  chooses.  No,  senior,  I  respect 
yoilr  ruffianship,  and  your  ruffianship  ought 
to  respect  me  ;  for  well  you  wot  that  many 
a  time  before  now  I've  greased  that  absorb- 
ing pfdm  of  yours." 

"  Ah,"  replied  Darby,  "  the  hemp  is  grown 
for  you,  and  the  rope  is  purchased  that  wiU 


soon  be  greased  for  your  last  tug.      "Whj 
didn't  you  pay  your  biU,  I  say  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  before,  most  potent,  that  that 
fact  originated  in  a  deficiency  of  assets." 

"  I  rather  think,  l^Ix.  Gray,"  said  Darby, 
"  that  it  originated  in  a  veiy  different  kind 
of  deficiency — a  deficiency  of  inclination,  my 
buck." 

"  In  both,  most  reverend  senior,  and  I  act 
on  scriptural  principles  ;  for  what  does  pa- 
tient Job  say?  'Base  is  the  slave  that 
pays.'" 

"  Well,  my  good  feUow,  if  you  don't  pay, 
you'll  be  apt  to  receive,  some  tine  day,  that's 
all,"  and  here  he  made  a  motion  with  his 
arm,  as  if  he  were  administering  the  cat-o'- 
nine-tails  ;  "  however,  this  is  not  my  busi- 
ness. Here  comes  Mi's.  Mulroony  to  make 
her  charge.  I  accordingly  shove  you  over 
to  Ned  Nightcajj,  the  officer  for  the  night." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Gray,  "I  see,  most 
potent,  you  have  operated  before.  Row-de- 
dow-de-dow,  my  boy.  There  was  a  profes- 
sional touch  in  that  jerk  that  couldn't  be 
mistaken  :  that  quiver  at  the  "UTist  was  beau- 
tiful, and  the  position  of  the  arm  a  perfect 
triangle.  It  must  have  been  quite  a  pleasure 
to  have  suffered  from  such  a  scientific  hand 
as  yours.  How  do  you  do  again,  Mrs.  Mul- 
roony ?  INIi's.  Muh'oony,  I  hojDe  you  did  not 
come  without  some  refreshment.  And  you'll 
withdraw  the  charge,  for  the  sake  of  futu- 
rity, Mrs.  Muh'oony." 

"  If  you  do,  Mrs.  Mvdroony,"  said  Darby, 
"  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  look  to  futurity 
for  payment.  I  mean  to  that  part  of  it  com- 
monly called  'to-morrow  comenever.' — Make 
your  charge,  ma'am." 

Here  a  pale-faced,  sinister-looking  old 
fellow,  in  a  red  woollen  nightcap,  with  baggy 
protuberances  hanging  imder  his  red  bleared 
eyes,  now  came  to  a  little  half  door,  inside 
of  which  stood  his  office  for  recei\ing  all 
charges  against  the  vaiious  dehnquents  that 
the  Charlies,  or  watchmen  of  the  period,  had 
conducted  to  him. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  in  a  hoarse,  hollow  voice, 
"  what's  this — what's  this  ?  Another  charge 
against  you,  IVIi*.  Gray?  Garvy,"  said  he, 
addressing  a  watchman,  "teU  them  vaga- 
bones  that  if  they  don't  keep  quiet  I'll  put 
them  in  irons." 

This  threat  was  received  vdth.  a  chorus  of 
derision  by  those  to  whom  it  was  addressed; 
and  the  noise  was  increased  so  furiously, 
that  it  resembled  the  clamor  of  Babel. 

"Here,  Garvy,"  said  honest  Ned,  "tickle 
some  of  them  a  bit.  Touch  up  that  bullet- 
headed  house-breaker  that's  drunk — Sam 
Stancheon,  they  call  him — lave  a  nate  im- 
pression of  the  big  kay  on  his  head ; 
he'U  undherstand  it,  you  Imow ;  and  there's 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


467 


Molly  Brady,  or  Emily  Howard,  as  she  calls 
herself,  give  her  a  clink  on  the  noddle  to 
stop  her  jinteeKty.  Blast  her  pedigree  ; 
nothing  will  serve  her  hut  she  must  be  a 
lady  on  our  hands.  Tell  her  I'll  not  lave  a 
copper  ring  or  a  glass  brooch  on  her  body  if 
she's  not  quiet." 

The  watchman  named  GaiTy  took  the 
heavy  keys,  and  big  with  the  deputed  author- 
ity, swept,  like  tlie  destroying  angel  upon  a 
small  scale,  through  the  tumultuous  crew 
that  were  assembled  in  this  villauous  pande- 
monium, thi-ashing  the  unfortunate  vaga- 
bonds on  the  naked  head,  or  other^vise,  as 
the  case  might  be,  without  regard  to  age, 
sex,  or  condition,  leaving  bumps,  welts, 
cuts,  oaths,  curses,  and  execrations,  ad  in- 
finilum,  behind  him.  Owing  to  this  distii- 
bution  of  official  justice  a  pai'tial  calm  was 
restored,  and  the  charge  of  'Mis.  Mulroony 
was  opened  in  form. 

"  Well,  jNIrs.  Mulroony,  what  charge  is 
this  you  have  against  IVIisther  Gray  ?  " 

"  Because,"  rephed  Ambrose,  "  I  wasn't 
in  possession  of  assets  to  pay  her  owti. 
Had  I  met  her  most  iniquitous  charge  at 
home,  honest  Ned,  I  should  have  escaped 
the  minor  one  here.  You  know  of  old,  Ned, 
how  she  lost  her  conscience  one  night,  about 
ten  yeai's  ago  ;  and  the  poor  woman,  al- 
though she  put  it  in  the  'Hue  and  Ciy,'  by 
way  of  novelty,  never  got  it  since.  None  of 
the  officers  of  justice  knew  of  such  a  com- 
modity ;  ergo,  Ned,  I  sufter." 

Here  j\lr.  Ambrose  winked  at  Ned,  and 
touched  his  breeches  pocket  significantly, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  the  bribe  is  where  you 
know." 

Ned,  however,  was  strictly  impartial,  and 
declined,  with  most  commendable  virtue,  to 
recognize  the  signal,  until  he  saw  whether 
]Mi's.  Mulroony  did  not  understand  "  gener- 
osity "  as  well  as  Mr.  Gray. 

"  Misther  Gray,  I'll  thank  you  to  button 
your  Hp,  if  you  plaise.  It's  aU  very  right,  I 
suppose  ;  but  in  the  manetime  let  daicent 
ISIrs.  Mulroony  tell  her  own  story.  How  is 
it,  ma'am?" 

"Faith,  plain  enough,"  she  rephed  ;  "he 
came  in  about  half  past  five  o'clock,  with 
three  or  four  skips  from  college " 

"  Scamps,  !Mrs.  Mulroony.  Be  just,  be 
correct,  ma'am.  We  were  all  gentlemen 
scamps,  Ned,  fi'om  college.  Everj-body 
knows  that  a  college  scamp  is  a  respectable 
character,  especifxlly  if  he  be  a  di^'inity  stu- 
dent, a  class  whom  we  are  proud  to  place  at 
our  head.  You  are  now  corrected,  'Mis. 
Mulroony — proceed. " 

"  WeU  ;  he  tould  me  to  get  a  dinner  for 
five ;  but  first  asked  to  see  what  he  called 
■  the  bill  of  hair.'  " 


I      "  In  your  hands  it  is  anything  but  a  bil3 
of  rights,  ]\Irs.  Mulroony." 

"I  tould  him  not  to  trouble  himself  ;  that 
my  dinner  was  as  good  as  another's,  which 
I  thought  might  satisfy  him  ;  but  instead 
o'  that,  he  had  the  assurance  to  a.sk  me  if  1 
could  give  them  hair  soup.  I  knew  very 
well  what  the  skip  was  at." 

"  Scamp,  ma'am,  and  you  will  oblige  me." 

"For  if  giief  for  poor  Andy  (weeping), 
that  suffered  mainly  for  what  he  was  as  in- 
nocent of  as  the  unborn  child — if  grief,  an 
eveiy  one  knows  it  makes  the  haii'  to  fall ; 
an'  afther  all  it's  only  a  bit  of  a  front  I'm 
wearin'  ; — ah,  you  villain,  it  was  an  ill-heart- 
ed cut,  that." 

"  It  wasn't  a  cut  did  it,  Mrs.  Mulroony  ; 
it  fell  oif  naturally,  and  by  instalments — or 
rather  it  iva.i  a  cut,  and  that  was  what  made 
you  feel  it ;  that  youthful  old  gentleman. 
Time,  gave  it  a  touch  with  a  certain  scythe  he 
carries.  No  such  croppy  as  old  Time,  ^Vlrs. 
Mulroony."  On  concluding,  he  winked  again 
at  old  Ned,  and  touched  his  pocket  as  before. 

"  jMr.  Amb}',  be  quiet,"  said  Ned,  rather 
complacently  though,  "  an'  let  daicent  Mrs. 
Muh'oony  go  on." 

"'Well,  then,'  says  he,  'if  you  haven't 
'  haip-soup,'  which  was  as  much  as  to  say — 
makin'  his  0"\\'n  fun  before  the  strangers — 
that  I  ought  to  boil  my  veiy  wig  to  plaise 
him — my  front,  I  mane,  'maybe,'  says  he. 
'you  have  oxtail.'  Well,  flesh  and  blood 
could  hardly  bear  that,  and  I  said  it  was  a 
scandal  for  him  to  treat  an  industrious,  im- 
projected  widow  in  such  a  way  ; '  if  you  want 
a  dinner,  ]Mi'.  Gray,'  says  I,  '  I  can  give  you 
and  your  friends  a  jacketful  of  honest  corned 
beef  and  greens.'     WeU,  my  dear " 

At  this  insinuating  expression  of  tender^ 
ness,  old  Ned,  aware,  for  the  first  time,  that 
she  was  a  widow,  and  kept  that  most  con- 
venient of  estabUshmeuts,  an  eating-house, 
cocked  his  nightcap,  -with  great  sjiirit  and 
signfficance,  and  with  an  attempt  at  a  leer, 
which,  from  the  force  of  habit,  made  him  look 
upon  her  rather  as  the  ciiminal  than  the  ac- 
cuser, he  said — "It  was  scandalous,  Mrs. 
Mulroony  ;  and  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  impro- 
tected,  ma'am  ;  it's  a  pity,  too,  to  see  sich  a 
woman  as  you  are  Anthout  somebody  to 
take  care  of  her,  and  especially  one  that  id 
undherstand  swindlin'.  But  what  happened 
next,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Wliy,  my  dear — indeed,  I  owe  you  manj 
thanks  for  your  kindness — you  se^,  my 
dear," — the  nightcap  here  seemed  to  move 
and  erect  itself  instinctively — "this  fellow 
turns  round,  and  says  to  the  other  foiu"  skips 
— '  Gentlemen,'  says  he,  '  could  you  conde — 
condescend,'  I  think  it  was — yes — '  could 
you  condescend  to  dine  upon  corned  beei 


468 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


and  greens?  They  said,  not  unless  it 
would  oblige  him  ;  and  then  he  said  it 
wasn't  to  obUge  him,  but  to  sarve  the  house 
he  did  it.  So,  to  make  a  long  stoiy  short, 
they  filled  themselves  with  my  victuals, 
drank  seven  tumblers  of  jDimch  each,  kept 
playin'  cards  the  whole  night,  and  then  fell 
a  fightin' — smashed  glass,  delft,  and  every- 
thing ;  and  when  it  was  momin',  sUpped 
out,  one  by  one,  till  I  caught  mj'  skip  here, 
the  last  of  them " 

"  Scamp,  IMi's.  Eoony ;  a  gentleman 
scamp,  known  to  every  one  as  a  most  re- 
spectable character  on  town." 

"  When  I  cavight  him  going  off  without 
paj'ment,  he  fairly  laughed  in  my  face,  and 
offered  to  toss  me." 

" Oh,  the  villain !  "  said  Ned  ;  "I  only 
wish  I  had  been  there,  Mrs.  Midroony, 
and  you  wouldn't  have  wanted  what  I  am 
Sony  to  see  you  do  want — a  protector.  The 
villain,  to  go  to  toss  such  a  woman — ^to  go 
to  take  such  scandalous  liberties  !  Go  on, 
ma'am — go  on,  my  dear  IVIrs.  Mulroony." 

"  "WeU,  my  dear,  he  offered,  as  I  said,  to 
toss  me  for  it— double  or  quits — and  when  I 
wouldn't  stand  that,  he  asked  me  if  I  would 
allow  him  to  kiss  it  in,  at  so  many  kisses  a- 
day  ;  but  I  told  him  that  coin  wouldn't  pass 
wid  me." 

"  He's  a  swndler,  ma'am  ;  no  doubt  of  it, 
and  you'll  never  be  safe  till  you  have  some 
one  to  protect  you  that  understands  swindlin' 
and  imposition.  Well,  ma'am — well,  my 
dear  ma'am,  what  next  ?  " 

"Why,  he  then  attempted  to  escape  ;  but 
as  I  happened  to  have  a  stout  ladle  in  my 
hand,  I  thought  a  good  basting  wouldn't  do 
him  any  harm,  and  while  I  was  layin'  on  him 
two  sailors  came  in,  and  they  took  him  out 
of  my  hands." 

"  Out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire,  you 
ought  to  say,  IVIi-s.  Mulroony." 

"So  he  and  they  fought,  and  smashed  an- 
other lot  of  glass,  and  then  I  set  out  and 
charged  him  on  the  watch.  Oh,  murdher 
sheery — to  think  the  way  my  beautiful  beef 
and  greens  went !  " 

Here  Mr.  Aml>rose,  approaching  Mrs. 
Mulroony,  whispered — "  My  dear  Mrs.  Mul- 
roony, remember  one  word— futurity  ;  heir 
apparent — heir  direct ;  so  be  moderate,  and 
a  short  time  will  place  you  in  easy  circum- 
stances. The  event  that's  coming  will  be  a 
stunner." 

"  What's  that  he's  sayin'  to  you,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Mulroony  ?  "  asked  Ned  ;  "  don't  Hsten 
to  him,  he'll  only  soodher  and  palaver  you. 
I'll  take  your  charge,  and  lock  lum  up." 

"  Darby,"  said  Mr.  Gray,  now  approach- 
ing that  woi'thy,  "  a  single  word  with  you — 
we  undei'stand  one  another — I  intended  to 


bribe  old  Ned,  the  \'illain  ;  but  you  shall 
have  it." 

"  Very  good,  it's  a  bargain,"  repHed  the 
vii'tuous  Darby  ;  "  fork  out." 

"  Here,  then,  is  ten  shillings,  and  bring 
me  out  of  it." 

Darby  privately  pocketed  the  money,  and 
moving  toward  Ned,  whispered  to  him — 
"  Don't  take  the  charge  for  a  few  minutes. 
I'll  fleece  them  both.  Amby  has  given  me 
half-a-croT\Ti ;  another  from  her,  and  then 
half  and  half  between  us.  IVIrs.  Muh-oony, 
a  word  with  j^ou.  Listen — do  you  wish  to 
succeed  in  this  business  ?  " 

"  To  be  sui-e  I  do  ;  why  not  ?  " 

"  WeU,  then,  if  you  do,  slip  me  five  shil- 
hngs,  or  you're  dished,  like  one  of  yoiu*  own 
dinners,  and  that  Amby  Gray  wiU  shce  you 
to  pieces.  Ned's  his  friend  at  heart,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Well,  but  you'll  see  me  rightified  ?  " 

"  Hand  the  money,  ma'am  ;  do  you  know 
who  you're  speaking  to  ?  The  senior  of  the 
office." 

On  receiving  the  money,  the  honest  senior 
whispers  to  the  honest  officer  of  the  night — 
"  A  crown  from  both,  that  is,  half  fi'om  each  ; 
and  now  act  as  you  like  ;  but  if  you  take 
the  widow's  charge,  we'll  have  a  fi'ee  plate, 
at  aU  events,  whenever  we  call  to  see  her, 
you  know." 

Honest  Ned,  feehng  indignant  that  he 
was  not  himseK  the  dii'ect  recij^ient  of  the 
bribes,  and  also  anxious  to  win  favor  in  the 
widow's  eyes,  took  the  charge  against  IMr. 
Gray,  who  was  veiy  soon  locked  up,  with 
the  "  miscellanies,"  in  the  black  hole,  until 
bail  could  be  procured. 

On  finding  that  matters  had  gone  against 
him.  Gray,  who,  although  unaffected  in 
speech,  was  yet  rather  tipsy,  assumed  a  look 
of  singular  importance,  as  if  to  console  him- 
self for  the  degi-adation  he  was  about  to 
undergo  ;  he  composed  his  face  into  an  ex- 
pression that  gave  a  ludicrous  travesty  of 
dignity. 

"  WeU,"  said  he,  with  a  solemn  swagger, 
nodding  his  head  from  side  to  side  as  he 
spoke,  in  order  to  impress  what  he  uttered 
with  a  more  mysterious  emphasis — "you 
are  all  acting  in  ignorance,  quite  so  ;  Httle 
you  know  who  the  person  is  that's  before 
you  ;  but  it  doesn't  signify — ^I  am  some- 
body, at  all  events." 

"A  gentleman  in  disguise,"  said  a  voice 
from  the  black  hole.  "  You'll  find  some  of 
;four  friends  here." 

"You  are  right,  my  good  feUow — you 
are  perfectly  right ; "  said  Ambrose,  nodding 
with  drunken  gravity,  as  before  ;  "  high 
blood  runs  in  my  veins,  and  time  will  soon 
tell  that ;  I  shall  stand  and  be  returned  for 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


469 


the   town  of  Bsilly train,  as   soon   as   there 
comes  a  dissolution  ;  I'm  bent  on  that." 

"  Bravo  !  hurra  !  a  very  proi:)er  member 
you'll  make  for  it,"  from  the  l)lack  hole. 

"  And  I  shall  have  the  Au^'ean  stables  of 
these  corrupt  offices  swept  of  their  filth. 
Ned,  the  scoundrel,  shall  be  -sent  to  the  right 
about ;  jMi'.  Darby,  for  his  honesty,  shall 
hiive  each  wrist  embraced  by  a  namesake." 

Here  he  was  shoved  by  Garvy,  the  watch- 
man, head  foremost  into  the  black  hole, 
after  liaA^ing  received  an  impulse  fi'om  be- 
ll ind,  kindly  intended  to  fjicihtate  his  iu<^ess, 
wliich,  notwithstandinfi^  his  drunken  ambi- 
tion, the  boast  of  his  high  blood,  and  mighty 
jn'omises,  was  made  with  extraordinary  want 
of  dignity. 

Although  we  have  described  this  scene 
nearly  in  consecutive  order,  Arithout  the 
breaks  and  interruptions  which  took  j^lace 
whilst  it  proceeded,  3'et  th^  reader  should 
imagine  to  himself  the  outrage,  the  yelling, 
the  clamor,  the  by-biittles,  and  scurrilous 
contests  in  the  lowest  description  of  black- 
guardism A\ith  which  it  was  garnished  ;  thus 
causing  it  to  occuj^y  at  least  four  times 
the  period  we  have  ascribed  to  it.  The 
simple-minded  priest,  who  could  never  have 
dreamt  of  such  an  exhibition,  scai'cely  knew 
whether  he  was  asleep  or  awake,  and  some- 
times asked  himself  whether  it  was  not 
some  terrible  phantasm  by  which  he  was 
stai'tled  and  oppressed.  The  horrible  im- 
press of  naked  and  hardened  villauy — the 
light  and  mirthful  delirium  of  crime — the 
wanton  manifestations  of  vice,  in  all  its 
shapes,  and  the  unblushiug  front  of  de- 
bauchery and  profligacy — constituted,  when 
brought  together  in  one  hideous  grouj),  a 
sight  which  made  his  heart  groan  for  human 
nature  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  coriaiptiou 
of  human  law  on  the  other. 

"The  contamination  of  vice  here,"  said  ho 
to  himself,  "is  so  concentrated  and  deadly, 
that  innocence  or  virtue  could  not  long  re- 
sist its  influence.     Alas !  alas  ! " 

Old  Dunphy  now  made  his  appearance  ; 
but  he  had  scarcely  time  to  shake  hands 
with  the  priest,  when  he  heard  himself  ad- 
dressed from  between  the  bars  of  Gray's 
limbo,  mth  the  words, 

"I  sjiy,  old  Corbet,  or  Dunphy,  or  what- 
ever the  devil  they  call  you  ;  here's  a  rela- 
tion of  yours  by  the  mother's  side  only,  you 
old  dog — miu'k  that ;  here  I  am,  Ambrose 
Gray,  a  gentleman  in  disguise,  as  you  weU 
know  ;  and  I  want  you  to  bail  me  out." 

"An' a  respectable  way  you  ax  it,"  said 
Dunphy,  putting  on  his  spectacles,  and  look- 
ing at  him  through  the  biU's. 

"Respect !  What,  to  a  beggarly  old  huck- 
eVr  and  kidnapper !     "NVhy,  you  peniu'ious 


slicer  of  musty  bacon — you  iniquitous  dealer 
in  hght  weights — what  respect  are  you  en- 
titled to  from  me  ?  You  know  who  I  am — • 
and  you  must  bail  me.  Otherwise  never 
expect,  when  the  time  comes,  that  I  shall 
recognize  you  as  a  base  relative,  or  suffer 
you  to  show  your  ferret  face  in  my  presence." 
"Ah  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  bitterly  ; 
"the  blood  is  in  you." 

"  llight,  my  old  potatomonger  ;  as  true  as 
gospel,  and  a  great  detd  truer.  The  blood 
is  in  me." 

"Ay,"  repHed  the  other,  "the  blood  of 
the  oppressor— the  blood  of  the  villain — the 
blood  of  the  unjust  t3Tant  is  in  you,  and  no- 
thing else.  If  you  had  his  j^ower,  you'd  be 
what  he  is,  and  maybe,  Avorse,  if  the  thing 
was  possible.  Now,  listen  ;  I'll  make  the 
words  you  just  said  to  me  the  bitterest  and 
I  blackest  to  yourself  that  you  ever  spoke. 
I  That's  the  last  information  I  have  for  you  ; 
and  as  I  know  that  you're  just  where  you 
ought  to  be,  among  the  companions  you 
are  fit  for,  there  I  leave  you." 

He  then  turned  towiu-d  the  priest,  and 
left  Gray  to  get  bail  where  he  might. 

^^^len  Skipton,  the  messenger,  who  re- 
turned Arith  Dunijhy,  or  Corbet,  as  we  shall  in 
future  call  him,  entered  the  watch-house, 
he  di'ew  Darby  aside,  and  held  some  private 
conversation  AN'ith  him,  of  which  it  was  evi- 
dent that  Corbet  was  the  subject,  fi-om  the 
significant  glances  which  each  turned  ujion 
him  from  time  to  time. 

In  the  meantime,  the  old  man,  recogniz- 
ing the  priest  rather  by  his  voice  than  his 
appearance,  lost  no  time  in  acquainting  the 
officers  of  justice  that  they  were  completely 
mistaken  in  the  indiridmil.  The  latter  had 
briefly  mentioned  to  him  the  circumstance 
and  cause  of  his  arrest. 

"I  want  you,"  said  the  priest,  "to  go  to 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  directly,  and  teU  him 
that  I  have  his  money  and  pistols  quite  safe, 
and  that  I  was  on  my  way  up  to  toA\-n  Arith 
them,  when  this  uni^leasant  mistake  took 
place." 

"I  will,  yovir  reverence,"  said  he,  "with' 
out  loss  of  time.  I  see,"  he  atlded,  atldress- 
ing  Darby  and  the  others,  "  that  you  have 
made  a  mistake  here." 

"What  mistake,  my  good  man?"  asked 
Darby. 

"  ^^^ly,  simply,  that  instead  of  a  robber, 
you  have  been  sharj)  enough  to  take  up  a 
most  respectable  Cathohc  clergj-mjm  fx-om 
Ballytrain." 

"  What,"  said  Darby,  "  a  PopLsh  priest ! 
Curse  me,  but  that's  as  good,  if  not  better, 
than  the  other  thing.  No  Papist  is  allowed, 
under  the  penidty  of  a  felony,  to  cju-i-y  arms, 
and  here  is  a  Popish  priest  travelling  with 


470 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


pistols.  The  other  thing,  Skipton,  vras  only 
for  the  magistrates,  but  this  is  a  govem- 
ment  aifair." 

"He  may  be  Fiimerty,  after  all,"  replied 
Skipton,  aside  ;  "  this  old  fellow  is  no  au- 
thority as  to  his  identity,  as  you  may  guess 
from  what  I  told  you." 

"At  all  events,"  replied  Darby,  "  we  shall 
soon  know  which  he  is — jDriest  or  robber ; 
but  I  hope,  for  our  o^^^l  sakes,  he'U  prove  a 
priest  on  our  hands.  At  any  rate  the  magis- 
trates are  now  in  the  office,  and  it's  fiill  time 
to  bring  his  reverence  up." 

Corbet,  in  the  meantime,  had  gone  to  Sir 
Thomas  Goui'lay's  with  his  reverence's  mes- 
sage, and  in  a  few  minutes  afterwaixls  the 
prisoner,  strongly  guarded,  was  conducted  to 
the  police  office. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

The  Police  Office — Sir  Spigot  Sputter  and  Mr. 
Coke — An  ifnfortunate  Translatoi- — Decision  in 
' '  a  Law  Case. " 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  detail  the  history 
of  occurrences  that  are  calculated  to  fill  the 
mind  with  sorrow,  not  unmingled  with  dis- 
gust, or  to  describe  scenes  that  must  neces- 
sarily lower  oui*  estimate  of  both  man  and 
w^oman.  On  the  bench  sat  two  magistrates, 
of  whom  we  may  say  that,  from  ignorance  of 
law,  want  of  temper,  and  impenetrable  stu- 
pidity, the  whole  circle  of  commercial  or 
professional  hfe  could  not  produce  a  pair 
more  signally  unqualified  for  the  important 
offices  they  occupied.  One  of  them,  named 
Sputter,  Sir  Spigot^putter,  was  an  old  man, 
with  a  red  face  and  perpetual  giin,  whose 
white  hair  was  cropped  close  ;  but  in  com- 
pensation for  this  he  wore  jjowder  and  a 
queue,  so  that  his  head,  except  in  Aivacity  of 
motion,  might  not  inappropriately  be  com- 
pared to  an  overgrown  tadpole  struggling  to 
get  fi*ee  fi'om  his  shoulders,  and  escape  to 
the  nearest  marsh.  He  also  wore  a  false  eye, 
which  gave  him  a  perennial  blink  that  was 
sadly  at  variance  with  magisterial  dignity. 
Lideed  the  consequences  of  it  Avere  sometimes 
ludicrous  enough.  WTien,  for  instance,  one 
of  those  sjTcns  who  perambulate  our  fashion- 
able streets  after  the  sun  has  gone  down, 
happened  to  be  brought  up  to  answer  some 
charge  that  came  under  his  jurisdiction,  Sir 
Spigot's  custom  always  was  to  piit  his  glass 
to  the  safe  eye,  and  peer  at  her  in  the  dock  ; 
which  act,  when  taken  in  connection  with 
the  grin  and  the  droop  of  tlie  glass  eye, 
seemed  to  the  spectators  as  if  he  and  she 
understood  each  other,  and  that  the  wink  in 


question  was  a  kind  of  telegraphic  dispatch 
sent  to  let  her  know  that  she  had  a  friend 
on  the  bench.  Su'  Sj^igot  was  deaf,  too,  a 
fehcitous  cu-cumstance,  which  gave  him 
jDecuhai'  facility  in  the  decision  of  his 
cases. 

The  name  of  his  brother  on  the  bench  was 
Cpkej  who  acted  in  the  capacity  of  what  is 
termed  a  law  magistrate.  It  is  enough,  how- 
ever, to  say,  that  he  was  a  thin  man,  with  a 
long,  dull  face,  a  dull  eye,  a  dull  tongue,  a 
dull  ear,  and  a  duU  brain.  His  talents  for 
ambigxiity  were  surj^rising,  and  it  always  re- 
quired a  hint  from  the  senior  of  the  office. 
Darby,  to  enable  him  to  understand  his  own 
decisions.  This,  howevei*,  was  not  without 
some  beneficial  consequences  to  the  indiAdd- 
uals  before  him  ;  as  it  often  happened,  that 
when  he  seemed  to  have  committed  some 
hardened  offender,  after  the  infliction  of  a 
long,  laborious,  obscure  harangue,  he  has 
immediately  ordered  him  to  be  discharged. 
And,  on  the  contrary,  when  some  innocent 
individual  heard  mth  delight  the  sentence  of 
the  court  apparently  in  his  favor,  judge  of 
what  he  must  have  felt  on  finding  himself 
sent  off  to  Newgate,  Kilmainham,  or  the 
Penitentiary^  In  this  instance,  however,  the 
advantage  to  the  public  was  nearly  equal ; 
for  if  the  guHty  escaped  in  one  case,  so  did 
the  innocent  in  another.  Here  now  is  where 
Darby  became  useful ;  for  Darby,  who  was 
well  acquainted  A\T.th  his  style,  and  with  his 
meaning,  when  he  had  any,  always  interj^ret- 
ed  his  decisions  to  him,  and  told  him  in  a 
whisper,  or  on  a  shj^  of  paper,  whether  he  had 
convicted  the  prisoner,  or  not. 

We  shall  detail  one  case  which  occurred 
this  morning.  It  happened  that  an  amiable 
and  distinguished  literary  gentleman,  an 
TjL.D.,  and  a  barrister,  had  lost  from  his  h- 
brary  a  book  on  which  he  placed  gi'eat  value, 
and  he  found  this  book  on  a  stall  not  veiy 
far  from  the  office.  On  seeing  the  voliune 
he  naturally  claimed  it,  and  the  woman  who 
had  received  it  from  the  thief,  who  was  a 
servant,  refused  to  give  it  up,  unless  the 
money  she  had  paid  for  it  were  returned  to 
her.  Neither  would  the  wretch  disclose  the 
name  of  the  thief,  but  snapjDed  her  fingers  in 

Dr.  A 's  face,  saying  she  defied  him,  and 

that  he  could  only  bring  her  before  Mi\ 
Coke,  who,  she  knew  very  well,  would  see 
justice  done  her.  She  lived  by  buying 
books,  she  said,  and  by  selling  books  ;  and 
as  he  lived  by  writing  books,  she  thought  it 
wasn't  handsome  of  him  to  insult  the  profes- 
sion by  bringing  such  a  blackguard  charge 
against  them  in  her  name. 

He  summoned  her,  however,  and  the  case 
was  one  of  the  first  called  on  the  morning  in 
question.     The  receiver  of  the  stolen  book 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


471 


came  forwaid,  with  much  assurance,  as  de- 
fendant, and  modest  Dr.  A as  plaintiff ; 

when  Sir  Spigot,  putting  his  glass  to  his 
eye,  and  looking  from  the  one  to  the  other 
with  his  wink  and  grin  as  usual,  said  to 
Darby : 

"  What  is  this  man  here  for?  " 

"  It's  a  law  case,  youi*  worship,"  rephed  the 
Senior  officer. 

Coke,  who  sat  solemn  and  silent,  looked  at 
the  doctor,  and  said  : 

"  Well,  sir,  what  is  your  case  ?  Please  to 
state  it." 

The  case,  being  a  veiy  plain  and  brief  one, 
was  soon  stated,  the  woman's  reply  was  then 
heard,  after  which  i\ii'.  Coke  looked  graver 
than  before,  and  proceeded  somewhat  to  the 
following  effect : 

"This  is  a  case  of  deep  interest  to  that 
impoi-taut  portion  of  the  bibiliopoHst  pro- 
fession who  vend  their  wai-es  on  stalls." 

"Thank  your  worship,"  said  the  woman, 
with  a  coiu'tesy. 

"  This  most  respectable  body  of  persons, 
the  booksellers — [another  courtesy  fr-om  the 
woman] — are  di%'ided  into  several  classes; 
first,  those  who  sell  books  in  lai'ge  and  splen- 
did shops  ;  next,  those  who  sell  them  in 
shops  of  less  pretension  ;  thii'dly,  those  who 
sell  them  on  stalls  in  thoroughfares,  and  at 
the  comers  of  streets  ;  fovu'thly,  those  who 
cany  them  in  baskets,  and  who  pass  fr'om 
place  to  place,  and  combine  with  the  book- 
selling business  that  of  fljing  stationer  ;  and 
fifthly,  those  who  do  not  sell  them  at  all,  but 
only  read  them  ;  and  as  those  who  read,  un- 
less they  steal  or  borrow,  must  jxirchase,  I 
accordingly  class  them  as  booksellers  indi- 
rectly, inasmuch  as  if  they  don't  sell  books 
themselves,  they  cause  others  to  do  so.  For 
this  reason  it  is  evident  that  eveiy  man 
hving,  and  woman  too,  capable  of  reading  a 
book,  is  a  bookseller  ;  so  that  society  at  large 
is  nothing  but  one  great  booksellmg  firm. 

"Ha^■ing  thus  estabHshed  the  immense 
extent  and  importance  of  the  business,  I 
now  proceed  to  the  consideration  of  the  case 
before  us.  To  steal  a  book  is  not  in  eveiy 
case  an  offence  against  the  law  of  hbel,  nor 
against  the  law  of  arson,  nor  against  the  law 
of  insuiTection,  nor  against  the  law  of 
primogeniture  ;  in  fact,  it  is  only  against  the 
law  of  theft — it  offends  only  one  law — and 
is  innocent  -with  respect  to  all  the  others. 
A  person  stealing  a  book  could  not  be  in- 
dicted under  the  statute  of  hmitations,  for 
instance  ;  except,  indeed,  ui  so  f:u-  as  he  may 
be  supposed  to  hmit  the  property  of  the 
person  from  whom  he  stole  it.  But  on  this 
point  the  opinion  of  the  learned  Folderol 
would  go  pretty  far,  were  it  not  for  the 
opinion  of  another  great  man,  which  I  shall 


presently  quote.  Folderol  lays  it  down  as  a 
fixed  principle  in  an  able  treatise  upon  the 
law  of  weathercocks,  that  if  property  be 
stolen  from  an  mdividual,  "without  the  aggre- 
gate of  that  property  suffering  reduction  or 
diminution,  he  is  not  robbed,  and  the  crime 
of  tlieft  has  not  been  committed.  The  other 
authority  that  I  alluded  to,  is  that  of  hia 
great  and  equally  celebrated  opponent, 
Tolderol,  who  lays  it  down  on  the  other 
hand,  that  when  a  thief,  in  the  act  of  steahug, 
leaves  more  behind  him  than  he  found  there 
at  first,  so  that  the  man  stolen  from  becomes 
richer  by  the  act  of  theft  than  he  had  been 
befoi-e  it,  the  crime  then  becomes  dnplicvr 
delicti,  or  one  of  haiinn-scarum,  according  tc 
Doodle,  and  the  thief  deserves  transportatior 
or  the  gallows.  ^Vnd  the  reason  is  obrious 
if  the  property  of  the  person  stolen  from, 
under  the  latter  category,  were  to  be  ex- 
amined, and  that  a  larger  portion  of  it  was 
fomid  there  than  properly  had  belonged  to 
him  before  the  theft,  he  might  be  suspected 
of  theft  himself,  and  in  this  case  a  double 
conviction  of  the  pai'ties  would  ensue  ;  that 
is,  of  him  who  did  not  take  wliat  he  ought, 
and  of  him  who  had  more  than  he  was  en- 
titled to.  Tliis  opinion,  which  is  remai'kable 
for  its  perspicuity  and  soundness,  is  to  be 
foimd  in  the  one  himdi-ed  and  second  foho 
of  Logerhedius,  tome  six  hundred,  page 
9768. 

"  There  is  another  case  bearing  strongly 
upon  the  present  one,  in  '  Snifter  and 
Snivell's  Eej^orts,'  vol.  86,  jiage  1480,  in 
which  an  old  woman,  who  was  too  poor  to 
purchase  a  Bible,  stole  one,  and  was  prose- 
cuted for  the  theft.  The  counsel  for  the 
prosecution  and  the  defence  were  both 
ecjually  eminent  ;md  able.  Counsellor  Sleek 
was  for  the  prosecution  and  Rant  for  the 
defence.  Sleek,  who  was  himself  a  rehgious 
ban-ister,  insisted  that  the  Iocuk  delicti  aggra- 
vated the  offence,  inasmuch  as  she  ha<l  stolen 
the  Bible  out  of  a  chm-ch ;  but  Rant  main- 
tained that  the  locim  delicti  was  vl  prima  facie 
evidence  of  her  innocence,  inasmuch  as  she 
only  comphed  with  a  jjrecept  of  rehgion, 
which  enjoins  all  sinners  to  seek  siich  assist- 
ance toward  their  spiritual  welfiU^e  as  tJie 
church  can  afford  them. 

"  Sleek  argued  that  the  principle  of  theft 
must  have  been  innate  and  strong,  when  the 
respect  due  to  that  sacred  edifice  was  insuffi- 
cient to  restrain  her  from  such  an  act — an 
act  which  constituted  saciilege  of  a  very  ag- 
gravated kind. 

"  Rant  rephed.  that  the  motive  and  not 
the  act  constituted  the  crime.  There  was 
jjrima  facie  proof  that  she  stole  it  for  pious 
piuposes — to  wit,  that  she  might  learn  there- 
from a  con-ect  principle  for  *iie  conduct  of 


472 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


her  life.  It  was  not  proverl  that  the  woman  [ 
hiul  Hold  the  }x)ok,  or  ple^lged  it,  or  in  any 
other  way  disjKjsed  of  it  for  her  corporal  or 
tfemjxjral  V>fcnfcfit  ;  the  inference,  therefore, 
waH,  tliiit  the  motive,  in  the  first  pla<:."e,  justi- 
fied the  suc±,  which  was  in  ae  a  pious  one  ; 
and,  besides,  ha^l  the  woman  been  a  thief, 
Bhe  would  have  stolen  the  pLate  and  linen 
\}f:]oiii^ri(^  Uj  the  altar  ;  but  she  did  not, 
therefore  there  existed  on  her  j^art  no  con- 
Bciousness  nor  intention  of  WTong. 

"Sleek  rejoined,  that  if  the  woman  hiul 
felt  any  necessity  for  relif^ious  a/lvice  and  in- 
Btruction,  she  would  have  f^one  to  the  min- 
ister, whose  duty  it  was  trj  jipve  it. 

"  iiant  replied,  that  upon  Sleek's  own 
principles,  if  the  minister  hafl  proj><;rly  dis- 
charged ?ivf  duty,  the  woman  would  liave 
b^^en  under  no  necessity  for  takinj^  the  Bible 
at  all  ;  and  that,  consequently,  in  a  strict 
a^jirit  of  justice,  the  theft,  if  theft  it  could  Ixj 
•tailed,  was  not  the  theft  of  the  old  wonian, 
but  tliat  of  the  minister  himsf;lf,  who  harl 
fciiled  to  {^ve  her  proj>er  instrurdions.  It 
was  the  duty  of  the  minister  to  have  gone  to 
the  old  woman,  and  not  tliat  of  the  old 
woman  to  have  gone  to  the  minister ;  but, 
jK:rhaps,  ha^l  the  woman  Ijeen  young  and 
handsome,  the  minister  might  have  admin- 
istered cons^^jlation. 

"  I  find  that  Sleek  here  made  a  long  speech 
about  religion,  which  he  charged  Rant  with 
insulting  ;  he  regretted  tliat  a  false  human- 
ity hjw^l  repealed  nrmie  of  those  stringent  but 
wholescime  laws  that  \iiul  been  enacted  for 
the  preservation  of  holy  things,  and  was 
truly  s^'^rry  that  this  sa/;rilegious  old  wret<^;h 
could  not  y>e  brought  to  the  stake.  He  did 
not  envy  his  learned  friend  the  sneering  con- 
*,^;mpt  for  religion  tliat  ran  tlirough  his  whole 
irgument. 

"  Rant  bowed  and  smiled,  and  replied 
that,  in  his  opinion,  the  only  strike  the  poor 
woman  ought  to  be  brought  t/j  was  a  beef- 
rteak ;  for  he  always  wished  to  see  the  law 
a^lministered  with  mercy. 

'*  Sleek  was  not  surjiris^jd  at  hearing  such 
a  carnal  argiiment  brought  to  the  defence  of 
Huch  a  crime,  and  concluded  by  pressing  for 
the  s<^jverest  punishment  the  law  could  inflict 
against  this  most  iniquitous  criminal,  whrj — 
and  he  dared  even  liant  himself  to  deny  the 
far^ — came  before  that  c<^>uri-  fis  an  old  offend- 
er ;  he  therefc>re  press^^d  for  a  conviction 
against  a  jKjrsf^n  who  luul  acted  so  fi/igrantly 
ct/rdra  hf/noH  m/yrfM. 

"  Itant  sfiid,  she  could  not  or  ought  not  Ui 
be  convirrted.  TTiis  liible  was  not  individual 
proj^eriy  ;  it  was  that  of  a  parish  that  con- 
tained better  thfm  eighteen  thousand  in- 
habitiuits.  Now,  if  any  individual  were  to 
catabliah  his  right  of  jirojierty  in  the  Bible, 


and  she  herself  was  a  proprietress  as  well  as 
any  of  them,  the  amount  would  \>b  far  beneath 
any  rnirrent  coin  of  the  realm,  consequently 
there  existed  no  legal  svTxdxjl  of  proj^erty  for 
the  value  of  which  a  conviction  could  be 
had. 

"  As  I  perceive,  however,"  added  Mr.  Coke, 
"  that  the  abstract  of  the  arguments  in  this 
imjxjrtant  ca.se  runs  to  alxjut  five  hunflred 
jxiges,  I  sliall  therefore  recapitulate  Judge 
No<l well's  cliarge,  which  has  }>een  considered 
a  very  Vjrilliant  Hj>ecimen  of  legal  acumen  and 
judifnal  eloquence. 

"  'This,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,'  said  his 
lordship,' is  a  case  of  apparently  some  diffi- 
culty, and  I  cannot  help  a^lmiringthe  singular 
talent  and  high  prindples  disj;layed  by  the 
learned  counsfd  on  both  sides, who  W)  ably  ar- 
gued it.  Of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  that  no  con- 
s<^nousness  of  religious  ignorance,  no  privation 
of  religious  knowledge,  could  ever  induce  my 
learned  friend  Sleek  to  commit  such  a  theft, 
liather  tli^m  do  so,  I  am  sure  he  would  }>e 
conscientious  enough  to  j>ass  through  the 
world  without  any  religion  at  all.  As  it  is, 
we  all  know  that  he  is  a  great  light  in  that 
respect ' 

"  'He  would  be  a  burning  light,  too,  my 
lord,'  observed  Rant. 

"  No  ;  his  reverence  for  the  Bible  is  too 
great,  too  sine*:  re  to  profane  it  by  such  vulgar 
perusal  as  it  may  liave  received  at  the  hands 
of  that  destitute  old  woman,  who  probably 
thumbed  it  day  and  night,  without  regar<I 
cither  to  dog-ears  or  binding,  or  a  consider- 
ation of  how  she  was  treating  the  pro];>erty 
of  the  parish.  The  iiuit,  however,  gentlemen, 
seems  to  be,  that  the  old  woman  either  alto- 
gether forgot  the  institutions  of  society,  or 
res<'>lved  sofdety  itself  in  her  own  mind  into 
first  prindples.  Now,  gentlemen,  we  cannot 
go  behind  first  principles,  neither  can  we  go 
behind  the  old  woman.  We  must  keep  her 
before  us,  but  it  is  not  necessary  trj  keep  the 
Bible  w).  It  has  been  found,  indeed,  that 
she  did  not  sell,  pledge,  Ixistow,  or  other\^ise 
make  the  Ixjok  suljsfjrvient  to  her  ternjKjral  or 
corfx^ral  wants,  as  Mr.  Rant  verj*  ingeniously 
argmed.  Neither  did  she  take  it  to  jjlace  in 
her  librarj' — for  she  hsA  no  library  ;  nor  for 
ostentation  in  her  hall — for  she  luul  no  hall, 
as  my  pious  friend  Coun.sellor  Sleek  has. 
But,  gentlemen,  even  if  this  old  woman  by 
rea/ling  the  Bible  learned  to  repent,  and  felt 
conversion  of  heart,  you  are  not  to  infer  that 
the  aj(±  which  brought  her  to  grace  and  re- 
pentance may  not  have  been  a  hirderteA  vio' 
Ifdi/m  of  the  l/iw.  Beware  of  this  error,  gen- 
tlemen. Tlje  old  woman  by  stealing  this 
Bible  may  have  repenterl  her  of  her  sins,  it 
is  true  ;  but  it  is  your  business,  gentlemen, 
to  make  her  repent  of  the  law  also.  The  law 


77//'.'    lil.M'K    /iA/C(K\'/':r. 


47a 


I 


in  iiH  fi;roai.  11  Noiirct^  o\  yr])ruU\uro  tin  (ho 
Mil>l(t  liny  day,  iiiid,  I  iint  pioiKl  t«>  say,  linn 
caiiHod  inurr  liiiiiiaii  (t>arH  to  ho  nhvil,  ami 
hittoi'or  oiioH,  tot),  than  I  ho  NN'onl  of  (ioil 
<«vor  did.  I<!v(<ii  iilthoiii^di  jiiHliliod  in  (ho 
Hi;;;h(.  of  hiMivon,  i(  doi<H  tio(  follow  that  (liiK 
woniait  iH  (o  osciipo  horo.  It  is  Iho  tirf,  and 
iu>l  tho  hiuirl,  (hilt  (hi>  law  doiilw  wi(h.  Tho 
jiiirKv  of  lior  niodvoH,  hi<r  ro|)i>n(an(<(<,  tiro 
no(hin)if(o  (ho  law  ;  hut  (ho  law  is  ovory(hin}< 
(o  (ho  iH'iHon  in  whom  (hoy  oporah'  ;  ho- 
raiiso,  iil(linii;;|i  the  lii<iir(  may  ho  innoo<Mi(, 
(ho  indiv  idiiiil  poison  niiisl  ho  piiniHhod.  At 
p(<ni(on(.  hoart,  or  11  ooiiHoioiiNnoHH  of  tho 
pardon  of  (lod,  aro  not  tt(. ooiiHiiltMalionM  foi' 
a  jury  ho\.  Von  aro,  tlu'roforo,  (o  o\ohid«\ 
tli<>  molivo,  and  (o  (uko  nolhin}^  in(o  conHiil- 
ondion  hut  (ho  ac(. ;  for  it  '\h  only  (hat  hy 
which  (ho  law  him  hoon   violalod. 

"  '  \Ud  \h  (horo  no   hiicIi    (liiii;^  mm    morcy, 
my  lord  ?  '  mhUoiI  u  jnror. 

"  In  Ww  iidminiHJriition  of  (ho  Itiw  (horo 
\a  hiioIi  a  (id  ion  a  hoitnlifnl  iio>^a(ion,  iiidood 
•  luit  wi>  know  Iliid  •lns(ioo  ahvnys  IioMh  (ho 
nrH(<  pliiot<,  and  whon  hIi(>  \h  Hiilisllod,  (hon 
wo  cull  in  Moroy.  Snoli,  iit  IomhI,  in  (li<t 
whohtHomii  praclicit  and  oonH(i(ii(ioiial  Hpirit 
of  lh-i(iNh  law,  I  liaT«i  now,  ^<(<n(lonion,  ron 
(h<rod  you  ovory  aHHiH(aniM>  in  my  powor.  If 
yon  think  (Imm  old  woman  ^MiiKy,  yon  will 
(hid  a<M*ordiii|',ly  ;  if  not,  you  will  j^ivo  hor 
tho  honotit  of  liny  douli(.  in  hor  fiivor  which 
you  miiy  on(<<r(iiin. 

"Tho  woniiin,  "  oonlinuod  ( 'oko,  "  wmh  ooii- 
victod,  and  hero  CoIIowh  i\\o  hoiiIoiico  of  {\u\ 

judK<' 

"Miirdiii  holiiijdiod  you  Imvo  hoon  cmi 
violod  hy  (ho  voi<lic(  <if  ( w<>lvo  aa  iidollij^'ont 
and  roHp<<c(iil)lo  ^tonllomon  iin  1  ovor  hmw  in 
a  jury  hox  ;  convichMl,  i  am  worry  (o  hiiv, 
vory  proporly,  of  a  iiiohI  hoinoiiH  oi-inio,  (hat 
i)f  ailomplin^'  to  work  ou(  your  Hiilvalion  in 
•m  impropor  maiinor  (o  wi(,  hy  iiiakiui^  il- 
'oj,jiilly  froo  wi(h  (In*  W'onl  of  (lod. 

"'In  (rodi.  my  lord.'  ropliod    (ho  <'ulpri(, 
'  (iio  Word  of  (iod  iH  hooonio  ho  hciu'oo  now 
adayH,  (hat   iiiiIomh   ono   ntivda    i(.,  (ho\    havo 
hilt  H  poor  cliiinc)<  of  oomiiif^  hy  it  honoH(ly, 
or  hoariii|!;  it  iil  nil   " 

"  You  havo  Ih'oii  convicted,  I  hiiv,  notwilh 
Hljindin;(  a  tnoMt  iihio  dofciico  hy  your  conn 
H4'l,  who  omitted  no  iir;/;iimont  thai  could 
prov<«  aviiiliil>li<  for  your  iioi|uittiil  ;  and  I  am 
Horry  to  hour  from  your  own  lipH,  that  you 
aro  III  no  «loj.poo  poni((«n(.  for  (ho  criino  you 
Imvo  oommithtd.  You  nay.  tlu»  Word  of  (lod 
iH  Hcan'o  nowadayK  hut  that  fad,  unhappy 
woman,  only  a^^KravatoH  your  KuiK  for  in 
]tropor(i«tn  (o  (ln<  ncarcily  of  (ho  Word  of 
(lod,  HO  in  ilH  valiio  incroiiHod  iiiid  wo  all 
know  (hat  (ho  i^roidor  (ho  vaino  of  (hid  which 
Ui  ljrt()l(Mi,  (ho  deeper,   ill  Iho  eye    of   the    liiw. 


in  (ho  orimo  of  (in*  ihiof.  Had  }•<»•  "<>♦  pivoii 
iilt«'ranc«»  (o  (Iioho  imponilont  I'xproNHionn, 
ih(<  court  would  havo  hoon  anviouN  (o  di>al 
nn<roifnllv  \vi(h  von.  Ah  it  in.  I  (oil  you  to 
j»ropnr«'  Tor  (ho  lioavi««H(.  puiiishmotd  i(  can 
in(lic(,  wliii-h  in,  lha(  you  hi>  compelled  (o 
roiid  Homo  one  of  (h«t  CoiiimoidnrioH  upon  (ho 
Hook  you  havo  ntolon,  «»nco,  at  loant,  hoforn 
you  dii\  nliould  yon  livo  ho  Ioii}^,  and  may 
( lod  havo  morcy  on  you  ! 

"  Mere  the  priHoiier  fell  into  Htronj>  hya- 
(cricH.  and  wiih  (aki<n  iiwiiy  in  a  nddo  of  in- 
HoiiHihility  from  (ho  dock. 

"  Now,"  procoodod  Coko,  oloninfj;  tho  pon- 
(Um'ouh  toino,  "  I  road  IhtH  cano  from  a  fool- 
ing; (hat  it  hoiu'H  v<>ry  Ntron^dy  upon  (ha(  ho< 
foro  UH,  SaponilicuH.  (Ii<<  loiirned  and  ani- 
niat(<d  civilian,  in  Iuh  reply  lo  (ho  colohndod 
(roM(iH<i  of  '  !{i<.;;riiniMroliiiH  lU*  LihriH  pi'ij,' 
f^idin,'  commonly  culled  Iuh  l'',HHiiy  on  S(o|en 
hooka,  iiHHorlH  (hat  tlioro  novor  y«'t  wan  a 
hook  priidod  hut  wan  nioro  or  1i>hh  N(olon  ; 
and  Hocioly,  ho  arf^noH,  in  no  nhapo,  in  nono 
of  i(H  cliiHsoH  noidior  in  tho  prinon,  lockup, 
hiackholo,  or  iieiii(on(iary  pioHoidn  iiHwidi 
Hiich  a  Hot  of  ini|ioni(on(H  and  irrocliiiniahlo 
(hiovoH  an  (Iioho  who  \vri((t  hookn,  Theft  la 
thoir  profoHHion,  and  f^o(H  (hem  IhodiHlionoNt 
hroad  hy  which  (hoy  livo.  TIioho  may  iilwayM 
riiad  tho  oi;^h(h  <'oiiinwindiiion(  hy  l)<aviti(^ 
tho  no).(ativo  ou(,  mid  (hen  dike  i(,  in  an  in- 
juncdvo  HoiiHo.  Such  peiHoiiH,  in  proHocu(inf» 
aiiodier  for  Hloaliiii^  a  hook,  cnnnot  oonio  in- 
(o  coiiil  widi  <<loiin  liandii,  l<'olotiH  in  lilera- 
(iiro,  (horoforo,  appear  hero  wi(li  a  vory  hiid 
f^raco  in  proHoculin^!;  odiorn  for  (ho  very 
criino  which  (hoy  dioniHolvoH  aio  in  (ho  hiihit 
of  commidiiif.';." 

"Hid.,    your    woifthip."    Hiiid     \h\   A  , 

"  tluH  oliar<|o  iiffaitiHt  iiiidiorH  cannot  upply 
to  ino  ;  tho  hook  in  <|noH(ion  in  a  (raiiHla- 
tion." 

"  pooh  !  "  «>xoIiuniod  Coko,  "  o/i/// a  (raiiM- 
la(ion  I  Kut  tn'on  ho,  Iiiih  it  nohia  or  «'oin< 
nn'idn?  " 

"  l(  haa.  your  woihliip  ;  hut  the\ 

"  And,  air,  could  you  di<claro  Holemnly, 
(hat  (horo  In  nodiiiif.^  hIoIoii  in  (he  no(oH 
and   comnieiilH,  or  inl I'odiii'l inn,    if   (hero   ia 

III  IV  'f  " 

rin<  doctor,  "  I'lliem  !   lioni  !  " 

"  Ihit  ill  tli<<  meiintimo,"  pr 'oded  Coke, 

"hero  have  1  |'oiio  (o  (he  (loiihlo  of  f-^ivinf^» 
Hiich  a  profound  decinion  upon  a  merotraiiH- 
latioii  !I  !     Who  IH  (ho  (riiiiHlalor?  " 

"  I  am  myHcIf,  your  wornhip  ;  and  in  (liiN 
oaH<>  I  am  hodi  pliiiidilV  mid  IrnnHlalor." 

"That.  Iiowovor,"  Miid  (!oko,  ahakin^  liiN 
lioad  Holoiiinly,  "  makoH  tho  ciiao  a^ainttt  you 
Htill  worno." 

"  Milt,  your  woiHhip.  tli(  10  \h  no  oaau 
il^aiiiHt  mo.      J  havo  idieiid\  told  yoii  thai  / 


i74 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


am  plaintiff  and  translator  ;  and,  with  great 
respect,  I  don't  think  you  have  yet  given  any 
decision  ■whatevei'." 

" I  have  decided,  sii',"repHed  Coke,  "and 
taken  the  case  I  read  for  you  as  a  prece- 
dent." 

"  But  in  that  case,  your  worship,  the  wo- 
man was  convicted." 

"And  so  she  is  in  this,  sir,"  replied  Coke. 
"  Officer,  put  Biddy  Corcoran  forward.  Bid- 
dy Corcoran,  you  are  an  old  woman,  which, 
indeed,  is  evident  fi'om  the  natm-e  of  youi- 
offence,  and  have  been  convicted  of  the  egre- 
gious folly  of  purchasing  a  translation,  which 
this  gentleman  says  was  compiled  or  got  up 
by  himself.  This  is  conduct  which  the  coiu't 
cannot  overlook,  inasmuch  as  if  it  were  per- 
sisted in,  we  might,  God  heljD  us,  become 
inundated  ■v^ith  translations.  I  am  against 
translations — I  have  ever  been  against  them, 
and  I  shall  ever  be  against  them.  They  are 
immoral  in  themselves,  and  render  the  same 
injury  to  hterature  that  persons  of  loose 
morals  do  to  society.  In  general,  they  are 
nothing  short  of  a  sacrilegious  jji'ofanation 
of  the  dead,  and  I  would  almost  as  soon  see 
the  ghost  of  a  depai-ted  fiiend  as  the  trans- 
lation of  a  defunct  author,  for  they  bear  the 
same  relation.  The  regulai'  translator,  in 
fact,  is  nothing  less  than  a  hterary  ghoul, 
VN'ho  lives  upon  the  mangled  carcasses  of  the 
departed — a  mere  sack-'em-up,  who  disinters 
the  dead,  and  sells  their  remains  for  money. 
You,  sir,  might  have  been  better  and  more 
honestly  employed  than  in  wasting  your 
time  upon  a  translation.  These  are  works 
that  no  men  or  class  of  men,  excejit  bishops, 
chandler.s,  and  pastrycooks,  ought  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  ;  and  as  you,  I  presume, 
are  not  a  bishop,  nor  a  chandler,  nor  a  j)as- 
trycook,  I  recommend  you  to  sj^are  your 
countrymen  in  future.  Biddy  Corcoran,  as 
the  coiu't  is  determined  to  jDunish  you  se- 
verely, the  penalty  against  you  is,  that  3'ou  be 
compelled  to  read  the  translation  in  ques- 
tion onet.  a  week  for  the  next  three  months. 
X  had  intended  to  send  you  to  the  treadmill 
for  the  same  space  of  time  :  but,  on  looking 
more  closely  into  the  natiu'e  of  yoiir  offence, 
1  felt  it  my  duty  to  -visit  you  with  a  much 
severer  punishment." 

"  That,  your  worship,"  rephed  the  trans- 
lator, "  is  no  punishment  at  all  ;  instead  of 
that,  it  Avill  be  a  jDleasui-e  to  read  my  trans- 
lation, and  as  you  have  j^ronounced  her  to  be 
guilty,  it  goes  in  the  very  teeth  of  your  de- 
cision." 

"  "WTiat — what — what  kind  of  language  is 
this,  sir  ? "  exclaimed  Sir  Sj^igot  Sputter. 
"  This  is  disrespect  to  the  coui-t,  sir.  In  the 
teeth  of  his  decision  !  His  worship's  decision, 
eir,  has  no  teeth." 


"  Indeed,  on  second  thoughts,  I  think  noi^ 
sir,"  rephed  the  indignant  wit  and  transla* 
tor ;  "  it  is  indeed  a  very  toothless  deci- 
sion, and  exceedingly  ai)i)ropriate  in  pass- 
ing sentence  upon  an  old  woman  in  the  same 
state." 

"Eh — eh,"  said  Sir  Spigot,  "which  old 
woman?  who  do  vou  mean,  sir?  Yourself 
or  the  culprit?     Eh?  eh?" 

"  Your  worship  forgets  that  there  are  four 
of  us,"  rejplied  the  trtmslator. 

"WeU,  sir!  well,  sii'!  But  as  to  the  cul- 
prit— that  old  woman  there — having  no  teeth, 
that  is  not  her  faidt,"  rephed  Su'  SjDigot ; 
"if  she  hasn't  teeth,  she  has  gnim  enough — 
eh  !  eh  !  you  must  admit  that,  sir." 

"You  aU  appear  to  have  gum  enough,"  re- 
phed the  "v\it,  "and  nothing  hid  g"um,  only 
it  isf/»»i  arable  to  me,  I  know." 

"  You  have  treated  this  coiu't  "with  disre- 
spect, sir,"  said  Coke,  very  solemnly;  "  but 
the  covu't  will  uphold  its  dignity.  In  the 
meantime  you  are  fined  half-a-crovni." 

"But,  yom-  worship,"  whisjDered  Darby, 
"  this  is  the  celebrated  Dr.  A ,  a  very  em- 
inent man." 

"I  have  just  heard,  su-,"  proceeded  Coke, 
"  fi'om  the  senior  officer  of  the  court,  that 
you  are  a  ver^'  eminent  man  ;  it  may  be  so, 
and  I  am  very  sorry  for  it.  /  have  never  heard 
youi'  name,  however,  nor  a  syllable  of  3'^our 
hterary  rejnitation,  before  ;  but  as  it  seems 
you  are  an  eminent  man,  I  take  it  for  grant- 
ed that  it  must  be  in  a  private  and  confiden- 
tial way  among  youi-  j^articular  fiiends.  I 
will  fine  you,  however,  another  half-crown  for 
the  eminence." 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  rephed  the  doctor, 
"I  have  heard  of  many  'wise  saws  and  mod- 
ern  instances,'  but " 

"  "N^Tiat  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  "  said  Sir  Spigot. 
"  Another  insult !  You  asserted,  sir,  ah-eady, 
that  ]\Ii'.  Coke's  decision  had  teeth " 

"  But  I  admitted  my  error,"  replied  the 
other. 

"  And  now  you  mean  to  insuiuate,  I  sup- 
pose, that  his  worship's  saws  are  handsaws. 
You  are  fined  another  haK-croAATi,  sii*,  for  the 
handsaAv." 

"And  another,"  said  Coke,  "for  the  ^»?n 
arahic." 

The  doctor  fearing  that  the  fines  would 
increase  thick  and  thi*eefold,  forth-vvith  paid 
them  aU,  and  retired  indignantly  from  the 
court. 

And  thus  was  the  author  of  certainly  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  translations  in  any 
language,  at  least  in  his  own  opinion,  treated 
by  these  two  worthy  administrators  of  the 
law.  * 

*  A  fact. 


475 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

The  Prieitt  Returns  Sir  Tlwmaa's  Money  and  Pistols 
— A  Bit  of  Controversy — A  New  Light  Begins  to 
Appear. 

Very  fortunately  for  the  priest  he  was  not 
subjected  to  an  examination  before  these 
worthies.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  having 
heard  of  his  arrest  and  the  cause  of  it,  sent 
a  note  ^yiih.  his  c  imphraents,  to  request  that 
he  might  be  con  I  acted  directly  to  his  resi- 
dence, together  with  his  pocket-book  and 
pistols,  assuiing  them,  at  the  same  time, 
that  their  officers  had  committed  a  gross 
mistake  as  to  his  person. 

This  was  quite  sufficient,  and  ere  the 
lapse  of  twenty  minutes  Father  M'Mahon, 
accompanied  by  Skipton  and  another  officer, 
found  himself  at  the  baronet's  hall-door.  On 
entering  the  hall,  Sir  Thomas  himself  was 
in  the  act  of  passing  fi*om  the  breakfjist  par- 
lor to  his  study  above  stairs,  leaning  upon 
the  arm  of  Gibson,  the  footman,  looking  at 
the  same  time  pale,  nervous,  and  unsteady 
upon  his  limbs.  The  moment  Skipton  saw 
him,  he  started,  and  exclaimed,  as  if  to  him- 
self, but  loud  enough  for  the  pi-iest  to  hear 
him  : 

"  'Gad  !  I've  seen  hiin  before,  once  upon  a 
time  ;  and  well  I  remember  the  face,  for  it 
is  not  one  to  be  forgotten." 

The  bax'onet,  on  looking  round,  saw  the 
priest,  and  desired  him  to  follow  them  to 
nis  study. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir  Thomas,"  said 
the  officer,  "we  now  place  his  reverence 
safely  in  your  hands ;  here,  too,  is  your 
pocket-book  and  pistols." 

"Hand    them   to  him,   sir,"    rephed   the 
baronet,  nodding  toward  the  priest ;    "  and  , 
that  is  enough." 

"But,  Sir  Thomas " 

"What  is  it,  sii-?  Have  you  not  done 
your  dut}-  ?  " 

"I  hope  so,  sir;  but  if  it  would  not  be 
troublesome,  sir,  perhaps  you  would  give  us 
a  receipt ;  an  acknowledgment,  sir." 

"For  what?" 

"For  the  priest's  body,  sir,  in  the  first 
place,  and  then  for  the  pocket-book  and 
pistols." 

"Jflwere  a  httle  stronger,"  replied  the 
baronet,  in  an  angi*y  voice,  "  I  would  write 
the  receipt  upon  your  own  body  witli  a 
strong  horsewhip  ;  begone,  you  impudent 
scoundrel !  " 

Skipton  turned  upon  him  a  bitter  and 
vindictive  look,  and  replied,  "  Oh,  verj'  well, 
sir — come,  Tom,  you  are  witness  that  I  did 
my  duty." 

Sir  Thomas  on  enteiing  the  study  threw 


himself  hstlessly  on  a  sofa,  and  desired  Gib. 
son  to  retire. 

"  Take  a  seat,  sir,"  said  he,  addressing 
Father  M'Mahon.  "  I  am  far  from  well,  and 
must  rest  a  Httle  before  I  speak  to  you  ;  I 
know  not  what  is  the  matter  with  me,  but  I 
feel  sill  out  of  sorts." 

He  then  drew  a  long  breath,  and  laid  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  as  if  to  recover  more 
clearly  the  powers  of  his  mind  and  intellect. 
His  eyes,  full  of  thought  not  unmingled 
with  anxiety,  were  fixed  upon  the  car|)et, 
and  he  seemed  for  a  time  wa-apped  in  deep 
and  painful  abstraction.  At  lengh  he  raised 
himself  up,  and  drawing  his  breath  appar- 
ently vrith  more  freedom  began  the  conver- 
sation. 

"Well,  sii',"  said  he,  in  a  tone  that  im- 
plied more  of  authority  and  haughtiness 
than  of  courtesy  or  gentlemanly  feeling ;  "  it 
seems  the  property  of  which  I  have  been 
robbed  has  come  into  your  po.ssession." 

"  It  is  true,  sir  ;  and  allow  me  to  place 
it  in  your  own  hands  exactly  as  I  got  it.  I 
took  the  precaution  to  seal  the  pocket-book 
the  moment  it  was  returned  to  me,  and  al- 
though it  was  for  a  short  time  in  pos.session 
of  the  officers  of  justice,  yet  it  is  untouched, 
and  the  seal  I  placed  on  it  unbroken." 

The  baronet's  hand,  as  he  took  the 
pocket-book,  trembled  with  an  agitation 
which  he  could  not  repress,  although  he 
did  everything  in  his  power  to  subdue  it ; 
his  eye  glittered  with  animation,  or  rather 
with  delight,  as  he  broke  the  seal 

"  It  was  vers-  pi-udently  and  correctly  done 
of  you,  sii*,  to  seal  up  the  pocket-book  ;  very 
weU  done,  indeed  :  and  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you  so  far,  although  we  must  have  some 
conversation  upon  the    matter  immediate- 

ly-" 

"  I  only  did  what,  as  a  Catholic  clergyman, 
Sir  Thomas,  and  an  honest  man,  I  conceived 
to  be  my  duty." 

"  WTiat — what — what's  this?"  exclaimed 
the  baronet,  his  eye  blazing  with  rage  and 
disappointment.  "In  the  name  of  hell's  fire, 
sir,  what  is  this  ?  My  money  is  not  all  here ! 
There  is  a  note,  sir,  a  one  pound  note  want- 
ing ;  a  pecuhar  note,  sir  ;  a  marked  note ; 
for  I  always  put  a  marked  note  among  my 
money,  to  proride  against  tlie  contingency  of 
such  a  robbery  as  I  sustained.  Pray,  sir, 
what  has  become  of  that  note  ?  I  say,  priest, 
the  whole  pocket-book  ten  times  muJtiphed, 
was  not  worth  a  fig  compared  with  the  value 
I  placed  upon  that  note." 

"  How  mucli  did  you  lose.  Sir  Thomas?" 
asked  the  priest  calmly. 

"I  lost  sixty-nine  pounds,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  "continued  the  other,  "would 
it  not  be  well  to  see  whether  that  bush  is  in 


476 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


the  pocket-book.  You  have  not  yet  reck- 
oned the  money." 

"  The  note  I  speak  of  was  in  a  separate 
compartment ;  in  a  diflferent  fold  of  the 
book  ;  ajjai't  from  the  rest." 

"But  perhaps  it  has  got  among  them? 
Had  you  not  better  tiy,  sii-  ?  " 

"Time,"  repHedthe  other  ;  and  with  eager 
and  trembhng  hands  he  examined  them 
note  by  note  ;  but  not  finding  that  for  which 
he  sought,  he  stamped  with  rage,  and  dash- 
ing the  pocket-book,  notes  and  all,  against 
the  floor,  he  ground  his  teeth,  and  approach- 
ing the  priest  with  the  white  froth  of  pas- 
sion rising  to  his  hps,  exclaimed,  "  Hark 
you,  priest,  if  you  do  not  produce  the  miss- 
ing note,  I  shall  make  you  bitterly  repent 
it !     You  know  where  it  is,  sir !     You  could 

understand  from  the  note  itself "     He 

paused,  however,  for  he  felt  at  once  that  he 
might  be  treading  dangerous  ground  in 
entering  into  particulars.  "I  say,  sir,"  he 
proceeded,  with  a  look  of  menace  and  fury, 
*'  if  you  refuse  to  produce  the  note  I  speak 
of,  or  to  procure  it  for  me,  I  shall  let  you 
know  to  youj.'  cost  what  the  power  of  British 
law  can  effect." 

The  priest  rose  up  with  dignity,  his  cheek 
heightened  with  that  slight  tinge,  which  a 
sense  of  unmerited  insult  and  a  conscious- 
ness of  his  o"s\Ti  integrity  render  natural  to 
man — so  long  as  he  is  a  man. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,"  he  proceeded, 
"upon  your  conduct  and  want  of  gentle- 
manly temper  since  I  have  entered  this 
apartment  it  is  not  my  intention  to  make 
any  comment ;  but  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
the  minister  of  God  is  received  in  Christian 
society  vnth  the  respect  due  to  his  sacred 
office." 

"  IMinister  of  the  devil,  sir,"  thundered 
the  baronet ;  •'  do  you  think  that  I  shall  be 
influenced  by  this  slavish  cant  ?  Where  is 
the  note  I  speak  of  ?  If  you  do  not  produce 
it,  I  shall  consider  you  an  accomplice  after 
the  fact,  and  will  hold  you  responsible  as 
such.  Remember,  you  are  but  a  Popish 
priest." 

"  That  is  a  fact,  sir,  which  I  shall  always 
recollect  with  an  humble  sense  of  my  own 
unworthiness  ;  but  so  long  as  I  discharge 
its  duties  conscientiously  and  truly,  I  shall 
also  recollect  it  with  honor.  Of  the  note 
you  allude  to  in  such  unbecoming  words,  I 
know  nothing  ;  and  as  to  your  threats,  I 
value  them  not." 

"If  you  know  nothing  of  the  note,  sir, 
you  do  certainly  of  the  robber." 

"  I  do.  Sir  Tliomas  ;  I  know  who  the  man 
is  that  robbed  you." 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  the  other,  triumph- 
antly, "  I  am  glad  you  have   acknowledged 


so  much.  I  shall  force  you  to  produce  him. 
At  least  I  shall  take  care  that  the  law  will 
make  you  do  so." 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  I  beg  you  to  under- 
stand that  there  is  a  law  beyond  and  above 
your  law — the  law  of  God — the  law  of  Chris- 
tian duty  ;  and  thai  you  shall  never  force  me 
to  transgress.  The  man  who  robbed  you 
in  a  moment  of  despair  and  madness,  re- 
pented him  of  the  crime  ;  and  the  knowledge 
of  that  crime,  and  its  consequent  repentance 
were  disclosed  to  me  in  one  of  the  most 
holy  ordinances  of  our  religion." 

"  Is  it  one  of  the  privileges  of  your  re- 
ligion to  throw  its  veil  over  the  commission 
of  crime  ?  If  so,  the  sooner  your  religion  ia 
extirpated  out  of  the  land  the  better  for 
society." 

"  No,  sir,  our  religion  does  not  throw  ita 
veil  over  the  criminal,  but  over  the  i:)enitent. 
We  leave  the  laws  of  the  land  to  their  own 
resources,  and  aid  them  when  we  can  ;  but 
in  the  case  before  us,  and  in  all  similar 
cases,  we  are  the  administrators  of  the  laws 
of  God  to  those  who  are  truly  penitent,  and 
to  none  others.  The  test  of  repentance  con- 
sists in  reformation  of  hfe,  and  in  making 
restitution  to  those  who  have  been  injured. 
The  knowledge  of  this  comes  to  us  in  ad- 
ministering the  sacred  ordinance  of  pen- 
ance in  the  tribunal  of  confession ;  and 
sooner  than  violate  this  solemn  compact 
between  the  mercy  of  God  and  a  penitent 
heart,  we  would  willingly  lay  down  our  lives. 
It  is  the  most  sacred  of  all  trusts." 

"  Such  an  ordinance,  sir,  is  a  bounty  and 
provocative  to  crime." 

"It  is  a  bounty  and  provocative  to  repen- 
tance, sir  ;  and  societj"^  has  gained  much  and 
lost  nothing  by  its  oj^eration.  Remember, 
sir,  that  those  who  do  not  rejDent,  never 
come  to  us  to  avow  their  crimes,  in  wliich 
case  we  are  ignorant  both  of  the  crime  and 
criminal.  Here  there  is  neither  repentance, 
on  the  one  hand,  nor  restitution,  on  the 
other,  and  society,  of  course,  loses  every- 
thing and  gains  nothing.  In  the  other  case, 
the  person  sustaining  the  injury  gains  that 
which  he  had  lost,  and  society  a  penitent 
and  reformed  member.  If,  then,  this  sacred 
refuge  for  the  penitent — not  for  the  criminal, 
remember —had  no  existence,  those  restitu- 
tions of  property  which  take  place  in  thou- 
sands of  cases,  could  never  be  made." 

"Still,  sir,  you  shield  the  criminal  from 
his  just  punishment." 

"  No,  sir  ;  we  never  shield  the  criminal 
from  his  just  punishment.  God  has  prom- 
ised mercy  to  him  who  repents,  and  we 
merely  administer  it  without  any  reference 
to  the  operation  of  the  law.  It  often  hap- 
pens.  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  that  a  person 


THE  BLACK  BARONET, 


47T 


who  has  repented  and  made  restitution,  is 
taken  hold  of  hj  the  law  and  jiunished. 
This  ordinance,  therefore,  does  not  stand 
between  the  law  and  its  yictim  ;  it  only  deals 
between  him  and  his  God,  leaving  him,  like 
any  other  ott'euder,  to  the  law  he  has  vio- 
lated." 

"  I  am  no  theologian,  sir ;  but  without  any 
reference  to  your  priestly  cant,  I  simply  say, 
that  the  man  who  is  cognizant  of  another's 
crime  against  the  law,  either  of  God  or  man, 
and  who  will  shield  him  from  justice,  is 
particeps  eriminis,  and  I  don't  care  a  fig  what 
your  obsolete  sacerdotal  dogmas  may  assert 
to  the  contrary'.  You  say  you  know  the 
man  Avho  unjustly  deprived  me  of  my  prop- 
erty ;  if  then,  acknowledging  this,  you  re- 
fuse to  dehver  him  up  to  justice,  I  hold  you 
guilty  of  his  crime.  Suppose  he  had  taken 
my  life,  as  he  was  neai-  doing,  how,  pray, 
would  you  have  made  restitution?  Biing 
me  to  life  again,  I  suppose,  by  a  miracle. 
Away,  sir,  with  this  cant,  which  is  only  fit 
for  the  barbaiity  of  the  dark  ages,  when 
your  church  was  a  mass  of  crime,  cruelty, 
and  ignorance  ;  and  when  a  cunning  and 
rapacious  priesthood  usurped  an  authority 
over  both  soul  and  body,  ay,  and  property 
too,  that  oppressed  and  degi'aded  human 
nature." 

"  I  will  reason  no  longer  ■with  you,  sh'," 
replied  the  priest;  "because  you  talk  in 
ignorance  of  the  subject  we  are  discussing — 
but  ha^i^g  now  discharged  an  important 
duty,  I  will  take  my  leave." 

"  You  may  of  me,"  repHed  the  other ; 
"  but  you  will  not  so  readily  shift  yourself 
out  of  the  law." 

"  Any  charge,  sir,  which  either  law  or 
Justice  may  biing  against  me,  I  shall  be 
ready  to  meet  ;  and  I  now,  for  your  infonna- 
tion,  beg  to  let  you  know  that  the  law  you 
threaten  me  with  affords  its  protection  to 
me  and  the  class  to  which  I  belong,  in  the 
discharge  of  this  most  sacred  and  important 
trust.  Your  threats,  Sir  Thomas,  conse- 
quently, I  disregai'd." 

"  The  more  shame  for  it  if  it  does,"  re- 
phed  the  baronet ;  "  but,  hark  you,  sir,  I  do 
not  wish,  after  all,  that  you  and  I  should 
part  on  unfi'iendly  terms.  You  refuse  to 
give  up  the  robber  ?  " 

"  I  would  give  up  my  hfe  sooner." 

"But  could  you  not  j^rocure  me  the  miss- 
ing note  ?  " 

"  Of  the  missing  note,  Sii*  Thomas  Goui*- 
lay,  I  know  nothing.  I  consequently  neither 
can  norAviU  make  any  promise  to  restore  it." 

"You  may  tell  the  robber  from  me,"  pur- 
sued the  baronet,  "  that  I  will  give  him  the 
full  amount  of  his  biirglary,  prorided  he  re- 
stores me  that  note.     The  other  sixty-nine 


pounds  shall  be  his  on  that  condition,  and 
no  questions  asked." 

"  I  have  already  told  you,  sir,  that  it  was 
under  the  seal  of  confession  the  knowledge 
of  the  crime  came  to  me.  Out  of  that  seal  I 
cannot  revert  to  the  subject  without  betray- 
ing my  ti-ust ;  for,  if  he  acknowledged  his 
guilt  to  me  under  any  other  circumstances, 
it  would  become  my  duty  to  hand  him  over 
to  the  law." 

"  Curse  upon  all  priests  !  "  said  the  other 
indignantly  ;  "  they  are  all  the  same  ;  a 
crew  of  cunning  scounilrels,  who  attempt  to 
subjugate  the  ignorant  and  the  credulous  to 
their  sway  ;  a  pack  of  spiritual  swindlers,  who 
get  jiossession  of  the  consciences  of  the  peo- 
l^le  thi'ough  pious  fraud,  and  then  make 
slarish  instruments  of  them  for  their  own 
selfish  jjurposes.  In  the  meantime  I  shall 
keep  my  eye  upon  you,  Mr.  M'^Iahon,  and, 
beheve  me,  if  I  can  get  a  hole  in  your  coat  I 
shall  make  a  rent  of  it." 

"  It  is  a  poor  pririlege,  sir,  that  of  insult- 
ing the  defenceless.  You  know  I  am  doubly 
so — defenceless  fi'om  age,  defenceless  in  \ir- 
tue  of  my  sacred  j^rofession  ;  but  if  I  am 
defenceless  against  your  insults.  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay,  I  am  not  against  your  threats, 
which  I  desj^ise  and  defy.  The  integrity  of 
my  life  is  beyond  your  power,  the  serenity 
of  my  conscience  beyond  your  vengeance. 
You  are  not  of  my  flock,  but  if  you  were,  I 
would  say.  Sir  Thomas,  I  feai*  you  are  a  bold, 
bad  man,  and  hav§  much  to  rej^ent  of  in  con- 
nection with  your  past  and  present  hfe—* 
much  reparation  to  make  to  your  feUow- 
creatures.  Yes  ;  I  would  say,  Sir  Thomas 
Goiu'lay,  the  deep  tempest  of  strong  passions 
Avithin  you  has  shaken  your  powei-jful  fi-ame 
until  it  totters  to  its  fall.  I  would  say,  be- 
ware ;  repent  while  it  is  time,  and  be  not 
unprepared  for  the  last  great  event.  Tliat 
event.  Sir  Thomas,  is  not  far  distixnt,  if  I 
read  aright  the  foreshadowing  of  death  and 
dissolution  that  is  evident  in  your  counte- 
nance and  fi-ame.  I  speak  these  words  in,  I 
trust,  a  charitable  and  forgiriug  spirit.  May 
they  sink  into  your  heart,  and  work  it  to  a 
sense  of  Christian  feehng  and  duty  ! 

"This  I  woidd  say  were  you  mine — this  I 
do  say,  knowing  that  you  are  not ;  for  my 
charity  goes  beyond  my  church,  and  em- 
braces my  enemy  as  well  as  my  friend  ; "  and 
as  he  spoke  he  prepared  co  go. 

"You  maj' go,  sir,"  rephed  the  baronet, 
with  a  sneer  of  contempt,  "only  you  have 
mistaken  youi*  man.  I  am  no  subject  for 
youi'  craft — not  to  be  deceived  by  your 
hypocrisy — and  laugh  to  scorn  your  ominous 
but  impotent  croaking.  Only  Ixfore  you  go, 
remember  the  conditions  I  have  offered  the 
scounth-el  who  robbed  me  :  and  if  the  theo* 


478 


WILLIAM  CAttLETON'S  WORKS. 


logical  intricacies  of  your  crooked  creed  will 
permit  you,  tiy  and  get  him  to  accept  them. 
It  will  be  better  for  him,  and  better  for  you 
too.  Do  this,  and  you  may  cease  to  look 
upon  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  as  an  enemy." 

The  priest  bowed,  and  without  returning 
any  reply  left  the  apartment  and  took  his 
immediate  departui-e. 

Sii'  Thomas,  after  he  had  gone,  went  to 
the  glass  and  surveyed  himself  steadily.  The 
words  of  the  priest  were  uttered  with  much 
solemnity  and  earnestness  ;  but  withal  "in 
such  a  tone  of  kind  regret  and  good  feeling, 
that  theii"  import  and  impressiveness  were 
much  heightened  by  this  very  fact. 

"  There  is  certainly  a  change  upon  me,  and 
not  one  for  the  better,"  he  said  to  himself ; 
"  but  at  the  same  time  the  priest,  cunning  as 
he  is,  has  been  taken  in  by  appearances.  I  am 
just  sufficiently  changed  in  my  looks  to 
justify  and  give  verisimihtude  to  the  game  I 
am  plajdng.  When  Lucy  hears  of  my  illness, 
which  must  be  a  serious  one,  nothing  on 
earth  will  keep  her  fi'om  me  ;  and  if  I  cannot 
gain  any  trace  to  her  residence,  a  short 
paragraph  in  the  papers,  intimating  and  re- 
gretting the  dangerous  state  of  my  health, 
will  most  probably  reach  her,  and  have  the 
desired  effect.  If  she  were  once  back,  I 
know  that,  under  the  ch'cumstances  of  my 
illness,  and  the  impression  that  it  has  been 
occasioned  by  her  refusal  to  many  Dunroe, 
she  will  yield  ;  especially  as  I  shall  put  the 
sole  chances  of  my  recovery  upon  her  com- 
pliance. Yet  why  is  it  that  I  urge  her  to  an 
act  which  will  probably  make  her  unhappy 
during  life  ?  But  it  will  not.  She  is  not 
the  fool  her  mother  was  ;  and  yet  I  am  not 
certain  that  her  mother  was  a  fool  either. 
We  did  not  agree ;  we  could  not.  She 
always  refused  to  coincide  with  me  almost 
in  everything  ;  and  "nhen  I  ^\dshed  to  teach 
Lucy  the  useful  lessons  of  worldly  policy, 
out  came  her  silly  maxims  of  conscience,  re- 
Hgion,  and  such  stuff.  But  yet  rehgious 
peo^Dle  are  the  best.  I  have  always  found  it 
so.  That  wretched  priest,  for  instance, 
would  give  up  his  life  sooner  than  violate 
what  he  calls^ — that  is,  what  he  thinks — his 
duty.  There  must  be  some  fiction,  however, 
to  regulate  the  multitude  ;  and  that  fiction 
must  be  formed  bj,  and  founded  on,  the 
necessities  of  society.  That,  unquestionably, 
is  the  origin  of  all  law  and  all  religion. 
Only  religion  uses  the  stronger  and  the 
wiser  argument,  by  threatening  us  with  an- 
other world.  Well  done,  religion !  You 
acted  upon  a  fixed  princijDle  of  nature.  The 
force  of  the  enemy  we  see  not  may  be  mag- 
nified and  exaggerated  ;  the  enemy  we  see 
not  we  fear,  especially  when  described  in  the 
most  terrible  colors  by  men  who  are  paid 


for  their  misrepresentations,  although  these 
same  imjDostors  have  never  seen  the  enemy 
they  si)eak  of  themselves.  But  the  enemy 
we  see  we  can  understand  and  grapple  with  ; 
ergo,  the  influence  of  rehgion  over  law ; 
ergo,  the  influence  of  the  priest,  who  deals 
in  the  imaginary  and  ideal,  over  the  legis- 
lator and  the  magistrate,  who  deal  only  in 
the  tangible  and  real.  Yes,  this  indeed  is 
the  principle.  How  we  do  fear  a  ghost ! 
What  a  shiver,  what  a  horror  runs  tln-ough 
the  frame  when  we  think  we  see  one  ;  and 
how  different  is  this  from  our  terror  of  a 
hving  enemy.  Away,  then,  with  tliis  im- 
posture, I  will  none  of  it.  Yet  hold  :  what 
was  that  I  saw  looking  into  the  window  of 
the  carriage  that  contained  my  brother's  son  ? 
What  was  it  ?  Wliy  a  form  created  by  my 
own  fears.  That  credulous  nurse,  old 
mother  Corbet,  stuffed  me  so  comj^letely 
with  superstition  when  I  was  young  and 
cowardly,  that  I  cannot,  in  many  instances, 
shake  myself  fi-ee  from  it  yet.  Even  the 
words  of  that  priest  alarmed  me  for  a  mo- 
ment. This,  however,  is  merely  the  weak- 
ness of  human  nature — the  effect  of  unreal 
phantasms  that  influence  the  reason  while 
we  are  awake,  just  as  that  of  dreams  does 
the  imagination  while  we  are  asleep.  Away, 
then,  ye  idle  brood !     I  will  none  of  you." 

He  then  sat  himself  down  on  the  sofa, 
and  rang  for  Gibson,  but  stiU  the  train  of 
thought  pursued  him. 

"  As  to  Lucy,  I  think  it  is  still  possible  to 
force  her  into  the  position  for  which  I  des- 
tined her — quite  possible.  She  reasons  hke 
a  girl,  of  course,  as  I  told  her.  She  reasons 
Hke  a  girl  who  looks  upon  that  silly  non- 
sense called  love  as  the  great  business  o\ 
life  ;  and  acts  accordingly.  Little  she  thinks, 
however,  that  love — lier  love — Ms  love — both 
their  loves — will  never  meet  twelve  months 
after  what  is  termed  the  honey-moon.  No, 
they  will  part  north  and  south.  And  yet 
the  honey-moon  has  her  sharp  ends,  as  well 
as  every  other  moon.  W^hen  love  passes 
away,  she  wiU  find  that  the  great  business 
of  life  is,  to  make  as  many  as  she  can  feel 
that  she  is  above  them  in  the  estimation  of 
the  world ;  to  impress  herself  uj^on  her 
equals,  until  they  shall  be  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge her  suj)eriority.  And  although  this 
may  be  sometimes  done  by  intellect  and 
principle,  yet,  in  the  society  in  which  she 
must  move,  it  is  always  done  by  rank,  by 
high  position,  and  h^  pride,  that  jealous 
vindictive  pride  which  is  based  ujDon  the 
hatred  of  our  kind,  and  at  once  smiles  and 
scorns.  What  would  I  be  if  I  were  not  a 
baronet  ?  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  passes  where 
Mr.  Gourlay  would  be  spurned.  This 
is  the  game  of  hfe,  and  we   shall  play  it 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


47» 


with  the  right  weapons.  jMany  a  cringing 
scovmdrel  bows  to  the  baronet  who  despises 
the  man  ;  and  for  this  reason  it  is  that  I 
Lave  always  made  myself  to  be  felt  to  some 
piu-pose,  and  so  shall  Lucy,  if  I  should  tlie 
for  it.  I  hate  society,  because  I  know  that 
society  hates  me ;  and  for  that  reason  I 
shall  so  far  exalt  her,  that  she  will  have  the 
base  compound  at  her  feet,  and  I  shall  teach 
her  to  scorn  and  trample  upon  it.  If  1 
thought  there  were  happiness  in  any  partic- 
ular rank  of  hfe,  I  woiild  not  press  her  ;  but 
I  know  there  is  not,  and  for  that  reason  she 
loses  nothing,  and  gains  the  pri^•ilege — the 
power — of  extorting  homage  fi-om  the  proud, 
tlie  insolent,  and  the  worthless.  This  is 
the  triumph  she  shall  and  must  enjoy." 

Gibson  then  entered,  and  the  baronet,  on 
hearing  his  foot,  threw  himseK  into  a  lan- 
guid and  invahd  attitude. 

"Gibson,"  said  he,  "I  am  verj-  unweU  ; 
I  apprehend  a  serious  attack  of  illness." 

"I  trust  not,  sir." 

"If  any  person  shotdd  call,  I  am  ill,  ob- 
seiTe,  and  not  in  a  condition  to  see  them." 

"Very  weD,  sir." 

"  Unless  you  should  suspect,  or  ascertain, 
that  it  is  some  person  on  behalf  of  !Miss 
Gourlay  ;  and  even  then,  mark,  I  am  verj' 
ill  indeed,  and  you  do  not  think  me  able  to 
speak  to  any  one  ;  but  wiU  come  in  and  see." 

"  Yes,  sii- ;  certainly  sir." 

"There,  then,  that'wiU  do." 

The  priest,  on  learing  the  baronet's  resi- 
dence, was  turning  his  steps  toward  the  ho- 
tel in  which  the  stranger  had  put  up,  when 
his  messenger  to  Constitution  Hill  approach- 
ing put  his  hand  to  his  hat,  and  respectfully 
saluted  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  he,  "and  I 
am  sorry,  now  that  I  know  who  you  are,  for 
the  trouble  you  got  into." 

"  Thank  you,  my  friend,"  said  the  priest ; 
"  I  felt  it  wouldn't  signify,  knowing  in  my 
conscience  that  I  was  no  robber.  In  the 
meantime,  I  got  one  ghmpse  of  your  met- 
ropolitan hfe,  as  they  call  it,  and  the  Lord 
knows  I  never  wish  to  get  another.  Troth, 
I  was  once  or  twice  so  confovmded  with  the 
noise  and  I'acket,  that  I  thought  I  had  got 
into  i3urgatorj'  by  mistake." 

"  Tut,  sir,  that's  nothing,"  replied  Skip- 
ton  ;  "  we  were  very  calm  and  peaceable  //u'.s 
morning  ;  but  with  respect  to  that  baronet, 
he's  a  niggardly  fellow.  Only  think  of  liim, 
never  once  offering  us  the  slightest  compen- 
SJition  for  bringing  him  home  his  property  ! 
There's  not  another  man  in  Ireland  would 
send  us  off  empty-handed  as  he  did.  The 
thing's  always  usual  on  recoveiing  prop- 
erty." 

"  Speak  for  yourself,  in  the  singular  num- 


ber, if  you  plaise  ;  you  don't  imagine  that  J 
wanted  compensation." 

"  No,  sir,  certainly  not ;  but  I'm  just 
thinking,"  he  added,  after  curiously  examin- 
ing Father  iM'Mahon's  face  for  some  time, 
"  that  you  and  I  met  before  somewhere.* 

"  Is  that  the  memory  you  have?"  said  the 
priest,  "when  you  ought  to  recollect  that 
we  met  this  morning,  much  against  my  •will, 
I  must  say." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  the  man  ;  "  but 
I  think  I  saw  you  once  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 

"  Me,  in  a  lunatic  asylum  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
good  priest,  somewhat  indignantly.  "  The 
thing's  a  bounce,  my  good  man,  before  you 
go  farther.  The  httle  sense  I've  had  has 
been  sufficient,  thank  goodness,  to  keep  me 
fi'ee  fi'om  sucli  establishments." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  sir,"  repUed  the  other, 
smiling,  "  but  if  I  don't  mistake,  you  once 
brought  a  clergj-man  of  our  persuasion  to 
the  lunatic  asylum  in ." 

"Ay,  indeed,"  returned  the  jmest ;  "poor 
Quin.  His  was  a  case  of  monomania ;  he 
imagined  himself  a  giidiron,  on  wliich  all 
heretics  were  to  be  roasted.  That  young 
man  was  one  of  the  finest  scholars  in  the 
thi-ee  kingdoms.  But  how  do  you  remem- 
ber that  ?  " 

"Why  for  good  reasons  ;  because  I  was  a 
sei-\'ant  in  the  establishment  at  the  time. 
Well,"  he  added,  pausing,  "it  is  cmious 
enough  that  I  should  have  seen  this  very 
morning  thi-ee  persons  I  saw  in  that  asylum." 

"  If  I  had  been  much  longer  in  that  watch- 
house,"  rephed  the  other,  "  I'm  not  quite 
certain  but  I'd  soon  be  qualified  to  })ay  a 
permanent  visit  to  some  of  them,  ^^'ho 
were  the  three  persons  you  saw  there,  in  the 
mane  time  ?  " 

"That  messenger  of  youi's  was  one  of 
them,  and  that  niggardly  baronet  was  the 
other ;  yom-self,  as  I  said,  making  the 
third." 

The  priest  looked  at  him  seriously  ;  "you 
mane  Corbet,"  said  he,  "  or  Dunjjy  as  he  is 
called  ?  " 

"I  do.  He  and  the  bai-onet  brought  a 
shp  of  a  boy  there  ;  and,  upon  my  con- 
science, I  think  there  was  bad  work  between 
them.  At  aU  events,  poor  ]\Ii*.  Quin  and  he 
were  insepai-able.  The  lad  promised  that  he 
would  allow  himself  to  be  roasted,  the  very 
first  man,  upon  the  reverend  giidiron  ; — and 
for  that  reason  Quin  took  liim  into  hand  ; 
and  gave  liim  an  excellent  education." 

"  And  no  one,"  replied  the  priest,  "  wns 
better  quahfied  to  do  ii  But  what  bad 
work  do  you  susjject  between  Corbet  and 
the  baronet  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  have  my  suspicious."  replied  the 
man.     "  It's  not  a  montlx  since  I  heard  that 


(SO 


WILLIAM  CAliLETON'S  WORKS. 


the  son  of  that  very  baronet's  brother,  who 
was  heir  to  the  estate  and  titles,  disappear- 
ed, and  has  never  been  heard  of  since.  Now, 
all  the  water  in  the  sea  wouldn't  wash  the 
pair  of  them  clear  of  what  I  suspect,  which 
is — that  both  had  a  hand  in  removing  that 
boy.  The  baronet  was  a  young  man  at  the 
time,  but  he  has  a  face  that  no  one  could  ever 
forget.  As  for  Corbet,  I  remember  him  weU, 
as  why  shouldn't  I  ?  he  came  there  often.  I'll 
take  my  oath  it  would  be  a  charity  to  bring 
the  afiair  to  hght." 

"  Do  you  think  the  boy  is  there  still  ?  " 
asked  the  priest,  suppressing  all  appearance 
of  the  interest  which  he  felt. 

"No,"  rephed  the  other,  "he  escaped 
about  two  or  thi-ee  years  ago ;  but,  poor  lad, 
when  it  was  discovered  that  he  led  too  easy 
a  life,  and  had  got  educated,  his  treatment 
was  changed  ;  a  straight  waistcoat  was  put 
on  him,  and  he  was  placed  in  sohtary  con- 
finement. At  fii'st  he  was  no  more  mad  than 
I  am ;  but  he  did  get  occasionally  mad 
afterwards.  I  know  he  attempted  suicide, 
and  nearly  cut  his  throat  with  a  piece  of 
glass  one  day  that  his  hands  got  loose  while 
they  were  changing  his  linen.  Old  Rivet 
died,  and  the  estabhshment  was  purchased 
by  Tickleback,  who,  to  my  own  knowledge, 
had  him  regularly  scoui'ged." 

"And  how  did  he  escape,  do  you  know?" 
inquired  the  priest. 

"  I  coidd  tell  you  that,  too,  maybe,"  re- 
phed Skip  ton  ;  "  but  I  think,  sir,  I  have  told 
you  enough  for  the  present.  If  that  young 
man  is  hving,  I  woiild  swear  that  he  ought 
to  stand  in  Sir  Thomas  Gouiiay's  shoes. 
And  now  do  you  think,  su-,"  he  inquii'ed,  com- 
ing at  last  to  the  real  object  of  his  commu- 
nication, "that  if  his  right  could  be  made 
clear,  any  one  who'd  help  him  to  his  own 
mightn't  expect  to  be  made  comfortable  for 
life  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  there's  a  doubt  about  it," 
rephed  the  priest.  -'The  property  is  large, 
and  he  could  well  afford  to  be  both  gener- 
ous and  grateful." 

"I  know,"  retiimed  the  man,  "  that  he  is 
both  one  aad  the  other,  if  he  had  it  in  his 
power." 

"  Well,"  said  the  priest,  seriously  ;  "  mai'k 
my  words — this  may  be  the  most  fortunate 
day  you  ever  saw.  In  the  mane  time,  keep 
a  close  mouth.  The  friends  of  that  identi- 
cal boy  are  on  the  search  for  him  this  mo- 
ment. They  had  given  him  up  for  dead  ; 
but  it  is  not  long  since  they  discovered  that 
he  was  hving.  I  will  see  you  again  on  this 
subject." 

"I  am  now  a  constable,"  said  the  man, 
"  attached  to  the  office  you  were  in  to-day, 
Rod  I  can  be  heard  of  auy  time." 


j  "Yeiy  well,"  rephed  the  priest,  "you 
shall  hear  either  from  me  or  fi-om  some 
person  interested  in  the  recovery  of  the  boy 
that's  lost" 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 

Sir  Thomas,  who  shams  Illness,  is  too  sharp  for  Mrs. 
Mainwaring,  icJio  ri»its  Him — Lucy  calls  upon  La' 
dy  Gourlay,  wliere  she  meets  her  Loter — Affecting 
interview  between  Lucy  and  Lady  Gourlay. 

Lucy  Gouelay,  anxious  to  relieve  her  fath- 
er's mind  as  much  as  it  was  in  her  power  to 
do,  wrote  to  him  the  day  after  the  risit  of 
Ensign  Roberts  and  old  Sam  to  Svunmer- 
field  Cottage.  Her  letter  was  affectionate, 
and  even  tender,  and  not  written  without 
many  tears,  as  was  evident  by  the  blots  and 
bhsters  which  they  produced  upon  the  paper. 
She  fully  coiToborated  the  stranger's  explana- 
tion to  her  father  ;  for  although  ignorant  at 
the  time  that  an  interview  had  taken  jDlace  be- 
tween them,  she  felt  it  to  be  her  duty  toward 
all  pai-ties  to  prevent,  as  far  as  her  testimony 
coiold  go,  the  possibility  of  any  misimder- 
standing  uj^on  the  subject.  This  letter  was 
posted  in  DubHu,  fi'om  an  ajipreheusion  lest 
the  local  jDost-office  might  funiish  a  clew  to 
her  present  abode.  The  tinath  was,  she  fear- 
ed that  if  her  father  could  trace  her  out,  he 
would  claim  her  at  once,  and  force  her  home 
by  outrage  and  violence.  In  this,  however, 
she  was  mistaken  ;  he  had  fallen  upon  quite 
a  different  and  far  more  successful  jilan  for 
that  piu-j^ose.  He  knew  his  daughter  weU, 
and  felt  that  if  ever  she  might  be  forced 
to  depai-t  fi'om  those  strong  convictions  of 
the  vmhappiness  that  must  result  fi'om  a 
union  between  baseness  and  honor,  it  must 
be  by  an  assumption  of  tenderness  and  af- 
fection toward  her,  as  well  as  by  a  show  of 
submission,  and  a  concession  of  his  own  will 
to  hers.  This  was  calctdating  at  once  upon 
her  affection  and  generosity.  He  had  form- 
ed this  plan  before  her  letter  reached  him, 
and  on  perusing  it,  he  felt  stiU  more  deter- 
mined to  make  this  treacherous  experiment 
upon  her  very  rirtues — thus  most  unscru- 
pulously causing  them  to  lay  the  groundwork 
of  her  own  permanent  misery. 

In  the  meantime,  jMi*s.  Mainwaiing,  hav- 
ing much  confidence  in  the  effect  which  a 
knowledge  of  her  disclosure  must,  as  she 
calcvilated,  necessarily  j^roduce  on  the  am- 
bitious baronet,  resolved  to  lose  no  time  in 
seeing  him.  On  the  evening  before  she 
went,  however,  the  following  brief  conver- 
sation took  place  between  her  and  Lucy  : 

"  My  dear  Lucy,"  said  she,  "  a  thought  haa 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


481 


Just  struck  me.  Your  situation,  excepting 
always  youi*  residence  witli  us,  is  one  of  botb 
pjiin  and  difficulty.  I  am  not  a  woman  who 
has  ever  been  much  di.sposed  to  rely  on  my 
own  jud<?ment  in  matters  of  importance." 

"  But  there,  my  dear  IVIrs.  Main  waring,  you 
do  yovu'self  injustice." 

"No,  my  dear  child." 

"  But  what  is  your  thought?"  asked  Lu- 
cy, who  felt  some  unaccountable  ai:)prehen- 
sion  at  what  her  fiiend  was  about  to  say. 

"  You  tell  me  that  neither  you  nor  your 
aunt.  Lady  Gourlay,  have  ever  met." 

"Never,  indeed,"  replied  Lucy;  "nor 
do  I  think  we  should  know  each  other  if  we 
did." 

"  Tlien  suppose  you  were,  without  either 
favor  or  ceremony,  to  call  upon  her — to  pre- 
sent j-ourself  to  her  in  virtue  of  your  rela- 
tionship— in  vii'tue  of  her  high  character  and 
admirable  principles — in  virtue  of  the  pain- 
fvd  position  in  which  you  are  pl.iced — to 
claim  the  benefit  of  her  experience  and  wis- 
dom, and  ask  her  to  advise  you  as  she  would 
a  daughter." 

Lucy's  eyes  glistened  with  delight,  and, 
stooping  down,  she  imprinted  a  kiss  upon 
the  forehead  of  her  considerate  and  kind 
friend. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Main  waring," 
she  exclaimed  :  "  a'thousand  thanks  for  that 
admirable  suggestion.  Many  a  time  has  my 
heart  yearned  to  know  that  extraordinaiy 
woman,  of  whose  virtues  the  world  talks  so 
much,  and  whose  gi'eat  and  trusting  sj^irit 
even  sorrow  and  calamity  cannot  prostrate. 
Yes,  I  will  follow  your  advice  ;  I  ^\ill  call  up- 
on her  ;  for,  even  setting  aside  all  selfish 
considerations,  I  should  wish  to  know  her 
for  her  own  worth." 

"  Very  well,  then  ;  I  am  going  in  to  see 
your  father  to-morrow — had  you  not  better 
come  with  me?  I  shall  leave  you  at  her 
house,  and  can  call  for  you  after  my  inter- 
view wdth  him  shall  have  been  concluded.  I 
shall  order  a  chaise  from  the  hotel  to  be 
with  us  in  the  morning,  so  that  you  may 
run  little  or  no  risk  of  being  seen  or  known." 

•'  That  will  be  dehghtful,"  replied  Lucy  ; 
"  for  I  am  sure  Lady  Gourlay  will  be  a  kind 
and  aftectionate  friend  to  me.  Li  seeking 
her  acquaintance — may  I  hope,  her  friend- 
ship— I  am  not  conscious  of  violating  any 
command  or  duty.  Ever  since  I  recollect,  it 
was  a  well-knowr.  fact,  that  the  families,  that 
is  to  say,  my  father  and  uncle,  never  met, 
nor  risited — mamma  knew,  of  course,  that 
to  keep  up  an  intimacy,  under  such  circum- 
stances, would  occasion  much  domestic  dis- 
?uietude.  This  is  all  I  know  about  it  ;  but 
never  remember  having  heard  any  injunc- 
tion not  to  visit" 

16 


"  No,"  rej^lied  IMrs.  Mainvraring  ;  "  such 
an  injunction  would  resemble  that  of  a  man 
who  should  desire  his  child  not  to  forget  to 
rise  next  moniing,  or,  to  be  sure  to  breathe 
through  his  lungs.  I  can  veiy  well  under- 
stand why  such  a  proliibition  was  never  giv- 
en in  that  case.  Well,  then,  we  shall  start 
pretty  eai'ly  in  the  morning,  please  God  ;  but 
remember  that  you  must  give  me  a  full  detail 
of  your  reception  and  intei-view." 

The  next  day,  about  the  hour  of  two 
o'clock,  a  chaise  drew  up  at  the  residence  ol 
Lady  Gourlay,  and  on  the  hall-door  being 
opened,  a  steady,  resi)ectable-looking  old 
footman  made  his  aj^iDearance  at  the  chaise 
door,  and,  in  reply  to  their  inquiries,  stated, 
"  that  her  ladyship  had  been  out  for  some 
time,  but  was  then  expected  every  moment. " 

"  "WTiat  is  to  be  done  ?  "  said  Lucy,  in  some 
Ijerjjlexity  ;  "  or  how  am  I  to  bestow  myself 
if  she  does  not  return  soon  ?  " 

"  We  expect  her  ladyship  every  moment, 
madam,"  replied  the  man  ;  "  and  if  3-ou  will 
have  the  goodness  to  allow  me  to  conduct 
you  to  the  drawing-room,  you  \rill  not  have 
to  wait  long — I  may  assm-e  you  of  that." 

"  You  had  better  go  in,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  ]M:un waring,  "  and  I  shall  call  for  you  in 
about  :<u  hour,  or,  perhaps,  a  little  better." 

It  w;is  so  arranged,  and  Lucy  went  in  ac- 
cordingly. 

We  must  now  follow  Mrs.  ^^Lainwaiing, 
who,  on  inquiring  if  she  could  see  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay,  was  informed  by  Gibson, 
who  had  got  his  cue,  that  he  w^as  not  in  a 
condition  to  see  any  one  at  present. 

"  ]\Iy  lousiness  is  somewhat  important," 
replied  ]\[i'S.  INIaiu waring,  with  a  good  deal 
of  confidence  in  the  tiiith  of  what  she  said. 

Gibson,  however,  approached  her,  and, 
with  the  ah"  of  a  man  who  Avas  in  posses- 
sion of  the  secrets  of  the  family,  said,  '•  Per- 
haps, ma'am,  you  come  on  behalf  of  ^lisa 
Gourlay  ?  " 

"  Whatever  my  business  may  be,"  slie  re- 
phed,  indignantly,  "  be  it  important  or  other- 
^rise,  I  never  communicate  it  through  the 
medium  of  a  sei'want ;  I  mean  you  no  oti'ence," 
slie  proceeded  ;  "  but  as  I  have  ah'eady  stat- 
ed that  it  is  of  importance,  I  trust  that  will 
be  sufficient  for  the  present." 

"Excuse  me,  mr.'am,"  replied  Gibson,  "1 
only  put  the  question  by  Sir  Thomas's  ex- 
press orders.  His  stdte  of  health  is  such, 
that  unless  upon  that  subject  he  can  see  no 
one.  I  will  go  to  him,  liowever,  and  mention 
what  you  have  said.  He  is  very  ill.  however, 
exceetlingly  ill,  and  I  fear  will  not  be  able  to 
see  you  ;  but  I  shall  tiy." 

Sir  Thomas  was  seatedf  &pon  a  sofa  read- 
ing some  book  or  o^h'^-  when  Gibson  reap- 
peared. 


482 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Well,  Gibson,  who  is  this  ?  " 

"  A  lady,  sir  ;  and  she  says  she  wishes  to 
see  you  on  very  impoiiant  business." 

"Hum ! — do  you  think  it  anything  connect- 
ed with  Miss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"  I  j)ut  the  question  to  her,  sir,"  rephed 
the  other,  "and  she  bridled  a  good  deal — I 
should  myseK  suppose  it  is." 

"  Well,  then,  thi-ow  me  over  my  dressing- 
gown  and  nightcap  ;  here,  pull  it  up  be- 
hind, you  blockhead  ; — there  now — how  do  I 
look  ?  " 

"  T\Tiy,  ahem,  a  Httle  too  much  in  health, 
8ir  Thomas,  if  it  coiild  be  avoided." 

"But,  you  stupid  rascal,  isn't  that  a  sign 
of  fever?  and  isn't  my  complaint  fulness 
about  the  head — a  tendency  of  blood  there  ? 
That  will  do  now  ;  yes,  the  plethoric  com- 
plexion to  a  shade  ;  and,  by  the  way,  it  is  no 
joke  either.      Send  her  uj)  now." 

When  Mrs.  Main  waring  entered,  the  worthy 
invalid  was  l}ing  incumbent  upon  the  sofa, 
his  head  raised  high  upon  pillows,  with  his 
dressing-gown  and  night-cap  on,  and  his 
arms  stretched  along  by  his  sides,  as  if  he 
were  enduring  great  pain. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Norton,"  said  he,  after  she  had 
courtesied,  "how  do  you  do?" 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  ill.  Sir  Thomas," 
she  rephed,  "'I  hope  there  is  nothing  serious 
the  matter." 

"I  wish  I  myself  could  hope  so,  IMrs. 
Norton." 

"  Excuse  me,  Sir  Thomas,  I  am  no  longer 
Mrs.  Norton  ;  ]\Ii's.  Mainwaring,  at  your  ser- 
vice." 

"Ah,  indeed!  Then  you  have  changed 
your  condition,  as  they  say.  Well,  I  hope  it 
is  for  the  better,  i\Irs.  Mainwaring  ;  I  wish 
you  all  joy  and  happiness  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Sir  Thomas,  it  is  for  the  bet- 
ter ;  I  am  very  happily  married." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it — I  am  very  glad  to 
hear  it ;  that  is  to  say,  if  I  can  be  glad  at 
anything.  I  feel  very  ill,  Mrs.  Mainwaring, 
very  ill,  indeed  ;  and  this  blunt,  plain-spoken 
doctor  of  mine  gives  me  but  httle  comfort. 
Not  that  I  care  much  about  any  doctor's 
opinion— it  is  what  I  feel  myself  that  trou- 
bles me.  You  are  not  aware,  perhaps,  that 
my  daughter  has  abandoned  me — deserted 
me — and  left  me  sohtary — sick — ill ;  without 
care — without  attendance — without  conso- 
lation ; — and  all  because  I  wished  to  make 
her  happy." 

"This,  Sir  Thomas,"  replied  Mrs.  Main- 
waring, avoiding  a  direct  reply  as  to  her 
knowledge  of  Lucy's  movements,  "is,  I  pre- 
sume, with  reference  to  her  marriage  with 
Lord  Dunroe." 

"  Oh  yes  ;  young  women  will  not,  now-a- 
days,  allow  a  parent  to  form  any  opinion  as  to 


what  constitutes  their  happiness  ;  but  I  caD« 
not  be  angry  with  Lucy  now ;  indeed,  1  am 
not.  I  only  regret  her  absence  from  my 
sick  bed,  as  I  may  term  it ;  for,  indeed,  it  ia 
in  bed  I  ought  to  be." 

"  Sir  Thomas,  I  came  to  speak  with  you 
very  seriously,  upon  the  subject  of  her  union 
with  that  young  nobleman." 

"  Ah,  but  I  am  not  in  a  condition,  IVIrs.^ 
Mainwaring,  to  enter  upon  such  a  topic  at 
present.  The  doctor  has  forbidden  me  to 
speak  upon  any  subject  that  might  excite 
me.  You  must  excuse  me,  then,  madam  ;  I 
really  cannot  enter  upon  it.  I  never  thought 
T  loved  Lucy  so  much  ; — I  only  want  my 
child  to  be  with  me.  She  and  I  are  all  that 
are  left  together  now  ;  but  she  has  deserted 
me  at  the  last  moment,  for  I  fear  I  am  near  it. " 

"  But,  Sir  Thomas,  if  you  would  only  heap 
me  for  a  few  minutes,  I  could  satisfy  you 
that " 

"But  I  cannot  hear  you,  IVIi's.  Mainwaring; 
I  cannot  hear  you  ;  I  am  not  in  a  state  to  do 
so ;  I  feel  feverish,  and  exceedingly  ill." 

"Five  minutes  would  do.  Sir  Thomas." 

"  Five  minutes  !  five  centuries  of  tortur'B ! 
I  must  ring  the  bell,  IMrs.  Mainwaring,  if  you 
attempt  to  force  this  subject  on  me.  I  should 
be  soiTy  to  treat  you  rudely,  but  you  mu«t 
see  at  once  that  I  am  quite  imable  to  talk  of 
anything  calculated  to  disturb  me.  I  have  a 
tendency  of  blood  to  the  head — I  am  ah)o 
nervous  and  irritable.  Put  it  ofi",  my  dear 
madam.  I  trust  you  shall  have  another  and 
a  better  opportunity.  Do  ring,  and  desire 
Lucy  to  come  to  me." 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  really  became  alarmed 
at  the  situation  of  the  baronet,  and  felt,  from 
this  request  to  have  his  daughter  sent  to 
him,  which  looked  hke  deliiium,  that  he  was 
not  in  a  state  to  enter  upon  or  hear  anything 
that  might  disappoint  or  disturb  him.  She 
consequently  rose  to  take  her  leave,  which 
she  did  after  having  expressed  her  sincere 
regret  at  his  indisposition,  as  she  termed  it. 

"I  wish  it  was  only  indisposition,  MiB. 
Mainwaring,  I  wish  it  was.  Present  my  re- 
spects to  your  husband,  and  I  wish  you  and 
him  aU  happiness ; "  and  so  -with  another 
courtesy,  IVIrs.  Mainwaring  took  her  leave. 

After  she  had  gone,  Gibson  once  more  at- 
tended the  bell. 

"Well,  Gibson,"  said  his  master,  sitting 
up  and  flinging  his  nightcap  aside,  "  did  you  J 
see  that  old  grindress?  Zounds  and  the  devil,  i 
what  are  women  ?  The  old  mantrap  has  got  ' 
married  at  these  years  !   Thank  heaven,  B^y 
grandmother  is  dead,  or  God  knows  what  tne 
deril  might  put  into  her  old  noddle." 

"  Women  are  very  strange  cattle,  certainly, 
sir,"  replied  Gibson,  with  a  smirk,  "and  not 
age  itself  wiU  keep  them  from  a  husband." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


483 


"Lucy — jMiss  Gourlay,  I  mean — is  with 
her  ;  I  am  certain  of  it.  The  girl  was  always 
very  much  attached  to  her,  and  I  know  the 
sly  old  devil  has  been  sent  to  negotiate  with 
me,  but  I  declined.  I  knew  better  than  to 
involve  myself  in  a  controversy  with  an  old 
she  prig  who  deals  in  nothing  but  maxims, 
and  morals,  and  jDoints  of  duty.  I  conse- 
quently sent  her  olf  in  double  quick  time,  as 
they  say.  Get  me  some  burgundy  and 
water.  I  really  am  not  well.  There  is  some- 
thing WTong,  Gibson,  whatever  it  is  ;  but  I 
think  it's  nothing  but  anxiety.  Gibson,  Hs- 
ten.  I  have  never  been  tui-ned  from  my 
purpose  yet,  and  I  never  shall.  IVIiss  Goiir- 
lay  must  be  Countess  of  Cullamore,  or  it  is  a 
struggle  for  hfe  and  death  between  her  and 
me  ;  either  of  us  shall  die,  or  I  shall  have 
my  way.  Get  me  the  burgundy  and  water," 
and  Gibson,  with  his  sleek  bow,  went  to  at- 
tend his  ordei'S. 

j\Ii-s.  Mainwaring  having  some  purchases 
to  make  and  some  visits  to  pay,  and  feeling 
that  her  unexpectedly  brief  visit  to  Sir 
Thomas  had  allowed  her  time  for  both,  did 
not  immediately  retui'u  to  call  upon  Lucy, 
fearing  that  she  might  only  disturb  the  inter- 
view between  her  and  Lady  (S^ourlay. 

Lucy,  as  the  servant  said,  was  shown  up  to 
the  dra^ring-room,  where  she  amused  her- 
self as  well  as  she  could,  by  examining  some 
fine  paintings,  among  which  was  one  of  her 
late  uncle.  The  features  of  this  she  studied 
with  considerable  attention,  and  could  not 
help  observing  that,  although  they  resembled 
collectively  those  of  her  father,  the  deformity 
of  the  one  eye  only  excepted,  yet  the  general 
result  was  strikingly  different.  All  that  was 
harsh,  and  coai'se,  and  repulsive  in  the  counte- 
nance of  her  father,  was  here  softened  down 
into  an  expression  of  gentleness,  firmness, 
and  singular  candor,  whilst,  at  the  same 
time,  the  family  likeness  could  not  for  a  mo- 
ment be  questioned  or  mistaken. 

\Miilst  thus  occupied,  a  foot  was  heard,  as 
if  entering  the  dra^ring-room,  and  naturally 
turning  round,  she  beheld  the  stranger  be- 
fore her.  The  surprise  of  each  was  mutual, 
for  the  meeting  avus  perfectly-  unexpected  by 
either.  A  deep  blush  overspread  Lucy's  ex- 
quisite features,  which  almost  in  a  moment 
gave  way  to  a  paleness  that  added  a  new  and 
equally  delightful  phase  to  her  beauty. 

"  Good  heavens,  my  dear  Lucy,"  exclaimed 
the  strange^  "do  I  find  you  here!  I  had 
heard  that  tliy!'  fsnwlies  were  estranged  ;  but 
on  that  vei'y  account  I  feel  the  more  deeply 
delighted  at  your  presence  under  Lady 
Gourlay's  roof.  This  hajjpiness  comes  to 
me  with  a  double  sense  of  enjoyment,  fi"om 
the  fact  of  its  being  rmexpected." 

The  alternations  of  red   and   white  still 


continued  as  Lucy  repHed,  her  sparkling  eye 
chastened  dowTi  by  the  veil  of  modesty  as 
she  spoke:  "I  am  under  Lady  Gourlay's 
roof  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  Indeed,  I 
have  come  here  to  make  an  experiment,  if  I 
may  use  the  expression,  upon  the  goodness 
of  her  heart.  The  amiable  kuly  with  whom 
I  now  reside  suggested  to  me  to  do  so,  a 
suggestion  which  I  embraced  with  delight. 
I  have  been  here  only  a  few  minutes,  and 
await  her  ladyship's  return,  which  they  tell 
me  may  be  expected  immediately." 

"It  would  indeed  be  unfortunate," repHed 
the  stranger,  "  that  two  indiriduals  so  near- 
ly connected  by  family,  and  what  is  more, 
the  possession  of  similar  ▼ii-tues,  should  not 
be  known  to  each  other." 

This  comjDhment  brought  a  deeper  tinge 
of  color  to  Lucy's  cheek,  who  simj^ly  replied, 
"  I  have  often  wished  most  sincerely  for  the 
pleasure — the  honor,  I  should  say — of  her 
acquaintance  ;  but  unfortunately  the  ill-feel- 
ing that  has  subsisted  between  the  famihes, 
or  rather  between  a  jDortion  of  them,  has 
liitherto  prevented  it.  If  I  were  now  under 
my  father's  roof  a  visit  here  were  out  of  the 
question  ;  but  you  know,  Charles,  I  cannot, 
and  I  ought  not,  to  inherit  his  resentments." 

"  True,  my  dear  Lucy,  and  I  am  glad  to 
see  you  here  for  many,  many  reasons.  No, 
your  father's  resentments  would  perish  for 
want  of  nru'ture  in  a  heart  like  yours.  But, 
Lucy,  there  is  a  subject  in  which  I  tnist  we 
both  feel  a  dearer  and  a  deeper  uiterest  than 
that  of  family  feud.  I  am  aware  of  this 
hateful  union  which  your  father  vrishes  to 
bring  about  between  you  and  this  Lord 
Dunroe.  I  have  been  long  aware  of  it,  as 
you  know  ;  but  need  I  say  that  I  i>lace  every 
rehance,  all  honorable  confidence,  in  your 
truth  and  attachment  ?  " 

He  had  aj^i^roached,  and  gently  taking 
her  hand  in  his  as  he  spoke,  he  uttered 
these  words  in  a  tone  so  full  at  once  of  ten- 
derness and  that  sympathy  to  which  he 
knew  her  sufferings  on  this  point  had  en- 
titled her,  that  Lucy  was  considerably  affect- 
ed, although  she  restrained  her  emotions  as 
well  as  she  covdd. 

"  If  it  were  not  so,"  she  repHed,  in  a  voice 
whose  melody  was  made  more  touchingly 
beautifid  by  the  shght  tremor  which  she  en- 
deavored to  repress,  "if  it  were  not  so, 
Charles,  I  would  not  now  be  a  fugitive  fi'om 
my  father's  roof." 

The  stranger's  eye  sparkled  with  the  rap- 
turous enthusiasm  of  love,  as  the  gentle 
girl,  aU  blushes,  gave  expression  to  an 
assurance  so  gi-atifying,  so  delicious  to  his 
heart. 

"Dearest  Lucy,"  said  he,  "I  fear  I  am 
unworthy  of  you.     Oh,  could  you  but  kno\? 


«84 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJTS   WORKS. 


how  those  words  of  yours  have  made  my 
heart  tremble  with  an  excess  of  transport 
which  language  fails  to  express,  you  would 
also  know  that  the  affection  with  which  I 
love  you  is  as  tender,  as  pure,  as  unselfish, 
as  ever  warmed  the  heart  of  man.  And  yet, 
as  I  said,  I  fear  it  is  unworthy  of  you.  I 
know  yoiu'  father's  character,  his  determina- 
tion, the  fierce  force  of  his  wiU,  and  the 
energy  ^dth  which  he  pursues  every  object 
on  which  he  sets  his  heai't  or  ambition.  I 
say  I  know  all  this,  and  I  sometimes  fear  the 
consequences.  "What  can  the  wiU  of  only 
one  pure,  gentle,  and  delicate  heart  avail 
against  the  united  powers  of  ambition, 
authority,  persuasion,  force,  determina- 
tion, perhaps  violence  ?  What,  I  repeat,  can 
a  gentle  hesu't  like  youi'S  xiltimately  avail 
against  such  a  host  of  difficulties  ?  And  it  is 
for  this  reason  that  I  say  I  am  unworthy  of 
you,  for  I  fear — and  you  know  that  perfect 
love  casteth  out  all  fear." 

"  My  dear  Charles,  if  love  were  without 
fear  it  would  lose  half  its  tenderness.  An 
eternal  sunshine,  would  soon  sicken  the 
world.  But  as  for  your  ajjprehensions  of 
my  solitaiy  heart  faihng  against  such  diffi- 
ciilties  as  it  must  encounter,  you  seem  to  omit 
one  shght  element  in  calculating  your  ter- 
rors, and  that  simj^le  element  is  a  host  in 
itself." 

"Which  is?" 

"Love  for  you,  dear  Charles.  I  know 
you  may  probably  feel  that  this  avowal 
ought  to  be  expressed  with  more  hesitation, 
veiled  over  by  the  hyjDOcrisy  of  language, 
disguised  by  the  hackneyed  forms  of  mere 
sentiment,  uttered  like  the  assertions  of  a 
coquette,  and  degraded  by  that  tampering 
with  truth  wliich  makes  the  heart  lie  unto 
itself.  Oh,  yes ! — perhaps,  Charles,  you 
may  think  that  because  I  fail  to  express 
what  I  feel  in  that  spirit  of  ambiguity  which 
a  love  not  confident  in  the  truth,  purity, 
and  rectitude  of  its  own  principles  must  al- 
ways borrow — that  because  my  heart  fails 
to  approach  yours  by  the  usual  circuitous 
route  with  which  ordinaiy  hearts  do  ap- 
proach— yes,  you  may  imagine  for  all  these 

reasons  that  my  affection  is  not — but " 

and  here  she  checked  herself — ■"  why,"  she 
added,  with  dignity,  whilst  her  cheeks 
glowed  and  her  eyes  sparlded,  "  why  should 
I  apologize  for  the  avowal  of  a  love  of  which 
I  am  not  ashamed,  and  which  has  its  strong- 
est defence  in  the  worth  and  honor  of  its 
object  ?  " 

Tears  of  enthusiasm  rushed  down  her 
cheeks  as  she  spoke,  and  her  lover  could 
only  say,  "Dearest  Lucy,  most  beloved  of 
my  heart,  your  language,  your  sentiments, 
yovir  feelings — so   pure,    so    noble,    so    far 


above  those  commonplaces  of  your  sex,  only 
cause  me  to  shrink  almost  into  nothing 
when  I  compare  or  contrast  myself  with  you. 
Let,  however,  one  principle  guide  us — the 
confidence  that  our  love  is  mutual  and  can- 
not be  distui'bed.  I  am  for  the  present 
placed  in  circumstances  that  are  exceedingly 
painful.  In  point  of  fact,  I  am  wrapped  in 
obscurity  and  shadow,  and  there  exists,  be- 
sides, a  ^possibility  that  I  may  not  become, 
in  point  of  fortune,  such  a  man  as  you  might 
possibly  wish  to  look  upon  as  your  hus- 
band." 

"If  you  are  now  suffeiing  yovir  fine  mind, 
Charles,  to  become  unconsciously  warped  by 
the  common  prejudices  of  hfe,  I  beseech  you 
to  reflect  xxiDon  the  heart  to  which  you  ad- 
dress yourself.  Society  presents  not  a  single 
prejudice  which  in  an}'  degree  aids  or  sup- 
ports \irtue,  and  truth,  and  honor,  that  I  do 
not  cherish,  and  wish  you  to  chensh  ;  but  if 
you  imagine  that  you  will  become  less  dear 
to  me  because  you  may  fail  to  acquire  some 
of  the  artificial  dignities  or  honors  of  life, 
then  it  is  clear  that  you  know  not  how  to 
estimate  the  sjDiiit  and  character  of  Lucy 
Gourlay." 

"  I  know  yoif  vdll  be  severely  tried,  my 
dear  Lucy." 

"  Know  me  aright,  Charles.  I  have  been 
severely  tried.  Many  a  girl,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  would  forget  Dunroe's  profligacy  in  his 
rank.  Many  a  girl,  in  contemplating  the 
man,  could  see  nothing  but  the  coronet ;  for 
ambition — the  poorest,  the  vainest,  and  the 
most  worthless  of  all  kinds  of  ambition — that 
of  rank,  title,  the  right  of  precedence — is 
unfortunately  cultivated  as  a  virtue  in  the 
world  of  fashion,  and  as  such  it  ie  felt.  Be 
it  so,  Charles  ;  let  me  remain  unfashionable 
and  vulgar.  Perish  the  title  if  not  accom- 
panied by  worth  ;  fling  the  gaudy  coronet 
aside  if  it  covers  not  the  brow  of  j^robity  and 
honor.  Retain  those,  dear  Charles — retain 
worth,  probity,  and  honor — and  you  retain 
a  heart  that  looks  upon  them  as  the  only 
titles  that  confer  true  rank  and  tiue  dignity." 

The  stranger  gave  her  a  long  gaze  of  ad- 
mu'ation,  and  exclaimed,  deeply  affected  , 

"  Alas,  my  Lucy,  you  are,  I  fear,  unfit  for 
the  world.  Your  spirit  is  too  pui'e,  too 
noble  for  common  Ufe.  Like  some  priceless 
gem,  it  sparkles  with  the  brilliancy  of  too 
many  virtues  for  the  ordinary  mass  of  maiij 
kind  to  appreciate."  ^"^^"--.^^^^ 

"No  such  thing,  Charles  :  yoa  qime  ovei 
rate  me  ;  but  God  forbid  that  the  possessiol 
of  virtue  and  goed  dispositions  should  evel 
become  a  disqualification  for  this  world.     It^ 
is  not  so  ;  but  even  if  it  were,  provided  Xl 
shine  in  the   estimation  of   my  own   littlei 
world,  by  which  I  mean  the  Affection  of  him.l 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


485 


to  whom  1  shall  unite  my  fate,  then  I  am 
satisfied  :  his  love  anti  his  approbation  shall 
constitute  my  coronet  and  my  honor." 

The  stranger  was  absolutely  lost  in  admi- 
ration and  love,  for  he  felt  that  the  force  of 
truth  and  sincerity  had  imparted  an  elo- 
quence and  an  euerg}'  to  her  language 
that  were  perfectly  fascinating  and  irresisti- 
ble. 

"My  dear  Hfe,"  said  he,  "the  music  of 
your  words,  clothing,  as  it  does,  the  divine 
principles  they  utter,  must  siu'ely  resemble 
the  melody  of  heaven's  own  voices.  For  my 
part,  I  feel  relaxed  in  such  a  dehcious  i-apture 
as  I  have  never  either  felt  or  dreamt  of 
before — entranced,  as  it  were,  in  a  sense  of 
your  wonderful  beauty  and  goodness.  But, 
dearest  Lucy,  allow  me  to  ask  on  what  terms 
are  you  with  your  father  ?  Have  you  heard 
fi'om  him  ?  Have  you  wi-itten  to  him  ?  Is 
he  aware  of  your  present  residence  ?  " 

"No,"  she  replied;  "he  is  not  aware  of 
my  present  residence,  but  I  have  ^^Titten  to 
him.  I  wished  to  set  his  mind  at  rest  as 
well  as  I  could,  and  to  diminish  his  anxiety  as 
far  as  in  me  lay.  Heaven  knows,"  she 
added,  bursting  into  tears,  "  that  this  un- 
natural estrangement  between  father  and 
daughter  is  most  distressing.  I  am  anxious 
to  be  with  jjapa,  to  render  him,  in  every 
sense,  all  the  duties  of  a  child,  provided  only 
he  will  not  persist  in  building  up  the  super- 
stiTJcture  of  rank  upon  my  own  unhappiness. 
Have  xjoxji  seen  him  ?  "  she  inquii'ed,  drying 
her  eyes,  a  task  in  which  she  was  tenderly 
assisted  by  the  stranger. 

"I  saw  him,"  he  repUed,  "for  a  short 
time  ; "  but  the  terms  in  which  he  explained 
the  nature  of  the  interview  between  himself 
and  the  baronet  were  not  such  as  could  aftbrd 
her  a  distinct  impression  of  all  that  took 
place,  simply  because  he  wished  to  spare  her 
the  infliction  of  unnecessary  pain. 

"  And  now,  Lucy,"  he  added,  "  I  feel  it 
necessary  to  claim  a  large  portion  of  youi- 
approbation." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  smile,  but 
awaited  his  explanation. 
I  "You  will  scarcely  credit  me  when  I 
flisure  you  that  I  have  had  a  clew  to  your 
place  of  residence,  or  concealment,  or  what- 
ever it  is  to  be  termed,  since  the  first  morn- 
ing of  your  ai'rival  there,  and  yet  I  disturbed 
you  not,  either,  by  letter  or  visit.  Thus  you 
may  perceive  how  sacred  your  Hghtest  wish 
is  to  me."*' 

"  And  do  you  imagine  that  I  am  insensible 
to  this  deUcate  generosity  ? "  she  asked — 
"  oh,  no ;  indeed,  I  fully  appreciate  it ; 
but  now,  Charles,  will  you  permit  me  to 
ask  how,  or  when,  or  where  you  have 
been  acquainted  with  my  aunt  Gourlay,  for 


I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  known  each 
other  ? " 

"  This,  my  dear  Lucy,"  he  rephed,  smil- 
ing, "  you  shall  have  cleared  up  along  with 
all  my  other  mysteries.  Like  every  riddle, 
although  it  may  seem  difficult  now,  it  will  be 
plain  enough  when  told." 

"It  matters  not,  dear  Charles;  I  have 
everj'  confidence  in  your  truth  and  honor, 
and  that  is  sufficient." 

He  then  informed  her  briefly,  that  he 
should  be  under  the  necessity  of  going  to 
France  for  a  short  space,  upon  business  of 
the  deepest  importance  to  himseK. 

"My  stay,  however,"  he  added,  "will  not 
be  a  very  long  one  ;  and  I  trust,  that  after 
my  return,  I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  speak 
out  my  love.  Indeed,  I  am  anxious  for  this, 
dear  Lucy,  for  I  know  how  strong  the  love  of 
truth  and  candor  is  in  your  great  and  gener- 
ous heart.  And  yet,  for  the  sake  of  one 
good  and  amiable  indi^adual,  or  rather,  I 
should  say,  of  two,  the  object  of  my  journey 
to  France  will  not  be  accomphshed  without 
the  deepest  pain  to  myself.  It  is,  I  may  say 
here,  to  spare  the  feehngs  of  the  two  indi- 
viduals in  question,  that  I  have  preseiwed 
the  strict  incognito  which  I  thought  necessary 
since  my  ai'rival  in  this  countiy." 

"  Farewell  vmtil  then,  my  dear  Charles ; 
and  in  whatever  object  you  may  be  engaged, 
let  me  beg  that  you  "\%"i]l  not  inflict  a  wanton 
or  unnecessary  wound  upon  a  good  or  ami- 
able heart ;  but  I  know  you  will  not — it  is 
not  in  your  nature." 

"I  tnist  not,"  he  added,  as  he  took  his 
leave.  "  I  cannot  wait  longer  for  lady  Gour- 
lay ;  but  before  I  go,  I  will  write  a  short 
note  for  her  in  the  hbrary,  which  will,  for 
the  present,  answer  the  same  piui^ose  as 
seeing  her.  Farewell,  then,  dearest  and 
best  of  girls  ! — farewell,  and  be  as  happy  as 
you  can  ;  would  that  I  could  say,  as  I  wish 
you,  until  we  meet  again." 

And  thus  they  separated. 

The  scene  that  had  just  taken  place  ren- 
dered eveiw  effort  at  composure  necessary 
on  the  part  of  Lucy,  before  the  return  of 
Lady  Gourlay.  This  lady,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  she  had  yet  never  seen  or  met,  and 
she  now  began  to  reflect  upon  the  nature  of 
the  visit  she  hatl  made  her,  as  well  as  of  the 
reception  she  might  get.  If  it  were  possible 
that  her  father  had  made  away  vAih.  her  child 
on  the  one  hand,  could  it  l)e  possible,  on  the 
other,  thatLiuly  Goui'l  ly  wt)uld  ^^-itllhold  her 
resentment  from  the  daughter  of  the  man 
who  had  made  her  childless  ?  But,  no  ;  her 
generous  heart  could  not  for  a  moment  admit 
the  former  possibility.  She  reasoned  not 
from  what  she  had  felt  at  his  hands,  but  as 
a  daughter,  who,  because  she  abhorred  the 


4d6 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


crime  imputed  to  him,  could  not  suppose  j 
him  capable  of  committing  it.  His  ambition  ! 
was  aU  for  herself.  Neither,  she  felt,  would  ' 
Lady  Gourlay,  even  allowiug  for  the  full  ex- 
tent of  her  suspicions,  confound  the  innocent 
daughter  with  the  offending  pai-ent.  Then 
her  reputation  for  meekness,  benevolence, 
patience,  chanty,  and  all  those  vii'tues  which, 
Mnthout  effort,  so  strongly  imj^ress  themselves 
upon  the  general  spirit  of  social  hfe,  spoke 
with  a  thousand  tongues  on  her  behalf.  Yes, 
she  was  gkul  she  came  ;  she  felt  the  si:)irit  of 
a  vii'tuous  relationship  strongly  in  her  heart ; 
and  in  that  heart  she  thanked  the  amiable 
Jklrs.  Mainwai'ing  for  the  advice  she  had  giv- 
en her. 

A  gentle  and  diffident  tap  at  the  door  in- 
terrupted the  course  of  her  reflections  ;  and 
the  next  moment,  a  lady,  grave,  but  elegant 
in  appeai'ance,  entered.  She  courtesied  with 
peculiar  grace,  and  an  air  of  the  sweetest  be- 
nignity, to  Lucy,  who  retui-ned  it  with  one  in 
which  humility,  reverence,  and  dignit}',  were 
equally  blended.  Neither,  indeed,  could  for 
a  single  moment  doubt  that  an  accomphshed 
and  educated  gentlewoman  stood  before  her. 
Lucy,  however,  felt  that  it  was  her  duty  to 
speak  first,  and  account  for  a  visit  so  unex- 
pected. 

"I  know  not,"  she  said,  "as yet,  how  to 
measure  the  apologj'  which  I  ought  to  make 
to  Lady  Gourlay  for  my  presence  here.  My 
heart  tells  me  that  I  have  the  honor  of  ad- 
dressing that  lady." 

"  I  am,  indeed,  madam,  that  unhappy  wo- 
man." 

Lucy  approached  her,  and  said,  "Do  not 
reject  me,  madam  ;  pardon  me — love  me — 
pity  me  ; — I  am  Lucy  Gourlay." 

Lady  Gourlay  opened  her  arms,  exclaim- 
ing, as  she  did  it,  in  a  voice  of  the  deepest 
emotion,  "My  dpar  niece — my  child — my 
daughter  if  you  -nill  ; "  and  they  wept  long 
and  affectionately  on  each  other's  bosoms. 

"You  are  the  onl}'  hving indiAddual,"  said 
Lucy,  after  some  time,  "whom  I  could  ask 
to  pity  me  ;  but  I  am  not  ashamed  to  solicit 
yovu'  sj'mpathy.  Dear,  dear  aunt,  I  am  very 
unhappy.  But  this,  I  fear,  is  wrong  ;  for  why 
should  I  add  my  sorrows  to  the  weight  of 
misery  which  you  yourseK  have  been  com- 
pelled to  bear  ?  I  fear  it  is  selfish  and  un- 
generous to  do  so." 

"No,  my  child;  whatever  the  weight  of 
grief  or  miseiy  which  we  are  forced,  j^erhaps, 
for  -vNise  pui-poses,  to  bear,  it  is  ordained,  for 
purposes  equally  wise  and  beneficent,  that 
everj'  act  of  sympathy  with  another's  son'ow 
lessens  our  own.  Dear  Lucy,  let  me,  if  you 
can,  or  will  be  permitted  to  do  so,  be  a  lov- 
ing mother  to  you,  and  stand  to  my  heart  in 
relation  to  the  child  I  have  lost ;  or  think 


that  your  own  dear  mother  still  survivee  in 
me." 

This  kindness  and  affection  fairly  overcame 
Lucy,  who  sat  down  on  a  sofa,  and  wept 
bitterly.  Lady  Govu-lay  herself  was  deeply 
affected  for  some  minutes,  but,  at  length,  re 
suming  composnre,  she  sat  beside  Lucy, 
and,  taking  her  hand,  said :  "  I  can  under- 
stand, my  deal'  child,  the  nature  of  yovu*  grief; 
but  be  comforted.  Your  heart,  which  was  bur- 
dened, will  soon  become  hghter,  and  better 
spmts  will  return  ;  so,  I  tnist,  v^ill  better 
times.  It  is  not  from  the  transient  and  un- 
steady, and  too  often  painful,  incidents  of  life, 
that  we  should  attempt  to  draw  consolation, 
but  from  a  fixed  and  firm  confidence  in  the 
unchangeable  purposes  of  God." 

"I.  wish,  dear  Lad}'  Gourlay — dear 
avint " 

"  Yes,  that  is  better,  my  love." 

"I  wish  I  had  known  you  before  ,  of  late 
I  have  been  alone — with  none  to  advise  or 
guide  me  ;  for,  she,  whose  affectionate  heart, 
whose  tender  look,  and  whose  gentle  moni- 
tion, were  ever  with  me — she — alas,  my  dear 
aunt,  how  few  know  what  the  bitterness  is 
— when  forced  to  struggle  against  strong  but 
misguided  "nills,  whether  of  our  own  or 
others';  to  feel  that  we  are  vrithout  a  mother 
— that  that  gentle  voice  is  silent  forever  ;  that 
that  well  in  the  desert  of  hfe — a  mother's 
heart — is  forever  closed  to  us  ;  that  that  pro- 
tecting angel  of  our  steps  is  dejDarted  fi-om 
us — never,  never  to  return." 

As  she  uttered  these  words  in  deep  grief, 
it  might  have  been  observed,  that  Lady  Gour- 
lay shed  some  quiet  but  apparently  bitter 
tears.  It  is  impossible  for  us  to  enter  into 
the  heai*t,  or  its  reflections  ;  but  it  is  not,  we 
think,  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  while 
Lucy  dwelt  so  feelingly  upon  the  loss  of  her 
mother,  the  other  may  have  been  thinking 
upon  that  of  her  child. 

"My  dear  girl,"  she  exclaimed,  "let  the 
affectionate  compact  which  I  have  just  pro- 
posed be  ratified  between  us.  M\i  heart,  at  all 
events,  has  akead}'  ratified  it.  I  shall  be  as 
a  mother  to  you,  and  you  shall  be  to  me  as 
a  daughter." 

"  I  know  not,  my  dear  aunt,"  repUed  Lucy, 
"  whether  to  consider  you  more  affectionate 
than  generous.  How  few  of  oiu'  sex,  after 
— after — that  is,  considering  the  enmities — 
in  fact,  how  a  relative,  placed  as  you  unhap- 
pily are,  would  take  me  to  her  hear];  -«,b  you 
have  done." 

"  Perhaps,  my  child,  I  were  incapable  of  i 
it,  if  that  heart  had  never  been  touched  and 
softened  by  affliction.  As  it  is,  Luc}^  let  me 
say  to  you,  as  one  who  probably  knows  the 
world  better,  do  not  look,  as  most  young  per- 
sons like  you  do,  uj^on  the  trials  you  are  at 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


m 


present  forced  to  suffer,  as  if  they  were  the 
shai-pest  and  hea^•iest  in  the  world.  Time, 
CQ}'  love,  and  perhips  other  trials  of  a  still 
severer  character,  may  one  day  teach  you  to 
think  that  your  grief  and  impatience  were 
out  of  proportion  to  what  you  then  under- 
went. May  He  who  afflicts  his  people  for 
their  good,  prevent  that  tliis  ever  should  be 
so  in  your  case  ;  but,  even  if  it  should,  re- 
member that  God  loveth  whom  he  chasten- 
eth.  And  above  all  things,  my  dear  child, 
never,  never,  never  despair  in  his  providence. 
Dry  your  eyes,  my  love,"  she  added,  with  a 
smile  of  affection  and  encouragement,  that 
Lucy  felt  to  be  contagious  by  its  cheering  in- 
fluence uj)on  her ;  "  dry  your  teai-s,  and  turn 
round  to  the  light  until  I  contemplate  more 
clearly  and  distinctly  that  beauty  of  which  I 
have  heard  so  much." 

Lucy  obeyed  her  with  all  the  simplicity  of  a 
child,  and  turned  round  so  as  to  j^lace  her- 
self in  the  position  required  by  the  aunt ; 
but  whilst  she  did  so,  need  we  say  that  the 
blushes  followed  each  other  beautifidly  and 
fast  over  her  timid  but  sparkhng  counte-  \ 
nance  ?  ! 

"  I  do  not  wonder,  my  dear  girl,  that  j 
pubHc  i-umor  has  borne  its  ample  testimony 
to  your  be.auty.  I  have  never  seen  either  it 
or  your  figui*e  surj^assed  ;  but  it  is  here,  my 
deal',"  she  added,  placing  her  hand  upon 
her  heart,  "  where  the  jewel  that  gives  value 
to  so  fair  a  cas^ket  lies." 

"  How  happy  I  am,   my  dear  aunt,"  re- 
phed  Lucy,  anxious  to  change  the  subject, 
"  since  I  know  you.     The  very  consciousness  i 
of  it  is  a  consolation." 

"  And  I  trust,  Lucy,  we  shall  all  yet  be  : 
happy.     WTieu  the  dispensations  ripen,  then 
comes  the  harvest  of  the  blessings. '' 

The  old  footman   now   entered,    .saying  :  j 
"  Here  is  a  note,  my  Lady,"  and  he  present-  j 
ed  one,  "which  the  gentleman  desired  me 
to  deliver  on  your  ladyship's  return." 

Lady   Gourlay    took    the    note,    saying : 
""Will  you  excuse   me,    my  dear  niece? — I 
this,  I  beheve,  is  on  a  subject  that  is  not 
merel}'  near  to,  but  in   the   innermost  re-  : 
cesses  of  my  heart."  , 

Lucy  now  took  that  opportunity  on  her 
pai't  of  contemjjlating  the  features  of  her 
aimt  ;  but,  as  we  have  ah'ead}'  described  , 
them  elsewhere,  it  is  unnecessars'  to  do  so  : 
here.  She  was,  however,  much  stinick  with 
their  -^Jaaste  but  melanchol}'  beauty  ;  for  it 
cannot  be  disputed,  that  sorrow  and  afflic- 
tion, while  they  impau*  the  complexion  of 
'le  most  lovely,  veiw  frequently  commimi- 
•ite  to  it  a  chaiTQi  so  deep  and  touching, 
that  in  point  of  fact,  the  heart  that  sutlers 
within  is  taught  to  s^^"^-  ik  in  the  mournful, 
grave,    and  tender  expression,  which   they , 


leave  behind  them  as  their  traces.  As  Lucy 
surveyed  her  aunt's  features,  which  had 
been  moulded  by  calamity  into  an  express 
sion  of  settled  sorrow — an  expression  which 
no  cheerfulness  could  remove,  however  it 
might  diminish  it,  she  was  sui-prised  to  ob- 
serve at  fh-st  a  singuku"  degree  of  sweetnesa 
apjjear  ;  next  a  mild  serenity  ;  and  lastly, 
she  saw  that  that  serenity  graduallj-  kindlei\ 
into  a  radiance  that  might,  in  the  hands  ol 
a  painter,  have  expressed  the  joy  of  the 
Vu'gin  Mother  on  finding  her  lost  Son  in 
the  Temple.  This,  however,  was  again  suc- 
ceeded by  a  paleness,  that  for  a  moment 
alarmed  Lucy,  but  which  was  soon  lost  in  a 
gush  of  joyful  tears.  On  looking  at  her 
niece,  who  did  not  presume  to  make  any 
inc[uiry  as  to  the  cause  of  this  extraordinaiy 
emotion,  Liidy  Gom-lay  saw  that  her  eyes  at 
least  were  seeking,  by  the  wonder  they  ex- 
pressed, for  the  cause  of  it. 

"May  the  name,"  she  exclaimed,  "of  the 
just  and  merciful  God  be  jjraised  forever  ! 
Here,  my  darhng,  is  a  note,  in  which  I  aiQ 
informed  upon  the  best  authority,  that  my 
child — my  boy,  is  yet  ahve — and  was  seen 
but  very  recently.  Dear  God  of  all  good- 
ness, is  my  weak  and  worn  heart  capa- 
ble of  bearing  this  returning  tide  of  happi- 
ness !  " 

Nature,  however,  gave  way ;  and  after 
several  struggles  and  throbbiugs,  she  sank 
into  insensibility.  To  ling  for  assistance,  to 
api)ly  all  kinds  of  restoratives  ;  and  to  tend 
her  until  she  revived,  and  afterwards,  were 
offices  which  Lucy  dischsu-ged  with  equal 
promptitude  and  tenderness. 

On  recovering,  she  took  the  hand  of  the 
latter  in  hers,  and  said,  with  a  smile  full  of 
gratitude,  joy,  and  sweetness,  "  Our  first 
thanks  are  always  due  to  God,  and  to  him 
my  heai't  of!ers  them  up ;  but,  oh,  how 
feebly !  Thtuiks  to  you,  also,  Lucy,  for 
your  kindness  ;  and  many  thanks  for  your 
goodness  in  giving  me  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  you.  I  trust  that  we  shall  both 
see  and  enjoy  better  and  happier  days. 
Yom-  visit  has  been  propitious  to  me,  and 
brought,  if- 1  may  so  say,  an  unexpected 
da^NTi  of  happiness  to  the  widowed  mother's 
heart." 

Lucy  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  old 
footman  came  to  say  thtvt  the  lady  who  had 
accompanied  her  was  waiting  below  in  the 
chaise.  She  accordingly  bade  her  farewell, 
only  for  a  time  she  sjiid,  and  after  a  tender 
embi"ace,  she  went  down  to  Mrs.  Maiuwai'ing 
who  respectfidly  declined  on  that  occasion 
to  be  presented  to  Lady  Gourlay,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  number  of  pui'chases  .she  had 
yet  to  make,  and  the  time  it  would  occup;< 
to  make  them. 


tss 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  W0RK8. 


CHAPTER  XXVnL 

hMMcence  and  Affection  overmme  by  Fraud  and 
Hypocrisy — Lucy  yiekh  at  Last. 

Not  many  minutes  after  Mrs.  Mainwar- 
Ing's  interview  wdth  tlie  baronet,  Gibson 
entered  the  library,  and  handed  him  a  letter 
on  which  was  stamped  the  Ballytrain  jDost- 
mark.  On  looking  at  it,  he  paused  for  a 
moment  : 

"  Who  the  d can  this  come  from  ?  "  he 

said.  "lam  not  aware  of  having  any  par- 
ticular correspondence  at  present,  in  or 
about  Ballytrain.     Here,  however,  is  a  seal ; 

let  me  see  what  it  is.     What  the   d , 

again?  are  these  a  pah*  of  asses'  ears  or 
wings  ?  Certainly,  if  the  impression  be  cor- 
rect, the  former  ;  and  what  is  here  ?  A  fox. 
Very  good,  perfectly  intelligible  ;  a  fox,  with 
a  pair  of  asses'  ears  upon  him  !  intimating  a 
combination  of  knaveiy  and  folly.  'Gad, 
this  must  be  from  Crackenfudge,  of  whom  it 
is  the  type  and  exponent.  For  a  thousand, 
it  contains  a  list  of  his  qualifications  for  the 
magisterial  honors  for  which  he  is  so  ambi- 
tious. W^eU,  well ;  I  believe  every  man  has 
an  ambition  for  something.  Mine  is  to  see 
my  daughter  a  countess,  that  she  may 
trample  with  velvet  slippers  on  the  necks  of 
those  who  would  trample  on  hers  if  she  were 
beneath  them.  This  fellow,  now,  who  is 
both  slave  and  tp-ant,  will  play  all  sorts  of 
oppressive  pranks  upon  the  poor,  by  whom 
he  knows  that  he  is  despised ;  and  for 
that  veiy  reason,  along  with  others,  will  he 
punish  them.  That,  however,  is,  after  all, 
but  natural ;  and  on  this  very  account,  curse 
me,  but  I  shall  try  and  shove  the  beggarly 
scoundrel  up  to  the  ))oint  of  his  jjaltry  am- 
bition. I  hke  ambition.  The  man  who 
has  no  object  of  ambition  of  any  kind  is  un- 
fit for  life.  Come,  then,  '  wax,  dehver  up 
thy  trust.' " 

With  a  dark  grin  of  contempt,  and  a  kind 
of  sarcastic  gratification,  he  perused  the  doc- 
ument, which  ran  as  follows  : 

"  My  deae  Sir  Tomas, — -In  a  letter,  which 
a'  had  the  honer  of  receiving  fi*om  you,  in 
consequence  of  your  very  great  kindness  in 
condescending  to  kick  me  out  of  your  house, 
on  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit  to  Red  Hall, 
you  were  pleased  to  express  a  wish  that  a' 
would  send  you  up  as  arthentic  a  list  as  a' 
could  conieniently  make  up  of  my  qualifica- 
tions for  the  magistracey.  Deed,  a'm  sore 
yet.  Sir  Tomas,  and  wouldn't  it  be  a  good 
joke,  as  my  friend  Dr.  Twig  says,  if  the  sore- 
ness should  remain  until  it  is  cured  by  the 
Komission,  wh>ch  he  thinks  would  wipe  out 
all  recollection   (f  the  pain  and  the  punish- 


ment. And  he  says,  too,  that  this  applica- 
tion of  it  would  be  putting  it  to  a  most  prop* 
er  and  legutimate  use  ;  the  only  use,  he  in- 
sists, to  which  it  ought  to  be  put.  But  a' 
don't  go  that  far,  because  a'  think  it  would 
be  an  honerable  dockiment,  not  only  to  my 
posterity,  meaning  my  legutimate  progen- 
itors, if  a'  should  hajipen  to  have  any  ;  but, 
also  and  moreover,  to  the  good  taste  and 
judgment,  and  resjDect  for  the  honer  and  in- 
tegrity of  the  Bench,  manifested  by  those  who 
attributed  to  place  me  on  it. 

"A'  now  come  to  Klaim  No.  I,  for  the  mag- 
istracey :  In  the  first  place  a'm  not  without 
expeyrieuce,  having  been  in  the  habit  of  act- 
ing as  a  magistrate  in  a  private  way,  and  up- 
on my  own  responsibility,  for  several  years. 
A'  established  a  kourt  in  a  little  vilage, 
which — and  this  is  a  strong  point  in  my  feav- 
or  now-a-days — which  a'  meself  have  depopi- 
lated  ;  and  a'  trust  that  the  depopilation 
won't  be  overlucked.  To  this  kourt  a'  com- 
peled  all  me  tenints  to  atend.  They  were 
obHged  to  summon  one  another  as  often  as 
they  kould,  and  much  oftener  than  they  wish- 
ed, and  for  the  slightest  kauses.  A'  presid- 
ed in  it  purseonaRj  ;  and  a'll  tell  you  why. 
My  system  was  ajine  system,  indeed.  That 
is  to  say,  a'  fined  them  ether  on  the  one  side 
or  the  tother,  but  most  generally  on  both, 
and  then  a'  put  the  fines  into  my  own  pocet. 
]My  tenints  a'  know  didn't  like  this  kind  of 
law  very  much —but  if  they  didn't  a'  did  ; 
and  a'  made  them  feel  that  a'  was  theu'  land- 
lord. No  man  was  a  faverite  with  me  that 
didn't  frequent  my  kourt,  and  for  this  resin, 
in  order  to  stand  well  with  me,  they  fought 
like  kat  and  dog.  Now,  you  know,  it  was 
my  bisness  to  enkorage  this,  for  the  more 
they  fought  and  disi^uted,  the  more  a'  fined 
them. 

"  Jn  fact,  a'  done  everything  in  my  power, 
to  enlitin  my  tenints.  For  instance,  a' 
taught  them  the  doktrine  of  trespiss.  If  a' 
found  that  a  stranger  tuck  the  sheltiy  side  of 
my  hedge,  to  blow  his  nose,  I  fined  him  half- 
a-crown,  as  can  be  proved  by  proper  and  un- 
deniable testomony.  A'  mention  all  these 
matters  to  satisfy  you  that  a'  have  i^ractis 
as  a  magistrate,  and  won't  have  my  duties! 
to  lern  when  a'm  called  upon  to  discharge , 
them. 

"  Klaim  No.  H  is  as  follows  :     A'm  very  J 
unpopilar  with  the  people,  which  is  a  gi'eatj 
thing  in  itself,  as  a'  think  no  man  ought  toj 
be  risen  to  the  bench  that's  not  unpopilar  j 
because,  when  popilar,  he's  likely  to  feavoi 
them,  and  symperthize  Avitli  them — wherein|!|| 
his  first  duty  is  always  to  konsider  them  ini 
the  rong.     Nether  am  a'  popilar  with  the. 
gentry  and  magistrates  of  the  kountry,  be- : 
cause  they  despise  me,  and  say  that  a'm  this  ~ 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


489 


that  and  tother ;  that  a'm  mean  and  tyranni- 
cal ;  that  a'  chanj^ed  my  name  frona  pride, 
and  that  a'm  overbearinj^'  and  ignorant.  Now 
this  last  charge  of  ignorance  brings  me  to 
Klaim  No.  HI. 

"Be  it  nowTi  to  you,  then,  Sir Tomas,  that 
a'  received  a  ehollege  eddycation,  which  is  an 
anser  in  full  to  the  play  of  ignorance.  In 
fact,  a'  devoted  meself  to  eddycation  till  my 
very  brain  began  to  go  round  like  a  whurU- 
gig ;  and  many  people  say,  that  a'  never  re- 
kovered  the  proper  use  of  it  since.  Hundres 
will  tell  you  that  they  would  shed  their 
blood  upon  the  truth  of  it ;  but  let  any  one 
that  thinks  so  transact  bisness  with  me,  or 
bekome  a  tenint  of  mine,  and  he'll  find 
that  a'  can  make  him  bleed  in  proving  the 
reverse. 

"  A'  could  prove  many  other  khaims  equal- 
ly strong,  but  a'  hope  it's  not  necessary  to  se- 
duce any  more.  A'  do  think,  if  the  Lord 
Chanceseller  knew  of  my  qualifications,  a' 
wouldn't  be  long  off  the  bench.  If,  then.  Sir 
Tomas,  you,  who  have  so  much  influence, 
would  write  on  my  behalf,  and  rekomend  me 
to  the  cusfu.-i  rmcalorum  as  a  proper  kandi- 
date,  I  could  not  fail  to  sukc^ed  in  reaching 
the  great  point  of  my  ambit'on,  which  is,  to 
be  accommadated  with  a  seat — anything 
would  satisfy  me — even  a  c^^se-stool — upon 
the  magistorial  bench.  Am'm,  Sir  Tomas. 
"  And  have  the  hou«Jr  to  be, 

"  Your  obedient  and  much  obhged,  and 
very  thankful  servant  for  wtiat  a'  got,  as  well 
as  for  what  a'  expect,  Sii*  'Xomas, 

"  Peuiwixev*;  Crackenfudge." 

Sir  Thomas — having  T>?irused  this  precious 
document,  which,  by  the  way,  contains  no 
single  fact  that  could  not  be  substantiated 
by  the  clearest  testimony,  so  little  are  they 
at  head-quarters  acquainted  with  the  pranks 
that  are  played  off  on  the  unfortunate  peo- 
ple by  multitudes  of  petty  t^Tants  in  remote 
districts  of  the  country — Sir  Thomas,  we  say, 
ha\ang  perused  the  aforesaid  document, 
gi'inned — almost  laughed — with  a  satmcal 
enjovment  of  its  contents. 

"  Veiy  good,"  said  he  ;  "  excellent :  con- 
found me,  but  Crackenfudge  must  get  to  the 
bench,  if  it  were  only  for  the  novelty  of  the 
thing.  I  will  this  moment  recommend  him 
to  Lord  CuUamore,  who  is  ciisfos  rotulorum 
tor  the  county,  and  who  would  as  soon,  by 
the  )vay,  cut  his  right  hand  off  as  recom- 
mend him  to  the  Chancellor,  if  he  kjiew  the 
ixtent  of  his  'Idaims,'  as  the  miserable  devil 
spells  it.  Yes.  X  will  recommend  him,  if  it 
were  only  to  vex  my  brother  baronet,  Sir 

James  B ,  wlio  is  humane,  and  kind,  and 

popular,  fovr;ooth,  and  a  staunch  advocate  for 
purity  of  the   bench,  and  justice  to  the  peo- 


ple !  No  doubt  of  it ;  I  shall  recommend 
you,  Crackenfudge,  and  cheek  by  jowl  with 
the  best  among  them,  upon  the  same  magis- 
toriiil  bench,  shall  the  doughty  Crackenfudge 
sit." 

He  instantly  sat  down  to  his  writing-desk, 
and  penned  as  strong  a  recommendation  as 
he  could  possibly  compose  to  Lord  CuUa- 
more, after  which  he  threw  himself  again 
upon  the  sofa,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  Well,  that  act  is  done,  and  an  iniquitous 
one  it  is  ;  but  no  matter,  it  is  gone  off  to 
the  post,  and  I'm  rid  of  him.  Now  for 
Lucy,  and  »;//  ambition  ;  she  is  unquestion- 
ably with  that  shameless  old  woman  who 
could  think  of  marrying  at  such  an  age. 
She  is  with  her  ;  she  will  hear  of  my  illness, 
and  as  certain  as  life  is  life,  and  death 
death,  she  will  be  here  soon." 

In  this  he  calculated  aright,  and  he  felt 
that  he  did  so.  ]VIi"s.  Mainwaring,  on  the 
evening  of  their  visit  to  the  city,  considered 
it  her  duty  to  disclose,  fully  and  candidly, 
to  Lucy,  the  state  of  her  father's  health,  that 
is,  as  it  appeared  to  her  on  their  interview. 
Lucy,  who  knew  that  he  was  subject  to  sud- 
den attacks  upon  occasions  of  less  moment, 
not  only  became  alarmed,  but  experienced  a 
feehng  like  remorse  for  having,  as  she  said, 
abandoned  him  so  undutifulh'. 

"  I  will  return  immediately,"  she  said, 
weeping  ;  "  he  is  ill :  you  say  he  speaks  of 
me  tenderly  and  affectionately — oh,  what 
have  I  done !  Should  this  illness  prove 
serious — fatal — my  piece  of  mind  were  gone 
forever.  I  should  consider  myself  as  a  parri- 
cide— as  the  direct  cause  of  his  death.  My 
God  !  perhaps  even  now  I  am  miserable  for 
hfe — forever — forever  !  " 

Mrs.  Mainwaring  soothed  her  as  well  as 
she  could,  but  she  refused  to  hear  comfort, 
and  having  desired  Alley  jNIahon  to  prepare 
their  slight  luggage,  she  took  an  aflection- 
ate  and  tearful  leave  of  INIrs.  ^lainwaring, 
bade  adieu  to  her  husband,  and  was  about 
to  get  into  the  chaise,  which  had  been  or- 
dered from  the  inn  in  Wicklow,  when  !Mrs. 
I\Liinwaring  said  : 

"  Now,  ray  dear  Lucy,  if  j'our  father 
should  recover,  and  have  recourse  to  any 
abuse  of  his  authority,  by  attempting  again 
to  force  your  inclinations  and  consummate 
your  miseiy,  remember  that  my  door,  my 
arms,  my  heart,  shall  ever  be  open  to  yon. 
I  do  not,  you  will  observe,  suggest  any  act 
of  disobedience  on  your  part ;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  am  of  opinion  that  you  should  suffer 
everything  sliort  of  the  last  re-sort,  by  which 
I  mean  this  hateful  marriage  with  Dmiroe, 
sooner  than  abantlou  your  father's  roof. 
This  lanion  is  a  subject  on  whicli  I  must  see 
him  again.     Poor  Lord  CuUamore  I  resjject 


490 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


and  venerate,  for  I  have  reason  to  believe 
ihat  he  has,  for  one  contemplated  error,  had 
an  unhappy  if  not  a  remorseful  hfe.  In  the 
meantime,  even  in  ojDposition  to  your  father's 
wishes,  I  say  it,  and  in  confirmation  of  youi* 
strongest  prejudices " 

"  It  amounts  to  antipathy,  Mrs.  Main- 
waring — to  hatred,  to  abhon-ence." 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,  in  confirmation  of 
them  aU,  I  implore,  I  entreat,  I  conjui-e,  and 
if  I  had  authority,  I  would  say,  I  command 
you  not  to  \inite  your  fate  with  that  yovmg 
profligate." 

"  Do  not  fear  me,  IMrs.  Main  waring  ;  but 
at  present  I  can  think  of  nothing  but  poor 
papa  and  his  illness  ;  I  tremble,  indeed,  to 
think  how  I  shaU  find  him  ;  and,  my  God, 
to  reflect  that  I  am  the  guilty  cause  of  aU 
this  !  " 

They  then  separated,  and  Lucy,  accom- 
panied by  Alley,  proceeded  to  town  at  a  pace 
as  rapid  as  the  animals  that  bore  them  could 
possibly  accomphsh. 

On  arriving  in  town,  she  was  about  rush- 
ing upstau'S  to  throw  herself  in  her  father's 
arms,  when  Gibson,  who  observed  her,  ap- 
proached  respectfully,  and  said : 

"  This  haste  to  see  youi'  father.  Miss 
Gourlay,  is  very  natural ;  but  perhaps  you 
will  be  good  enough  to  wait  a  few  moments, 
until  he  is  prepared  to  receive  you.  The 
doctor  has  left  strict  orders  that  he  shall 
not  see  any  person  ;  but,  above  all  things, 
without  being  announced." 

"But,  Gibson — first,  how  is  he?  Is  he 
veiy  Dl  ? " 

Gibson  assumed  a  melancholy  and  very 
solemn  look,  as  he  rephed,  "He  is,  indeed, 
ill,  Mi-ss  Gourlay  ;  but  it  would  not  become 
me  to  distress  you — especially  as  I  hope 
your  presence  will  comfort  him  ;  he  is  per- 
petually calling  for  you." 

"  Go,  Gibson,  go,"  she  exclaimed,  whilst 
tears,  which  she  could  not  restrain,  gushed  to 
her  eyes.   "  Go,  be  quick  ;  teU  him  I  am  here." 

"I  will  break  it  to  him,  madam,  as  gently 
as  possible,"  replied  this  sedate  and  oily 
gentleman  ;  "  for,  if  made  acquainted  with 
it  too  suddenly,  the  unexpected  joy  might 
injvu'e  him." 

"Do  not  injure  him,  then,"  she  exclaimed, 
earnestly  ;  "  oh,  do  not  injure  him — but  go  ; 
I  leave  it  to  your  own  discretion." 

Lucy  immediately  proceeded  to  her  own 
room,  and  Gibson  to  the  libi*ary,  where  he 
found  the  baronet  in  his  nightcap  and  morn- 
ing gown,  reading  a  neweixaper. 

"  I  have  the  paragi-aph  drawn  np,  Gibson," 
said  he,  with  a  giim  smile,  "  stating  that  I 
am  dangerously  ill ;  take  and  cojDy  it,  and 
see  that  it  be  inserted  in  to-morrow's  publi- 
cation." 


"  It  will  not  be  necessary,  sir,"  rephed  the 
footman  ;  "  IMiss  Govu-lay  is  here,  and  im- 
patient to  see  you." 

"Here!"  exclaimed  her  father  with  a 
start ;  "  you  do  not  say  she  is  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  She  has  just  arrived,  su',  and  is  now  in 
her  own  room." 

"Leave  me,  Gibson,"  said  the  baronet, 
"and  attend  promptly  when  I  ring;"  and 
Gibson  withdrew.  "  Why,"  thought  he  to 
himself,  "  why,  do  I  feel  as  I  do  ?  Glad  that  I 
have  her  once  more  in  my  power,  and  this 
is  only  natui'al ;  but  why  this  kind  of  terror 
— this  awe  of  that  extraordinary  girl  ?  I 
dismissed  that  prying  scoundrel  of  a  foot- 
man, because  I  could  not  bear  that  he  should 
observe  and  sneer  at  this  hj-pocrisy,  al- 
though I  know  he  is  aware  of  it.  "What 
can  this  uncomfortable  sensation  which 
checks  my  joy  at  her  return  mean  ?  Is  it  that 
involuntary  homage  which  they  say  vice  is 
compelled  to  pay  to  purity,  truth,  and  vir- 
tue ?  I  know  not  ;  but  I  feel  disturbed, 
humbled  with  an  imj)ression  like  that  of 
guilt — an  impression  which  makes  me  feel 
as  if  there  actually  xmre  such  a  thing  as 
conscience.  As  my  objects,  however,  are 
for  the  foohsh  girl's  advancement,  I  am  de- 
termined to  play  the  game  out,  and  for  that 
puipose,  as  I  know  now  by  exjjerience  that 
neither  harshness  nor  -siolence  will  do,  I 
shall  have  recourse  to  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion. I  must  touch  her  heart,  excite  her 
symj)athy,  and  throw  myself  altogether  upon 
her  generosity.  Come  then — and  now  for 
the  assumption  of  a  new  character." 

Having  concluded  this  train  of  meditation, 
he  rang  for  Gibson,  who  appeai'ed. 

"  Gibson,  let  Miss  Goiuiay  know  that,  ill 
as  I  am,  I  shall  try  to  see  her :  be  precise 
in  the  message,  sir  ;  use  my  own  words." 

"Certainly,  Sir  Thomas," replied  the  foot- 
man, who  immediately  withdrew  to  deliver 
it. 

The  baronet,  when  Gibson  went  out  again, 
took  a  j)air  of  pillows,  with  which  the  sofa 
was  latterly  fui'nished,  in  order  to  maintain 
the  appearance  of  iUness,  whenever  it  might 
be  necessary,  and  having  placed  them  under 
his  head,  laid  himself  down,  jiuUed  the  night- 
cap over  his  brows,  and  affected  all  the  sj-mp- 
toms  of  a  man  who  was  attemjjting  to  strug- 
gle against  some  serious  and  severe  attack. 

In  this  state  he  lay,  when  Lucj'  entering 
the  room,  approached,  in  a  flood  of  t^ars, 
exclaiming,  as  she  knelt  by  the  sofa,  "  Oh, 
papa^dear  papa,  forgive  me  ; "  and  as  she 
spoke,  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,, 
and  kissed  him  affectionately.  "  Dear  papa/'| 
she  pi'oceeded,  "you  are  ill — very  ill,  I  fear; 
but  will  you  not  forgive  yom-  poor  child  foa! 
haring  abandoned  you  as  she  did  ?     I  have-" 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


491 


returned,  however,  to  stay  ^\ath  you,  to  tend 
you,  to  soothe  and  console  you  as  far  as  any 
and  every  effort  of  mine  can.  You  shall 
have  no  nurse  but  me,  papa.  All  that  hu- 
man hands  can  do  to  give  you  ease — all  that 
the  sincerest  affection  can  do  to  sustain  and 
cheer  you,  your  owtx  Lucy  wiU  do.  But 
speiik  to  me,  papa  ;  am  I  not  your  own  Lucy 
still  ?  " 

Her  father  tunied  round,  as  if  by  a  painful 
effort,  and  haAaug  looked  upon  her  for  some 
time,  replied,  feebly,  "  Yes,  you  are — you  are 
my  own  Lucy  still." 

This  admission  brought  a  fresh  gush  of 
tears  from  the  affectionate  girl,  who  again 
exclaimed,  "Ah,  papa,  I  fear  you  are  very 
ill ;  but  those  words  are  to  me  the  sweetest 
that  ever  proceeded  from  your  hps.  Are 
you  glad  to  see  me,  papa  ? — but  I  forget  my- 
self ;  perhaps  I  am  disturbing  you.  Only  say 
how  3'ou  feel,  and  if  it  will  not  injure  you, 
what  your  complaint  is." 

"  My  complaint,  dear  Lucy,  mo.st  affec- 
tionate child— for  I  see  you  are  so  still,  not- 
withstanding reports  and  appearances " 

"  Oh,  indeed,  I  am,  papa — indeed  I  am." 

"  My  complaint  was  brought  on  by  anx- 
iety and  distress  of  mind — I  wiU  not  say 
why — I  did,  I  know,  I  admit,  "\^•ish  to  see 
you  in  a  position  of  life  equal  to  your  merits  ; 
but  I  cannot  talk  of  that — it  would  distiu'b 
me  ;  it  is  a  subject  on  which,  alas !  I  am 
without  hope.  I  am  threatened  with  apo- 
plexy or  paralysis,  Lucy,  the  doctor  cannot 
say  whicli ;  but  the  danger,  he  says,  proceeds 
altogether  from  the  state  of  my  mind,  acting, 
it  is  true,  upon  a  plethoric  system  of  body  ; 
biit  I  care  not,  dejir  Lucy — I  care  not,  now  ; 
I  am  indifferent  to  life.  All  my  expectations 
— all  a  father's  brilliant  plans  for  his  child, 
!U"e  now  over.  The  doctor  says  that  ease  of 
mind  mi(jhl  restore,  but  I  doubt  it  now  ;  I 
fear  it  is  too  late.  I  only  wish  I  was  better 
prepared  for  the  change  which  I  know  I  shall 
soon  be  forced  to  make.  Yet  I  feel,  Lucy, 
as  if  I  never  loved  you  until  now — T  feel 
how  dear  you  are  to  me  now  that  I  know  I 
must  i^art  with  you  so  soon." 

Lucy  was  utterly  incapable  of  resisting 
this  tenderness,  as  the  unsuspecting  girl 
behevetl  it  to  be.  She  again  threw  her  arms 
around  him,  and  wept  as  if  her  very  heai-t 
would  break. 

"  This  agitation,  my  darling,"  he  added, 
"  is  <;oo  much  for  us  both.  !My  head  is  easi- 
ly disturbed  ;  but — but — send  for  Lucy,"  he 
excliumed,  as  if  touched  by  a  passing  deliri- 
um, "  send  for  my  daughter.  I  must  have 
Lucy.  I  have  been  harsh  to  her,  and  I  can- 
not die  witliout  her  forgiveness." 

"  Here,  papa — dearest  papa  !  Recollect 
yourself ;  Lucy  is  with  you  ;  not  to  forgive 


you  for  anything,  but  to  ask,  to  implore  to 
be  forgiven." 

"Ha!  "he  said,  raising  his  head  a  Httle, 
and  looking  round  Uke  a  man  awakening 
from  sleep.  "  I  fear  I  am  beginning  to  wan- 
der. Dear  Lucy — yes,  it  is  you.  Oh,  I  re- 
collect. "Withdraw,  my  darling  ;  the  sight 
of  you — the  joy  of  your  very  appeiu-ance — eh 
— eh — yes,  let  me  see.  Oh,  yes  ;  withdraw, 
my  darling ;  this  interview  has  been  too 
much  for  me — I  fear  it  has — but  rest  and 
silence  will  restore  me,  I  hope.  I  hope  so — 
I  hope  so." 

Lucy,  who  feared  that  a  continuance  oi 
this  interview  might  very  much  aggravate 
his  illness,  immediately  took  her  leave,  and 
retired  to  her  oavu  room,  whither  she  sum- 
moned Alley  ^Lihon.  This  blunt  but  faith- 
ful attendant  felt  no  suq^rise  in  witnessing 
her  grief;  for  indeed  she  had  done  little  else 
than  weej),  ever  since  she  heard  of  her  fath- 
er's illness. 

"  Now  don't  ciy  so  much,  miss,"  she  said  ; 
"  didn't  I  tell  you  that  your  grief  will  do 
neither  you  nor  him  any  good  ?  Keep  your- 
self cool  and  quiet,  and  spake  to  him  like  a 
raisonable  crayture,  what  you  are  not,  ever 
since  you  haixl  of  his  being  sick.  It  isn't 
by  shedding  tears  that  you  can  expect  to 
comfort  him,  as  you  intend  to  do,  but  by  be- 
ing calm,  and  considerate,  and  attentive  tc 
him,  and  not  allo^\in'  him  to  see  what  you 
suffer." 

"That  is  very  true,  Alice,  I  admit,"  re- 
plied Lucy  ;  but'when  I  consider  that  it  was 
my  undutiful  Ihght  from  liim  that  occasioned 
this  attack,  how  can  I  free  myself  from 
blame  ?  j\Iy  heart,  Alice,  is  di\'ided  between 
a  feeling  of  remorse  for  having  deserted  him 
^\4thout  sufficient  cause,  and  grief  for  his  iU- 
ness,  and  in  that  is  involved  the  appreheri- 
sion  of  his  loss.  After  all,  Alice,  you  must 
admit  that  I  have  no  fi-iend  in  the  world  but 
my  father.  How,  then,  can  I  think  of  losing 
him?" 

"And  even  if  God  took  him,"  repHed  Al- 
ley, "  which  I  hope  after  all  isn't  so  like- 
ly  " 

""NMiat  do  you  mean,  girl?"  asked  Lucy, 

ignorant  that  Alley  only  used  a  form  of 
speech  pecuhar  to  the  people,  "what  lan- 
guage is  this  of  my  father  •  " 

"  Why,  I  hope  "it's  but  the  tnith,  miss," 
replied  the  maid  ;  "  for  if  God  was  to  call 
him  to-morrow — which  may  God  forbid ! 
you'd  find  friends  that  would  take  cai'e  of 
you  and  protect  you." 

"  Yes  ;  but,  Alice,  if  papa  died,  I  should 
have  to  reproach  myself  with  his  death  ;  and 
that  consideration  would  drive  me  distracted 
or  kill  me.  I  am  beginning  to  think  that 
obedience  to  the  will  of  a  parent  is,  undei 


^92 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


all  circumstances,  the  first  duty  of  a  child. 
A.  pai'ent  knows  better  what  is  for  our  good 
chan  we  can  be  supposed  to  do.  At  all 
events,  whatever  exceptions  there  may  be  to 
this  rule,  I  cai-e  not.  It  is  enough,  and  too 
much,  for  me  to  reflect  that  my  conduct  has 
been  the  cause  of  pajDa's  illness.  His  great 
object  in  life  was  to  promote  my  haj^piness. 
Now  this  was  afl'ection  for  me.  I  grant  he 
may  have  been  mistaken,  but  still  it  Avas  af- 
fection ;  and  consequently  I  cannot  helj)  ad- 
mitting that  even  his  harshness,  and  cer- 
tainly all  that  he  suffered  through  the  very 
violence  of  his  own  passions,  arose  fi'om  the 
same  source — affection  for  me." 

"Ah,"  replied  Alley,  "it's  aisy  seen  that 
your  heai't  is  softened  now  ;  but  in  truth, 
miss,  it  was  quai'e  affection  that  would  make 
his  daughter  miserable,  bekase  he  wanted 
her  to  become  a  gi-eat  lady.  If  he  was  a 
kind  and  raisonable  father,  he  would  not 
force  you  to  be  unhappy.  An  affectionate 
father  would  give  up  the  point  rather  than 
make  you  so  ;  but  no  ;  the  truth  is  simply 
this,  he  wanted  to  gi'atify  himself  more 
than  he  did  you,  or  why  would  he  act  as  he 
did?" 

"  Ahce,"  repHed  Lucy,  "remember  that  I 
will  not  suffer  you  to  speak  of  my  father 
with  disresj)ect.  You  forget  yourself,  girl, 
and  learn  from  me  now,  that  in  order  to  re- 
store him  to  peace  of  mind  and  health,  in 
order  to  rescue  him  from  death,  and  oh," 
she  exclaimed  involuntai-ily,  "  above  aU 
things  from  a  death,  for  which,  perhaps,  he 
is  not  sufficiently  prepared — as  who,  alas,  is 
for  that  terrible  event ! — yes  in  order  to  do 
this,  I  am  ready  to  jdeld  an  imphcit  obedi- 
ence to  his  wishes  :  and  I  pray  heaven  that 
this  act  on  my  part  may  not  be  too  late  to 
restore  him  to  his  health,  and  relieve  his 
mind  from  the  load  of  care  which  presses  it 
down  upon  my  account." 

"Good  Lord,  Miss  Gourlay,"  exclaimed 
poor  Alley,  absolutely  frightened  by  the  de- 
termined and  vehement  spirit  in  which. these 
words  were  uttered,  "  surely  you  wouldn't 
think  of  makin'  a  saickei'fice  of  youi'seK  that 
way?" 

"  That  may  be  the  word,  Alice,  or  it  may 
not ;  but  if  it  be  a  saciifice,  and  if  the  sacri- 
fice is  necessary,  it  shall  be  made — I  shall 
make  it.  My  disobedience  shall  never  break 
my  father's  heart." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  speak  disrespectfully  of 
your  father,  miss  ;  but  I  think  he's  an  am- 
bitious man." 

"  And  perhaps  the  ambition  which  he  feels 
is  a  virtue,  and  one  in  which  I  am  deficient. 
You  and  I,  Alice,  know  but  little  of  hfe  and 
the  maxims  by  which  its  gi'eat  social  piinci- 
ples  ;ire  regulated." 


"  Faith,  spake  for  yourself,  miss ;  as  for 
me,  I'm  the  veiy  girl  that  has  had  my  ex- 
perience. No  less  than  thi-ee  did  I  man- 
fully refuse,  in  sjjite  of  both  father  and 
mother.  First  there  was  big  Bob  Broghan, 
a  giant  of  a  fellow,  with  a  head  and  pluck 
upon  him  that  would  fill  a  mess-pot.  He 
had  a  chape  farm,  and  could  afford  to  wallow 
like  a  SA;\ine  in  filth  and  laziness.  And  well 
becomes  the  old  couple,  I  must  marry  him, 
whether  I  would  or  not.  Be  aisy,  said  I,  it's 
no  go  ;  when  I  marry  a  man,  it'll  be  one 
that'll  know  the  use  of  soap  and  wather,  at 
aU  events.  WeU,  but  I  must  ;  I  did  not 
know  what  was  for  my  own  good  ;  he  was. 
rich,  and  I'd  lead  a  fine  life  with  him. 
Scrape  and  clane  him  for  somebody  else, 
says  I ;  no  such  walkin'  dungheap  for  me. 
Then  they  came  to  the  cudgel,  and  flaked 
me  ;  but  it  was  in  a  good  cause,  and  I  tould 
them  that  if  I  m  ud  die  a  maiihyr  to  cleanh- 
ness,  I  must ;  and  at  last  they  dropped  it, 
and  so  I  got  fi-ee  of  Bob  Broghan. 

"The  next  was  a  httle  fellow  that  kept  a 
small  shop  of  hucksthery,  and  some  grocer- 
ies, and  the  like  o'  that.  He  was  a  near, 
penui'ious  de\al,  hard  and  scraggj'  lookin', 
with  hunger  in  his  face  and  in  his  heart, 
too  ;  ay,  and  besides,  he  had  the  name  of  not 
bein'  honest.  But  then  his  shop  was  gettin' 
bigger  and  bigger,  and  himself  richer  and 
richer  eveiy  day.  Here's  your  man,  says 
the  old  couple.  Maybe  not,  says  I.  No 
shingaivn  that  deals  in  Ught  weights  and 
short  measures  for  me.  My  husband  must 
be  an  honest  man,  and  not  a  keen  shaving 
rogue  Hke  Barney  Buckley.  Well,  miss,  out 
came  the  cudgel  again,  and  out  came  I  with 
the  same  answer.  Lay  on,  says  I ;  if  I  must 
die  a  marth;^T:  to  honesty,  why  I  must ;  and 
may  God  have  mercy  on  me  for  the  same,  as 
he  win.  Then  they  saw  that  I  was  a  rock, 
and  so  there  was  an  end  of  Barney  Buck- 
ley, as  well  as  Bob  Broghan. 

"  WeU   and    good  ;    then   came    numbei 
three,  a  fine  handsome  young  man,  by  name 
Con   Coghlan.     At  first  I  didn't  much  like 
him,  bekase  he  had  the  name  of  being  too 
fond  of  money,  and  it  was  well  known  that 
he  had  disajjpointed  three  or  four  girls  that 
couldn't  show  guinea  for  guinea  with  him. 
The  sleeveen  gained  upon  me,  however,  and 
I  did  get  fond  of  him,   and  tould  him  to^ 
speak  to  my  father,  and  so  he  did,  and  theylB 
met  once  or  twice  to  make  the  matcl\  ;  but, 
ah,  miss,  evex-y  one  has  their  troubles.     On 
the  last  meetin',  when  he  found  that  my  for- 
tune wasn't  what  he  expected,  he  shogged  o&\ 
wid  himself ;  and,  mother  o'  mercy,  did  ever  j 
I  think  it  would  come  to  that  ?  "     Here  she^ 
wiped  her  e^-es,  and  then  with  fresh  spiritl 
proceeded,  "  He  jilted  me,  Miss — the  dtscite«t 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


493 


/ul  villain  jilted  me  ;  but  if  he  did,  I  had  my 
revenge.  In  less  than  a  year  he  came 
sneakin'  back,  and  tould  my  father  that  as 
he  couldn't  get  me  out  of  his  head,  he  would 
take  me  with  whatever  portion  they  could 
give  me.  The  fellow  was  rich,  !Miss,  and  so 
the  ould  couple,  read}'  to  bounce  at  him, 
came  out  again.  Come,  Alley,  here's  Con 
Coghlan  back.  "Well,  then,  says  I,  he  knows 
the  road  home  again,  and  let  him  take  it. 
One  good  turn  desarves  another.  When  he 
could  get  me  he  wouldn't  take  me,  and  now 
when  he  ivould  take  me,  he  won't  get  me  ;  so 
I  think  we're  even. 

"  Out  once  more  came  the  cudgel,  and  on 
they  laid  ;  but  now  I  wasn't  common  stone 
but  whitestone.  Lay  on,  say  I ;  I  see,  or 
rather  I  feel,  that  the  crown  is  before  me. 
If  I  must  die  a  marthjT  to  a  dacent  spirit, 
why  I  must ;  and  so  God's  blessing  be 
with  you  all.  I'U  shine  in  heaven  for  this 
yet. 

"I  think  now,  ]Miss,  you'll  grant  that  I 
know  something  about  life." 

"  Alice,"  replied  Lucy,  "  I  have  often  heard 
it  said,  that  the  humblest  weeds  which  gi'ow 
contain  rirtues  that  are  valuable,  if  they  were 
only  known.  Your  expei'ience  is  not  with- 
out a  moral,  and  your  last  lover  was  the 
worst,  because  he  was  mean  ;  but  when  I 
think  of  him — the  delicate,  the  generous,  the 
disinterested,  the  faithful,  the  noble-hearted 
— alas,  Alice  !  "  she  exclaimed,  thro\\ing  her- 
self in  a  fi-esh  paroxysm  of  giief  upon  the 
bosom  of  her  maid,  "you  know  not  the  in- 
credible pain — the  hopeless  agony — of  the 
sacrifice  I  am  about  to  make.  My  father, 
however,  is  the  author  of  my  being,  and  as 
his  very  Hfe  depends  upon  my  strength  of 
mind  now,  I  shall,  rather  than  see  him  die 
whilst  I  selfishly  gratify  my  owti  will — yes, 
Alice,  I  shall — I  shall — and  may  heaven  give 
me  strength  for  it  I — I  shall  sacrifice  love  to 
duty,  and  save  him  ;  that  is,  if  it  be  not 
ah'eady  too  late." 

"And  if  he  does  recover,"  repUed  Alice, 
whose  tears  flowed  along  with  those  of  her 
mistress,  but  whose  pretty  eye  began  to 
brighten  with  indignant  energj'  as  she  spoke, 
"  if  he  does  recover,  and  if  ever  he  turns  a 
cold  look,  or  uses  a  harsh  word  to  you,  r^a}' 
I  die  for  heaven  if  he  oughtn't  to  be  put  in 
the  i^ubhc  stocks  and  made  an  example  of  to  \ 
the  world."  j 

"  The  scene,  however,  will  be  changed  then, 
Alice  ;  for  the  subject  matter  of  all  our  mis- 
understandings "will  have  been  removed. 
Yet,  Alice,  amidst  all  the  darkness  and  suf- 
fering that  he  before  me,  there  is  one  conso- 
lation " — and  as  she  uttered  these  words, 
there  breathed  throughout  her  beautiful 
features   a   spirit   of    sorix)w,    so   deep,    so  . 


movu-nful,  so  resigned,  and  so  touching,  that 
Alley  in  tiu-n  laid  her  head  on  her  bosom, 
exclaiming,  as  she  looked  up  into  her  eyes, 
"  Oh,  may  the  God  of  mercy  have  pity  on 
you,  my  darling  mistress !  what  wouldn't 
yom-  faithful  Alley  do  to  give  you  rehef  ? 
and  she  can't ; "  and  then  the  afiectionate 
creature  wept  bitterly.  "  But  what  is  the 
consolation  V  "  she  asked,  hoping  to  extract 
from  the  melancholy  gii-1  some  thought  or 
view  of  her  jjosition  that  might  inspire  tkem 
with  hope  or  comfort. 

"  The  consolation  I  allude  to,  Alice,  is  the 
well-known  fact  that  a  broken  heart  cannot 
long  be  the  subject  of  sorrow  ;  and,  besides, 
my  farewell  of  life  vdU  not  be  painful  ;  for 
then  I  shall  be  able  to  reflect  with  peace 
that,  difiicult  as  was  the  duty  imposed  upon 
me,  I  shall  have  performed  it.  Now,  dear 
Alice,  withdraw  ;  I  wish  to  be  alone  for  some 
time,  that  I  may  reflect  as  I  ought,  and  en- 
deavor to  gain  strength  for  the  sacrifice  that 
is  before  me." 

Her  eye  as  she  looked  upon  A\lej  was, 
though  tilled  -srith  a  melancholy  lustre,  ex- 
pressive at  the  same  time  of  a  spirit  so  lofty, 
calm,  and  determined,  that  its  whole  char- 
acter partook  of  absolute  subhmity.  Alley, 
in  obedience  to  her  words,  withdrew ;  but 
not  without  an  anxious  and  earnest  effort  at 
imparting  comfort. 

When  her  maid  had  retu*ed,  Lucy  began 
once  more  to  examine  her  position,  in  all  its 
dark  and  jjainful  aspects,  and  to  refleoc  upon 
the  destiny  which  awaited  her,  fraught  with 
unexampled  misery  as  it  wa£.  Though  well 
aware,  from  former  experience,  of  her  father's 
hj'jDocritical  disguises,  she  was  too  full  of  gen- 
erosity and  cand'jr  to  allow  her  heart  to 
entertain  suspicion.  Her  natvire  was  one  of 
great  simplicity,  ai'tlessness,  and  truth. 
Truth,  above  all  things,  was  her  jiredominant 
\'irtue  ;  and  we  need  not  say,  that  wherever 
it  resides  it  is  certain  to  become  a  guai-antee 
for  the  possession  of  all  the  rest.  Her  cruel- 
hearted  father,  himself  false  and  deceitful, 
dreaded  her  for  this  love  of  ti-uth,  and  was 
so  well  acquainted  with  her  utter  wimt  of 
suspicion,  that  he  never  sci-upled,  though 
frequently  detected,  to  impose  upon  her, 
when  it  suited  his  puri)ose.  This,  indeed, 
was  not  difficult ;  for  such  was  his  daughter's 
natui-al  candor  and  truthfulness,  tliat  if  he 
deceived  her  by  a  fiilsehood  to-day,  she  was 
as  ready  to  believe  him  to-mon"ow  as  ever. 
His  last  heartless  act  of  hypocrisy,  therefore, 
was  such  a  dehberate  violation  of  truth  as 
amounted  to  a  sjiecies  of  .sacrilege  ;  for  it 
robbed  the  pure  sluine  of  liis  own  daughter's 
heai't  of  her  whole  happiness.  Nay,  when 
we  consider  the  relations  in  which  they  stood, 
it  might  be  tei-med,  as  is  beautifully  said  in 


^94 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


Scripture,  "a  seething  of  the  kid  in  the 
mother's  milk." 

As  it  was,  however,  her  father's  iUness  dis- 
armed her  generous  and  forgiving  spirit  of 
every  argument  that  stood  in  the  way  of  the 
determination  she  had  made.  His  conduct 
she  felt  might,  indeed,  be  the  result  of  one 
of  those  gi'eat  social  eiTors  that  create  so 
much  miseiy  in  Hfe  ;  that,  for  instance,  of 
supposing  that  one  must  ascend  through 
certain  orders  of  society,  and  reach  a  par- 
ticulai-  elevation  before  they  can  enjoy  happi- 
ness. This  notion,  so  much  at  variance  with 
the  goodness  and  mercy  of  God,  who  has 
not  confined  happiness  to  any  particular 
class,  she  herself  rejected  ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  the  modest  estimate  which  she  formed 
of  her  own  capacity  to  reason  upon  or  analyze 
all  speculative  oj^inions,  led  her  to  suppose 
that  she  might  be  wrong,  and  her  father 
right,  in  the  inferences  which  they  respec- 
tively drew.  Perhaps  she  thought  her  reluc- 
tance to  see  this  individual  case  through  Ms 
medium,  arose  from  some  peculiar  idiosjTi- 
crasy  of  intellect  or  temperament  not  com- 
mon to  others,  and  that  she  was  setting  a 
particular  instance  against  a  universal  truth. 

That,  however,  which  most  severely  tested 
her  fortitude  and  noble  sense  of  what  we  owe 
a  parent,  resulted  from  no  moral  or  meta- 
physical distinctions  of  human  duty,  but 
simply  and  directly  fi'om  what  she  must  suf- 
fer by  the  contemj^lated  sacrifice.  She  was 
bom  in  a  position  of  life  suflaciently  dignified 
for  ordinary  ambition.  She  was  surrounded 
by  luxury — had  received  an  enlightened  edu- 
cation— had  a  heart  formed  for  love — for  that 
pure  and  exalted  passion,  which  comprehends 
and  biings  into  action  all  the  higher  qualities 
of  oui-  being,  and  enlarges  all  our  capacities  for 
happiness.  God  and  natu.re,  so  to  speak, 
had  gifted  her  mind  with  extraordinary  feel- 
ing and  intellect,  and  her  person  with  un- 
usual grace  and  beauty  ;  yet,  here,  by  this 
act  of  self-devotion  to  her  father,  she  renounc- 
ed all  that  the  human  heart  with  such  strong 
claims  upon  the  legitimate  enjoyments  of 
life  could  expect,  and  voluntarily  entered  in- 
to a  destiny  of  suffering  and  misery.  She 
reflected  upon  and  felt  the  bitterness  of  all 
this  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  contem- 
plation of  a  father  dying  in  consequence  of 
her  disobedience — dying,  too,  jorobably  in  an 
unprepared  state — whose  heart  was  now  full 
of  love  and  tenderness  for  her  ;  who,  in  fact, 
was  in  gi-ief  and  sorrow  in  consequence  of 
what  he  had  caused  her  to  suffer.  We  say 
she  contemplated  all  this,  and  her  gi-eat  heart 
felt  that  this  was  the  moment  of  mercy. 

"  It  is  resolved  !  "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  I  will 
disturb  him  for  a  little.  There  is  no  time 
COW  for  meanly  wrestUng  it  out,  for  ungen- 


erous hesitation  and  delay.  Suspense  may 
kill  him  ;  and  whilst  I  deliberate,  he  may  be 
lost.  Father,  I  come.  Never  again  shall  you 
reproach  me  with  disobedience.  Though 
your  ambition  may  be  wrong,  yet  who  else 
than  I  should  become  the  victim  of  an  en*or 
which  originates  in  affection  for  myself  ?  I 
yield  at  last,  as  is  my  duty  ;  now  yoiu:  situ- 
ation makes  it  so  ;  and  my  heart,  though 
crushed  and  broken,  shall  be  an  offering  of 
peace  between  us.  Farewell,  now,  to  love — 
to  love  legitimate,  pure,  and  holy  ! — farewell 
to  all  the  divine  charities  and  tendernesses  of 
hfe  which  follow  it — farewell  to  peace  of 
heart — to  the  wife's  pride  of  eye,  to  the  hus- 
band's tender  glance— farewell — farewell  to 
everything  in  this  wretched  hfe  but  the  hopes 
of  heaven  !  I  come,  my  father — I  come.  But 
I  had  forgotten,"  she  said,  "  I  must  not  pee 
him  without  permission,  nor  unannounced-  as 
Gibson  said.     Stay,  I  shall  ring  for  Gibson." 

"  Gibson,"  said  she,  when  he  had  made 
his  appearance, "  try  if  your  master  could  see 
me  for  a  moment ;  say  I  request  it  particular- 
ly, and  that  I  shall  scarcely  disturb  him. 
Ask  it  as  a  favor,  unless  he  be  very  ill  indeed 
— and  even  then  do  so." 

"Whilst  Gibson  went  with  this  message, 
Lucy,  feehng  that  it  might  be  dangerous  to 
agitate  her  father  by  the  exliibition  of  emo- 
tion, endeavored  to  compose  herself  as  much 
as  she  could,  so  that  by  the  time  of  Gibson's 
return,  her  appearance  was  calm,  noble,  and 
majestic.  In  fact,  the  greatness — the  heroic* 
spirit — of  the  coming  sacrifice  emanated  like 
a  beautiful  but  solemn  hght  fi'om  her  coun- 
tenance, and  on  being  desired  to  go  in,  she 
appeared  full  of  unusual  beauty  and  com- 
posure. 

On  entering,  she  found  her  father  much 
in  the  same  position  :  his  head,  as  before, 
upon  the  pillows,  and  the  nightcap  drawn 
over  his  heavy  brows. 

"You  wished  to  see  me,  my  dear  Lucy. 
Have  you  any  favor  to  ask,  my  child  ?  If  so, 
ask  whilst  I  have  recollection  and  conscious- 
ness to  grant  it.  I  can  refuse  you  nothing 
now,  Lucy.  I  was  vn'ong  ever  to  stiniggle 
with  you.  It  was  too  much  for  me,  for  I  am 
now  the  victim  ;  but  even  that  is  well,  for  1 
am  glad  it  is  not  you." 

Wiien  he  mentioned  the  word  victim. 
Lucy  felt  as  if  a  poniard  had  gone  through 
her  heart ;  but  she  had  ah-eady  resolved 
that  what  must  be  done  should  be  done 
generously,  consequently,  without  any  os- 
tentation of  feeling,  and  with  as  Httla 
appearance  of  self-sacrifice  as  possible. 

It  is  not  for  us,  she  said  to  herself,  to  ex- 
aggerate the  value  of  the  gift  which  we 
bestow,  but  rather  to  depreciate  it,  for  it  iff 
never  generous  to  magnify  an  obligation, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


495 


"I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  papa,"  said  the 
[jenerous  and  considerate  girl. 

"It  is  granted,  my  darling  Lucy,  before  I 
hear  it,"  he  replied.  " WTiat  is  it?  Oh 
how  happy  I  feel  that  you  have  returned  to 
me  ;  I  shaU  not  now  pass  away  my  last  mo- 
ments en  a  soUtar}'  deathbed.  But  what  is 
your  request,  my  love  ?  " 

"You  have  to-day,  papa,  told  me  that  the 
danger  of  your  present  attack  proceeds  from 
the  anxious  state  of  your  mind.  Now,  my 
request  is,  that  I  may  be  permitted  to  make 
that  state  easier ;  to  remove  that  anxiety, 
and,  if  possible,  all  other  anxiety  and  care 
that  press  upon  you.  You  know,  papa,  the 
topic  upon  which  we  have  always  diflered  ; 
now,  rather  than  any  distress  of  feeling  con- 
nected with  it  should  stand  in  the  way  of 
your  recoveiy,  I  ^\-ish  to  say  that  you  may 
count  upon  my  most  perfect  obedience." 

"  You  mean  the  Dunroe  business,  dear 
Lucy  ?  " 

"  I  mean  the  Dunroe  business,  papa." 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are 
willing  and  ready  to  mai*ry  him  ?  " 

The  reply  to  this  was  indeed  the  coming 
away  of  the  branch  by  which  she  had  hung 
on  the  precipice  of  life.  On  heai-ing  the 
question,  therefore,  she  paused  a  httle  ;  but 
•he  pause  did  not  j^roceed  fi'om  any  indis- 
position to  answer  it,  but  simply  from  what 
iseemed  to  be  the  refusal  of  her  natural 
powers  to  enable  her  to  do  so.  WTien  about 
to  speak,  she  felt  as  if  all  her  physical  strength 
had  abandoned  her  ;  as  if  her  will,  previous- 
ly schooled  to  the  task,  had  become  recu- 
sant. She  experienced  a  general  chill  and 
coldness  of  her  whole  body  ;  a  cessation  for 
a  moment  or  two  of  the  action  of  the  heart, 
whilst  her  veiy  sight  became  dim  and  indis- 
tinct. She  thought,  however,  in  this  un- 
utterable moment  of  agony  and  despair,  that 
she  must  axi ;  and  without  feeling  able  to 
analyze  either  her  thoughts  or  sensations,  in 
this  ten-ible  timiult  of  her  spirit,  she  heard 
herself  repeat  the  reply,   "I  .\Ji,  p.vp.\." 

For  a  moment  her  father  forgot  his  part, 
and  started  up  into  a  sitting  posture  with  as 
much  apparent  energy  as  ever.  Another 
moment,  however,  Was  sufficient  to  make 
him  feel  his  error. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "what  have  I  done?  Iiet 
me  pause  a  httle,  my  dear  Lucy  ;  that  eflFort 
to  express  the  joy  you  have  poured  into  my 
heart  was  nearly  too  much  for  me.  You 
make  Lhis  promise,  Lucy,  not  with  a  view 
merely  to  ease  my  mind  and  contribute  to 
my  recovery  ;  but,  should  I  get  well,  with  a 
finn  intention  to  carry  it  actually  into  exe- 
cution ?  " 

"  Such,  p:ipa,  is  my  intention — my  fixed 
determination,  I  shovild  say  ;  but  I  ought  to 


add,  that  it  is  altogether  for  your  sake,  dear 
papa,  that  I  make  it.  Now  let  your  mind 
feel  tranquillity  and  ea«e ;  dismiss  every 
anxiety  that  distresses  you,  papa ;  for  you 
may  beheve  your  daughter,  that  there  is  no 
earthly  sacrifice  compatible  with  her  duties 
as  a  Christian  which  she  would  not  make  for 
your  recovery.  This  intei-view  is  now,  per- 
haps, as  much  as  your  sbite  of  health  can 
bear.  Think,  then,  of  what  I  have  said,  pa- 
pa ;  let  it  console  and  strengthen  ;  and  then 
it  wiU,  I  trust,  help  at  least  to  bring  about 
your  recovery.  Now,  permit  me  to  with- 
draw." 

"  Wait  a  moment,  my  child.  It  is  right 
that  you  should  know  the  eflfect  of  your 
goodness  before  you  go.  I  feel  already  as 
if  a  mountain  were  removed  from  my  heart 
— even  now  I  am  better.  God  bless  you, 
my  own  dearest  Lucy  ;  you  have  saved  your 
father.  Let  this  consideration  comfort  you 
and  sustain  you.  Now  you  may  go,  my 
love." 

"VMien  Lucy  withdrew,  which  she  did  with 
a  totteiing  step,  she  proceeded  to  her  own 
chamber,  which,  now  that  the  energy  neces- 
sary for  the  struggle  had  abandoned  her,  she 
entered  almost  unconsciously,  and  with  a 
feeling  of  rapidly-increasing  weakness.  She 
approached  the  bell  to  ring  for  her  maid, 
which  she  was  able  to  do  with  difficulty  ; 
and  having  done  so,  she  attempted  to  reach 
the  sofa  ;  but  exhausted  and  overwrought 
nature  gave  way,  and  she  fell  just  sufficiently 
near  it  to  have  her  fall  broken  and  her  head 
supported  by  it,  as  she  lay  there  apparently 
lifeless.  Li  this  state  Alley  Malion  found 
her  ;  but  instead  of  ringing  an  alarm,  or 
attempting  to  collect  a  crowd  of  the  servants 
to  witness  a  scene,  and  being  besides  a  stout 
as  well  as  a  discreet  and  sensible  girl,  she  was 
able  to  raise  her  up,  place  her  on  a  sofa, 
unto,  by  the  as.sistance  of  cold  water  and 
some  patience,  she  succeeded  in  restoring 
her  to  life  and  consciousness. 

"  On  opening  her  eyes  she  looked  about, 
and  Alley  observed  that  her  hps  were  parch- 
ed and  dry. 

"  Here,  my  darling  mistress,"  said  the 
affectionate  girl,  who  now  wept  bitterly, 
"  here,  swallow  a  httle  cold  water  ;  it  will 
moisten  your  hps,  and  do  you  good." 

She  attempted  to  do  so,  but  Ally  saw  that 
her  hand  trembled  too  much  to  bring  the 
water  to  her  own  lips.  On  swallowing  it,  it 
seemed  to  relieve  her  a  little  ;  she  then  look- 
ed up  into  -Alley's  face,  with  a  smile  of 
thanks  so  unutterably  sweet  and  sorrowful, 
that  the  poor  girl's  tears  gushed  out  afresh. 

"  Take  courage,  my  darhng  mistress,"  she 
rephed  ;  "I  know  that  sometliing  painful 
has  happened  ;  but  for  Christ's  blessed  sake, 


'196 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


don't  look  so  sorrowful  and  broken-hearted, 
or  you  will " 

"Alice,"  said  she,  interrupting  her,  in  a 
calm,  soft  voice,  like  low  music,  "open  my 
bosom — open  my  bosom,  Alice  ;  you  will 
find  a  miniature  there  ;  take  it  out ;  I  wish 
to  look  upon  it." 

"  O  thin,"  said  the  girl,  as  she  proceeded 
to  obey  her,  "  happy  is  he  that  rests  so  near 
that  pure  and  innocent  and  sorrowful  heart ; 
and  great  and  good  nuist  he  be  that  is 
worthy  of  it." 

There  was  in  the  look  which  Lucy  cast 
upon  her  when  she  had  uttered  these  words 
a  spirit  of  gentle  but  affectionate  reproof ; 
but  she  spoke  it  not. 

"  Give  it  to  me,  Ahce,"  she  said  ;  "  but 
unlock  it  first ;  I  feel  that  my  hands  are  too 
feeble  to  do  so." 

Alice  unlocked  the  miniature,  and  Lucy 
then  taking  it  fi'om  her,  looked  ujaon  it  for 
a  moment,  and  then  pressing  it  to  her  lips 
with  a  calm  emotion,  in  which  grief  and 
despair  seemed  to  mingle,  she  exclaimed, 

"  Alas !  mamma,  how  much  do  I  now 
stand  in  need  of  your  adiice  and  consola- 
tion !  The  shiine  in  which  your  affection 
and  memory  dwelt,  and  against  whose 
troubled  jiulses  your  sweet  and  serene  im- 
age lay,  is  now  broken.  There,  dearest 
mamma,  you  will  find  nothing  in  future  but 
affliction  and  despair.  It  has  been  said,  that 
I  have  inherited  your  graces  and  your  vir- 
tues, most  beloved  parent  ;  and  if  so,  alas ! 
in  how  remote  a  degree,  for  who  could  equal 
yo^  ?  But  how  would  it  have  WTung  j-our 
gentle  and  loving  heart  to  know  that  I  should 
have  inherited  yovu'  secret  gi-iefs  and  suffer- 
ings? Yes,  mamma,  both  are  painted  on 
that  serene  brow  ;  for  no  art  of  the  limner 
could  conceal  their  mournful  traces,  nor  re- 
move the  veil  of  sorrow  which  an  unhaj^jDy 
destiny  thi'ew  over  yoiu'  beauty.  There,  in 
that  clear  and  gentle  eye,  is  still  the  image 
of  your  love  and  sympathy — there  is  that 
smile  so  full  of  sweetness  and  suffering. 
Alas,  alas  !  how  closely  do  we  resemble  each 
other  in  all  things.  Sweet  and  blessed  saint, 
if  it  be  permitted,  descend  and  let  your 
spirit  be  with  me — to  guide,  to  soothe,  and 
to  support  me  ;  your  task  will  not  be  a  long 
one,  beloved  parent.  From  this  day  forth 
my  only  hope  will  be  to  join  you.  Life  has 
nothing  now  but  soUtude  and  soitow.  There 
is  no  lieart  with  which  I  can  hold  com- 
munion ;  for  my  gi'ief,  and  the  act  of  duty 
which  occasions  it,  must  be  held  sacred  from 
aU. 

She  kissed  the  miniature  once  more,  but 
without  tears,  and  after  a  little,  she  made 
Alley  place  it  where  she  had  ever  kept  it — 
next  her  heart. 


"Alice,"  said  she,  "I  trust  I  will  soon  be 
with  mamma." 

"My  dear  misti-ess,"  replied  Alice,  "don't 
spake  so.  I  hope  there's  many  a  happy  and 
pleasant  day  before  you,  in  spite  of  all  that 
has  come  and  gone,  yet." 

She  turned  upon  the  maid  a  look  of  in- 
creduhty  so  hopeless,  that  Alley  felt  both 
alarmed  and  depressed. 

"You  do  not  know  what  I  suffer,  Alice," 
she  rephed,  "  but  I  know  it.  This  miniature 
of  mamma  I  got  painted  unknown  to — un- 
known to — "  (here  we  need  not  say  that  she 
meant  her  father) — "  any  one  except  mamma, 
the  artist,  and  myself.  It  has  laid  next  my 
heart  ever  since  ;  but  since  her  death  it  has 
been  the  dearest  thing  to  me  on  earth — one 
only  other  object  perhajDs  excepted.  Yes," 
she  added,  with  a  deej?  sigh,  "  I  hope  I  shall 
soon  be  Avith  you,  mamma,  and  then  we 
shall  never  be  sejDarated  any  more  !  " 

Alley  regi-etted  to  j^erceive  that  her  gi-ief 
noAv  had  settled  down  into  the  most  wasting 
and  dangerous  of  all ;  for  it  was  of  that  dry 
and  silent  kind  which  so  soon  consumes  the 
lamp  of  hfe,  and  dries  up  the  strength  of 
those  who  unhajjpily  fall  under  its  malignant 
bhght. 

Lucy's  journey,  however,  from  Wicklow, 
the  two  intei-views  with  her  father,  the  sac- 
rifice she  had  so  nobly  made,  and  the  con- 
sequent agitation,  all  overcame  her,  and 
after  a  painful  sti-uggle  between  the  alterna- 
tions of  forgetfulness  and  memory,  she  at 
lenofth  fell  into  a  troubled  slumber. 


CHAPTEK  XXIX. 

Lord  Dunroe's  Affection  for  his  Father —  Glimpse  oj 
a  new  Character — Lo7'd  Cullamore's  Rebuke  to  hi» 
Son,  who  greatly  refuses  to  give  up  his  Friend. 

A  CONSIDERABLE  period  uow  elapsed,  during 
which  there  was  httle  done  that  could  con- 
tribute to  the  jDrogress  of  our  nai'rative 
Summer  had  set  in,  and  the  CuUamore 
family,  owing  to  the  faihng  health  of  the  old 
nobleman,  had  returned  to  his  Dublin  resi- 
dence, with  an  intention  of  removing  to 
Glenshee,  as  soon  he  should  receive  the 
advice  of  his  i^hysician.  Fi'om  the  daj-  on 
which  his  brother's  letter  reached  him,  his 
lordship  seemed  to  fall  into  a  more  than 
ordinai-y  despondency  of  mind.  His  health 
for  years  had  been  very  infirm,  but  from 
whatsoever  cause  it  proceeded,  he  now  ap- 
peared to  labor  under  some  secret  presenti- 
ment of  calamity,  against  which  he  struggled, 
in  vain.  So  at  least  he  himself  admitted.  It 
is  true  that  age  and  a  constitution  enfeebled 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


497 


by  delicate  health  mif^jht  alone,  in  a  disposi- 
tion naturally  hj^pochondriac,  occasion  such 
anxiety  ;  as  we  know  they  frequently  do  even 
in  the  youthful.  Be  this  as  it  may,  one 
thing  was  evident,  his  lordship  began  to  sink 
more  rapidly  than  he  had  ever  done  before  ; 
and  like  most  invalids  of  his  class,  he  became 
wilful  and  obstinate  in  his  own  opinions. 
His  doctor,  for  inst^mce,  advised  him  to  re- 
move to  the  delightful  air  of  Glenshce 
Castle  ;  but  this,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
he  peremptorily  refused  to  do,  and  so  long 
as  he  chose  to  remiuu  in  town,  so  long  were 
Lady  Emily  and  her  aunt  resolved  to  stay 
■with  him.  Dunroe,  also,  was  jiretty  regidar 
in  inquiries  after  his  health  ;  but  whether 
from  a  principle  of  filial  affection,  or  a  more 
flagitious  motive,  will  appear  from  the  follow- 
ing conversation,  which  took  place  one 
morning  after  breakfast,  between  himself 
and  Norton. 

"  How  is  your  father  this  morning,  my 
lord  ?  "  inquired  that  worthy  gentleman.  "  I 
hojje  he  is  better." 

"A  He,  Norton,"  replied  his  lordship — "a 
lie,  as  usual.  You  hope  no  such  tiling.  The 
agency  which  is  to  follow  on  the  respectable 
old  peer's  demise  bars  that— eh  ?  " 

"  I  give  you  my  honor,  m}'  lord,  you  do 
me  injustice.  I  am  in  no  hui'iy  with  him 
on  that  account ;  it  would  be  unfeeling  and 
selfish." 

"Now,  Tom,"  replied  the  other,  in  that 
kind  of  contemptuous  familiarity  which 
slavish  minions  or  adroit  knaves  like  Norton 
must  always  put  up  with  from  such  men, 
"  now,  Tom,  my  good  fellow,  you  know  the 
case  is  this — you  get  the  agency  to  the  Cul- 
lamore  property  the  moment  my  right 
honorable  dad  makes  his  exit.  If  he  should 
delay  that  exit  for  seven  years  to  come,  then 
you  will  be  exactly  seven  yeixrs  short  of  the 
period  in  which  you  will  fleece  me  and  my 
tenants,  and  put  the  wool  on  yourself." 

"  Only  your  tenants,  my  lord,  if  you  please. 
I  may  shear  them  a  little,  I  tinist ;  but  you 
can't  sujjpose  me  cajiable  of  sheaiing " 

"My  lordship.  No,  no,  you  are  too 
honest ;  only  you  will  allow  me  to  insinuate, 
in  the  meantime,  that  I  beheve  you  have 
fleeced  me  to  some  pui^jose  ab*eady.  I  do 
not  allude  to  j'our  gambling  debts,  which, 
with  my  owti,  I  have  been  obliged  to  pay  ; 
but  to  other  opportunities  which  have  come 
in  your  way.  It  doesn't  matter,  however  ; 
you  are  a  pleasant  and  a  useful  fellow,  and  I 
beheve  that  although  you  clip  me  yourself  a 
little,  you  would  permit  no  one  else  to  do 
BO.  And,  by  the  way,  talking  of  the  respect- 
able old  peer,  he  is  anything  but  a  friend  of 
yours,  and  urged  me  strongly  to  send  you  to 
the  devil,  as  a  cheat  and  impostor." 


"  How  is  that,  my  lord  ?  "  asked  Noi*ton, 
with  an  interest  which  he  could  scarcely  dis- 
guise. 

"  WTiy,  he  mentioned  something  of  a  con- 
versation you  had,  in  which  you  told  him, 
you  impudent  dog — and  coolly  to  his  face, 
too — that  you  patronized  his  son  while  in 
France,  and  introduced  him  to  several  distin- 
guished French  noblemen,  not  one  of  whom, 
he  had  reason  to  believe,  ever  existed  except 
in  your  o^^•n  fertQe  and  lying  imagination." 

"And  was  that  all?"  asked  Norton,  who 
began  to  entertain  apprehensions  of  !Morty 
O'Flaherty  ;  "  did  he  mention  nothing 
else?" 

"  No,"  replied  Dunroe  ;  "  and  you  scoun- 
drel, was  not  that  a  d — d  deal  too  much  ?  " 

Nox'ton,  now  feeling  that  he  was  safe  from 
Morty,  laughed  very  heartily,  and  replied, 

"  It's  a  fact,  sure  enough  ;  but  then,  wasn't 
it  on  your  lordship's  account  I  boimced  ? 
The  lie,  in  point  of  fact,  if  it  can  be  called 
one,  was,  therefore,  more  your  lordship's  he 
than  mine." 

"  How  do  vou  mean  by  '  if  it  can  be  called 
one*?" 

"  \\Tay,  if  I  did  not  introduce  you  to  real 
noblemen,  I  did  to  some  spurious  specimens, 
gentlemen  who  taught  you  all  the  arts  and 
etiquette  of  the  gaming-table,  of  which,  you 
know  very  well,  my  lord,  you  were  then  so 
shamefully  ignorant,  as  to  be  quite  unfit  for 
the  society  of  gentlemen,  especially  on  the 
continent." 

"  Yes,  Tom,  and  the  state  of  my  property 
now  tells  me  at  what  cost  you  taught  me.  You 
see  these  tenants  say  they  have^  not  money, 
plead  hard  times,  failure  of  crops,  and  de- 
preciation of  property." 

"  Ay,  and  so  they  will  plead,  until  /  take 
them  in  hand." 

"  And,  upon  my  soul,  I  don't  care  how 
soon  that  maj'  be." 

"Monster  of  disobedience,"  said  Norton, 
ironicidly,  "  is  it  thus  you  spealc  of  a  beloved 
parent,  and  that  parent  a  respectable  old 
peer?  In  other  words,  you  wish  him  in 
kingdom  come.  Repent,  my  lord — reti-act 
those  words,  or  dread  '  the  raven  of  the 
valley.' " 

"  Fiiith,  Tom,  there's  no  use  in  conceaUng 
it.  It's  not  that  I  wish  him  gone  ;  but  that 
I  long  as  much  to  touch  the  jiropcrty  at 
large,  as  you  the  agency.  It's  a  devilish 
tough  affair,  this  illness  of  his." 

"  Patience,  my  lord,  and  fihid  affection." 

"  I  \\-ish  he  would  either  hve  or  die  ;  for, 
in  the  first  case,  I  could  miu-rj-  this  brave  and 
wealthy  wench  of  the  bai'onet's,  which  I  can't 
do  now,  and  he  in  such  a  state  of  health.  If 
I  could  once  touch  the  Gourlay  Ciish,  I  were 
satisfied.     The  Gourlay  estates  will  come  to 


498 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


me,  too,  because  there  is  no  heir,  and  they  ] 
go  with  this  weuch,  who  is  a  brave  wench, 
for  that  reason." 

"So  she  has  consented  to  have  you  at 
last?" 

"  Do  you  think,  Tom,  she  ever  had  any 
serious  intention  of  dechning  the  coronet  ? 
No,  no  ;  she  wouldn't  be  her  father's  daugh- 
ter if  she  had." 

"  Yes  ;  but  your  lordship  suspected  that 
the  fellow  who  shot  you  had  made  an  im- 
pression in  that  quarter." 

"  I  did  for  a  time — that  is,  I  was  fool 
enough  to  think  so  ;  she  is,  however,  a  true 
woman,  and  only  played  him  off  against 
me." 

"  But  why  does  she  refuse  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  She  hasn't  refused,  man  ;  her  health, 
they  tell  me,  is  not  good  of  late  ;  of  course, 
she  is  only  waiting  to  gain  strength  for  the 
interview,  that  is  all.  Ah,  Tom,  my  dear 
fellow,  I  understand  women  a  devihsh  deal 
better  than  you  do." 

"  So  you  ought ;  you  have  had  greater 
experience,  and  paid  more  for  it.  "What 
will  you  do  with  the  fair  blonde,  though.  I 
suppose  the  matrimonial  compact  will  send 
her  adrift." 

"Suj^pose  no  such  thing,  then.  I  had 
her  before  matrimony,  and  I  will  have  her 
after  it.  No,  Tom,  I  am  not  ungrateful ;  fore 
or  aft,  she  shall  be  retained.  She  shall 
never  say  that  I  acted  unhandsomely  by 
her,  especially  as  she  has  become  a  good 
girl  and  repented.  I  know  I  did  her  injustice 
about  the  player-man.  On  that  point  she 
has  thoroughly  satisfied  me,  and  I  was 
wrong." 

Norton  gave  him  a  peculiar  look,  one  of 
those  looks  which  an  adept  in  the  ways  of 
life,  in  its  crooked  paths  and  unprincipled 
impostures,  not  unfrequently  bestows  upon 
the  poor  aristocratic  dolt  whom  he  is  plun- 
dering to  his  face.  The  look  we  speak  of 
might  be  mistaken  for  surprise — it  might 
be  mistaken  for  pity — but  it  was  meant  for 
contempt. 

"  Of  course,"  said  he,  "  j^ou  are  too  well 
versed  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  my  lord, 
and  especially  in  those  of  the  fair  sex,  to  be 
imposed  upon.  If  ever  I  met  an  individual 
who  can  read  a  man's  thoughts  by  looking 
mto  his  face,  your  lordship  is  the  man.  By 
the  way,  when  did  you  see  yowc  father-in- 
law  that  is  to  be  ?  " 

"  A  couple  of  days  ago.  He,  too,  has  been 
iU,  3,nd  looks  somewhat  shaken.  It  is  true, 
I  don't  like  the  man,  and  I  beheve  nobody 
does  ;  but  I  like  very  well  to  hear  him  talk  of 
deeds,  settlements,  and  marriage  articles. 
He  begged  of  me,  however,  not  to  insist  on 
seeing  his  daughter  until  she  is  fully  recov- 


ered, which  he  expects  will  be  very  soon  ; 
and  the  moment  she  is  prepared  for  an  in- 
terview, he  is  to  let  me  know.  But,  harkee, 
Tom,  what  can  the  old  earl  want  with  me 
this  morning,  think  you  ?  " 

"I  cannot  even  guess,"  replied  the  other, 
"  unless  it  be  to  prepare  you  for " 

"  For  what?" 

"  Why,  it  is  said  that  the  fair  lady  with 
whom  5'ou  are  about  to  commit  the  crime  of 
matrimony  is  virtuous  and  religious,  as  well 
as  beautiful  and  so  forth  ;  and,  in  that  case, 
perhajjs  he  is  about  to  prepare  you  for  the 
expected  conference.  I  cannot  guess  any- 
thing else,  unless,  perhaps,  it  may  be  the  ava- 
rice of  age  about  to  rebuke  the  profusion  and 
generosity  of  youth.  In  that  case,  my  lord, 
keep  youi'  temper,  and  don't  compromise 
your  friends." 

"  Never  fear,  Tom  ;  I  have  already  fought 
more  battles  on  your  account  than  you 
could  dream  of.  PerhajDS,  after  all,  it  is  noth- 
ing. Of  late  he  has  sent  for  me  occasion- 
ally, as  if  to  speak  upon  some  matter  of 
importance,  when,  after  chatting  ujDon  the 
news  of  the  day  or  lectuiing  me  for  support- 
ing an  impostor — meaning  you — he  has 
said  he  would  defer  the  subject  on  which  he 
wished  to  speak,  until  another  opjDortunity. 
Whatever  it  is,  he  seems  afraid  of  it,  or  per- 
haps the  respectable  old  peer  is  doting." 

"I  dare  say,  my  lord,  it  is  very  natural  he 
should  at  these  years  ;  but  if  he,"  proceeded 
Norton,  laughing,  "  is  doting  now,  what 
will  you  be  at  hia  years  ?  Here,  however,  is 
his  confidential  man,  Morty  OTlaherty." 

OTlaherty  now  entered,  and  after  making 
a  bow  that  stiU  smacked  strongly  of  Tippe- 
raiy,  delivered  his  message. 

"My  masther,  Lord  Cullamore,  vvashes  to 
see  you,  my  lord.  He  has  come  down 
stairs,  and  is  facing  the  sun,  the  Lord  be 
praised,  in  the  back  drawin'-room." 

"  Go,  my  lord,"  said  Norton  ;  "  perhaps  he 
wishes  you  to  make  a  third  luminary.  Go 
and  heljihim  to  face  the  sun." 

"  Be  my  sowl,  Mr.  Norton,  if  I'm  not 
much  mistaken,  it's  the  father  he'll  have  to 
face.  I  may  as  well  give  yon  the  hard  word, 
my  lord — troth,  I  think  you  had  better  be 
on  your  edge  ;  he's  as  dark  as  midnight^ 
although  the  sun  in  in  his  face." 

His  lordship  went  out,  after  having  given 
two  or  three  yawns,  stretched  himself,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  like  a  man  who  was 
about  to  enter  ujDon  some  unpleasant  busi- 
ness with  manifest  reluctance. 

"  Ah,"  exclaimed  Morty,  looking  after 
him,  "there  goes  a  cute  boy — at  laste,  God 
forgive  him,  he's  of  that  opinion  himselt 
What  a  pity  there's  not  more  o'  the  family; 
they'd  ornament  the  counthry." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


499 


"  Say,  rather,  Morty,  that  there's  one  too 
many." 

"  Faith,  and  I'm  sure,  Barney,  you  oughtn't 
to  think  so.     Beg  pardon — jNIr.  Norton." 

"  Morty,  curse  you,  will  you  be  cautious  ? 
But  why  should  I  not  think  so  ?  " 

"  For  sound  raisons,  that  no  man  knows 
better  than  yourself." 

"I'm  not  the  only  person  that  thinks 
there's  one  too  many  of  the  family,  Morty. 
In  that  opinion  I  am  ably  supported  by  his 
lordship,  just  gone  out  there." 

"  Where  !  Ay,  I  see  whereabouts  you  are 
now.  One  too  many — faith,  so  the  blessed 
pair  of  you  think,  no  doubt." 

"  Right,  Morty ;  if  the  devil  had  the 
agency  of  the  ancient  eai'l's  soul,  I  would 
soon  get  that  of  his  ancient  property ;  but 
whilst  he  hves  it  can't  be  accomj)hshed. 
What  do  you  imagine  the  old  bawble  wants 
with  the  young  one  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  ;  I'm  hammerin'  upon 
that  for  some  time  past,  and  can't  come  at  it." 

"Come,  then,  let  us  get  the  materials  first, 
and  then  put  them  on  the  anvil  of  my  im- 
agination. Impriniifi — which  means,  Morty, 
in  the  fiml  place,  have  you  heard  anything  ?  " 

"  No  ;  nothing  to  speak  of." 

"  Well,  in  the  second  place,  have  you  seen 
or  obfierved  anything?" 

"  Why,  no  ;  not  much." 

"  Which  means — both  your  answers  in- 
cluded— that  you  have  both  heard  and  seen 
— so  I  interjDi-et  '  nothing  to  speak  of,'  on  the 
one  hand,  and  your  '  not  much,'  on  the  other. 
Out  with  it  ;  two  heads  are  better  than  one  : 
what  you  miss,  I  may  hit." 

"  The  de\'il's  no  match  for  you.  Bar — Mr. 
Norton,  and  it's  hard  to  expect  Dunroe 
should.  I'll  tell  you,  then — for,  in  troth, 
I'm  a*  anxious  to  come  at  the  meanin'  of  it 
myself  as  you  can  be  for  the  life  of  you. 
Some  few  months  ago,  when  we  were  in 
London,  there  came  a  man  to  me." 

"  Name  him,  Morty." 

"  His  name  was  M'Bride." 

"  M'Bride — ijroceed." 

"  His  name  was  M'Bride.     His  fece  was 
tanned  into  mahogany,  just  as  eveiy  man's 
is  that  has  hved  long  in  a  hot  country.   '  Your 
name,'   says   he,    'is    O'Flaherty,  I   under-  | 
stand ? '"  '  ; 

"  'Morty  OTlaheriy,  at  your  sarvice,'says)  i 
I,  '  and  how  are  you,  sir  ?  I'm  happy  to  see  ' 
you  ;  only  in  the  mane  time  you  have  the  i 
adv;mtage  of  me.'  "  , 

"  '  Many  thanks  to  you,'  said  he, '  for  your 
kind  inquiries  ;  as  to  the  advantage,  I  won't 
keep  it  long  ;  only  you  don't  seem  to  know 
your  relations.' " 

"  '  ]\Iaybe  not,'  says  I,  '  they  say  it's  a  wise 
wan  that  does.     Are  you  one  q'  them  ? '  " 


"  'I'm  one  o'  them.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
ould  Kid  Flaherty  ? ' " 

"  '  WeU,  no  ;  but  I  did  of  Buck  Flaherty, 
that  always  went  in  boots  and  buckskin 
breeches,  and  wore  two  watches  and  a  silver- 
mounted  whip.' " 

"  '  Well,  you  must  know  that  Kid  was  a 
son ' — and  here  he  pointed  his  thumb  over 
his  left  shoulder  wid  a  knowin'  grin  upon 
him — '  was  a  son  of  the  ould  Buck's.  The 
ould  Buck's  wife  was  a  Murtagh  ;  now  she 
agnin  had  a  cousin  named  M'Shaughran,  who 
was  manied  upon  a  man  by  name  M'Faddle. 
M'Faddle  had  but  one  sisther,  and  she  was 
cousin  to  Frank  M'Fud,  tliat  suffered  for — 
but  no  matther — the  M'Swiggins  and  the 
M'Fuds  were  cleaveens  to  the  third  cousins 
of  Kid  Flaherty's  first  wife's  sister-iu-lnw, 
and  she  again  was  married  in  upon  the 
M'Brides  of  Newton  Nowhere — so  that  you 
see  you  and  I  are  thu'ty-second  cousins  at 
all  events.' " 

"  'W^ell,  anyway  he  made  out  some  relation- 
shij)  between  us,  or  at  least  I  thought  he  did 
— and  maybe  that  was  as  good — and  faith 
may  be  a  great  deal  better,  for  if  ever  a  man 
had  the  look  of  a  schemer  about  him  the 
same  customer  had.  At  any  rate  we  had 
some  drink  together,  and  went  on  very  well 
till  we  got  befuddled,  which,  it  seems,  is  hia 
besetting  sin.  It  was  clearly  his  intention, 
I  could  see,  to  make  me  tipsy,  and  I  dare 
say  he  might  a  done  so,  only  for  a  slight 
mistake  he  made  in  first  gettmg  tijjsy  him- 
self." 

"  Well,  but  I'm  not  much  the  wiser  ot 
this,"  obsen'ed  Norton.  "What  are  you 
at?" 

"Neither  am  I,"  replied  Morty  ;  "and  as 
to  what  I'm  at — I  dunna  what  the  devil  I'm 
at.     That's  just  what  I  want  to  know." 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  other,  "  we  must  have 
patience.  JVfio  did  this  fellow  turn  out  to 
be?" 

"  He  insisted  he  was  a  relation  of  my  own, 
as  I  tould  you." 

"Who  the  devil  cares  whether  he  was  or 
not !     ]]lutf  was  he,  then  ?  " 

"  Ay  ;  what  was  he  ? — that's  what  I'm  askin' 
you." 

"  Pi'oceed,"  said  Norton  ;  "  teU  it  your 
own  way." 

"  He  said  he  came  fi'om  the  Aist  Indies 
beyant  ;  that  he  knew  some  memliers  of  his 
lordship's  family  there  ;  that  he  had  been  in 
Palis,  and  that  while  he  was  there  he  lamed 
to  tiike  French  lave  of  his  masther." 

"  But  who  was  his  master?  " 

"  That  he  would  not  tell  me.  However, 
he  said  he  had  been  in  Ireland  for  some 
time  before,  where  he  saw  an  aunt  of  his, 
that  was  half  mad  ;  and  then  he  went  on  tQ 


tfOO 


WILLlAlf  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


tell  me  that  he  had  been  once  at  sarvice  wid 
my  masther,  and  that  if  he  liked  he  could 
tell  him  a  secret ;  but  then,  he  said,  it 
wouldn't  be  -n^orth  his  while,  for  that  he 
would  soon  know  it." 

"  Very  clear,  perfectly  transpai'ent,  nothing 
can  be  plainer.  "WTiat  a  TipjDerary  sphinx 
you  ai'e  ;  an  enigma,  half  man,  h^  beast, 
although  there  is  little  enigma  in  that,  it  is 
plain  enough.  In  the  meantime,  you  bog- 
trotting  oracle,  say  whether  you  are  hum- 
bugging me  or  not." 

"De-s-il  a  bit  I'm  humbuggin'  you;  but 
proud  as  you  sit  there,  you  have  trotted 
more  bogs  and  horses  than  ever  I  did." 

"Well,  never  mind  that,  Morty.  What  did 
this  end  in  ?  " 

"  End  in  ! — why  upon  my  conscience  I 
don't  think  it's  i:»roper^l3-  begun  j'et." 

"  Good-by,"  exclaimed  Norton,  rising  to 
go,  or  at  least  pretending  to  do  so.  "Many 
thanks  in  the  meantime  for  your  information 
— it  is  precious,  invaluable." 

"  Well,  now,  wait  a  minute.  A  few  days 
ago  I  seen  the  same  schemer  skulkin'  about 
the  house  as  if  he  was  afeared  o'  bein'  seen  ; 
and  that  beef  and  mutton  may  be  my  poison, 
wid  health  to  use  them,  but  I  seen  him 
stealin'  out  of  his  lordship's  own  room.  So, 
now  make  money  o'  that ;  only  when  you  do, 
don't  be  puttin'  it  in  circulation." 

"  No  danger  of  that,  Morty,  in  any  sense. 
At  all  events,  I  don't  deal  in  base  coin." 

"Don't  you,  faith.  I  wondher  what  do 
you  call  imposin'  Barney  Biyan,  the  horse- 
jockey,  on  his  lordship,  for  Tom  Norton,  the 
gentleman?  However,  no  matther — that's 
your  own  affair  ;  and  so  long  as  you  let  the 
good  ould  lord  alone  among  you — keep  your 
secret — I'm  not  goin'  to  interfere  wid  you. 
None  of  your  travellers'  tricks  upon  Inxm, 
though." 

"No,  not  on  him,  Morty  ;  but  concerning 
this  forthcoming  marriage,  if  it  takes  place, 
I  dare  say  I  must  travel ;  I  can't  depend  up- 
on Dunroe's  word." 

"Why,  unlikelier  things  has  happened, 
Mr.  Norton.  I  think  you'll  be  forced  to  set 
out." 

"  Well,  I  only  say  that  if  IVIi'.  Norton  can 
prevent  it,  it  won't  happen.  I  can  wind 
this  puppy  of  a  lord,  who  has  no  more  will 
of  his  own  than  a  goose,  nor  half  so  much  ; 
I  say  I  can  wind  him  round  my  finger  ;  and 
if  I  don't  get  him  to  make  himself,  in  any 
inteiriew  he  may  have  with  her,  so  egregi- 
pusly  ridiculous,  as  to  disgust  her  thor- 
oughly, my  name's  not  Norton — hem — ha, 
ha,  ha ! " 

"Well,  your  name's  not  Norton— veiy 
good.  In  the  mane  time  more  power  to 
f ou  in  that ;  for  by  all  accounts  it's  a  sin 


and  a  shame  to  throw  away  such  a  girl  upon 
him." 

Norton  now  having  gained  all  he  could 
from  his  old  acquaintance,  got  up,  and  was 
about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Morty,  look- 
ing at  him  significantly,  asked, 

"  Where  are  you  bovmd  for  now,  if  it's  a 
fail'  question  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you,  then,  ]\Iorty — upon  an 
affair  that's  anything  but  pleasant  to  me, 
and  withal  a  little  dangerous  :  to  buy  a 
horse  for  Dunroe." 

"  Troth,  you  may  well  say  so ;  in  God's 
name  keep  away  fi-om  horses  and  jockeys, 
or  youll  be  found  out ;  but,  above  aU  things, 
don't  show  your  face  on  the  Curragh." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  I  believe,  after  all, 
there's  no  such  vast  distinction  there  be- 
tween the  jockej's  and  the  gentlemen.  Some- 
times the  jocke}'  swindles  himself  up  into  a 
gentleman,  and  sometimes  the  gentleman 
swindles  himself  down  to  a  jockey.  So  far 
there  would  be  no  great  mistake  ;  the  only 
thing  to  be  dreaded  is,  discovery,  so  far  as 
it  affects  the  history  which  I  gave  of  myself 
to  Dunroe  and  his  father.  Then  there  is 
the  sale  of  some  races  against  me  on  that 
most  elastic  sod  ;  and  I  fear  they  are  not  yet 
forgotten.  Yes,  I  shall  avoid  the  Curragh  ; 
but  you  know,  a  fit  of  illness  will  easily  man- 
age that.  However,  pass  that  by  ;  I  wish  I 
knew  what  the  old  peer  and  the  young  one 
are  discussing." 

"  What  now,"  said  Norton  to  himself, 
after  Morty  had  gone,  "  can  this  M'Bride  be 
scheming  about  in  the  family  ?  There's  a 
secret  here,  I'm  certain.  Something  troubles 
the  old  peer  of  late,  whatever  it  is.  Well, 
let  me  see  ;  I'll  thi'ow  myself  in  the  way  of 
this  same  M'Bride,  and  it  will  go  hard  with 
me  or  I'll  worm  it  out  of  him.  The  knowl- 
edge of  it  may  sei-ve  me.  It's  a  good  thing 
to  know  family  secrets,  especially  for  a 
hanger-on  hke  myseK.  One  good  effect  it 
may  produce,  and  that  is,  thi-ow  worthy 
Lord  Dunroe  more  into  my  power.  Yes,  I 
will  see  this  MBiide,  and  then  let  me  alone 
for  playing  my  card  to  some  jjurpose." 

Dunroe  found  his  father  much  as  Morty 
had  described  him — enjoying  the  fi*esh 
breeze  and  blessed  light  of  heaven,  as  both 
came  in  upon  him  through  the  open  window 
at  which  he  sat. 

The  appearance  of  the  good  old  man  was 
much  changed  for  the  worse.  His  face  was 
paler  and  more  emaciated  than  when  we 
last  described  it.  His  chin  almost  rested 
on  his  breast,  and  his  aged-looking  hands 
were  worn  away  to  skin  and  bone.  Still 
there  was  the  same  dignity  about  him  as 
ever,  only  that  the  traces  of  age  and  illness 
gave  to  it  something  that  was  still  more  ven- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


501 


erable  and  impressive.  Like  some  portrsiit, 
by  an  old  master,  time,  whilst  it  mellowed 
and  softened  the  colors,  added  that  depth  and 
truthfulness  of  character  by  which  the  value 
is  at  once  kno^\^l.  He  was  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair, with  a  pillow  for  his  head  to  rest 
upon  when  he  wished  it ;  and  on  his  son's 
entrance  he  asked  him  to  wheel  it  round 
nearer  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  let  down 
the  window. 

"I  hope  you  are  better  this  morning,  my 
lord  ?  "  inquired  Dunroe. 

"John,"  said  he  in  reply,  "  I  cannot  say 
that  I  am  better,  but  I  can  that  I  am  worse." 

"I  am  sony  to  hear  that,  my  lord," 
replied  the  other,  "the  season  is  remark- 
ably fine,  and  the  air  mild  and  cheerful." 

' '  I  would  much  rather  the  cheerfulness 
were  here,''  repUed  his  father,  putting  his 
wasted  hand  upon  his  heart;  "but  I  did 
not  ask  you  here  to  talk  about  myself  on 
this  occasion,  or  about  my  feelings.  ]Miss 
Gourlay  has  consented  to  many  you,  I 
know."' 

"  She  has,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  I  did  her  father  in- 
justice for  a  time.  I  ascribed  his  exti'aor- 
dinary  anxiety  for  this  match  less  to  any 
predilection  of  hers — for  I  thought  it  was 
otherwise — than  to  his  ambition.  I  am  glad, 
however,  that  it  is  to  be  a  man-iage,  although 
I  feel  you  are  utterly  unworthy  of  her  ;  and 
if  I  did  not  hope  that  her  influence  may  in 
time,  and  in  a  short  time,  too,  succeed  in 
bringing  about  a  wholesome  reformation  in 
your  Ufe  and  morals,  I  would  oppose  it  still 
as  far  as  lay  in  my  power.  It  is  upon  this 
subject  I  wish  to  speak  with  you." 

Lord  Dunroe  bowed  with  an  appearance 
of  all  due  respect,  but  at  the  same  time 
wished  in  his  heart  that  Norton  could  be 
present  to  hear  the  lecture  which  he  had  so 
correctly  prognosticated,  jmd  to  witness  the 
ability  -w-ith  which  he  should  bamboozle  the 
old  peer. 

"I  assure  you,  my  lord,"  he  repHed,  "I 
am  very  willing  and  anxious  to  hear  and  be 
guided  by  ever^-thing  you  shall  say.  I  know 
I  have  been  wild — indeed,  I  am  very  sorry 
for  it ;  and  if  it  will  satisfy  you,  my  lord, 
I  ^N-ill  add,  without  hesitation,  that  it  is  time 
I  should  turn  over  a  new  leaf — hem  !  " 

"  You  have,  John,  been  not  merely  wild — 
for  wildness  I  could  overlook  without  much 
severity — but  you  have  been  profligate  in 
morals,  profligate  in  expenditure,  and  profli- 
gate in  your  dealings  with  those  who  trusted 
in  your  integrity.  You  have  been  intem- 
perate ;  you  have  been  hcentious  ;  you  have 
been  dishonest ;  and  as  you  have  not  yet 
abandoned  any  one  of  these  frightful  vices, 
I  look  upon  your  union  mth  Miss  Gourlay 


as  an  as.sociation  between  pollution  and 
purity." 

"  You  are  very  severe,  my  lord." 

"  I  meant  to  be  so  ;  but  am  I  unjust  ?  Ah, 
John,  let  your  own  conscience  answer  that 
question." 

"  Well,  my  lord,  I  trust  you  will  be  grati- 
fied to  hear  that  I  am  perfectly  sensible  of 
the  life  I  have  led — ahem  ?  " 

"And  what  is  that  but  julmitting  tliat 
you  know  the  full  extent  of  your  rices  ? — 
unless,  indeed,  you  have  made  a  Hitq  reso- 
lution to  give  them  up." 

"  I  have  made  such  a  resolution,  my  lord, 
and  it  is  my  intention  to  keep  it.  I  know 
I  can  do  little  of  myself,  Imt  I  trust  that 
where  there  is  a  sincere  disposition,  all 
will  go  on  swimmingly,  as  the  Bible  says-- 
ahem  !  " 

"  Where  does  the  Bible  say  that  all  loill  go 
on  swimmingly  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember  the  exact  chapter  and 
verse,  my  lord,"  he  replied,  aft'ecting  a  very 
grave  aspect,  "  but  I  know  it  is  somewhere 
in  the  Book  of  Solomon — ahem  ! — ahem  ! 
Either  in  Solomon  or  Exodus  the  Projihet, 
I  am  not  certain  which.  Oh,  no,  by  the  by, 
I  believe  it  is  in  the  diidogue  that  occurs  be- 
tween Jonah  and  the  whale." 

His  father  looked  at  him  as  if  to  ascei*tain 
whether  his  worthy  son  were  abandoned 
enough  to  tamj^er,  in  the  first  place,  \rith  a 
subject  so  solemn,  and,  in  the  next,  Arith  the 
anxiety  of  his  own  parent,  while  laboring, 
under  age  and  infirmity,  to  wean  him  from 
a  course  of  dissipation  and  vice.  Little  in- 
deed did  he  suspect  that  his  rirtuous  off- 
spring was  absolutely  enacting  his  part,  for 
the  purpose  of  having  a  good  jest  to  regale 
Norton  with  in  the  course  of  their  evening's 
potations. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  we  are  over- 
stepping the  modesty  of  nature  in  this  scene. 
There  is  scarcely  any  one  acquainted  with  life 
who  does  not  know  tliat  there  are  hundreds, 
thousands,  of  hardened  pi-ofiigates,  who 
would  take  delight,  under  similai-  circum- 
stances, to  quiz  the  governor — as  a  parent  is 
denominated  by  this  class — even  at  the  risk 
of  incuniug  his  lasting  displeasure,  or  of  al- 
together forfeiting  his  aft'ection,  rjither  than 
lose  the  opportunity  of  haring  a  good  joke 
to  tell  their  licentious  companions,  when 
they  meet.  The  i')resent  age  has  as  much  of 
this,  perhaps,  as  juiy  of  its  predecessors,  if 
not  more.     But  to  return. 

"  I  know  not,"  observed  L<n-d  Cullamore, 
"  whether  this  is  an  ironical  aftectation  of  ig* 
norance,  or  ignorance  itself ;  but  on  which- 
ever hora  of  the  dilemma  I  hang  you,  Dunroe, 
you  are  equ.-xlly  contemptible  and  guuty.  A 
heai't  must  be  deeply  corrupted,  indeed,  that 


o02 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WOBKS. 


can  tempt  its  owner  to  profane  sacred  things, 
and  cast  an  aged  and  afflicted  parent  into 
ridicule.  You  ai'e  not  aware,  unfortunate 
young  man,  of  the  precipice  on  which  you 
stand,  or  the  dismay  with  which  I  could  fill 
your  liardened  heai-t,  by  two  or  three  words 
speaking.  And  only  that  I  was  not  a  con- 
scious party  in  circumstances  which  may 
operate  terribly  against  us  both,  I  would 
mention  them  to  you,  and  make  you  shud- 
der at  the  fate  that  is  probably  before 
you." 

"  I  really  think,"  replied  his  son,  now  con- 
siderably alarmed  by  what  he  had  heard, 
"  that  you  are  dealing  too  severely  with  me. 
I  am  not,  so  far  as  I  know,  profaning  any- 
thing sacred  ;  much  less  would  I  attempt  to 
ridicule  yoiu*  lordship.  But  the  truth  is,  I 
know  little  or  nothing  of  the  Bible,  and  con- 
sequently any  mistaken  references  to  it  that 
I  may  sincerely  make,  ought  not  to  be  un- 
charitably misinterpreted — ahem  !  '  We  are 
going  on  swimmingly  as  Jonah  said  to  the 
whale,'  or  the  whale  to  Jonah,  I  cannot  say 
which,  is  an  expression  which  I  have  fi'e- 
quently  heard,  and  I  took  it  for  granted  that 
it  was  a  scriptural  quotation.  Your  lordship 
is  not  aware,  besides,  that  I  am  afflicted  with 
a  very  bad  memory." 

"  Perfectly  aware  of  it,  Dunroe  :  since  I 
have  been  forced  to  observe  that  you  forget 
every  duty  of  life.  What  is  there  honorable 
to  yourself  or  your  position  in  the  world, 
that  you  ever  have  remembered  ?  And  sup- 
posing now,  on  the  one  hand,  that  you  may 
for  the  present  only  affect  a  temporary  re- 
foiination,  and  put  in  practice  that  worst  of 
vices,  a  moral  expediency,  and  taking  it  for 
gi'anted,  on  the  other,  that  your  resolution 
to  amend  is  sincere,  by  what  act  am  I  to  test 
that  sincerity  ?  " 

"  I  will  begin  and  read  the  Bible,  my  lord, 
and  engage  a  parson  to  instruct  me  in  virtue. 
Isn't  that  generally  the  first  step?  " 

"I  do  not  forbid  you  the  Bible,  nor  the 
instructions  of  a  pious  clergyman  ;  but  I  beg 
to  propose  a  test  that  will  much  more  satis- 
factorily establish  that  sincerity.  First,  give 
up  your  dissipated  and  immoral  habits  ;  con- 
tract your  expenditure  within  reasonable 
limits  ;  pay  your  just  debts,  by  which  I 
mean  your  debts  of  honesty,  not  of  honor — 
unless  they  have  been  lost  to  a  man  of  honor, 
and  not  to  notorious  swindlers  ;  forbear  to 
associate  any  longer  with  sharpers  and  black- 
legs, whether  aristocratic  or  plebeian  ;  and 
as  a  first  proof  of  the  sincerity  you  claim, 
^  dismiss  forever  fi'om  your  society  that  fellow, 
^orton,  who  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  your  bosom 
friend  and  boon  companion." 

"  With  every  condition  you  have  proposed, 
my  lord,  I  am  willing  and  ready  to  comply, 


the  last  only  excepted.  I  am  sorry  tc  find 
that  you  have  conceived  so  strong  and  un* 
founded  a  prejudice  against  Mr.  Norton. 
You  do  not  know  his  value  to  me,  my  lord. 
He  has  been  a  Mentor  to  me — saved  me 
thousands  bj^  his  ability  and  devotion  to  m^ 
interests.  The  fact  is,  he  is  my  friend. 
Now  I  am  not  prepared  to  give  up  and 
abandon  my  friend  without  a  just  cause ; 
and  I  regret  that  any  persuasion  to  such  an 
act  should  proceed  from  you,  my  lord.  In 
all  your  other  propositions  I  shall  obey  you 
implicitly  ;  but  in  this  your  lordship  must 
excuse  me.  I  cannot  do  it  with  honor,  and 
therefore  cannot  do  it  at  all." 

"  All,  I  see,  Dunroe,  and  I  bitterly  regret 
to  see  it — this  fellow,  this  Norton,  has  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  over  you  that  iniquitous 
ascendancy  which  the  talented  knave  gains 
over  the  weak  and  unsuspicious  fool.  Par- 
don me,  for  I  speak  plainly.  He  has  studied 
your  disposition  and  habits  ;  he  has  catered 
for  your  enjoyments  ;  he  has  availed  himself 
of  your  weaknesses  ;  he  has  flattered  your 
vanity  ;  he  has  mixed  himself  up  in  the  man- 
agement of  jouv  afi'airs ;  and,  in  fine,  made 
himself  necessaiy  to  youi»  existence  ;  yet  you 
will  not  give  him  up  ?  " 

"  My  lord,  I  reply  to  you  in  one  word — he 

IS  irY  FEIEND." 

A  shade  of  bitterness  passed  over  the  old 
man's  face  as  he  turned  a  melancholy  look 
upon  Dunroe. 

"  May  you  never  livef  Dunroe,"  he  said,  "  to 
see  your  only  son  refuse  to  comply  with  your 
dying  request,  or  to  listen  with  an  obedient 
spirit  to  3'our  parting  admonition.  It  is  true, 
I  am  not,  I  trust,  immediately  dying,  and 
yet  why  should  I  regret  it  ?  But,  at  the 
same  time,  I  feel  that  my  steps  are  upon  the 
very  threshold  of  death — a  consideration 
which  ought  to  insui-e  obedience  to  my  wish- 
es in  any  heart  not  made  callous  by  the  worst 
experiences  of  life." 

"  I  would  comply  with  your  wishes,  my 
lord,"  replied  Dunroe,  "with  the  sinceresfc 
pleasure,  and  deny  myself  anything  to  oblige 
you  ;  but  in  what  you  ask  there  is  a  princi- 
ple involved,  which  I  cannot,  as  a  man  of 
honor,  violate.  And,  besides,  I  really  could 
not  afibrd  to  part  with  him  now.  My  affairs 
are  in  such  a  state,  and  he  is  so  well  ac- 
quainted with  them,  that  to  do  so  would  ruin 
me." 

His  father,  who  seemed  wrapt  in  some 
painful  reflection,  paid  no  attention  to  this 
reply,  which,  in  point  of  fact,  contained,  so 
far  as  Norton  was  concerned,  a  confirmation 
of  the  old  man's  worst  suspicions.  His  chin 
had  sunk  on  his  breast,  and  looking  into  the 
palms  of  his  hands  as  he  held  them  clasjjed 
together,  he  could  not  prevent  the  tears  fi'oru 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


503 


rolling  slowly  do\vn  his  furrowed  cheeks.  At 
length  he  exclaimed  : 

"  My  child,  Emily,  my  child  !  how  will  I 
look  upon  thee  !  My  innocent,  my  affection- 
ate angel ;  what,  what,  oh  what  xoill  become 
of  thee  ?  But  it  cannot  be.  iMy  guilt  was 
not  premeditated.  What  I  did  I  did  in  ig- 
norance ;  and  why  should  we  suffer  through 
the  arts  of  others  ?  I  shall  oppose  them  step 
by  stej)  should  tliey  proceed.  I  shall  leave 
no  earthly  resource  untried  to  frustrate  their 
designs  ;  and  if  they  are  successful,  the  cruel 
sentence  may  be  pronounced,  but  it  will  be 
over  m}'  grave.  I  could  never  live  to  witness 
the  sulfenngs  of  my  dax^liug  and  innocent 
child.  My  lamp  of  life  is  already  all  but 
exhausted — this  would  extinguish  it  for- 
ever." 

He  then  raised  his  head,  and  after  wiping 
away  the  tears,  sj^oke  to  his  son  as  follows  : 

"  Dunroe,  be  advised  by  me  ;  reform  3'our 
Hfe  ;  set  your  house  in  order,  for  you  know 
not,  you  see  not,  the  cloud  which  is  likely  to 
burst  over  our  heads." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  my  lord." 

"I  know  you  do  not,  nor  is  it  my  inten- 
tion that  you  should  for  the  present ;  but  if 
you  are  wise,  you  will  be  guided  by  my  in- 
structions and  follow  my  advice." 

When  Dunroe  left  him,  which  he  did  after 
some  formal  words,  of  encouragement  and 
comfort,  to  which  the  old  man  paid  little  at- 
tention, turning  toward  the  door,  which  his 
son  on  going  out  had  shut,  he  looked  as  if 
his  eye  followed  him  beyond  the  limits  of  the 
room,  and  exclaimed : 

"  iUas  !  why  was  I  not  born  above  the  or- 
dinary range  of  the  domestic  affections  ?  Yet 
so  long  as  I  have  my  darling  child — who  is 
jdl  aftectiou — why  should  I  complain  on  this 
account?  Alas,  my  Maria,  it  is  now  that 
thou  art  avenged  for  the  neglect  you  experi- 
enced at  my  hands,  and  for  the  ambition 
that  occasioned  it.  Cursed  ambition  !  Did 
the  coronet  I  gained  by  my  neglect  of  you, 
beloved  object  of  my  first  and  only  affection, 
console  my  heart  under  the  cries  of  con- 
science, or  stifle  the  grief  which  returned  for 
you,  when  that  ambition  was  gratified  ?  Ah, 
that  false  and  precipitate  step  !  How  mxach 
misery  has  it  not  occasioned  me  since  I 
awoke  from  my  dream  !  Your  gentle  spmt 
seemed  to  haunt  me  through  life,  but  ever 
with  that  melancholy  smile  of  tender  and 
affectionate  reproach  with  which  your  eye 
always  encountered  mine  while  living.  And 
thou,  wicked  woman,  what  has  thy  act  ac- 
comphshed,  if  it  should  be  successful  ?  What 
has  thy  fraudulent  contrivance  effected? 
Sorrow  to  one  who  was  ever  thy  fi'iend— 
grief,  shame,  and  degradation  to  the  inno- 
cent ! " 


Whilst  the  old  man  indulged  in  these 
painful  and  melancholy  reflections,  his  son, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  not  without  his  own 
sj)eculations.  On  retiring  to  his  dressing- 
room,  he  began  to  ponder  over  the  admoni- 
toiy  if  not  prophetic  words  of  his  father. 

"What  the  deuce  can  the  matter  be?"  he 
exclaimed,  surveying  himself  in  the  glass  ; 
"  a  good  style  of  face  that,  in  the  meantime. 
Gad,  I  knew  she  would  surrender  in  form, 
and  I  was  right.  Something  is  wrong  with 
— that  gold  button — yes,  it  looks  better 
plain — the  old  gentleman — something's  in 
the  wind — in  the  meantime  I'll  raise  this 
window — or  why  should  he  talk  so  lugubri- 
ously as  he  does  ?  Upon  my  soul  it  was  the 
most  painful  inten'iew  I  ever  had.  There  is 
nothing  on  eai-th  so  stupid  as  the  twaddle  of 
a  sick  old  lord,  especially  when  repenting  for 
his  sins.  Repentance  !  I  can't  at  all  under- 
stand that  word  ;  but  I  think  the  style  of  the 
thing  in  the  old  fellow's  hands  was  decidedly 
bad — inai'tistic,  as  they  say,  and  without 
taste  ;  a  man,  at  all  events,  should  repent 
like  a  gentleman.  As  far  as  I  can  guess  at 
it,  I  think  there  ought  to  be  considerable 
elegance  of  manner  in  repentance — a  kind  of 
genteel  ambiguity,  that  should  seem  to  puz- 
zle the  world  as  to  whether  you  weep  for  or 
against  the  sin  ;  or  jDerhaps  repentance  should 
sa}'' — as  I  suppose  it  often  does — '  D — n  me, 
this  is  no  humbug  ;  this,  look  you,  is  a  gi*and 
process — I  know  what  I'm  about ;  let  the 
world  look  on  ;  I  have  committed  a  great 
man}'  naughty  things  during  my  past  life  ;  I 
am  now  able  to  commit  no  more  ;  the  power 
of  doing  so  has  abandoned  me  ;  and  I  call 
gods  and  men  to  witness  that  I  am  very  soriy 
for  it.' — Now,  that,  in  my  opinion,  would  be 
a  good  style  of  thing.  Let  me  see,  however, 
what  the  venerable  earl  can  mean.  I  am 
threatened,  am  I?  Well,  but  nothing  can 
affect  the  title  ;  of  that  I'm  sure  when  the 
cue,  'exit  old  peer,'  comes;  then,  as  to  the 
propert}' ;  why,  he  is  one  of  the  wealthiest 
men  in  the  Irish  peerage,  although  he  is  an 
English  one  also.  Then,  Avhat  the  deuce  can 
his  threats  mean  ?  I  don't  know — i^erhaps  he 
does  not  know  himself  ;  but,  in  any  event, 
and  to  guard  against  all  accidents.  Ill  push 
on  this  marriage  as  fast  as  possible  ;  for,  in 
case  anything  unexpected  and  disagreeable 
should  happen,  it  will  be  a  good  move  to  have 
something  handsome — something  certain,  to 
fall  back  upon." 

Having  tlressed,  he  ordered  his  horse,  and 
rode  out  to  the  Pha?nix  Park,  accompanied 
by  his  shadow,  Norton,  who  had  returned, 
and  heard  with  much  mirth  a  full  histoiy  of 
the  inteiTiew,  with  a  glowing  description  of 
the  stiuid  which  Dunroe  made  for  liinv 
self. 


504 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


CHAPTEK  XXX. 

A  Courtship  on  Novel  Pnnciples. 

Having  stated  that  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay 
requested  Dunroe  to  postpone  an  interview 
with  Lucv  until  her  health  should  become 
reestablished,  we  feel  it  necessary  to  take  a 
glance  at  the  kind  of  life  the  unfortunate 
girl  led  from  the  day  she  made  the  sacrifice 
until  that  at  which  we  have  arrived  in  this 
narrative.  Since  that  moment  of  unutter- 
able anguish  her  spirits  completely  aban- 
doned her.  Naturally  healthy  she  had  ever 
been,  but  now  she  began  to  feel  what  the 
want  of  it  meant ;  a  feeling  which  to  her,  as 
the  gradual  precursor  of  death,  and  its  con- 
sequent release  from  sorrow,  brought  some- 
thing like  hope  and  consolation.  Yet  this 
was  not  much  ;  for  we  know  that  to  the 
young  heai't  enteriiig  upon  the  world  of  life 
and  enjoyment,  the  jorospect  of  early  disso- 
lution, no  matter  by  what  hojjes  or  by  what 
resignation  supported,  is  one  so  completely 
at  variance  with  the  mysterious  gift  of  exis- 
tence and  the  natural  tenacity  with  which 
we  cling  to  it,  that,  like  the  dnigs  which  we 
so  reluctantly  take  during  illness,  its  taste 
upon  the  spirit  is  little  else  than  bitterness 
itself.  Lucy's  appetite  failed  her  ;  she  could 
not  endure  society,  but  courted  solitude, 
and  scarcely  saw  any  one,  unless,  indeed, 
her  father  occasionally,  and  her  maid  Alley 
Mahon,  when  her  attendance  was  necessaiy. 
She  became  pale  as  a  shadow,  began  to  have 
a  wasted  appearance,  and  the  very  fountains 
of  her  heart  seemed  to  have  dried  up,  for 
she  found  it  impossible  to  shed  a  tear.  A 
^try,  cold,  impassive  agony,  silent,  insidious, 
and  exhausting,  appeared  to  absorb  the  very 
elements  of  hfe,  and  reduce  her  to  a  condi- 
tion of  such  physical  and  morbid  incapacity 
as  to  feel  an  utter  inability,  or  at  all  events 
disinclination,  to  complain. 

Her  father's  interviews  with  her  were  not 
frequent.  That  worthy  man,  however,  looked 
upon  all  her  sufteriugs  as  the  mere  pinings 
of  a  self-willed  girl,  lovesick  and  sentimental, 
such  as  he  had  sometimes  heard  of,  or  read 
in  books,  and  only  worthy  to  be  laughed  at 
and  treated  with  contempt.  He  himself  was 
now  progressing  in  an  opjiosite  direction,  so 
far  as  health  was  concerned,  to  that  of  his 
daughter.  In  other  words,  as  she  got  ill,  he 
gradually,  and  with  a  progress  beautifully 
adapted  to  the  accomplishment  of  his  pro- 
jects, kept  on  recovering.  This  fact  was 
L/ucy's  principal,  almost  her  sole  consola- 
tion ;  for  here,  although  she  had  saci-ificed 
herself,  she  experienced  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  that  the  sacrifice  was  not  in  vain. 

But,  after   all,   and   notwitlistanding   his 


base  and  ungodly  views  of  life,  let  us  ask, 
had  the  baronet  no  painful  visitations  of  re- 
morse in  contemplating  the  fading  form  and 
the  silent  but  hopeless  agony  of  his  daugh- 
ter ?  Did  conscience,  which  in  his  bosom  ot 
stone  indulged  in  an  almost  unbroken  slum- 
ber, never  awaken  to  scourge  his  hardened 
spiiit  with  her  whip  of  snakes,  and  raise  the 
gloomy  curtain  that  concealed  from  him  the 
dark  and  tumultuous  fires  that  await  pre- 
meditated guilt  and  impenitence?  We  an- 
swer, he  was  man.  Sometimes,  especially  in 
the  solemn  hours  of  night,  he  experienced 
brief  periods,  not  of  remorse,  much  less  of 
repentance,  but  of  dark,  diabolical  guilt — 
conscious  guilt,  unmitigated  by  either  peni- 
tence or  remorse,  as  might  have  taught  his 
daughter,  could  she  have  known  them,  how 
httle  she  herself  suffered  in  comparison  with 
him.  These  dreadful  moments  remind  one 
of  the  heavings  of  some  mighty  volcano, 
when  occasioned  by  the  internal  strugghngs 
of  the  fire  that  is  raging  within  it,  the  power 
and  fury  of  which  may  be  estimated  by  the 
terrible  ghmpses  which  rise  up,  blazing  and 
smouldering  from  its  stormy  crater. 

"What  am  I  about?"  he  would  say 
"  "WTiat  a  black  prospect  does  Hfe  present  to 
me  !  I  fear  I  am  a  bad  man.  Could  it  be 
possible  now,  that  there  are  thousands  of 
persons  in  life  who  have  committed  great 
crimes  in  the  face  of  society,  who,  neverthe- 
less, ai'e  not  responsible  for  liaK  my  g-uilt  ? 
Is  it  possible  that  a  man  may  pass  through 
the  world,  looking  on  it  with  a  plausible 
aspect,  and  3'et  become,  fi'om  the  natural 
iniquity  of  his  disposition  and  the  habitual 
influence  of  present  and  perpetual  evil  within 
him,  a  man  of  darker  and  more  extended 
guilt  than  the  murderer  or  robber  ?  Is  it, 
then,  the  isolated  crime,  the  crime  that 
spiings  fi'om  impvdse,  or  jjassion,  or  provo- 
cation, or  revenge  ? — or  is  it  the  black  un- 
broken iniquity  of  the  spirit,  that  consti- 
tutes the  greater  offence,  or  the  greater 
offender  against  society  ?  Am  I,  then,  one  of 
those  reprobates  of  life  in  whom  there  is 
everything  adverse  to  good  and  friendly  to 
evil,  yet  who  pass  thx'ough  existence  with  a 
high  head,  and  look  upon  the  public  criminal 
and  felon  with  abhorrence  or  affected  compas- 
sion? But  why  investigate  myself?  Here  I 
am  ;  and  that  fact  is  the  utmost  limit  to  which 
my  inquiries  and  investigations  can  go.  I 
am  what  I  am  :  besides,  I  did  not  form  noi- 
create  myself.  I  am  different  from  my 
daughter,  she  is  different  from  me.  I  am 
different  from  most  people.  Li  what  ?  May 
I  not  have  a  destined  purpose  in  creation  to 
fulfil ;  and  is  it  not  probal^le  that  my  natu- 
ral disposition  has  been  bestowed  upon  mo 
for  the  purpose  of  fulfilling  it?    "Xci  if  all 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


505 


were  right,  how  account  for  these  dreadful 
and  agonizing  ghmpses  of  my  inner  life 
which  occasionally  visit  me  ?  But  I  dare  say 
every  man  feels  them.  "NMiat  are  they,  after 
all,  but  the  superstitious  operations  of  con- 
science— of  that  grim  spectre  which  is  con- 
jured up  by  the  ridiculous  fables  of  the 
priest  and  nurse  ?  Conscience !  Why,  its 
fearful  tribunal  is  no  test  of  truth.  The 
wretched  anchorite  will  often  experience  as 
much  remorse  if  he  neglect  to  scourge  his 
miserable  carcass,  as  the  murderer  who 
sheds  the  blood  of  man — or  more.  Away 
with  it !  I  am  but  a  fool  for  allowing  it  to 
disturb  me  at  all,  or  mar  my  projects." 

In  this  manner  would  he  attempt  to  reason 
himself  out  of  these  dreadful  visitations,  by 
the  shallow  soj^histry  of  the  sceptic  and 
infidel. 

The  time,  however,  he  thought,  was  now 
approaching  when  it  was  necessary  that 
•something  should  be  done  Avith  respect  to 
Lucy's  ai^proacliing  marriage.  He  accord- 
ingly sent  for  her,  and  having  made  very 
affectionate  inquiries  after  her  health,  for  he 
had  not  for  a  moment  changed  the  affected 
tenderness  of  his  manner,  he  asked  if  she 
beheved  herself  cajiable  of  granting  an  in- 
tenaew  to  Lord  Dunroe.  Lucy,  now  that 
escape  fi'om  the  fi'ightful  penalty  of  her  obe- 
dience was  impossible,  deemed  it,  after 
much  painful  reflection,  better  to  submit 
with  as  little  apparent  reluctance  as  jDossi- 
ble. 

"  I  fear,  papa,"  she  said,  in  tones  that 
would  have  touched  and  softened  any  heart 
but  that  to  which  she  addressed  herself,  "  I 
fear  that  it  is  useless  to  wait  until  I  am  bet- 
ter. I  feel  my  strength  declining  everv'  day, 
without  any  hope  of  improvement.  I  may 
therefore  as  well  see  him  now  as  at  a  future 
time." 

"  My  dear  Lucy,  I  know  that  you  enter 
into  this  engagement  with  reluctance.  I 
know  that  you  do  it  for  my  sake  ;  and  you 
may  rest  assured  that  your  filial  piety  and 
obedience  will  be  attended  vAWi  a  blessing. 
After  marriage  you  will  find  that  change  of 
scene,  Dunroe's  tenderness,  and  the  influ- 
ence of  enlivening  society,  wQl  completely 
restore  your  health  and  spirits.  Dunroe's  a 
rattling,  pleasant  fellow  ;  and  notwithstand- 
ing his  escapades,  has  an  excellent  heart. 
Tut,  my  deal'  child,  after  a  few  months  you 
will  yourself  smile  at  these  girlish  scruples, 
and  thank  papa  for  forcing  you  into  happi- 
ness." 

Lucy's  large  eyes  had  been  fixed  upon  him 
while  he  spoke,  and  as  he  concluded,  two 
big  tears,  the  first  she  had  shed  for  weeks, 
stood  within  their  hds.  They  seemed,  how- 
ever,  but  visionary;  for  although  they  did 


fall  they  soon  disappeared,  having  been  ab- 
sorbed, as  it  were,  into  the  source  from 
which  they  came,  by  the  feverish  heat  of  hei 
brain. 

"It  is  enough,  papa,"  she  said;  "I  am 
willing  to  see  him — willing  to  see  him 
whenever  you  wish.  I  am  in  your  hands, 
and  neither  you  nor  he  need  apprehend  any 
further  opposition  from  me." 

"  You  ai*e  a  good  girl,  Lucy  ;  and  you  may 
beheve  me  again  that  this  admirable  con- 
duct of  yours  ^411  have  its  reward  in  a  long 
life  of  future  happiness." 

"  Future  happiness,  papa,"  she  rephed, 
with  a  pecuHar  emphasis  on  the  word  ;  "  I 
hope  so.     May  I  withdraw,  sir  ?  " 

"  You  may,  my  deai-  child.  God  bless  and 
rewai'd  you,  Lucy.  It  is  to  your  duty  I  owe 
it  that  I  am  a  Hring  man — that  yon  have  a 
father." 

"N^Tien  she  had  gone,  he  sat  down  to  his 
desk,  and  M'ithout  losing  a  moment  sent  a 
note  to  Dunroe,  of  which  the  following  is  a 
copy : 

"  My  deak  Lord  Duxroe, — I  am  happy  to 
tell  you  that  Lucy  is  getting  on  famously. 
Of  course  you  know,  I  suppo.se,  that  these 
vaporish  affections  are,  with  most  young 
girls,  nothing  but  the  performance  of  the 
part  which  they  choose  to  act  before  marri- 
age ;  the  mere  mists  of  the  moniing.  poor 
wenches,  which  only  prognosticate  for  them- 
selves and  their  husbands  an  unclouded  day. 
All  this  make-believe  is  very  natunxl ;  and  it 
is  a  good  joke,  besides,  to  see  them  pout 
and  look  grave,  and  M'hine  and  cr}',  and 
sometimes  do  the  hysteric,  wliilst  they  are 
all  the  time  d^-ing  in  secret,  the  In'pocritical 
baggages,  to  get  themselves  tnm.sformed  in- 
to matrons.  Don't,  therefore,  be  a  whit 
surprised  or  idai-med  if  you  find  Miss  Lucy 
in  the  pout — she  is  only  a  girl,  after  all,  and 
has  her  httle  part  to  play,  as  well  as  the  best 
of  them.  Still,  such  a  change  is  often  in  real- 
ity a  serious  one  to  a  young  woman  ;  and 
you  need  not  be  told  that  no  animal  vriM  al- 
low itself  to  be  caught  without  an  effort. 
When  you  see  her,  therefore,  jjluck  up  your 
spirits,  rattle  away,  laugh  and  jest,  so  as,  if 
possible,  to  get  her  into  good  humor,  and 
there  is  no  dtuiger  of  you.  Or  stay — I  am 
wrong.  Had  you  followed  this  advice,  it 
would  have  j^layed  the  deuce  vdih.  you. 
Don't  be  meriy.  On  tlie  conti-ary,  pull  a 
long  face — be  grave  and  serious  ;  and  if  you 
can  imitate  the  manner  of  one  of  those  fel- 
lows who  pass  for  young  men  of  decided  pi- 
ety, you  were  nothing  but  a  made  man. 
Have  you  a  Bible  ?  If  you  have,  commit 
half-a-dozen  texts  to  memory,  and  inter- 
sperse them  judiciously  through  your  con- 


506 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


versation.  Talk  of  the  vanity  of  life,  the 
comforts  of  religion,  and  the  beauty  of  holi- 
ness. But  don't  overdo  the  thing  either. 
Just  assume  the  part  of  a  young  person  on 
whose  mind  the  truth  is  beginning  to  open, 
because  Lucy  knows  now  very  well  that 
these  rapid  transitions  are  suspicious.  At 
all  events,  you  will  do  the  best  j'ou  can  ;  and 
if  you  ai'e  here  to-morrow — say  about  three 
o'clock — she  will  see  you. 
"  Ever,  my  dear  Dunroe, 

"  Faithfully,  youi'  father-in-law  that  is 
to  be, 

Thomas  Gouelay." 

This  precious  epistle  Dunroe  found  upon 
his  table  after  returning  from  his  ride  in  the 
PhcBnix  Park  ;  and  haA-ing  peiiised  it,  he  im- 
mediately rang  for  Norton,  from  whom  he 
thought  it  was  much  too  good  a  thing  to  be 
concealed. 

"  Norton,"  said  he,  "I  am  beginning  to 
think  that  this  black  fellow,  the  baronet,  is 
not  such  a  disgraceful  old  scoundrel  as  I  had 
thought  him.  There's  not  a  bad  thing  in  its 
way — read  it." 

Norton,  after  throwing  his  eye  over  it, 
laughed  heartily. 

"  Egad,"  said  he,  "  that  fellow  has  a  pret- 
ty knowledge  of  hfe  ;  but  it  is  well  he  re- 
covered himself  in  the  instructions,  for,  from 
all  that  I  have  heard  of  Miss  Gouiiay,  his 
first  code  would  have  ruined  you,  sure 
enough." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  will  break  down,  however, 
in  the  hj'pocrisy.  I  failed  cursedly  with  the 
old  peer,  and  am  not  Hkely  to  be  more  suc- 
cessful with  her." 

"  Indeed,  I  question  whether  hypocrisy 
would  sit  well  upon  one  who  has  been  so 
undisguised  an  offender.  The  very  assump- 
tion of  it  requires  some  training.  I  think  a 
work  to  be  called  '  Preparations  for  Hypoc- 
risy '  would  be  a  great  book  to  the  general 
mass  of  mankind.  You  cannot  bound  at 
one  step  from  the  licentious  to  the  hypocrit- 
ical, unless,  indeed,  upon  the  convenient 
principle  of  instantaneous  conversion.  The 
thmg  must  be  done  decently,  and  by  judici- 
ous gradations,  nor  is  the  transition  attend- 
ed with  much  difficulty,  in  consequence  of 
the  natural  tendency  which  hyjDocrisy  and 
profligacy  always  have  to  meet.  Still,  I  think 
you  ought  to  attempt  the  thing.  Get  by  heart, 
as  her  father  advises,  half-a-dozen  serious 
texts  of  Scripture,  and  drop  one  in  now.  and 
then,  such  as,  'All  flesh  is  gi-ass.'  'Suffi- 
cient unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.'  'He 
that  marrieth  not  doth  well,  but  he  that 
marrieth  doth  better.'  To  be  sure,  there  is 
a  slight  inversion  of  text  here,  but  then  it  is 
made  more  appropriate." 


"  None  of  these  texts,  however,"  replied 
his  lordship,  "  except  the  last,  are  appHcable 
to  marriage." 

"  So  much  the  better  ;  that  will  show  hei 
that  you  can  think  of  other  and  more  serioua 
things." 

"But  there  are  very  few  things  more 
serious,  my  boy." 

"  At  all  events,"  proceeded  the  other,  "  it 
will  be  original,  and  originality,  you  know, 
is  youi*ybrfe.  I  believe  it  is  supposed  that  she 
has  no  great  relish  for  this  match,  and  is  not 
overbui'dened  with  aflection  for  you  ?  " 

"  She  must  have  changed,  though,"  rephed 
his  lordship,  "  or  she  wouldn't  have  consent- 
ed." 

"  That  may  be  ;  but  if  she  should  candidly 
tell  you  that  she  does  not  like  you — why,  in 
that  case,  your  originality  must  bear  you  out. 
Start  some  new  and  original  theory  on  mar- 
riage ;  say,  for  instance,  that  your  jDrinciple" 
is  not  to  marry  a  girl  who  does  love  you,  but 
rather  one  who  feels  the  other  way.  Dwell 
fearfully  on  the  danger  of  love  before  mar- 
riage ;  and  thus  strike  out  strongly  upon  the 
advantages  of  indifference — honest  indiffer- 
ence. By  this  means  j'ou  will  meet  all  her 
objections,  and  be  able  to  cajosize  her  on 
every  point." 

"Norton,"  said  his  lordship,  "I  think  you 
are  right.  My  originality  will  carry  the  day  ; 
but  in  the  meantime  yoii  must  give  me  further 
instructions  on  the  subject,  so  that  I  may  be 
prepared  at  all  points." 

"  By  the  by,  Dunroe,  you  will  be  a  happy 
feUow.  I  am  told  she  is  a  magnificent  crea- 
ture ;  beautifid,  sensible,  brilliant,  and  mis- 
tress of  many  languages." 

"  Not  to  be  compared  with  the  blonde, 
though." 

"I  cannot  say,"  replied  Norton,  "having 
not  yet  seen  her.  You  will  get  very  fond  oi 
her,  of  course." 

"  Fond — 'gad,  I  hope  it  will  never  come  to 
that  with  me.  The  moment  a  man  suffers 
himself  to  become  fond  of  liis  xcife,  he  had 
better  order  his  Bible  and  Prayer-book  at 
once — it  is  all  up  with  him." 

"  I  grant  yovi  it's  an  unfortunate  condition 
to  get  into  ;  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  once 
you  are  in,  it  is  next  to  an  impossibility  to  get 
out.  Of  course,  you  will  take  care  to  avoid 
it,  for  your  own  sake,  and,  if  you  have  no  ob- 
jection, for  mine.  Perhaps  lier  ladyship 
may  take  a  fancy  to  supj^ort  the  venerable 
peer  against  me  in  recommending  the  pro- 
cess of  John  Thrustout.  If  so,  Dunroe,  what- 
ever happiness  your  marriage  may  bring 
yourself,  it  will  bring  nothing  but  bitterness 
and  calamity  to  me.  I  am  now  so  much  ac- 
customed— so  much — so  much — hang  it,  why 
conceal  it  ? — so  much  attached  and  devoted 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


507 


to  you — that  a  separation  would  be  the  same 
as  death  to  me." 

"  Never  fear,  Norton,"  repHed  Dunroe,  "  I 
have  not  yielded  to  my  father  on  this  point, 
neither  shall  I  to  my  wife.  Happen  what 
may^  my  fi'ieud  must  never  be  given  up  for 
the  whim  of  anj^  one.  But,  indeed,  you  need 
entei-tain  no  apprehensions.  I  am  not  mar- 
rying the  girl  for  love,  so  that  she  is  not 
likely  to  gain  any  ascendancy  whatever  over 
me.  It  is  her  fortune  and  property  that  have 
attracted  mxj  affections,  just  as  the  title  she 
will  enjoy  has  inveigled  those  of  the  old 
father." 

Norton,  in  deep  emotions  of  gratitude, 
ably  sustained,  had  akeady  seized  the  hand 
of  his  patron,  and  Avas  about  to  reply — but 
the  effort  was  too  much  for  him  ;  his  heart 
was  too  full ;  he  felt  a  choking  ;  so,  clapping 
his  handkerchief  to  his  face  with  one  hand, 
and  the  other  upon  his  heart,  he  rushed  out 
of  the  room,  lest  Dunroe  might  perceive  the 
incredible  force  of  his  affection  for  him. 

The  next  day,  when  Dunroe  made  his  ap- 
pearance in  the  drawing-room,  Luc}',  before 
descending,  felt  as  one  may  be  supposed  to 
do  who  stands  upon  the  brow  of  a  preci- 
pice, conscious  at  the  same  time  that  not 
only  is  retreat  from  this  terrible  position 
impossible,  but  that  the  plimge  must  be 
made.  On  this  occasion  she  experienced 
none  of  that  tierce  energy  which  sometimes 
results  fi'om  despair,  and  which  one  might 
imagine  to  have  been  in  accordance  with 
her  candid  and  generous  character,  when 
driven  as  she  was  to  such  a  step.  On  the 
contrary,  she  felt  calm,  cold,  and  apathe- 
tic. Her  i^idse  could  scarcely  be  perceived 
by  Alley  i\I;ihon  ;  and  all  the  physical  powers 
of  life  within  her  seemed  as  if  about  to  sus- 
pend their  functions.  Her  reason,  however, 
was  clear,  even  to  torture.  Those  tumultu- 
ous vibrations  of  the  spirit — those  confused 
images  and  unsettled  thoughts  of  the  brain  ; 
and  all  those  excited  emotions  of  the  heart, 
that  are  usually  called  into  existence  in  com- 
mon minds  by  such  scenes,  would  have  been 
to  lier  as  a  relief,  in  comparison  to  what  she 
experienced.  In  her  case  there  was  a  tran- 
quilUty  of  agony — a  quiet,  unresisting  sub- 
mission— a  gentle  bowing  of  the.  neck  to 
the  stake,  at  the  sacrifice  that  resulted  fi'om 
the  clear  perception  of  her  gi'eat  mind,  wliich 
thus,  by  its  veiy  facihty  of  apprehension, 
magnified  tlie  torture  she  suffered.  Whilst 
descending  the  stairs,  she  felt  such  a  sinking 
of  the  soul  within  her,  as  the  unhappy  -svTetch 
does  who  ascends  from  those  wliich  lead  to 
that  deadly  platform  from  which  is  taken  the 
terrible  spring  into  eternity. 

On  entei-ing  the  room  she  saw  -herself  in 
the  larjre  mirror  that  adorned  the  mantel- 


piece, and  felt  for  the  first  time  as  if  all  this 
was  some  dreadfid  dream.  The  reahty,  how- 
ever, of  the  misery  she  felt  was  too  strongly 
in  her  heart  to  suffer  this  consohng  fiction, 
painful  even  though  it  was,  to  remain.  The 
next  moment  she  found  Lord  Dunroe  doing 
her  homage  and  obeisance,  an  obeisance 
which  she  returned  with  a  lady-like  but  mel- 
ancholy grace,  that  might  have  told  to  any 
other  obseiA'er  the  sufferings  she  felt,  and  the 
sacrifice  she  was  making. 

Dunroe,  with  as  much  poHteness  as  he 
could  assume,  handed  her  to  the  sofa,  close 
to  wliich  he  drew  a  chair,  and  opened  the 
dialogue  as  follows : 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  you  have  not 
been  well.  Miss  Gourlay.  Life,  however,  is 
imcertain,  and  we  should  always  be  prepai'ed 
— at  least,  so  says  ►Scripture.  AH  fiesh  is 
grass,  I  think  is  the  exjiression — ahem." 

Lucy  looked  at  him  with  a  kind  of  aston- 
ishment ;  and,  indeed,  we  think  our  readers 
will  scarcely  feel  surprised  that  she  did  so  ; 
the  reflection  being  anything  but  adapted  to 
the  opening  of  a  love  scene. 

"  Your  observation,  my  lord,"  she  replied, 
"  is  very  true — too  tme,  for  we  rarely  make 
due  preparation  for  death." 

"But  I  can  conceive,  readily  enough,"  re- 
plied his  lordship,  "  why  the  man  that  wrote 
the  Scripture  used  the  expression.  Death, 
you  know  jVIiss  Goui*lay,  is  always  repre- 
sented as  a  mower,  bearing  a  honible  scythe, 
and  an  hour-glass.  Now,  a  mower,  you 
know,  cuts  dowTi  grass  ;  and  there  is  the 
origin  of  the  similitude." 

"And  a  very  appi'opriate  one  it  is,  I 
think,"  observed  Lucy. 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  it  is  ;  but  somewhat 
vTilgar  though.  I  should  be  disposed  to 
say,  now,  that  the  man  who  wTote  that  must 
have  been  a  mower  himself  originally." 

Lucy  made  no  reply  to  this  sapient  obser- 
vation. His  lordship,  however,  who  seemed 
to  feel  that  he  had  started  upon  a  wrong 
principle,  if  not  a  disagreeable  one,  went 
on  : 

"It  is  not,  however,  to  talk  of  death, 
Miss  Gourlay,  that  we  have  met,  but  of  a  very 
different  and  much  more  agreeable  subject 
— marriage. " 

"  To  me,  my  lord,"  she  rephed,  "  death  is 
the  more  agreeable  of  the  two." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  ^Nliss  Gourlay  ; 
but  I  think  you  are  in  low  spirits,  and  that 
accounts  for  it.  Your  father  tells  me,  how- 
ever, that  I  have  your  permission  to  urge 
my  humble  claims.  He  says  you  have 
kindly  and  generously  consented  to  look 
upon  me,  all  unworihy  as  I  feel  I  am,  as 
your  future  husband." 

"  It  is  true,  my  lord,  I  have  consented  to 


508 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


this  projected  union  ;  but  I  feel  that  it  is  due 
to  your  lordship  to  state  that  I  have  done  so 
under  very  painful  and  most  distressing  cir- 
cumstances. It  is  better  I  should  speak 
now,  my  lord,  than  at  a  future  day.  My 
father's  mind  has  been  seized  by  an  vmac- 
countable  ambition  to  see  me  your  wife. 
This  preyed  upon  him  so  severely  that  he 
became  dangerously  ill."  Here,  however, 
from  deUcacy  to  the  baronet,  she  checked 
herself,  but  added,  "  Yes,  my  lord,  I  have 
consented  ;  but,  understand  me — you  have 
not  my  affections." 

"  A\Tiy,  as  to  that,  IVIiss  Gourlay,  I  have 
myself  peculiar  opinions  ;  and  I  am  glad 
that  they  avail  me  here.  You  will  think  it 
odd,  now,  that  I  had  made  my  mind  up 
never  to  marry  a  woman  who  loved  me. 
This  is  really  fortunate." 

"I  don't  tmderstand  you,  my  lord." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you  don't ;  but  I  shall 
make  myself  intelligible  as  well  as  I  can. 
Love  before  marriage,  in  my  opinion,  is  ex- 
ceedingly dangerous  to  future  happiness ; 
and  I  will  tell  you  why  I  think  so.  In  the 
first  place,  a  great  de^d  of  that  fuel  which 
feeds  the  post-matrimonial  flame  is  burned 
away  and  wasted  unnecessarily  ;  the  imagi- 
nation, too,  is  raised  to  a  ridiculous  and  most 
enthusiastic  expectation  of  perpetual  bliss 
and  ecstasy ;  then  comes  disapiDointment, 
coolness,  indifference,  and  the  hghts  go  out 
for  want  of  the  fuel  I  mentioned  ;  and  alto- 
gether the  domestic  life  becomes  rather  a 
dull  and  tedious  affair.'  The  wife  wonders 
that  the  husband  is  no  longer  a  lover  ;  and 
the  husband  cannot  for  the  soul  of  him  see 
all  the — the — the — ahem  ! — I  scarcely  know 
what  to  call  them — that  enchanted  him  be- 
fore marriage.  Then,  you  perceive,  that 
when  love  is  necessar}^  the  fact  comes  out 
that  it  was  most  injudiciously  expended  be- 
fore the  day  of  necessity.  Both  parties 
feel,  in  fact,  that  the  property  has  been  pre- 
maturely squandered — hke  many  another 
property — and  when  it  is  wanted,  there  is 
nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  I  wish  to  God 
affection  could  be  funded,  so  that  when  a 
married  couple  found  themselves  low  in 
pocket  in  that  commodity  they  could  draw 
the  interest  or  sell  out  at  once." 

' '  And  what  can  you  expect,  my  lord,  from 
those  who  many  without  affection  ?  "  asked 
Lucy. 

"  Ten  chances  for  happiness,"  replied  his 
lordship,  "  for  one  that  results  from  love. 
When  such  persons  meet,  mark  you.  Miss 
Gourlay,  they  are  not  enveloped  in  an  arti- 
ficial veil  of  splendor,  which  the  cares  of 
Ufe,  and  occasionally  a  better  knowledge  of 
each  other,  cause  to  dissolve  from  about 
them,  leaving  them  stripped  of  those  imag- 


inary qualities  of  mind  and  person  which 
never  had  any  existence  at  all,  except  in 
their  h^-pochondriac  brains,  when  love- 
stricken  ;  whereas,  your  honest,  matter-of- 
fact  people  come  together — first  with  indif- 
ference, and,  as  there  is  nothing  angelic  to 
be  expected  on  either  side,  there  is  conse- 
quently no  disappointment.  There  has,  in 
fact,  been  no  sentimental  fraud  committed 
— no  swindle  of  the  heart — for  love,  too, 
like  its  relation,  knavery,  has  its  black-legs, 
and  very  frequently  raises  credit  upon  false 
pretences  ;  the  consequence  •  is,  that  plain 
honesty  begins  to  produce  its  natural  effects." 

"  Can  this  man,"  thought  Lucy,  "  have 
been  taking  lessons  fi'om  papa  ?  And  pray, 
my  lord,"  she  proceeded,  "  what  are  those 
effects  which  marriage  without  love  pro- 
duces ?  " 

"  Wliy,  a  good  honest  indifference,  in  the 
first  place,  which  keeps  the  heart  easy  and 
somewhat  indolent  withal.  There  is  none 
of  that  shai'p  jealousy  which  is  perpetually 
on  the  spy  for  offence.  None  of  that  pull- 
ing and  pouting — falling  out  and  falling  in 
—which  ai'e  ever  the  accessories  of  love. 
On  the  contrarj^,  honest  indifference  minds 
the  family- — honest  indifference,  mark,  buys 
the  beef  and  mutton,  reckons  the  household 
hnen — eschews  parties  and  all  places  of  fash- 
ionable resort,  attends  to  the  children — sees 
them  educated,  bled,  blistered,  et  cetera, 
when  necessary  ;  and,  what  is  still  better, 
looks  to  their  religion,  hears  them  their 
catechism,  brings  them,  in  their  clean  bibs 
and  tuckers,  to  church,  and  rewards  that 
one  who  carries  home  most  of  the  sermon 
with  a  large  lump  of  sugar-candy." 

"  These  are  very  original  views  of  mai'- 
riage,  my  lord." 

"Aha!"  thought  his  lordship,  "I  knew 
the  origiuahty  would  catch  her." 

"  ^^^ly,  the  fact  is,  Miss  Gourlay,  that  I 
beheve — at  least  I  think  I  may  say — that 
originahty  is  my  forte.  I  have  a  hoiTor 
against  everything  common." 

"I  thought  so,  my  lord,"  replied  Lucy; 
"your  sense,  for  instance,  is  anything  but 
common  sense." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  flatter  me,  IVIiss  Go\ir- 
lay,  but  you  speak  verj'  truly  ;  and  that  is 
because  I  always  think  for  myself — I  do  not 
wish  to  be  measured  bj^  a  common  standard." 

"  You  are  very  right,  my  lord  ;  it  would  be 
difficult,  I  fear,  to  find  a  common  standard  to 
measure  you  by.  One  would  imagine,  for 
instance,  that  you  have  been  on  this  principle 
absolutely  studying  the  subject  of  matri- 
mony. At  least,  you  are  the  first  person  I 
have  ever  met  who  has  succeeded  in  com- 
pletely stripping  it  of  common  sense,  and 
there  I  must  admit  your  originality." 


THE  BLACK  JiAROSET. 


509 


"Gad!"  thought  liis  lordship,  "I  have 
her  with  me — I  am  getting  on  famously." 

"  They  would  imagine  right,  Miss  Gour- 
lay  ;  these  principles  are  the  result  of  a  deep 
and  laborious  investigation  into  that  mys- 
terious and  awful  topic.  Honest  indifference 
has  no  intrigues,  no  elopements,  no  dis- 
graceful trials  for  criminal  conversation,  no 
divorces.  No  ;  your  lovers  in  the  yoke  of 
matrimony,  when  they  tilt  with  each  other, 
do  it  sharply,  with  naked  weaj^ons  ;  whereas, 
the  worthy  indifferents,  in  the  same  circum- 
stances, have  a  wholesome  regard  for  each 
other,  and  rattle  away  only  with  the  scab- 
bards. Uiion  my  honor,  ]\liss  Gourlay,  I  am 
quite  delighted  to  hear  that  you  are  not  at- 
tached to  me.  I  can  now  marry  upon  my 
own  principles.  It  is  not  my  intention  to 
coax,  and  fondle,  and  tease  you  after  mar- 
riage ;  not  at  all.  I  shall  interfere  as  little 
as  possible  mth  your  habits,  and  you,  I  trust, 
as  little  Arith  luine.  "We  shall  see  each  other 
only  occasionally,  say  at  church,  for  instance, 
for  I  hope  you  will  have  no  objection  to  ac- 
company me  there.  Neither  man  nor  woman 
knows  wliat  is  due  to  society  if  they  pass 
through  the  world  without  the  comforts  of 
religion.  All  flesh — ahem  ! — no — sufficient 
unto  the  day — as  Scripture  says." 

"  M3'  lord,  I  thiuk  marriage  a  solemn  sub- 
ject, and " 

"  Most  people  lind  it  so,  ]\Iiss  Gourlay." 

"And  on  that  account  that  it  ought 

to  be  exempted  from  ridicule." 

"  I  perfectly  agree  with  you.  Miss  Gourlay  : 
it  is  indeed  a  serious  suljject,  and  ought  not 
to  be  sported  with  or  treated  lightly." 

"  My  lord,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  must  crave  your 
attention  for  a  few  moments.  I  believe  the 
object  of  this  interriew  is  to  satisfy  you  that 
I  have  given  the  consent  which  my  father 
recjuired  and  entreated  of  me.  But,  m}'  lord, 
you  are  mist;ikeu.  Our  union  caimot  take 
place  upon  your  principles,  and  for  this  rea- 
son, there  is  no  inditi'erence  in  the  case,  so 
far,  at  least,  as  I  am  concerned.  It  would  not 
become  me  to  express  here,  under  my  father's 
roof,  the  sentiments  which  I  feel.  Your  o^\'n 
past  Hfe,  my  lord — your  habits,  your  asso- 
ciates, may  enable  you  to  understand  them. 
It  is  enough  to  say,  that  in  wedding  you  I 
wed  misery,  wretchedness,  despair  ;  so  that, 
in  my  case,  at  least,  there  is  no  '  sentimental 
fraud  '  committed." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  ^liss  Gourlay  ;  your  con- 
duct, I  say,  is  candid  and  honorable  ;  and  I 
am  quite  satisfied  that  the  woman  who  has 
strength  of  mind  and  love  of  truth  to  practice 
this  candor  before  marriage,  gives  the  best 
security  for  fidelity  and  all  the  other  long 
Ust  of  matrimoniiil  virtues  afterwards.  1  am 
perfectly   charmed   with    30ur    sentiniputs. 


Indeed  I  was  scarcely  prepared  for  thia 
Our  position  will  be  dehghtful.  The  only 
thing  I  have  any  apprehension  of  is,  lest  thia 
wholesome  aversion  might  gradually  soften 
into  fondness,  which,  you  know,  would  be 
rather  unpleasant  to  us  both." 

"My  lord,"  replied  Lucy,  rising  up  with 
disdain  and  indignation  glowing  in  her  face, 
"  there  is  one  sentiment  due  to  every  woman 
whose  conduct  is  well  regulated  and  rirtuous 
— that  sentiment  is,  respect.  From  you  on 
this  occasion,  .at  least,  and  on  this  subject 
especially,  I  had  thought  myself  entitled  to 
it.  I  find  I  have  been  mistaken,  however. 
Such  a  sentiment  is  utterly  incompatible 
with  the  heartless  tirade  of  buffoonery  in 
which  you  have  indulged.  This  dialogue  is 
very  painful,  my  lord.  I  have  alreatly  inti- 
mated to  3'ou  that  I  am  prepared  to  fulfil  the 
engagement  into  which  my  father  has  entered 
with  you.  I  know — I  feel  what  the  result 
will  be — you  are  to  consider  me  your  victim, 
my  lord,  as  well  as  your  wife." 

"  Excuse  ine.  Miss  Gourlay,  I  was  utterly 
unconscious  of  any  buffoonery.  Upon  my 
honor,  I  expressed  on  the  subject  of  matri- 
mony no  principles  that  I  do  not  feel  ;  but 
as  to  your  charge  of  disresjiect,  I  solemnly 
assure  you  there  is  not  an  indiridual  of  your 
sex  in  existence  whom  I  respect  more  highly; 
nor  do  I  believe  there  is  a  lady  living  more 
signally  entitled  to  it  fi'om  all  who  have  the 
honor  to  know  her." 

"Then,  if  you  be  serious,  my  lord,  it  be- 
trays a  painful  equality  between  your  under- 
standing and  youi-  heai't.  No  man  with  such 
a  heart  should  enter  into  the  state  of  matri- 
mony at  all ;  and  no  man  with  an  under- 
standing level  to  such  principles  is  capable 
either  of  communicating  or  receiving  happi- 
ness." 

"WeU,  then,  suppose  I  say  that  I  shall 
submit  myself  in  everything  to  your  wishes  ?  ** 

"  Then  I  should  reply,  that  the  husband 
capable  of  doing  so  woidd  experience  from 
me  a  sentiment  httle  short  of  contempt. 
^^^lat,  my  lord  !  so  soon  to  abandon  your 
favorite  principles  I  That  is  a  proof,  I  fear, 
that,  after  all,  you  place  but  little  value  on 
them." 

"  Well,  but  I  know  I  have  not  been  so 
good  a  boy  as  I  ought  to  have  been  ;  I  have 
been  naughty  now  and  then  ;  and  as  I  in- 
tend to  reform.  I  shall  make  you  my  guide 
and  adviser.  I  assure  you,  I  am  perfectly 
serious  in  the  reformation.  It  shall  be  on 
quite  an  original  scale.  I  intend  to  repent, 
^liss  Gourlay ;  but,  then,  my  repentance 
won't  be  commonj^I-'ce  repentance.  I  shall 
do  the  tiling  with  mi  aristocratic  feeling — or, 
in  other  words.  I  sh;dl  repent  like  a  man  oi 
honor  and  a  gentleman.'' 


510 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


'Like  anything  but  a  Christian,  my  lord, 
I  presume." 

"  Just  so  ;  I  must  be  original  or  die.  I 
win  give  up  everything ;  for,  after  all,  Miss 
Gourlay,  what  is  there  more  melancholy  than 
the  vanity  of  life — unless,  indeed,  it  be  the 
beauty  of  hoHness — ahf  m !  All  flesh — no — 
I  repeated  that  sweet  text  before.  He  that 
maiTieth  doth  well  ;  but  he  that  mai-rieth 
not  doth  better.  Sufficient  unto  the  day — 
No,  hang  it,  I  think  I  misquoted  it.  I  be- 
lieve it  runs  correctly — He  that  giveth  'way, 
does  well  ;  but  he  that  giveth  not  'way,  does 
better  :  then,  I  believe,  comes  in.  Sufficient 
unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.  What 
beautiful  and  appropriate  texts  are  to  be 
found  in  Scripture,  IVIiss  Goui-lay !  By  the 
way,  the  man  that  wrote  it  was  a  shrewd 
feUow  and  a  profound  thinker.  The  only  pity 
is,  that  the  work's  anonymous." 

Lucy  rose,  absolutely  sickened,  and  said, 
"My  lord,  excuse  me.  The  object  of  our 
interview  has  been  accomplished,  and  as  I 
am  far  from  well,  you  wiU  permit  me  to 
withdraw.  In  the  meantime,  praj'^  make 
whatever  arrangements  and  hold  whatever 
interviews  may  be  necessary  in  this  miserable 
and  wi'etched  business  ;  but  henceforth  they 
must  be  with  my  father." 

"You  ai'e  surely  not  going,  Miss  Gour- 
lay?" 

She  replied  not,  but  turning  round,  seemed 
to  reflect  for  a  moment,  after  which  she 
spoke  as  follows  : 

"I  cannot  bring  myself  to  think,  my  lord, 
after  the  unusual  opinions  you  have  ex- 
pressed, that  you  have  been  for  one  moment 
serious  in  the  conversation  which  has  taken 
place  between  us.  Their  strangeness  and 
eccentricity  forbid  me  to  suppose  this  ;  and 
if  I  did  not  think  that  it  is  so,  and  that,  per- 
haps, you  are  making  an  experiment  upon 
my  temper  and  judgment,  for  some  purpose 
at  present  inconceivable ;  and  if  I  did  not 
think,  besides,  notwithstanding  these  opin- 
ions, that  you  may  possess  sufficient  sense 
and  feeling  to  perceive  the  truth  and  object 
of  what  I  am  about  to  say,  I  would  not 
remain  one  moment  longer  in  yoiu'  society. 
I  request,  therefore,  that  you  will  be  serious 
for  a  little,  and  hear  me  with  attention,  and, 
what  is  more,  if  you  can,  with  sympathy. 
My  lord,  the  highest  instance  of  a  great  and 
noble  mind  is  to  perform  a  generous  act ; 
and  when  you  hear  from  my  own  lips  the 
circumstances  which  I  am  about  to  state,  I 
woi^ld  hope  to  find  you  capable  of  such  an 
act.  I  am  now  appeahng  to  your  generosity 
— your  disinterestedness — your  magnanimity 
(and  you  ought  to  be  proud  to  possess  these 
virtues) — to  all  those  principles  that  honor 
and  dignify  our  nature,  and  render  man  a 


great  example  to  his  kind.  My  lord,  I  am 
very  tmhappy — I  am  miserable — 1  am 
wi-etched  ;  so  completely  borne  down  by 
suft'ering  that  Hfe  is  only  a  burden,  which  1 
wiU  not  be  able  long  to  bear  ;  and  you,  mj 
lord,  are  the  cause  of  aU  this  anguish  and 
agony." 

"Upon  my  honor,  Miss  Gourlay,  I  am 
veiy  much  concerned  to  hear  it.  I  would 
ratlaer  the  case  were  otherwise,  I  assure  you. 
Anything  that  I  can  do,  I  needn't  say,  I  shall 
be  most  happy  to  do  ;  but  proceed,  pray." 

"  My  lord,  I  throw  myself  upon  your  gen- 
erosity ;  do  you  possess  it  ?  Upon  yoiu'  feel- 
ing as  a  man,  upon  your  honor  as  a  gentle- 
man. I  implore,  I  entreat  you,  not  to  press 
this  unhappy  engagement.  I  implore  you 
for  my  sake,  for  the  sake  of  humanity,  for 
the  sake  of  God  ;  and  if  that  will  not  weigh 
with  you,  then  I  ask  it  for  the  sake  of  your 
own  honor,  which  will  be  tarnished  by 
pressing  it  on.  I  have  already  said  that  you 
possess  not  my  affections,  and  that  to  a  man 
of  honor  and  spu-it  ought  to  be  sufficient ;  but 
I  will  go  farther,  and  say,  that  if  there  be 
one  man  h^dng  against  a  union  with  whom  I 
entertain  a  stronger  and  more  unconquer- 
able aversion  than  another,  you  are  that 
man." 

"  But  you  know.  Miss  Gourlay,  if  I  may 
intermpt  you  for  a  moment,  that  that  fact 
completely  falls  into  my  principles.  There 
is  only  one  other  circumstance  wanting  to 
make  the  thing  complete  ;  but  perhaps  you 
will  come  to  it ;  at  least  I  hope  so.  Pray, 
proceed,  madam  ;  I  am  all  attention." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  shall  proceed  ;  be- 
cause I  would  not  that  my  conscience  should 
hereafter  reproach  me  for  having  left  any- 
thing undone  to  escape  this  misery.  Mj 
lord,  I  implore  you  to  spare  me  ;  force  me 
not  over  the  brow  of  this  dreadful  precipice  ; 
have  compassion  on  me — have  generosity — 
act  with  honor." 

"I  would  crown  j-^ou  with  honor,  if  I 
could.  Miss  Gourlay." 

"You  are  about  to  crown  me  with  fire,  my 
lord  ;  to  wring  my  spirit  with  torture  ;  to 
drive  me  into  distraction — despair — mad- 
ness. But  you  will  not  do  so.  You  know 
that  I  cannot  love  you.  I  am  not  to  blame  for 
this  ;  our  affections  are  not  always  under  our 
owTi  control.  Have  pity  on  me,  then.  Lord 
Duni'oe.  Go  to  my  fatlier,  and  tell  him  that 
you  wiU  not  be  a  consenting  party  to  my 
misery — and  accessory  to  my  death.  Say 
what  is  true  ;  that  as  I  neither  do  nor  can 
love  you,  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  and  the 
spirit  of  a  man,  equally  forbid  you  to  act  un- 
generously to  me  and  dishonorably  to  your- 
self. What  man,  not  base  and  mean,  and 
sunk  farther  down  in  degradation  of  spirit 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


511 


than  contempt  could  reach  him,  would  for  a 
moment  think  of  marrj'ing  a  woman  who, 
like  me,  can  neither  love  nor  honor  him  ?  Go, 
my  lord  ;  see  my  father  ;  teU  him  you  are  a 
man — an  Irish  gentleman " 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Gourlay,  I  do  not  wish 
to  be  considered  such." 

— "That  justice,  humanity,  self-respect, 
and  a  regard  for  the  good  opinion  of  the 
world,  all  combine  to  make  you  release  me 
fi'om  this  engagement." 

"  Unfortunately,  IVIiss  Gourlay,  I  have  it 
not  in  my  power,  even  if  I  were  willing,  to 
release  you  fi'om  this  engagement.  I  am 
pledged  to  your  father,  and  cannot,  as  a  man 
of  honor  and  a  gentleman,  recede  from  that 
pledge.  All  these  objections  and  difficulties 
only  bring  you  exactly  up  to  my  theory,  or 
very  near  it.  We  shall  many  upon  very 
original  principles ;  so  that  altogether  the 
whole  affair  is  very  gi'atifying  to  me.  I  had 
expectations  that  there  was  a  prior  attach- 
ment ;  but  that  would  be  too  much  to  hope 
for.     As  it  is,  I  am  perfectly  satisfied." 

"  Then,  my  lord,  allow  me  to  add  to  your 
satisfaction  by  assuiing  you  that  m}''  heart  is 
wholly  and  unalterably  in  possession  of  an- 
other ;  that  that  other  knows  it ;  and  that  I 
have  avowed  my  love  for  him  \\dth  the  same 
truth  and  candor  with  which  I  now  say  that 
I  both  loathe  and  desj)ise  you." 

"  I  perceive  you  are  excited,  IVIiss  Gour- 
lay ;  but,  believe  me,  all  this  sentimental  af- 
fection for  another  will  soon  disappear  after 
marriage,  as  it  always  does  ;  and  your  eyes 
"will  become  open  to  a  sense  of  your  enviable 
position.  Yes,  indeed,  you  will  live  to  won- 
der at  these  freaks  of  a  heated  imagination  ; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  the  day  Avill  come  when 
you  wUl  throw  your  arms  about  my  neck, 
and  exclaim,  'My  dear  Duni'oe,  or  Culla- 
more  (you  will  then  be  my  countess,  I  hope), 
what  a  true  prophet  you  have  been  !  And 
what  a  proof  it  was  of  youi*  good  sense  to 
overcome  my  early  folly  !  I  really  thought 
at  the  time  that  I  was  in  love  with  an- 
other ;  but  you  Icnew  better.  Shan't  we 
spend  the  winter  in  England,  my  love  ?  I 
am  sick  of  this  dull,  abominable  country, 
where  nobody  that  one  can  associate  with  is 
to  be  met ;  and  you  mustn't  forget  the  box 
at  the  Opera.'  Yes  ;  we  shall  have  an  odd 
scene  or  so  occasionally  of  that  sort  of 
thing  ;  and  no  doubt  be  as  happy  as  our 
neighbors." 

Lucy  turned  upon  him  one  withering  look, 
in  which  might  be  read  hatred,  hoiTor,  con- 
tempt ;  after  which  she  slightly  inclined  her 
head,  and  without  speaking,  for  she  had  now 
become  incapable  of  it,  \\'ithdrew  to  her  own 
apartment,  in  a  state  of  feehng  which  the 
reader  may  easily  imagine. 


".fVlice,"  said  she  to  her  maid,  and  her 
cheek,  that  had  only  a  little  before  been  so 
piJe,  now  glowed  with  indignation  like  fire 
as  she  spoke,  "Ahce,  I  have  degraded  my- 
self ;  I  am  sunk  forever  in  my  own  opinion 
since  I  saw  that  heartless  wretch." 

"  How  is  that,  miss  ?  "  asked  Ahce  ;  "  such 
a  thing  can't  be." 

"Because,"  rephed  Lucy,  "I  was  mean 
enough  to  throw  myself  on  his  very  com- 
passion— on  his  honor — on  his  generosity — 
on  his  pride  as  a  man  and  a  gentleman — but 
he  has  not  a  single  vii'tue  ; "  and  she  then, 
with  cheeks  still  glowing,  related  to  her  the 
piincipal  jjart  of  their  conversation. 

"  And  that  was  the  reply  he  gave  you, 
miss?"  observed  Alley;  "in  truth,  it  was 
more  like  the  answer  of  a  sheriff's  bailiff  to 
some  poor  woman  who  had  her  cattle  dis- 
trained for  rent,  and  wanted  to  get  time  to 
pay  it." 

"  Ahce,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  hope  in  God  I 
may  retain  my  senses,  or,  rather,  let  them 
depart  from  me,  for  then  I  shall  not  be  con- 
scious of  what  I  do.  Matters  ai-e  far  worse 
than  I  had  even  imagined — desperate — fuU 
of  horror.  This  man  is  a  fool ;  his  intellect 
is  beneath  the  veiy  exigencies  of  hypocrisy, 
which  he  would  put  on  if  he  could.  His  in- 
famy, his  profligacy,  can  proceed  even  from 
no  perverted  enei'gy  of  character,  and  must 
therefoi-e  be  associated  "\rith  contempt. 
There  is  a  hvely  fatuity  about  him  that  is 
uniformly  a  symptom  of  imbecility.  Among 
women,  at  least,  it  is  so,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  but  it  is  the  same  with  men.  Alice, 
I  know  what  my  fate  wiU  be.  It  is  true,  you 
may  see  me  married  to  him  ;  but  you  ^iU 
see  me  drop  dead  at  the  altar,  or  worse  than 
that  may  happen.  I  shall  marry  him  ;  but 
to  live  his  wife  ! — oh  !  to  live  the  wife  of 
thai  man  !  the  thing  would  be  impossible ; 
death  in  any  shape  a  thousand  times  sooner ! 
Think,  Ahce,  how  you  should  feel  if  your 
husband  were  despised  and  detested  by  the 
world ;  think  of  that,  Alice.  Still,  there 
might  be  consolation  even  there,  for  the 
world  might  be  wrong  ;  but  think,  Alice,  if 
he  deserved  that  contempt  and  detestation — 
think  of  it ;  and  that  you  yourself  knew  he 
was  entitled  to  nothing  else  but  that  and 
infamy  at  its  hands  !  Oh,  no  ! — not  one 
spai'k  of  honor — not  one  trace  of  feehng — 
of  generosity — of  dehcacy — of  timth — not 
one  moral  i)oint  to  redeem  him  from  con- 
tempt. Ho  may  be  a  lord,  Alice,  but  he  is 
not  a  gentleman.  Hardened,  vicious,  and 
stupid,  I  can  see  he  is,  and  altogether  in- 
capable of  comprehending  what  is  due  to 
the  feelings  of  a  lady,  of  a  woman,  which  he 
outrages  without  even  the  consciousness  of 
the  offence.     But,  Ahce,  oh  Ahce !  when  I 


512 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


think — when  I  compare  him  T\dth — and  may 
Heaven  forgive  me  for  the  comparison ! — 
when  I  compare  him  with  the  noble,  the 
generous,  the  cleHcate,  the  tnie-heai'ted,  and 
intellectual  gentleman  who  has  won  and  re- 
tains, and  ever  will  retain,  my  affections,  I 
am  sick  almost  to  death  at  the  contrast. 
Satan,  Alice,  is  a  being  whom  we  detest  and 
fear,  but  cannot  despise.  This  mean  profli- 
gate, however,  is  all  \ice,  and  low  \'ice ;  for 
even  vice  sometimes  has  its  dignity.  K 
you  could  conceive  jVIichael  the  Archangel 
resplendent  with  truth,  brightness,  and  the 
glor}'  of  his  divine  natui-e,  and  compare  him 
with  the  meanest,  basest,  and  at  the  same 
time  wickedest  spirit  that  ever  crawled  in 
the  depths  of  perdition,  then  indeed  you 
might  form  an  opinion  as  to  the  relative 
character  of  this  Dvmroe  and  my  noble  lover. 
And  yet  I  cannot  weej),  Alice ;  I  cannot 
weep,  for  I  feel  that  my  brain  is  burning, 
and  my  heart  scorched.  And  now,  for  my 
only  melancholy  consolation  !  " 

She  then  pulled  from  her  bosom  the  por- 
trait of  her  mother,  by  the  contemplation  of 
which  she  felt  the  tumult  of  her  heart  gradu- 
ally subside  ;  but,  after  haAdng  gazed  at  it  for 
some  time,  she  retui-ned  it  to  its  place  next 
her  heart ;  the  consolation  it  had  transiently 
afforded  her  passed  away,  and  the  black  and 
deadly  gloom  which  had  already  withered 
her  so  much  came  back  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

The  Priest  goes  into  CorbeVs  House  very  like  a  Tldef 
— a  Sederunt,  with  a  Bright  look  up  for  Mr. 
Gray. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  priest 
experienced  slight  regi'et  at  the  mistake 
which  had  been  instrumental  in  bringing 
him  into  collision  with  a  man,  who,  although 
he  could  not  afford  them  any  trace  of  un- 
fortunate Feuton,  yet  enabled  them  more 
clearly  to  identify  the  bai'onet  with  his  fate. 
The  stranger,  besides,  was  satisfied  from 
the  evidence  of  the  pound  note,  and  Trail- 
cudgel's  robbery,  that  his  recent  disappear- 
ance was  aiso  owing  to  the  same  influence. 
Still,  the  evidence  was  far  fi'om  being  com- 
plete, and  they  knew  that  if  Fenton  even 
were  found,  it  would  be  necessary  to  es- 
tablish his  identity  as  the  heir  of  Sir  Ed- 
ward Gourlay.  No  doubt  they  had  made  a 
step  in  advance,  and,  besides,  in  tlie  right 
direction  ;  but  much  still  remained  to  be 
done  ;  the  plot,  in  fact,  must  be  gradually, 
but  clearly,  and  regularly  developed  ;  and 
in  or<ler  to  do  so,  they  felt  that  they  ought, 
if  the  thing  coul<l  be  managed,  to  win  over 


some  person  who  had  been  an  agent  in  ita 
execution. 

From  what  Skipton  had  disclosed  to 
Father  M'Mahon,  both  that  gentleman  and 
the  stranger  had  little  doubt  that  old  Cor- 
bet could  render  them  the  assistance  re- 
quired, if  he  could  only  be  prevailed  upon 
to  speak.  It  was  evident  from  his  ovra  con- 
versation that  he  not  only  hated  but  detest- 
ed Sir  Thomas  Gourla}' ;  and  yet  it  was 
equally  clear  that  some  secret  influence  pre- 
vented him  from  admitting  any  knowledge 
or  participation  in  the  child's  disappearance. 
Notwithstanding  the  sharp  caution  of  hia 
manner,  and  his  disavowal  of  the  very 
knowledge  they  were  seeking,  it  was  agreed 
ujDon  that  Father  M'Mahon  should  see  him 
again,  and  ascertain  whether  or  not  he 
could  be  induced  in  any  way  to  aid  their 
piu-pose.  Nearly  a  week  elaiDsed,  however, 
before  the  cunning  old  ferret  could  be  come 
at.  The  truth  is,  he  had  for  many  a  long 
year  been  of  opinion  that  the  priest  enter- 
tained a  suspicion  of  his  having  been  in  some 
way  engaged,  either  directly  or  indirectly, 
in  the  dark  plots  of  the  baronet,  if  not  in  the 
making  away  with  the  child.  On  this  ac- 
count then,  the  old  man  never  wished  to  come 
in  the  priest's  way  whenever  he  coidd  avoid 
it ;  and  the  priest  himself  had  often  remarked 
that  whenever  he  (old  Corbet),  who  lived 
with  the  baronet  for  a  couple  of  years,  after 
the  child's  disappearance,  happened  to  see 
or  meet  him  in  Ballytrain,  he  always  made 
it  a  point  to  keep  his  distance.  In  fact,  the 
priest  happened  on  one  occasion,  while 
making  a  visit  to  see  Quin,  the  monomaniac, 
and  waiting  in  the  doctor's  room,  to  catch  a 
ghmpse  of  Corbet  passing  thi'ough  the  hall, 
and  on  inquiiing  who  he  was  fi'om  one  of 
the  keepers,  the  fellow,  after  some  hesita- 
tion, rejDlied,  that  he  did  not  know. 

By  this  time,  however,  the  mysterious  loss 
of  the  child  had  long  passed  out  of  the  pub- 
lic mind,  and  as  the  priest  never  paid  another 
risit  to  the  asylum,  he  also  had  ceased  to 
think  of  it.  It  is  quite  possible,  indeed,  that 
the  circumstance  would  never  again  have 
recurred  to  him  had  not  the  stranger's  in- 
quiries upon  this  veiy  point  reminded  him 
that  Corbet  was  the  most  likely  person  he 
knew  to  communicate  information  upon  the 
subject.  The  reader  ah-eady  knows  with 
what  success  that  application  had  beei^ 
made. 

Day  after  day  had  elapsed,  and  the  priest, 
notwithstanding  repeated  visits,  could  never 
find  him  at  home.  The  simple-hearted  man 
nnd  whispered  to  him  in  the  watch-house, 
that  he  wished  to  speak  to  him  upon  that 
very  subject— a  communication  which  filled 
the  Oxd  fellow  with  alarm,  and  the  conse* 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


513 


quence  was,  that  lie  came  to  the  resolution 
of  not  seeing  him  at  all,  if  he  could  possibly 
avoid  it. 

One  day,  however,  when  better  than  a 
week  had  passed,  Father  M'Mahon  entered 
his  shop,  where  lie  found  a  woman  standing, 
as  if  she  expected  some  person  to  come  in. 
His  wife  was  weighing  huckstery  vA\h  her 
back  to  the  countei*,  so  that  she  was  not  aware 
of  his  presence.  Without  speaking  a  word 
he  passed  as  quietly  as  possible  into  the  Httle 
back  parlor,  and  sat  down.  After  about 
fifteen  minutes  he  heai'd  a  foot  overhead  pas- 
sing stealthily  across  the  room,  and  coming 
to  the  lobby,  where  there  was  a  pause,  as  if 
the  person  were  Hstening.  At  length  the 
foot  first  came  down  one  stair  very  quietly, 
then  another,  afterwards  a  third,  and  again 
there  was  a  second  pause,  e\ddently  to  listen 
as  before.  The  priest  kept  his  eyes  steadily 
on  the  staircase,  but  was  placed  in  such  a 
position  that  he  could  see  without  being  vis- 
ible himself.  At  length  Corbet's  long  scraggy 
neck  was  seen  projecting  like  that  of  an  os- 
trich across  the  banisters,  which  commanded 
a  view  of  the  shop  through  the  glass  door. 
Seeing  the  coast,  as  he  thought,  clear,  he 
ventured  to  sj)eak. 

"  Is  he  gone  ?  "  he  asked,  "  for  111  take  my 
oath  I  saw  him  come  up  the  street." 

"  You  needn't  trust  youi"  e^'es  much  longer, 
I  think,"  rejjlied  his  wife,  "you  saw  no  such 
man  ;  he  wasn't  here  at  all." 

"  Bekaise  I  know  it's  about  that  poor  boy 
he's  coming  ;  and  sure,  if  I  stir  in  it,  or  be- 
ti'ay  the  others,  I  can't  keep  the  country  ; 
an',  besides,  I  ■svill  lose  my  jjension." 

Haring  concluded  these  words  he  came 
down  the  stairs  into  the  Httle  parlor  we  have 
mentioned,  where  he  found  Father  M'^Lihon 
sitting,  his  benevolent  features  Ht  up  ■with  a 
good  deal  of  mirth  at  the  confusion  of  Cor- 
bet, and  the  injeful  aspect  he  exhibited  on 
being  caught  in  the  trap  so  ingeniously  laid  I 
for  him. 

"Dunphy,"  said  the  priest,  for  by  this, 
name  he  went  in  the  city,  "you  are  my  pris-  j 
oner  ;  but  don't  be  afi'aid  in  the  mane  time  | 
— better  /»//  prisoner  than  that  of  a  worse  I 
man.  And  now,  you  thief  o'  the  world,  why  j 
did  you  refuse  to  see  me  for  the  hist  week  ?  j 
"NMiy  keep  me  trotting  day  after  day,  although  ' 
you  know  I  wanted  to  speak  ^rith  you '?  ^^^lat  ' 
have  you  to  say  for  yourself  ?  " 

Corbet,    before  rephing,    gave    a    sharp,  | 
short,  ^•in^lictive  glance  at  his  wife,  whom  he 
suspected  strongly  of  ha^ing  turned  trait-  j 
ress,    and   played   into   the   hands    of    the 
enemy. 

"T^oth,  your  reverence,  I  was  sorry  to 
heai-  that  you  had  come  so  often  ; "  and  as 
he  spoke,  another  ghmce  toward  the  shop  | 
17 


seemed  to  say,  "  You  deceitful  old  wretch, 
you  have  betrayed  and  played  the  devil  with 
me." 

"I  don't  at  all  doubt  it,  Anthony,"  rephed 
the  priest,  "the  truth  being  that  you  were 
sorrj'  I  came  at  all.  Come  I  am,  however, 
and  if  I  were  to  wait  for  twelve  months,  I 
wouldn't  go  without  seeing  you.  CaU  in 
]Mrs.  Dtmphy  till  I  spake  to  her,  and  ask  her 
how  she  is." 

"You  had  better  come  in,  ma'am,"  said 
the  old  fellow,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  could 
not  be  misunderstood  ;  "  here's  Father 
M'Mahon,  who  wants  to  spake  to  you." 

"  Arra,  get  out  o'  that ! "  she  rephed ; 
"  didn't  I  tell  you  that  he  didn't  show  his 
round  rosy  face  to-day  yet ;  but  I'U  go  bail 
hell  be  here  for  all  that — soiTa  day  he 
missed  for  the  last  week,  and  it's  a  scandal 
for  you  to  thrate  him  as  you're  doin' — sorra 
thing  else." 

"Stop  your  goster,"  said  Dunphy,  "and 
come  in — isn't  he  inside  here  ?  " 

The  woman  came  to  the  door,  and  giving 
a  hasty  and  incredulous  look  in,  started,  ex- 
claiming, "  Why,  then,  inay  I  never  sin,  but 
he  is.  Musha  !  Father  M'Mahon,  how  in  the 
name  o'  goodness  did  you  get  inside  at  all  ?  " 

"  Aisily  enough,"  he  rephed ;  "I  only 
made  myself  invisible  for  a  coujile  of  minutes, 
and  passed  in  while  you  were  weighing 
something  for  a  woman  in  the  shop." 

"  Troth,  then,  one  would  think  you  must 
a'  done  so,  sure  enough,  for  the  soitow  a  stim 
of  you  I  seen  anyhow." 

"  O,  she's  so  attentive  to  her  business, 
your  reverence,"  said  Anthony,  with  bitter 
irony,  "that  she  sees  nothing  else.  The 
lord  mayor  might  drive  his  coach  in,  and  she 
wouldn't  see  him.  There's  im  ould  proverb 
goin'  that  says  there's  none  so  blind  as  thim 
that  wont  see.  Musha,  sii*,  wasn't  that  a 
disagi-eeable  turn  that  hapjiened  you  the 
other  morning  ?  " 

"  But  it  didn't  last  long,  that  was  one 
comfort.  The  Lord  save  me  from  ever  see- 
ing such  another  sight.  I  never  thought 
our  nature  was  capable  of  such  things  ;  it  is 
awful,  even  to  think  of  it.  Yes,  temble  to 
reflect,  that  there  were  unforiimate  ^\Tetchea 
there  who  ^\ill  probably  be  hm-ried  into  eter- 
nity without  repenting  for  their  tninsgres- 
sions,  and  making  their  j^eace  ^vith  God  ; " 
and  as  he  concluded,  Corbet  found  that  the 
good  pastor's  eye  was  seriously  and  solemnly 
fixed  upon  him. 

"  Indeed — it's  all  true,  your  reverence — it'a 
all  true,"  he  rephed. 

"Now,  Anthony,"  continued  the  priest, 
"I  have  something  verj-  importimt  to 
spake  to  you  about  ;  something  that  ^\-iU 
be  for  your  own  benefit,  not  onb"  in  this 


6U 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


world,  but  in  that  awful  one  wliicli  is  to 
come,  and  for  whicli  we  ought  to  prepare 
ovirselves  sincerely  and  eiuTiestly.  Have  you 
any  objection  that  your  -svife  should  be  pi-es- 
ent,  or  shall  we  go  upstairs  and  talk  it  over 
there?" 

"  I  have  every  objection,"  repHed  Corbet ; 
"  something  she  does  know,  but " 

"  O  thank  goodness,"  rephed  the  old  wo- 
man, veiy  natui'aUy  offended  at  being  kept 
out  of  the  secret,  "  I'm  not  in  all  yoou-  sai- 
crets,  nor  I  don't  wish  to  know  them,  I'm 
sure.  I  believe  you  find  some  of  them  a 
hea%y  burden,  at  any  rate." 

"  Come,  then,"  said  the  priest,  "  put  on 
yovu*  hat  and  take  a  walk  with  me  as  far  as 
the  Brazen  Head  inn,  where  I'm  stopjoing. 
We  can  have  a  private  room  there,  where 
there  will  be  no  one  to  inteiinipt  us." 

"Would  it  be  the  same  thing  to  you, 
sir,  if  I'd  call  on  you  there  about  this  time 
to-mon'ow  ?  " 

"  "VMiat  objection  have  you  to  come  now  ?  " 
asked  the  priest.  "  Never  put  off"  till  to- 
moiTOW  what  can  be  done  to-day,  is  a  good 
old  proverb,  and  apphes  to  things  of  weight- 
ier impoi'tance  than  belong  to  this  world." 

"  WTiy,  then,  it's  a  httle  business  of  a  very 
particular  natiu'e  that  I  have  to  attend  to  ; 
and  yet  I  don't  know,"  he  added,  "maybe 
m  be  a  betther  match  for  them  afther  seeing 
you.  In  the  mane  time,"  he  proceeded,  ad- 
dressing his  wife,  "if  they  should  come  here 
to  look  for  me,  don't  say  where  I'm  gone, 
nor,  above  all  things,  who  I'm  with.  Mai-k 
that  now ;  and  tell  Chaiiej',  or  Ginty,  which- 
ever o'  them  comes,  that  it  must  be  put 
off  till  to-moiTOW — do  you  mind,  now  ?  " 

She  merely  nodded  her  head,  by  way  of 
attention. 

"Ay,"  he  rephed,  with  a  sardonic  grin, 
"  you'U  be  ahve,  as  you  were  a  while  ago,  I 
suppose." 

They  then  proceeded  on  their  way  to  the 
Brazen  Head,  which  they  reached  without 
any  conversation  worth  recording. 

"  Now,  Anthony,"  began  the  priest,  after 
they  had  seated  themselves  comfortably  in  a 
private  room,  "vriU  you  answer  me  truly 
why  you  refused  seeing  me  ?  why  you  hid  or 
absconded  whenever  I  went  to  your  house 
for  the  last  week  ?  " 

"  Bekaise  I  did  not  wish  to  see  you,  then." 

"  Well,  that's  the  truth,"  said  the  priest, 
"  and  I  know  it.  But  why  did  you  not 
wish  to  see  me  ?  "  he  inquired  ;  "  you  must 
have  had  some  reason  for  it." 

"  I  had  my  suspicions." 

"  You  had,  Anthony  ;  and  you've  had  the 
same  suspicions  this  many  a  long  year — ever 
since  the  day  I  saw  you  pass  through  the  hall 
in  the  pxivate  mad-house  in ." 


"  Was  that  the  time  ]\Ir.  Quin  was  there  ?  * 
asked  Anthony,  unconsciously  committing 
himseK  from  the  veiy  apprehension  of  doing 
so  by  giving  a  direct  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion. 

"Ah!  ha!  Anthony,  then  you  knew  Mr. 
Quin  was  there.  That  will  do  ;  but  there's 
not  the  sHghtest  use  in  beating  about  the 
bush  any  longer.  You  have  within  the  last 
half-hovu"  let  your  secret  out,  ^vithin  my  own 
ears,  and  before  my  own  eyes.  And  so  you 
have  a  pension  fi'om  the  Black  Baronet ;  and 
you,  an  old  man,  and  I  feai*  a  guilty  one,  are 
receiving  the  wages  of  iniquity  and  connip- 
tion from  that  man — from  the  man  that  first 
brought  shame  and  everlasting  disgrace,  and 
guilt  and  madness  iato  and  upon  your  fam- 
ily and  name — a  name  that  had  been  without 
a  stain  before.  Yes  ;  you  have  sold  yourself 
as  a  slave — a  bond-slave — have  become  the 
creature  and  instrument  of  his  vices — the 
clay  in  his  hands  that  he  can  mould  as  he 
pleases,  and  that  he  will  crush  and  trample 
on,  and  shiver  to  j^ieces,  the  moment  his 
cruel,  unjust,  and  diabohcal  pvu-poses  are 
served." 

Anthony's  face  was  a  study,  but  a  fearful 
study,  whilst  the  priest  spoke.  As  the  rev- 
erend gentleman  went  on,  it  darkened  into 
the  expression  of  perfect  tortui'e  ;  he  gasped 
and  started  as  if  every  word  uttered  had 
given  him  a  mortal  stab  ;  his  keen  old  eye 
flickered  with  scintillations  of  unnatural  and 
tui'bid  fii'e,  tmtn  the  rebvike  was  ended. 

The  j)riest  had  observed  this,  and  natural- 
ly imj)uted  the  feeling  to  an  impression  of 
remorse,  not,  it  is  time,  immingled  with  in- 
dignation. We  may  imagine  his  siu-prise, 
therefore,  on  seeing  that  face  suddenly 
change  into  one  of  the  wildest  and  most 
mahgnant  dehght.  A  series  of  di-y,  husky 
hiccoughs,  or  what  is  termed  the  black 
laugh,  raj)idly  repeated,  proceeded  fi'om  be- 
tween his  thin  jaw's,  and  his  eyes  now  blazed 
with  an  expression  of  such  fieiy  and  trium- 
phant vengeance,  that  the  other  felt  as  if 
some  fiendish  incarnation  of  malignity,  and 
not  a  man,  sat  before  him. 

"  Cmsh  me  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  crush  me, 
indeed  !  Wait  a  httle.  "Wliat  have  I  been 
doin'  all  this  time  ?  I  tell  you  that  I  have 
been  eveiy  day  for  this  many  a  long  year 
windin'  myself  like  a  sei'pent  about  him,  till 
I  get  him  fairly  in  my  power  ;  and  when  I 
do — then  for  one  sharp,  deadly  sting  into  his 
heart : — ay,  and,  like  the  serpent,  it's  in  my 
tongue  that  sting  hes — fi'om  that  tongue  the 
poison  must  come  that  %vill  give  me  the  re- 
Tenge  that  I've  been  long  waitin'  for." 

"You  sj)eak,"  replied  the  priest,  "and, 
indeed,  you  look  more  like  an  evil  spirit  than 
a.  -man,  Anthony.     This  language  is  disgrace- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


515 


ful  and  unchristian,  and  such  as  no  human 
being  shoulil  utter.  How  can  you  think  of 
death  with  such  princijiles  in  your  heart  ?  " 

" I'll  tell  you  how  I  tliink  on  death:  I'm 
afeared  of  it  when  I  think  of  that  poor,  heart- 
broken woman,  Lady  Gourlay  ;  but  when  I 
think  of  him — oihim — I  do  hope  and  expect 
that  my  last  thought  in  this  world  will  be 
the  delightful  one  that  I've  had  my  revenge 
on  him." 

"  And  you  would  risk  the  miseiy  of  an- 
other world  for  the  gratification  of  one  evil 
passion  in  this  !  Oh,  God  help  you,  and  for- 
give you,  and  turn  your  heart !  " 

"  God  lielp  me,  and  foi'give  me,  and  turn 
my  heai't !  but  not  so  far  as  he  is  consaraed. 
I  neither  wisli  it,  nor  pray  for  it,  and  what's 
more,  if  you  were  fifty  priests,  I  never  will. 
Let  us  drop  this  subject,  then,  for  so  long 
as  we  talk  of  him,  I  feel  as  if  the  blood  in  my 
ould  veins  was  all  turned  into  tire." 

The  priest  saw  and  felt  that  this  was  true, 
and  resolved  to  be  guided  by  the  hint  he  had 
unconsciously  received.  To  remonstrate 
■with  him  upon  Christian  principles,  in  that 
mood  of  mind,  would,  he  knew,  be  to  no 
purpose.  If  thei-e  were  an  assailable  point 
about  him,  he  concluded,  from  his  own 
■words,  that  it  was  in  connection  with  the 
:suflferings  of  Lady  Gourlay,  and  the  fate  of 
iier  child.  On  this  point,  therefore,  he  re- 
solved to  sound  him,  and  ascertain,  without, 
if  possible,  alarming  him,  how  far  he  wovdd 
go  on — whether  he  felt  disposed  to  advance 
at  all,  or  not. 

"  Wen,"  said  the  piiest,  "  since  you  are 
resolved  upon  an  act  of  vengeance — against 
which,  as  a  Chiistian  priest  and  a  Christian 
man,  I  doubly  protest — I  think  it  only  right 
that  you  should  perform  an  act  of  justice  al- 
so. You  know  it  is  wrong  to  confound  the 
innocent  ^rith  the  guilty.  There  is  Lady 
Gourlay,  mth  the  arrow  of  grief,  and  proba- 
bly despair,  rankling  in  her  heart  for  years. 
Now,  you  could  restore  that  woman  to  hap- 
piness— you  could  restore  her  lost  chOd  to 
happiness,  and  bid  the  widowed  mother's 
heart  leap  for  joy." 

"It  isn't  for  that  I'd  do  it,  or  it  would, 
maybe,  be  done  long  ago  ;  but  I'm  not  sayin' 
/  know  where  her  son  is.  Do  you  tliink 
now,  if  I  did,  that  it  wouldn't  gi-atify  my 
heart  to  pull  down  that  black  rillain — to 
tumble  him  do^^'n  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  world 
■with  disgi-ace  and  shame,  from  the  height  he's 
sittin'  on,  and  make  him  a  world's  wondher 
of  villany  and  wickedness  ?  " 

"  I  know  ver}-  well,"  replied  the  priest, 
■who,  not  wishing  to  use  an  unchiistian  argu- 
ment, thought  it  still  too  good  to  be  alto- 
gether left  out,  "  I  know  ver}'  well  that 
you   cannot    restore    Lady    Goui-lay's   son, 


without  punishing  the  baronet  at  the  same 
time.  If  you  be  guided  by  me,  however,  you 
will  tliink  only  of  what  is  due  to  the  injured 
lady  herself." 

"Do  you  think,  now,"  persisted  Corbet, 
not  satisfied  with  the  priest's  answer,  and 
foDowing  up  his  inten-ogatorj',  "  do  you 
think,  I  say,  that  I  wouldn't  'a'  cb'agged  him 
dowai  hke  a  dog  in  the  kennel,  long  ago,  if  I 
knew  where  his  l^rother's  son  was." 

"  From  your  hatred  to  Sir  Tliomas  Gour- 
lay," rephed  the  other,  "I  think  it  likely 
you  would  have  tumbled  him  long  since  if 
you  could." 

'•'  AMiy,"  exclaimed  Corbet,  with  another 
sardonic  and  deiisive  giin,  "  that's  a  proof  of 
how  little  you  know"  of  a  man's  heait.  Do 
you  forget  what  I  said  awhOe  ago  about  the 
black  rillain — that  I  have  been  Arindin'  my- 
self about  him  for  years,  until  I  get  liim  fair- 
ly into  my  jjower  ?  "WTien  that  time  comes, 
you'll  see  w'hat  I'll  do." 

"  But  will  that  time  soon  come  ?  "  asked  the 
other.  "  Kecollect  that  you  ai'e  now  an  old 
man,  and  that  old  age  is  not  the  time  to 
nourish  projects  of  vengeance.  Death  mav 
seize  you — may  take  you  at  a  short  notice — 
so  that  it  is  possible  you  may  never  hve  to 
execute  your  devilish  purpose  on  the  one 
hand,  nor  the  act  of  justice  toward  Lady 
Gourlay  on  the  other.  Will  that  time  sooD 
come,  I  ask  ?  " 

"  So  far  I'll  answer  you.  It'll  take  a  month 
or  two — not  more.  I  have  good  authority 
for  what  I'm  sayin'." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  then  ?  " 

"111  teU  you  that,"  he  rei^hed  ;  and  rising 
up,  he  shut  his  two  hands,  turning  in  hit* 
thumbs,  and  stretching  his  ai-ms  down  along 
his  body  on  each  side,  he  stooped  down,  and 
looking  directly  and  fully  into  the  piiest.'s 
eyes,  he  reiilied,  "/'//  give  him  back  hii  son.^ 

"■  Tut !  "  returned  the  clergj'man,  whose 
honest  heart,  and  sympathies  were  all  with 
the  widow  and  her  sorfbws  ;  "I  was  think- 
ing of  Lady  Gourla3''s  son.  In  the  mane 
time,  that's  a  queer  way  of  punishing  the 
baronet.  You'll  give  him  back  his  son  ? — 
pooh  !  " 

"Ay,"  rephed  Corbet,  "that's  the  way  111 
have  my  revenge  ;  and  maybe  it'll  be  a  great- 
er one  than  you  think.     That's  aU." 

This  was  accompanied  by  a  sneer  and  a 
chuckle,  which  the  ambiguous  old  sinner 
could  not  for  the  blood  of  him  suppress. 
"  And  now%"  he  added,  "  I  must  be  off." 

"  Sir,"  said  Father  M'Mahon,  rising  up 
and  traversing  the  room  with  considerable 
heat,  "  you  have  been  tampering  with  the  con- 
fidence I  was  disposed  to  place  in  you.  AVhat- 
ever  dark  game  you  are  playing,  or  have 
been  playing,  I  know  not ;  but  this  I  can  a»> 


516 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S  WOIiKS. 


Bxire  you,  that  Lady  Gourlay's  friends  know 
more  of  your  secrets  than  you  suspect.  I  be- 
lieve you  to  be  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a 
hardened  old  AoUain,  whose  heart  is  sordid, 
and  base,  and  cruel — con-upted,  I  fear,  be- 
yond all  hope  of  redemption.  You  have 
been  plajang  with  me,  sir — sneering  at  me 
|m  your  sleeve,  during  this  whole  dialogue. 
T?his  was  a  false  move,  however,  on  your 
part,  and  you  will  find  it  so.  I  am  not  a 
man  to  be  either  played  with  or  sneered  at 
by  such  a  snake-like  and  diabohcal  old 
scoundi'el  as  you  are.  Listen,  now,  to  me. 
You  think  yom:  secret  is  safe  ;  you  think  you 
are  beyond  the  reach  of  the  law  ;  you  think 
we  know  nothing  of  youi*  former  movements 
under  the  guidance  and  in  jDersonal  company 
with  the  Black  Bai-onet.  Pray,  did  you 
think  it  impossible  that  there  was  above  you 
a  God  of  justice,  and  of  vengeance,  too, 
whose  pro%idential  disclosui-es  are  sufiicient 
^o  bring  your  villany  to  light?  Anthony 
:C!orbet,  be  warned  in  time.  Let  your  dis- 
closures be  voluntary,  and  they  will  be  re- 
ceived with  gratitude,  with  deep  thanks, 
vdth  amj^le  rewards  ;  refuse  to  make  them, 
endeavor  still  further  to  veil  the  crimes  to 
which  I  aUude,  and  sustain  this  flagitious 
compact,  and  we  shall  drag  them  up  your 
throat,  and  after  forcing  you  to  disgorge 
them,  we  shall  send  you,  in  your  wicked  and 
impenitent  old  age,  where  the  clank  of  the 
felon's  chain  will  be  the  only  music  in  your 
eai's,  and  that  chain  itself  the  only  garter 
that  will  ever  keep  up  your  Connemaras. 
Now  begone,  and  lay  to  heart  what  I've  said 
to  you.  It  wasn't  my  intention  to  have  let 
you  go  "u-ithout  a  bit  of  something  to  eat, 
and  a  glass  of  something  to  wash  it  down 
afterwards ;  but  you  may  travel  now  ;  no- 
thing stronger  than  pure  air  will  cross  your 
lips  in  this  house,  unless  at  your  own  cost." 

The  old  fellow  seemed  to  hesitate,  as  if 
struck  by  some  observation  contained  in 
the  priest's  lecture. 

"WTien  do  you  lave  town,  sir?"  he 
asked. 

"  Whenever  it's  my  convanience,"  replied 
the  other  ;  "  that's  none  of  your  affair.  I'll 
go  immediately  and  see  Skipton." 

The  jDriest  observed  that  honest  Anthony 
looked  still  graver  at  the  mention  of  this 
name.  "If  you  don't  go,"  he  added,  "  until 
a  couple  of  days  hence,  I'd  Hke  to  see  you 
again,  about  this  hour,  the  day  afther  to- 
morrow." 

"  Whether  I'll  be  here,  or  whether  I  won't 
is  more  than  I  know.  I  may  be  brought  to 
judgment  before  then,  and  so  may  you. 
You  may  come  then,  or  you  may  stay  away, 
just  as  you  like.  If  you  come,  perhaps  I'll 
see  you,  and  perhaps  I  won't.     So  now  good- 


by !     Tliank  goodness  we  are  not  depending 
on  you ! " 

Anthony  then  shmk  out  of  the  room  with 
a  good  deal  of  hesitation  in  his  manner,  and 
on  leaving  the  hall-door  he  paused  for  8 
moment,  and  seemed  disposed  to  return. 
At  length  he  decided,  and  after  lingering 
awhile,  took  his  way  toward  Constitution 
Hill. 

This  interview  vsdth  the  priest  disturbed 
Corbet  very  much.  His  selfishness,  joined 
to  great  caution  and  timidity  of  character, 
rendered  him  a  very  difficult  subject  for 
any  man  to  wield  according  to  his  pui*poses. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  entertained 
feelings  of  the  most  diabolical  resentment 
and  vengeance  against  the  baronet,  and  yet 
it  was  impossible  to  get  out  of  him  the 
means  by  which  he  proposed  to  visit  them 
upon  him.  On  leaving  Father  M'Mahon, 
therefore,  he  experienced  a  state  of  alterna- 
tion between  a  resolution  to  make  dis- 
closures and  a  determination  to  be  sUent 
and  work  out  his  own  plans.  He  also  feared 
death,  it  is  true  :  but  this  was  only  when 
those  rare  visitations  of  conscience  occurred 
that  were  awakened  by  superstition,  instead 
of  an  enhghtened  and  Christian  sense  of 
religion.  This  latter  was  a  word  he  did  not 
understand,  or  rather  one  for  which  he  mis- 
took superstition  itseK.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
he  felt  uneasj',  anxious,  and  irresolute,  wav- 
ering between  the  right  and  the  wrong, 
aft-aid  to  take  his  stand  by  either,  and  wish- 
ing, if  he  could,  to  escape  the  consequences 
of  both.  Other  plans,  however,  were  ripen- 
ing as  well  as  his,  under  the  management 
of  those  who  were  deterred  by  none  of  his 
cowardice  or  irresolution.  The  considera- 
tion of  this  brings  us  to  a  family  discussion  ; 
which  it  becomes  our  duty  to  detail  before 
we  proceed  any  further  in  our  narrative. 

On  the  following  day,  then,  nearly  the 
same  j^ai-ty  of  which  we  have  given  an  ac- 
count in  an  early  portion  of  this  Avork,  met 
in  the  same  eating-house  we  have  already 
described ;  the  only  difference  being  that 
instead  of  O'Douegan,  the  classical  teacher 
old  Corbet  himself  was  present.  The  mat 
called  Thomas  Corbet,  the  eldest  son  o' 
Anthony,  Ginty  Cooper  the  fortune-teller, 
Ambrose  Gray,  and  Anthony  himself,  com- 
posed this  interesting  sederunt.  The  others 
had  been  assembled  for  some  time  before 
the  arrival  of  Anthony,  who  consequently 
had  not  an  opportunity  of  hearing  the  fol- 
lowing brief  dialogue. 

"I'm  afraid  of  my  father,"  observed 
Thomas  ;  "he's  as  deep  as  a  draw-well,  and 
it's  impossible  to  know  what  he's  at.  How 
are  we  to  manage  him  at  all  ?  " 

"  By  following  his  advice,  I  think,"  said 


THE  BLaCK  baronet. 


511 


Ginty.     "It's  time,  I'm  sure,  to  get  this  boy 
into  his  rights." 

"I  was  veiy  well  (lisi)osed  to  help  you  in 
that,"  repKed  her  brother  ;  "  but  of  late  he 
has  led  such  a  life,  that  I  fear  if  he  comes 
into  the  property,  he'U  do  either  us  or  him- 
self httle  credit  ;  and  what  is  still  worse, 
will  he  have  sense  to  keep  his  own  secret  ? 
My  father  says  his  brother,  the  legitimate 
son,  is  dead  ;  that  he  died  of  scarlet-fever 
many  years  ago  in  the  country — and  I  think 
myself,  b}-  the  way,  that  he  looks,  whenever 
he  says  it,  as  if  he  himself  had  furnished  the 
boy  with  the  fever.  That,  however,  is  not 
our  business.  If  I  had  been  at  Red  Hall, 
instead  of  keeping  the  house  and  place  in 
town,  it's  a  short  time  the  other — or  Fenton 
as  he  calls  himself — would  be  at  large. 
He's  now  undher  a  man  that  will  take  care 
of  him.  But  indeed  it's  an  easy  task.  He'll 
never  see  his  mother's  face  again,  as  I  weU 
know.  Scarman  has  him,  and  I  give  the 
poor  devil  about  thi'ee  months  to  hve.  He 
doesn't  allow  him  half  food,  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  supplies  him  with  more 
whiskey  than  he  can  drink  ;  and  this  by  the 
baronet's  own  wiitten  orders.  As  for  you, 
Mr.  Gray,  for  we  may  as  well  call  you  so 
yet  awhile,  your  conduct  of  late  has  been 
disgraceful." 

"  I  grant  it,"  replied  jVIr.  Gray,  who  was 
now  sober  ;  "  but  the  truth  is,  I  really  look- 
ed, after  some  consideration,  upon  the  whole 
Elan  as  quite  impracticable.  As  the  real 
eir,  however,  is  dead " 

"  Not  the  real  heir,  Amby,  if  you  please. 
He,  poor  fellow,  is  in  custody  that  he  will 
never  escape  from  again.  Upon  my  soul,  I 
often  pitied  Ixim." 

"  How  full  of  compassion  you  are !  "  re- 
plied his  sister. 

"  I  have  vers'  little  for  the  baronet,  how- 
ever," he  replied  ;  "  and  I  hope  he  ■will 
never  die  till  I  scald  the  soul  in  his  body. 
Excuse  me,  Amby.  You  know  all  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  family,  and,  of  course, 
that  you  are  tlie  child  of  guilt  and  shame." 

"Why,  yes,  I'm  come  on  the  ^^^■oug  side 
as  to  birth,  I  admit  ;  but  if  I  clutch  the 
property  and  title,  I'll  thank  heaven  every 
day  I  hve  for  my  mother's  frailty." 

"  It  was  not  frailty,  you  unfeeling  boy," 
replied  Giuty,  "  so  much  as  my  father's 
credulity  and  ambition.  I  was  once  said  to 
be  beautiful,  and  he,  having  taken  it  into 
his  head  that  this  man,  when  young,  might 
love  me,  went  to  the  expense  of  having  me 
well  educated.  He  then  threw  me  pei-petu- 
ally  into  his  society  ;  but  I  was  young  and 
sirtless  at  the  time,  and  believed  his  solemn 
oaths  and  promises  of  marriage." 

"And  the  gi-eater  villain   he,"  observed 


her  brother  ;  "  for  I  myself  did  not  think, 
there  could  be  danger  in  your  intimacy,  be- 
cause you  and  he  were  foster-cliiltli-en  ;  and, 
except  in  his  case,  I  never  knew  another 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
countiy,  where  the  obligation  of  that  tie 
was  forgotten." 

"  WcU,"  obsei'ved  Ambrose,  "we  must 
only  make  the  best  of  our  position.  If  I 
succeed,  you  shall,  according  to  our  written 
agi-eement,  be  aU  provided  for.  Not  that  I 
would  feel  very  strongly  disposed  to  do 
much  for  that  enigmatical  old  grandfather 
of  mine.  The  vile  old  feiTet  saw  me  in  the 
lock-up  the  other  morning,  and  refused  to 
bail  me  out ;  ay,  and  threatened  me  be- 
sides." 

"He  did  riglit,"  rej^lied  his  uncle;  "and 
if  you're  caught  there  again,  I'll  not  only 
never  bail  you  out,  but  wash  my  hands  of 
the  whole  affair.  So  now  be  warned,  and 
let  it  be  for  your  good.  Listen,  then  ;  for 
the  case  in  which  you  stand  is  this :  there 
is  Miss  Gourlay  and  Dunroe  going  to  be 
maiTied  after  all ;  for  she  has  returned  to 
her  father,  and  consented  to  marry  the 
young  lord.  The  baronet,  too,  is  ill,  and  I 
don't  think  will  live  long.  He  is  bui-ned 
out  like  a  hme-kiln  ;  for,  indeed,  Uke  that, 
his  whole  life  has  been  nothing  but  smoke 
and  fire.  Very  well ;  now  jjay  attention. 
If  we  wait  until  these  maj-riage  articles  are 
di'awn  uj^,  the  appearance  or  the  discovery 
of  this  heir  here  ^\ill  create  great  confusion  ; 
and  you  may  take  my  word  tliat  every  opj^o- 
sition  will  be  given,  and  every  inquiiy  made 
by  Dunroe,  who,  as  there  seems  to  be  no 
heir,  \riSS.  get  the  property ;  for  it  goes,  in 
that  case,  with  ]Miss  Gourlay.  Eveiy  knot  is 
more  easily  tied  than  untied.  Let  us  pro- 
duce the  heir,  then,  before  the  propei-ty's  dis- 
posed of,  and  then  we  won't  have  to  imtie 
the  knot — to  invalidate  the  mamage  articles. 
So  fiU',  so  good — -that's  our  plan.  But  again  , 
there's  the  baronet  ill ;  should  he  die  before 
we  establish  this  youth's  rights,  think  of  our 
diiiiculty.  And,  thirdly,  he's  beginning  to 
suspect  our  integi'ity,  as  he  is  pleased  to  call 
it.  That  strange  gentlemiin,  Ginty,  has 
mentioned  circumstances  to  him  tliat  he 
says  could  come  only  from  my  father  or  my- 
self, or  you." 

"Proceed,"  replied  his  sister,  "jiroceed; 
I  may  look  forward  to  the  fulfilment  of 
these  plans ;  but  I  will  never  live  to  see 
it." 

"  You  certainly  are  much  changed  for  the 
worse,"  replied  her  bi-other,  "especially 
since  your  reason  has  been  restored  to  you. 
In  the  meantime,  listen.  The  baronet  is  now 
ill,  although  (libson  says  there's  no  danger 
of  him  ;   he's  easier  in  his  mind,  however,  in 


dl8 


WILLIAM  cahleton's  works. 


consequence  of  this  maniage,  that  he  has, 
for  hfe  or  death,  set  his  heai-t  on ;  and 
altogether  this  is  the  best  time  to  put  this 
vagabond's  pretensions  forwai'd." 

"Thank  you,  uncle,"  replied  Ambrose, 
with  a  clouded  brow.  "In  six  months 
hence,  perhaps,  I'll  be  no  vagabond." 

"  Ay,  in  sixty  yeai-s  hence  you  will ;  and 
indeed,  I  fear,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  that 
you'll  never  be  anything  else.  That,  how- 
ever, is  not  the  question  now.  We  want 
to  know  what  my  father  may  say — whether 
he  "vntH  agTee  "v\-ith  us,  or  whether  he  can  or 
will  give  us  any  better  advice.  There  is  one 
thing,  at  least,  we  ought  to  resjject  him  for  ; 
and  that  is,  that  he  gave  all  his  family  a 
good  education,  although  he  had  but  httle 
of  that  commodity  himself,  poor  man. " 

He  had  scarcely  concluded,  when  old  An- 
thony made  his  appearance,  with  that  mys- 
tical expression  on  his  face,  half  sneer,  half 
gloom,  which  would  lead  one  to  conclude 
that  his  heart  was  divided  between  remorse 
and  vengeance. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you're  at  work,  I  see — 
honestly  employed,  of  course.  Ginty,  how 
long  is  i\Ii-.  Ambrose  here  dead  now  ?  " 

"He  died,"  rephed  her  brother,  "soon 
after  the  intention  of  changing  the  children 
took  place.  You  took  the  hint,  father,  fi'om 
the  worthy  baronet  himself." 

"  Ay,  I  did  ;  and  I  wish  I  had  not.  You 
died,  m}^  good  young  fellow,  of  scai'let-fever 
— let  me  see — but  A\\i\  a  much  matther  it  is 
when  you  died  ;  it's  little  good  you'll  come 
to,  ban'in'  you  change  your  heart.  They 
say,  indeed,  the  diAil's  children  have  the 
divO's  luck  ;  but  I  sa}',  the  diAil's  children 
have  the  di^-il's  face,  too  ;  for  sure  he's  as 
like  the  black  fiend  his  father  as  one  e^g  is 
to  another." 

"And  that  will  strengthen  the  claim," 
replied  the  young  man,  with  a  grin.  "I  don't 
look  too  old,  I  hope  ?  " 

"There's  only  two  years'  difference  be- 
tween you  and  the  boy,  your  brother,  that's 
dead,"  said  his  mother.  "  But  I  wish  we 
were  well  thi-ough  with  this.  My  jDast  life 
seems  to  me  like  a  dream.  My  contemplated 
revenge  upon  that  bad  man,  and  my  ambi- 
tion for  this  boy,  are  the  only  two  princi- 
ples that  now  sustain  me.  What  a  degi-aded 
life  has  Thomas  Gourlay  caused  me  to  lead  ! 
But  I  really  think  that  I  saw  into  futurity  ; 
nay,  I  am  certain  of  it ;  otherwise,  what  put 
hundreds  of  predictions  into  my  lips,  that 
were  verified  by  the  event  ?  " 

There  was  a  momentary  expression  of 
wilduess  in  her  eye  as  she  spoke,  which  the 
others  observed  with  pain. 

"  Come,  Ginty,"  said  her  brother,  "  keep 
yourself  steady  now,  at  all  events  ;   be  cool 


and  firm,  till  we  punish  this  man.  If  you 
want  to  know  why  you  foretold  so  much,  I'll 
tell  you.  It  was  because  you  covild  put  two 
and  two  together." 

"My  whole  life  has  been  a  blank,"  she 
proceeded,  "  an  empty  dream — a  dead,  dull 
level ;  insanity,  vengeance,  ambition,  all 
jostling  and  crossing  each  other  in  my  un- 
happy mind  ;  not  a  serious  or  reasonable 
duty  of  life  dischai'ged  ;  no  claim  on  society 
— no  station  in  the  work  of  Hfe — an  impos- 
tor to  the  world,  and  a  dupe  to  myself ;  but 
it  was  he  did  it.  Go  on  ;  form  your  plans — 
make  them  firm  and  sure  ;  for,  by  Him  who 
withdrew  the  light  of  reason  fi'om  my  sj)irit 
— by  Him  from  whom  it  came,  I  wiU  have 
vengeance.  Father,  I  know  you  weU,  and  I 
am  your  daughter." 

"  You  know  me  well,  do  you  ?  "  he  rephed, 
with  his  usual  gi'iu.  "  Maybe  you  do,  and 
maybe  you  don't ;  but  let  us  proceed.  The 
baronet's  son's  dead,  you  know." 

"  But  what  makes  you  look  as  you  do, 
father,  when  you  say  so  ?  Your  face  seems  to 
contradict  your  words.  You  know  you  have 
told  us  for  yeai's  that  he's  dead." 

"And  I'm  a  liar,  am  I  ?  "  he  rephed,  look- 
ing at  him  with  a  pecuhar  smile. 

"  No,  I  don't  say  so  ;  certainly  not.  But, 
still,  you  squeeze  your  face  up  in  such  a  way 
that  you  don't  seem  to  believe  it  yourself." 

"  Come,  come,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"  this  is  all  useless.  "NMiat  do  you  intend  to 
do  ?    How  do  you  intend  to  proceed  ?  " 

"  We  sent  for  you  to  advise  us  in  that," 
replied  his  son.  "  You  are  the  oldest  and 
the  wisest  here,  and  of  course  ought  to 
possess  the  soundest  judgment." 

"  Well,  then,  my  adrice  to  you  is,  to  go 
about  your  business  ;  that  is,  to  do  any  law- 
ful business  that  you  have  to  do,  and  not  to 
bring  yourselves  to  disgrace  by  puttin'  forrid 
this  drimken  j^rofligate,  who  will  pitch  us  all 
to  the  devil  when  he  gets  himself  safe,  and 
tread  in  his  black  father's  stejjs  afterwards." 

"And  you  must  assist  us,  father,"  said 
Ginty,  rising  uj),  and  pacing  to  and  fro  the 
room  in  a  state  of  great  agitation.  "  You, 
the  first  cause,  the  original  author  of  my 
shame  ;  you,  to  whose  iniquitous  avarice  and 
vulgar  ambition  I  fell  a  sacrifice,  as  much  as 
I  did  to  the  profligacy  and  villany  of  Thomas 
Gotu-lay.  But  I  care  not — I  have  my  am- 
bition ;  it  is  a  mother's,  and  more  natural  on 
that  account.  I  have  also  my  vengeance  to 
gi-atify  ;  for,  father,  w^e  are  your  children, 
and  vengeance  is  the  family  iDrincijDle.  Fa- 
ther, you  must  assist  us — -you  must  join  us 
— you  must  lend  us  your  i3ei;jury — supply  us 
with  false  oaths,  with  deceitful  accounts, 
with  all  that  is  necessary  ;  for,  father,  it  is  to 
work  out  your  o^vn  princii^les — that  I  may 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


510 


be  able  to  die  smiling — smiling  that  I  have 
overreached  and  punished  him  at  List.  That, 
you  know,  will  be  a  receipt  in  full  for  my 
shame  and  madness.  Now,  I  saj',  father, 
you  must  do  this,  or  I  will  kneel  down  and 
curse  you." 

The  old  man,  as  she  proceeded,  kept  his 
«yes  fixed  upon  her,  first  with  a  look  of  in- 
difference ;  this,  however,  became  agreealjle 
and  comj^lacent;  gradually  his  eye  kindled 
as  he  caught  her  spirit,  and  when  she  had 
concluded,  he  gi-ound  his  black  old  stumps  of 
teeth  together  with  a  %-indictive  energy  that 
was  revolting,  or  at  least  would  have  been  so 
to  any  others  unless  those  that  were  present. 

"Well,  Ginty,"he  rephed,  "I  have  turned 
it  over  in  my  mind,  and  as  helpin'  you  now 
will  be  givin'  the  black  feUow  an  additiontd 
stab,  I'll  do  it.  Yes,  my  lad,"  he  added, 
grinning  rather  maUciously,  by  the  way,  at 
the  object  of  his  promised  sujjport,  "  I  \\ill 
make  a  present  of  you  to  your  father  ;  and  a 
thankful  man  he  ought  to  be  to  have  the 
like  of  you.  I  was  sometimes  for  you,  and 
sometimes  against  you  ;  but,  at  all  events, 
the  old  fellow  must  have  you — for  the 
present  at  least." 

This  was  accompanied  by  another  giin, 
which  was,  as  usual,  perfectly  inexplicable 
to  the  others.  But  as  he  had  expressed  his 
assent  and  promised  his  assistance,  they 
were  glad  to  accept  it  on  his  own  terms  and 
in  his  o^vn  way. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  proceeded,  "  90 w  that 
we've  made  up  our  minds  to  go  through  with 
it,  I'll  think  over  what's  to  be  done — what's 
the  best  steps  to  take,  and  the  best  time  and 
place  to  break  it  to  him.  This  ^\-ill  require 
some  time  to  think  of  it,  and  to  put  things 
together  properly  ;  so  let  us  have  a  drop  of 
something  to  drink,  and  we  can  meet  again 
in  few  days." 

Having  pai'tiiken  of  the  refreshment  which 
was  ordered  in,  they  soon  afterwards  sep- 
arated until  another  opportunity. 

Ambrose  Gray,  with  whose  real  name  the 
reader  is  aLread^-  acquainted,  took  but  httle 
part,  as  may  have  been  perceived,  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  a  project  which  so  deej)ly  aft'ected 
his  o^vn  interests.  ^Mien  it  was  first  discover- 
ed to  him  by  his  mother  and  uncle,  he  was 
much  struck  even  at  the  bare  i)robability  of 
such  an  event.  Subsequent  reflection,  how- 
ever, induced  him  to  look  upon  the  whole 
scheme  as  an  empty  bubble,  that  could  not 
bear  the  touch  of  a  finger  without  melting 
into  air.  It  was  true  he  was  natiu-aUy  cun- 
ning, but  then  he  was  also  naturally  profli- 
gate and  ^•icious  ;  and  although  not  ^vithout 
intellect,  yet  was  he  deficient  m  self-command 
to  restrain  himself  when  neces-saiw.  Alto-  ' 
gether,  his  chai-acter  was  bad,  and  scarcely 


I  presented  to  any  one  a  favorable  aspeci 
\  ^Mien  aft'ected  with  hquor  he  was  at  once 
I  quarrelsome  and  cowardly — always  the  first 
I  to  provoke  a  fight,  and  the  first,  also,  to 
I  snejik  out  of  it. 

I  Soon  after  the  disappearance  of  Sir  Ed- 
;  wai'd  Gourlay's  heu*,  the  notion  of  removing 
j  the  baronet's  own  son  occurred,  not  to  his 
mother,  nor  to  her  brother,  but  to  old  Cor- 
j  bet,  who  desired  his  son  Charles,  then  a 
;  young  man,  and  the  baronet's  foster-brother, 
as  a  preparatoiy  step  to  his  ultimate  designs, 
i  to  inform  him  that  liis  illegitimate  son  was 
!  dead.  Sir  Thomas  at  this  time  had  not  as- 
I  sumed  the  title,  nor  taken  possession  of  the 
j  immense  estates. 

!      "^Ii*.  Gourky,"  said  Charles,  "that  child 
is  dead  ;  I  was  desh-ed  to  tell  you  so  by  my 
I  father,  who  doesn't  vdsh  to  speak   to  you 
himself  upon  the  subject." 

"  Well,"  rei)Ued  ^Ii-.  Gourlay,  "  what  afGoir 
is  that  of  mine  ?  " 

"  ^\Tiy,"  said  the  other,  "as  the  unfortu- 
nate mother  is  insane,  and  without  means  of 
providing  decently  for  its  burial,  he  thinks 
it  only  reasonable  that  you  should  furnish 
I  money  for  that  pvupose — he,  I  know,  won't." 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  jiroviding  decent- 
ly ?  "  asked  ]kir.  Goui-lay.^  "  What  stufi'  that 
is ! — throw  the  brat  into  a  shell,  and  bury 
it.  I  am  cursedly  glad  it's  gone.  There's 
half-a-crown,  and  pitch  it  into  the  nearest 
kennel.  Why  the  deuce  do  you  come  to  me 
with  such  a  piece  of  information  ?  " 

Charles  Corbet,  being  his  father's  son, 
looked  at  him,  and  we  need  not  at  any  length 
describe  the  nature  of  that  look  nor  the  feel- 
ing it  conveyed.  This  passed,  but  was  not 
forgotten  ;  and  on  being  detailed  by  Chai'les 
Corbet  to  his  father,  the  latter  rephecIT 
"  '''Ah,  the  \'iUain — that's  his  feelin',  is  it ! 
Well,  never  mind,  I'll  jiunish  him  one  day." 
Some  months  after  this  he  came  into  ^Ir. 
Gourlay's  study,  ^\'ith  a  very  solemn  and 
anxious  face,  and  said, 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  sir." 
"  Well,  Anthony,  what  is  it  you  have  to 
say  to  me  r^'  " 

"  Maybe  I'm  wi'ong,  sir,  and  I  know  \ 
oughtn't  to  alarm  you  or  distiu*b  your  mind  ; 
but  still  I  think  I  ought  to  put  you  on  your 
guard." 

"  Confound  youi*  caution,  sir  ;  can't  you 
come  out  with  whatever  you  have  to  say  at 
once  ?  " 

"  Would   it   be   j^ossible,  sir,    that   there 
j  could  be  any  danger  of  the  child  bein'  taken 

away  like  the  other — hke  your  brother's  ?  " 
j       "  What  do  you  mean  ? — why  do  you  ask 
!  such  a  question  ?  " 

'       "Bekaise,  sir,  I  observed  for  the  List  few 
I  days  a  couple  of  strange  men  peepiu'  ana 


620 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


pimpin'  about  the  place,  and  wlierever  the 
child  went  they  kept  dodgiu'  afther  him." 

"  But  why  should  any  one  think  of  taking 
him  away  ?  " 

"  Hem  ! — well,  I  don't  know,  sir  ;  but  you 
know  that  the  heir  was  taken  away." 

"Come,  Anthony,  be  quiet — ^walls  have 
eai"s ;  go  on." 

"  \\Tiat  'ud  you  think  if  there  was  sich  a 
thing  as  re\inge  in  the  world  ?  I'm  not  sus- 
pectin'  any  one,  but  at  the  same  time,  a  wo- 
man's revinge  is  the  worst  and  deepest  of  all 
revinges.  You  know  very  well  that  she  sus- 
pects you — and,  indeed,  so  does  the  world." 

"  But  veiy  wi-ongly,  you  know,  Anthony," 
repHed  the  baronet,  with  a  smile  dark  as 
murder. 

"  Wliy,  ay,  to  be  sure,"  repHed  the  instru- 
ment, squirting  the  tobacco  spittle  into  the 
fire,  and  tui'ning  on  him  a  grin  that  might 
be  considered  a  suitable  commentary  upon 
the  smile  of  his  employer. 

"  But,"  added  IVIi-.  Gourlay,  "  what  if  it 
should  be  the  father,  instead  of  the  son,  they 
want  ?  " 

"  But  why  would  they  be  dodgin'  about 
the  child,  sir  ?  " 

'•  True  ;  it  is  odd  enough.  Well,  I  shall 
give  orders  to  have  him  well  watched." 

"  And,  with  the  help  o'  God,  I'll  put  a 
mark  ujion  him  that'll  make  him  be  known, 
at  any  rate,  through  aU  changes,  barrin'  they 
should  take  his  life." 

"  How  do  you  mean  by  a  mark !,"  asked 
the  other. 

"  I  learnt  it  in  the  army,  sir,  when  I  was 
^\ith  Sir  Edward.  It's  done  by  gunpowder. 
It  can  do  no  harm,  and  will  at  any  time  dur- 
in'  his  life  make  him  kno-wTi  amou-g  miUions. 
It  can  do  no  harm,  at  any  rate,  sir." 

"  Very  weU,  Anthony — very  well,"  replied 
Mr.  Gourlay  ;  "  mark  him  as  you  like,  and 
when  it  is  done,  let  me  see  it." 

Li  about  a  fortnight  afterwards,  old  Cor- 
bet brought  his  sou  to  him,  and  raising  his 
left  arm,  showed  him  the  child's  initials  dis- 
tinctly marked  on  the  under  part  of  it,  to- 
gether wdth  a  cross  and  the  family  crest ;  all 
so  plainly  and  neatly  executed,  that  the  fa- 
ther was  surjirised  at  it. 

Nothing,  however,  happened  at  that  time  ; 
vigilance  began  to  relax  as  suspicion  dimin- 
ished, until  one  morning,  about  eight  months 
aftenwards,  it  was  found  that  the  child  had 
disappeared.  It  is  unnecessary  to  add,  that 
every  possible  step  was  taken  to  discover  him. 
Searches  were  made,  the  hue  and  cry  was 
up,  immense  rewards  were  offered  ;  but  all 
in  vain.  From  that  day  forth  neither  trace 
nor  tidings  of  him  could  be  found,  and  in 
the  course  of  time  he  was  given  up,  like  the 
heir  of  the  property,  altogether  for  lost. 


CHAPTER  XXXn. 

Discovery  of  ilie  BaroncVs  Son — wJw^    however,  h 
Shelved  for  a  Time. 

Lord  Dunroe,  as  had  iilready  been  agreed 
upon  between  him  and  her  father,  went  di- 
rectly to  that  worthy  gentleman,  that  he 
might  make  a  faithful  rejjort  of  the  interview. 

"  Well,  Dimroe,"  said  the  baronet,  "  what's 
the  news  ?    How  did  it  go  off?  " 

"Just  as  we  expected,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Vaj)ors,  entreaties,  and  indignation.  I  give 
you  my  honor,  she  asked  me  to  become  her 
advocate  with  you,  in  order  to  get  released 
from  the  engagement.  That  was  rather  cool, 
wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"Why,  the  truth  is,  I  conducted  the  affair 
altogether  on  a  new  ^^rinciple.  I  maintained 
that  love  should  not  be  a  necessary  element 
in  marriage  ;  vindicated  the  rights  of  honest 
indifference,  and  said  that  it  was  against  my 
system  to  marry  any  woman  who  was  attach- 
ed to  me." 

"  Why,  I  remember  preaching  some  such 
doctrine,  in  a  bantering  way,  to  her  myself." 

"  Guided  by  this  theory,  I  met  her  at 
every  turn  ;  but,  nevertheless,  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  animated  expostulation,  tears, 
solicitations,  and  all  that." 

"  I  fear  you  have  mismanaged  the  matter 
some  way  ;  if  you  have  followed  my  advice, 
and  done  it  with  an  apjDcarance  of  common 
sense,  so  much  the  better.  This  would  have 
required  much  tact,  for  Lucy  is  a  girl  very 
difficult  to  be  imjjosed  upon  by  appearances. 
I  am  the  only  person  ^\^o  can  do  so,  but 
that  is  because  I  apjaroach  her  aided  by 
my  knowledge  of  her  filial  affection.  As  it 
is,  however,  these  things  are  quite  common. 
My  own  wife  felt  mvich  the  same  way  with 
myself,  and  yet  we  lived  as  happily  as  most 
jDCople.  Every  young  baggage  must  have 
her  scenes  and  her  sacrifices.  All !  what  a 
knack  they  have  got  at  magnifying  every- 
thing !  '  How  do  you  do,  my  Lady  Dunroe  ? ' 
half  a  dozen  times  repeated,  however,  will 
awaken  her  vanity,  and  banish  aU  this  giii- 
ish  rodomontade." 

"  'Room  for  the  Countess  of  CuUamore,' 
will  soon  follow,"  rej)lied  his  lordship,  laugh- 
ing, "and  that  will  be  stiD  better.  The  old 
peer,  as  Norton  and  I  call  him,  is  near  the 
end  of  his  journey,  and  wiU  make  his  paint- 
ing bow  to  us  some  of  these  days." 

"  Did  she  actually  consent,  though  ?  "  ask- 
ed the  father,  somewhat  doubtfully. 

"  Positively,  Sir  Thomas  ;  make  your  mind 
easy  upon  that  point.  To  be  sure,  there 
were  jDrotestations  and  entreaties,  and  God 
knows  what ;  but  still  the  consent  was 
giveii," 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


521 


"Exactly,  exactly,"  replied  her  father  ;  "I 
knew  it  would  be  so.  Well,  now,  let  us  not 
lose  much  time  about  it.  I  told  those  law- 
yers to  wait  a  little  for  further  instnictions, 
because  I  was  anxious  to  hear  how  this  inter- 
view would  end,  feelinf^  some  apprehension 
that  she  mip^ht  relapse  into  obstinacy  ;  but 
now  that  she  has  consented,  we  shall  ^o  on. 
They  may  meet  to-morrow,  and  get  the 
necessary  writings  drawn  up  ;  and  then  for 
the  wedding." 

"  Will  not  my  father's  iUness  stand  a  little 
in  the  way  ?  "  asked  Dunroe. 

"  Not  a  bit ;  why  should  it  ?  But  he  really 
is  not  ill,  only  getting  feeble  and  obstinate. 
The  man  is  in  his  dotage.  I  saw  him  yester- 
day, and  he  refused,  most  perversely,  to 
sanction  the  marriage  until  some  facts  shall 
come  to  his  knowledge,  of  which  he  is  not 
quite  certain  at  present.  I  told  him  the  young 
people  would  not  wait ;  and  he  i-ephed,  that 
if  I  give  you  my  daughter  now,  I  shall  do  so 
at  my  peril  ;  and  that  I  may  consider  myself 
forewarned.  I  know  he  is  thinking  of  3'our 
peccadilloes,  my  lord,  for  he  nearly  told  me 
as  much  before.  I  think,  indeed,  he  is  cer- 
tainly doting,  otherwise  there  is  no  under- 
standing him." 

"  You  are  right.  Sir  Thomas  ;  the  fuss  he 
makes  about  moraUty  and  rehgion  is  a  proof 
that  he  is.  In  the  meantime,  I  agi'ee  with 
you  that  there  is  little  time  to  be  lost.  The 
lawyers  must  set  to  work  immediately  ;  and 
the  sooner  the  better,  for  I  am  naturally  im- 
patient." 

They  then  shook  hands  very  cordially,  and 
Dunroe  took  his  leave. 

The  reader  may  have  observed  that  in  this 
conversation  the  latter  reduced  his  account 
of  the  interview  to  mere  generahties,  a  mode 
of  reporting  it  which  was  agreeable  to  both, 
as  it  spared  each  of  them  some  feeling. 
Dunroe,  for  instance,  never  mentioned  a 
syUable  of  Lucy's  ha\dng  frankly  avowed  her 
passion  for  another  ;  neither  did  Sir  Thom- 
as make  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  settled 
disinclination  to  marry  him  which  he  knew 
she  all  along  felt.  Indifferent,  however,  as 
Dunroe  naturally  was  to  high-minded  feel- 
ing or  pi"inciple,  he  could  not  summon  cour- 
age to  dweU  upon  this  attachment  of  Luc}- 
to  another.  A  consciousness  of  his  utter 
meanness  and  degradation  of  spirit  in  con- 
senting to  marry  any  woman  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, tilled  liim  with  shame  even  to 
glance  at  it.  He  feared,  besides,  that  if  her 
knavish  father  had  heard  it,  he  would  at 
once  have  attributed  his  conduct  to  its  proper 
motives — that  is  to  say,  an  eagerness  to  get 
into  the  possession  and  eujojnnent  of  the 
large  fortune  to  which  she  was  entitled-  He 
himself,  in  his  conversations  with  the   baro- 


net, never  alluded  to  the  subject  of  dovvry, 
but  i^laced  his  anxiety  for  the  match  alto- 
gether to  the  account  of  love.  So  far,  then, 
each  was  acting  a  fraudulent  part  toward  the 
other. 

The  next  morning,  about  the  honr  of  eleven 
o'clock,  Thomas  Corbet — foster-brother  to 
the  baronet,  though  a  much  younger  man — 
sent  word  that  he  wished  to  see  him  on  par- 
ticular business.  This  was  quite  sufficient ; 
for,  as  Corbet  was  known  to  be  more  deeply 
in  his  confidence  than  any  other  man  living, 
he  was  instantly  {xdmitted. 

"  Well,  Corbet,"  said  his  master,  "  I  hope 
there  is  nothing  wrong." 

"  Sir  Thomas,"  rei)Lied  the  other,  "  you 
have  a  right  to  be  a  happy  and  a  thankful 
man  this  moniing  ;  and  although  I  cannot 
mention  the  joyful  intelligence  with  which  I 
am  commissioned,  without  grief  and  shame 
for  the  conduct  of  a  ne;u'  relation  of  my  own, 
yet  I  feel  this  to  be  the  hapjiiest  day  of  my 
life." 

"  AVliat  the  deuce  ! "  exclaimed  the  bai'o- 
net,  stai-ting  to  his  feet — "how  is  this? 
What  is  the  intelligence  ?  " 

"  Rejoice,  Sir  Thomas — rejoice  and  be 
thankful  ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  pray  sit 
down,  if  you  please,  and  don't  be  too  much 
agitated.  I  know  how  eril  news,  or  anything 
that  goes  in  opposition  to  your  will,  affects 
you :  the  two  escapes,  for  instance,  of  that 
boy." 

"  Ha  !  I  understand  you  now,"  exclaimed 
the  baronet,  whilst  the  very  eyes  danced  in 
his  head  with  a  savage  delight  that  was 
frightful,  and,  for  the  sake  of  human  nature, 
painful  to  look  upon,  "  I  understand  you 
now,  Corbet — he  is  dead  !  eh  ?  Is  it  not  so  ? 
Yes,  yes — it  is — it  is  true.  Well,  you  shall 
have  a  present  of  one  hundred  pounds  for 
the  intelligence.  You  shall,  and  that  in  the 
course  of  five  minutes." 

"Sir  Thomas,"  replied  Corbet,  calmly, 
have  patience  ;  the  person,  Fenton,  you  speak 
about,  is  still  alive  ;  but  to  all  intents  and 
puiposcs,  dead  to  you  and  for  you.  This, 
however,  is  another  and  a  far  diff'erent  af- 
fair.    Your  son  has  been  found  !  " 

The  baronet's  brow  fell :  he  looked  grave, 
and  more  like  a  man  disapiiointcd  than  any- 
thing else.  In  fact,  the  feeling  associated 
%rith  the  I'ecovery  of  his  son  was  not  strong 
enough  to  balance  or  counteract  that  which 
he  experienced  in  connection  with  the  hoped- 
for  death  of  the  other.  He  recovered  him' 
self,  however,  and  exclaimed, 

"  Found  !  Tom  found  !— little  Tom  fovmd ! 
My  God  !    Wlien' — where — how  ?  " 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  sit  down,  sir,"  re- 
plied Corbet,  "  an<l  I  will  tell  you." 

The  bai-onet  took  a  seat,  but  the  feeling  ol 


522 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


disappointment,  although  checked  by  the  in- 
telligence of  his  son,  was  not  extinguished, 
and  could  still  be  read  in  his  countenance. 
He  tm-ned  his  eyes  upon  Corbet  and  said, 

"  Well,  Corbet,  go  on ;  he  is  not  dead, 
though?" 

"No,  sir;  thank  God,  he  is  not." 

"  Who — who — ai-e  you  speaking  of  ?  Oh, 
I  forgot — proceed.  Yes,  Corbet,  you  are 
right ;  I  am  very  much  disturbed.  Well, 
speak  about  my  son.  Where  is  he  ?  In  what 
condition  of  life  ?  Is  he  a  gentleman — a  beg- 
ger — a  profligate — what  ?  " 

"  You  remember.  Sir  Thomas — hem — you 
remember  that  unfortunate  affair  with  my 
sister  ?  " 

Corbet's  face  became  deadly  pale  as  he 
spoke,  and  his  voice  gi'ew,  by  degrees,  hol- 
low and  husky  ;  yet  he  was  both  calm  and 
cool,  as  far,  at  least,  as  human  observation 
could  form  a  conjecture. 

"  Of  course  I  do  ;  it  was  a  painful  busi- 
ness ;  but  the  girl  was  a  fool  for  losing  her 
senses." 

"  Hear  me,  Sir  Thomas.  "WTien  her  child 
died,  you  may  remember  mj  father  sent  me 
to  you,  as  its  parent,  for  the  means  of  giving 
it  decent  interment.  You  cannot  forget  your 
words  to  me  on  that  occasion.  I  confess  I 
felt  them  myseK  as  veiy  offensive.  "VMiat, 
then,  must  his  mother  have  suffered — wild, 
unsettled,  and  laboiing,  as  she  was,  under  a 
desperate  sense  of  the  injury  she  had  ex- 
perienced at  your  hands  ?  " 

"  But  why  have  mentioned  it  to  her  ?  " 

"I  confess  I  was  wrong  there  ;  but  I  did 
so  to  make  her  feel  more  severely  the  conse- 
quences of  her  own  conduct.  I  did  it  more 
in  anger  to  her  than  to  you.  My  words, 
however,  instead  of  producing  violence  or 
outrage  on  my  sister,  seemed  to  make  her 
settle  down  into  a  fearful  silence,  which  none 
of  us  could  get  her  out  of  for  several  days. 
It  stinick  us  that  her  unfortunate  malady 
had  taken  a  new  tui-n,  and  so  it  did.'" 

"WeU?    Well?     Well?" 

"  Soon  after  that,  your  son,  Master  Thomas, 
disappeared.  You  may  understand  me  now : 
it  was  she  who  took  him." 

"  Ah  !  the  vindictive  vagabond  ! "  exclaimed 
the  baronet. 

"  Have  patience,  Sir  Thomas.  She  took 
your  httle  boy  with  no  kind  intention  toward 
him  :  her  object  was  to  leave  you  without  a 
,  son  ;  her  object,  ia  fact,  was,  at  first,  to  mur- 
der him,  in  consequence  of  your  want,  as 
she  thought,  of  all  paternal  affection  for  him 
she  had  just  lost,  and,  in  short,  of  yovir 
whole  conduct  toward  her.  The  mother's 
instinct,  however,  proved  stronger  than  her 
revenge.  She  could  not  take  away  the 
child's  hfe  for  the  thought  of  her  own  ;  but 


she  privately  placed  him  with  an  uncle  ol 
oiu's,  a  classical  hedge-school-master,  in  a 
remote  part  of  the  kmgdom,  with  whom  he 
lived  under  a  feigned  name,  and  from  whom 
he  received  a  good  education." 

"But  where  is  he  now?  "  asked  the  other. 
"  How  does  he  live  ?  Why  not  bring  him 
here  ?  " 

"He  must  fii-st  wait  your  pleasure,  you 
know.  Sir  Thomas.  He's  in  town,  and  has 
been  in  town  for  some  time,  a  student  in 
college." 

"  That's  very  good,  indeed  ;  we  must  have 
him  out  of  college,  though.  Poor  Lucy  wiU 
go  distracted  with  joy,  to  know  that  she  has 
now  a  brother.  Bring  him  here,  Corbet ; 
but  stoj),  stay — his  appearance  noiv — let  me 
see — caution,  Corbet— caution.  We  must 
look  before  us.  Miss  Gourlay,  you  know,  is 
about  to  be  married.  Dunroe,  I  understand ; 
he  cares  httle  or  nothing  personally  about 
the  girl — it  is  her  fortune,  but  principally 
her  inheritance,  he  loves.  It  is  ti-ue,  he 
doesn't  think  that  I  even  susjDect  this,  much 
less  feel  certain  of  it.  How  does  the  young 
fellow  look,  though  ?     Good  looking — eh  ?  "  * 

"Exceedingly  like  his  father,  sir  ;  as  you 
will  admit  on  seeing  him." 

"He  must  have  changed  considerably, 
then ;  for  I  remember  he  was  supposed  to 
bear  a  nearer  resemblance  to  his  mother  and 
her  family,  the  only  thing  which  took  him 
dowTi  a  little  in  my  affection.  But  hold  ; 
hang  it,  I  am  disturbed  more  than  I  have 
been  this  long  time.  What  was  I  speaking 
of,  Corbet?  I  forgot — by  the  way,  I  hope 
this  is  not  a  bad  sign  of  my  health." 

"You  were  talking  of  Dunroe,  su*,  and 
]\Iiss  Goiuiay's  marriage." 

"Oh,  yes,  so  I  was.  Well — yes — here  it 
is,  Corbet — is  it  not  possible  that  the  appear- 
ance of  this  young  man  at  this  particular 
crisis — stejDping  in,  as  he  does,  between 
Dunroe  and  the  veiy  property  his  heart  is 
set  upon — might  knock  the  thing  to  pieces  ? 
and  there  is  all  that  I  have  had  my  heart  set 
upon  for  years — that  grand  project  of  ambi- 
tion for  my  daughter — gone  to  the  winds, 
and  she  must  put  up  with  some  rascally 
commoner,  after  all." 

"  It  is  certainly  jDOSsible,  su- ;  and,  besides, 
eveiy  one  knows  that  Lord  Dunroe  is 
needy,  and  wants  money  at  present  very 
much." 

"In  any  event,  Corbet,  it  is  om'  best 
policy  to  keep  this  discovery  a  profound  se- 
cret till  after  the  man-iage,  when  it  can't  af- 
fect IMiss  Gourlay,  or  Lady  Dunroe  as  she 
wiU  then  be." 

"Indeed,  I  agi-ee  with  you,  Sir  Thomas; 
but,  in  the  meantime,  you  had  better  see 
your  son  ;  he  is  impatient  to  come  to  you 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


523 


and  his  sister.  It  was  only  last  night  that 
the  secret  of  his  birth  was  made  known  to 
him." 

"  By  what  name  does  he  go  ?  " 

"  By  the  name  of  Ambrose  Gray,  sir  ;  but 
I  cannot  tell  you  why  my  sister  gave  him 
such  a  name,  nor  where  she  got  it.  She  was 
at  the  time  very  unsettled.  Of  late  her  rea- 
son has  returned  to  her  very  much,  thank 
God,  although  she  has  still  touches  of  her 
unfortunate  complaint ;  but  they  are  sUght, 
and  are  getting  more  so  every  time  they 
come.     I  trust  she  will  soon  be  quite  well." 

The  baronet  fixed  his  eye  upon  the  speaker 
with  peculiar  steadiness. 

"Corbet,"  said  he,  "you  know  you  have 
lost  a  great  deal  of  my  confidence  of  late. 
The  knowledge  of  certain  transactions  which 
reached  that  strange  fellow  who  stopped  in 
the  Mitre,  you  were  never  able  to  account 
for." 

"And  never  ■noil,  sir,  I  fear;  I  can  make 
nothing  of  that." 

"  It  must  be  between  3'ou  and  your  father, 
then  ;  and  if  I  thought  so " 

He  paused,  however,  but  feared  to  proceed 
with  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  threat,  feel- 
ing that,  so  far  as  the  fate  of  poor  Fenton 
was  concerned,  he  still  lay  at  their  mercy. 

"It  may  have  been  my  father,  Sir  Thomas, 
and  I  am  inclined  to  think  it  must,  too,  as 
there  was  no  one  else  could.  Our  best  j^lan, 
however,  is  to  keep  quiet  and  not  provoke 
him.  A  very  short  time  ■\^ill  put  us  out  of 
his  power.  Fenton's  account  yAWi  this  world 
is  nearly  settled." 

"I  wish,  with  all  my  heai't,  it  was  closed," 
observed  the  other  ;  "  it's  a  dreadful  thing 
to  feel  that  you  are  liable  to  every  accident, 
and  never  beyond  the  reach  of  exposiu'e.  To 
me  such  a  thing  woultl  be  death." 

"  You  need  entertain  no  apprehension,  Sir 
Thomas.  The  young  man  is  safe,  at  last ; 
he  will  never  come  to  hght,  you  may  rest 
assured.  But  about  your  son — will  you  not 
see  him  ?  " 

"Certainly  ;  order  the  can-iage,  and  fetch 
him — quietl}'  and  as  secretly  as  you  can,  ob- 
serve— his  sister  must  see  him,  too  ;  and  in 
order  to  prejiiU'e  her,  I  must  first  see  her. 
Go  now,  and  lose  no  time  about  it." 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  a  cairiage,  Sir 
Thomas ;  I  can  have  him  here  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hoiu'." 

Su-  Thomas  went  to  the  drawing-room 
with  the  expectation  of  finding  Lucy  there — 
a  proof  that  the  discovery  of  his  son  aflected 
him  veiy  much,  and  deeply ;  for,  in  general 
his  habit  when  he  wanted  to  speak  ^\■itl^  her 
was  to  have  her  brought  to  the  librjuw,  which 
was  his  favorite  apartment.  She  Avas  not 
there,   however,   and    without  ringing,    or 


making  any  further  inquiries,  he  proceeded 
to  an  elegant  httle  boudoir,  formerly  occu- 
pied by  her  mother  and  herself,  before  thi$ 
insane  persecution  had  rendered  her  hfe  so 
wretched.  The  chief  desire  of  her  heart 
now  was  to  look  at  and  examine  and  con- 
tempkite  every  object  that  belonged  to  that 
mother,  or  in  which  she  ever  took  an  inter- 
est. On  this  {iccount,  she  had  of  hite  select- 
ed this  boudoir  as  her  favorite  apartment ; 
and  here,  Ijlug  asleep  upon  a  sofa,  her  cheek 
resting  upon  one  arm,  the  bju-onet  found 
her.  He  aj^px-oached  calmly,  and  with  a 
more  extraordinary  combination  of  feehngs 
than  perhaps  he  had  ever  experienced  in 
his  Ufe,  looked  upon  her ;  and  whether  it 
was  the  unprotected  helplessness  of  sleep, 
or  the  mournful  impress  of  suflering  and 
sorrow,  that  gave  such  a  touching  cliarm  to 
her  beauty,  or  whether  it  was  the  united  in- 
fluence of  both,  it  is  difficult  to  say  ;  but 
the  fact  was,  that  for  an  instant  he  felt  one 
touch  of  pity  at  his  heai-t. 

"  She  is  evidently  vmhappy,"  thought  he, 
as  he  contemplated  her  ;  "  and  that  face, 
lovely  as  it  is,  has  become  the  exponent  of 
misery  and  distress.  Goodness  me  !  how 
wan  she  is !  how  pale !  and  how  distinctly 
do  those  beautiful  blue  veins  nm  through 
her  white  and  death-like  temples  !  Perhaps, 
after  all,  I  am  wrong  in  urging  on  this 
maiiiage.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  no 
fixed  principle  fi'om  any  source  sufficiently 
authentic  to  guide  me  ;  no  creed  which  I 
can  believe.  This  life  is  even-thing  to  us  ; 
for  what  do  we  know,  what  can  we  know,  of 
another?  And  yet,  could  it  be  that  for  my 
indifference  to  Avhat  is  termed  revealed  truth, 
God  Almighty  is  now  making  me  the  instru- 
ment of  my  own  punishment  ?  But  how 
can  I  receive  this  doctiine  ?  for  here,  before 
my  eyes,  is  not  the  innocent  sufleiing  as 
much,  if  not  more,  than  the  guilty,  even 
granting  that  I  am  so  ?  And  if  I  am  per- 
versely incredulous,  is  not  here  my  son  re- 
stored to  me,  as  if  to  rewai'd  my  unbehef  ? 
It  is  a  mysterious  maze,  and  I  .shall  never 
get  out  of  it  ;  a  curse  to  know  that  the  moat 
we  can  ever  know  is,  that  we  know — noth- 
ing. Yet  I  will  go  on  with  this  marriage. 
Pale  as  that  brow  is,  I  must  see  it  encircled 
by  the  coronet  of  a  countess  ;  I  must  see 
her,  as  she  ought  to  be,  high  in  rank  as  she 
is  in  tnith,  in  vu-tue,  in  time  dignity.  I  shall 
force  the  world  to  make  obeisance  to  her  ; 
and  I  shall  teach  her  afterwai-ds  to  despise 
it.  She  once  said  to  me,  '  And  is  it  to  gain 
the  applause  of  a  world  you  hate  imd  desj)ise, 
that  you  wish  to  exalt  me  to  such  a  bawble  ?' 
— meaning  the  coronet.  I  replied,  '  Yes, 
and  for  that  very  reason.'  I  shall  not  now 
disturb  her." 


d24 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJ^'S  WORKS. 


He  was  about  to  leave  tlie  room,  when  he 
noticed  that  her  bosom  began  suddenly  and 
rapidly  to  heave,  as  if  by  some  sti-ong  and 
fearful  agitation  ;  and  a  series  of  close,  pain- 
ful sobbings  proceeded  fi'om  her  half-closed 
lijis.  This  tumult  went  on  for  a  httle,  when 
at  length  it  was  terminated  by  one  long, 
wild  scream,  that  might  be  supposed  to  pro- 
ceed fi'om  the  very  agony  of  despaii*  itself ; 
and  opening  her  eyes,  she  staiied  uj),  her 
face,  if  possible,  paler  than  before,  and  her 
eyes  filled  as  if  with  the  terror  of  some  hor- 
rible ^•ision. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  the  sacrifice  is  complete 
— I  am  your  wife  ;  but  there  is  henceforth 
an  eternal  gulf  between  us,  across  which  you 
shall  never  di'ag  me." 

On  gazing  about  her  with  wild  and  dis- 
tm'bed  looks,  she  jDaused  for  moment,  and, 
seeing  her  father,  she  rose  ujd,  and  with  a 
countenance  changed  fi'om  its  wildness  to 
one  in  which  was  depicted  an  expression  so 
woe-begone,  so  deplorable,  so  full  of  sorrow, 
that  it  was  scai'cely  in  human  nature,  hard- 
ened into  the  indui'ation  of  the  world's 
worst  siDU'it,  not  to  feel  its  iiTesistible  influ- 
ence. She  then  threw  her  anns  imploringly 
and  tenderly  about  his  neck,  and  looking 
into  his  eyes  as  if  she  were  supplicating  for 
immortal  salvation  at  his  hands,  she  said, 
"Oh,  papa,  have  comjmssion  on  me." 

"What's  the  matter,  Lucy?  what's  the 
matter,  my  love?" 

But  she  only  repeated  the  words,  "Oh, 
papa,  have  pity  on  me  !  have  mercy  on  me, 
papa !  Save  me  fi'om  destruction — from 
despnir — fi*om  madness  ! " 

"  You  don't  answer  me,  child.  You  have 
been  dreaming,  and  are  not  properly  awake." 

Still,  however,  the  arms — the  beautiful 
arms — clung  around  his  neck  ;  and  stiU  the 
mournful  suj^pUcation  was  repeated. 

"  Oh,  papa,  have  pity  upon  me  !  Look  at 
me !  Am  I  not  your  daughter  ?  Have 
mercy  ujion  yoiu-  daughter,  paj^a !  "  And 
stiU  she  climg  to  him  ;  and  still  those  eyes, 
from  which  the  tears  now  flowed  in  torrents, 
were  imploring  him,  and  gazing  through  his 
into  the  ver}'  soul  within  him  ;  then  she 
kissed  his  lij^s,  and  hung  ui^on  him  as  upon 
her  last  stay  ;  and  the  soft  but  melting  ac- 
cents were  again  breathed  mournfully  and 
imploringly  as  before.  "  Oh,  have  pity  upon 
me,  beloved  papa — have  pity  upon  your 
child ! " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Lucy?  what  are  you 
asking,  my  dear  girl  ?  I  am  wiUing  to  do 
anything  I  can  to  promote  your  happiness. 
What  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  fear  to  teU  you,  papa  ;  but  surely  you 
understand  me.  Oh,  relent !  as  you  hope 
for  heaveo's  mercy,  pity  cie.    J  have,  for 


your  sake,  imdertaken  too  much.  I  have  not 
strength  to  fulfil  the  task  I  imposed  on 
myself.  I  will  die  ;  you  will  see  me  dead  at 
jowx  feet,  and  then  youi'  lout  one  will  be  gone. 
You  will  be  alone  ;  and  I  shovdd  wash  to 
hve  for  yoiu*  sake,  papa.  Look  upon  me  ! 
I  am  your  only  child — 3'our  only  child — your 
last,  as  I  said  ;  and  do  not  make  your  last 
and  only  one  miserable — miserable — mad  ! 
Only  have  compassion  on  me,  and  release  me 
fi'om  this  engagement." 

The  baronet's  eye  brightened  at  the  last 
two  or  three  allusions,  and  he  looked  upon 
her  mth  a  benignity  that  filled  her  unhappy 
heart  with  hope. 

"  Oh,  speak,  papa,"  she  exclaimed,  "  speak. 
I  see,  I  feel  that  you  are  about  to  give  me 
comfort — to  fill  my  heart  with  joy." 

"  I  am,  indeed,  Lucy.  Listen  to  me,  and 
restrain  yourself.  You  are  not  vny  only 
chHd ! " 

"  WTiat ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  do  you 
mean,  papa  ?    "WTiat  is  it  ?  " 

"Have  strength  and  courage,  Lucy;  and, 
mark  me,  no  noise  nor  rout  about  what  I  am 
going  to  say.  Your  brother  is  found — my 
son  Thomas  is  found — and  you  will  soon  see 
him  ;  he  will  be  here  j^resently.  Get  rid  of 
this  foohsh  dream  you've  had,  and  jDrepare 
to  receive  him  !  " 

"  My  brother ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  my  broth- 
er !  and  have  I  a  brother  ?  Then  God  has 
not  deserted  me  ;  I  shall  now  have  a  fi'iend. 
My  brother  ! — my  brother  !  But  is  it  possi- 
ble, or  am  I  dreaming  still  ?  Oh,  w^here  is 
he,  papa  ?  Bring  me  to  him  ! — is  he  in  the 
house  ?  Or  where  is  he  ?  Let  the  carriage 
be  ordered,  and  we  will  both  go  to  him, 
Alas,  what  maj^  not  the  poor  boy  have  sufter- 
ed  !  "\Miat  privations,  what  necessities,  what 
distress  and  destitution  may  he  not  have  suf- 
fered !  But  that  matters  httle ;  come  to 
him.  Li  want,  in  rags,  in  misery,  he  is  wel- 
come— yes,  welcome  ;  and,  oh,  how  much 
more  if  he  has  sufiered." 

"  Have  i:)atience,  child  ;  he  will  be  here  by 
and  by.  You  cannot  long  to  see  him  more 
than  I  do.  But,  Lucy,  listen  to  me  ;  for  the 
present  we  must  keejj  his  discovery  and 
restoration  to  us  a  jirofound  secret." 

"A  profound  secret!  and  why  so,  papa? 
Why  should  we  keej)  it  secret  ?  Is  it  not  » 
circumstance  which  we  should  j^ubhsh  to  the 
w^orld  with  delight  and  gratitude  ?  Surely 
you  will  not  bring  him  into  this  house  lilie  a 
criminal,  in  secrecy  and  silence?  Should 
the  lawful  heir  of  yoiu"  name  and  jDroperty  be 
suffered  to  enter  othei-wise  than  as  becomes 
him  ?  Oh,  that  I  could  see  him  !  Will  he 
soon  be  here  ?  " 

"  How  your  tongue  nins  on,  you  foolish 
girl,  -without  knovring  what  you  say," 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


525 


"  I  know  what  I  say,  papa.  I  know — I 
feel— that  he  will  be  a  friend  to  me — that  he 
will  share  with  me  in  my  sorrows." 

"  Yes,  the  sorrows  of  being  made  a  coun- 
tess." 

"And  a  wretched  woman,  papa.  Yes,  he 
will  sympathize  with,  sustain,  and  console 
me.  Dear,  dear  brother,  how  I  wish  to  see 
you,  to  press  you  to  my  heart,  and  to  give 
you  a  sister's  teuderest  welcome  !  " 

"  Will  you  hear  me,  madam  ? "  said  he, 
sternly  ;  "I  desire  you  to  do  so." 

"  Yes,  papa  ;  excuse  me.  My  head  is  in  a 
tumult  of  joy  and  sorrow ;  but  for  the 
present  I  will  forget  myself.  Yes,  papa,  speak 
on  ;  I  hear  you." 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,  it  is  absolutely 
necessaiy,  for  reasons  which  I  am  not  yet  at 
libei-ty  to  disclose  to  you,  that  the  discovery 
of  this  boy  should  be  kept  strictly  secret  for 
a  time." 

"  For  a  time,  i:)apa,  but  not  long,  I  hope. 
How  proud  I  shall  feel  to  go  out  with  him. 
We  shall  be  inseparable  ;  and  if  he  wants  in- 
structions, I  shall  teach  him  everji:hing  I 
know." 

"  Arrange  all  that  between  you  as  you 
may,  only  obsei-ve  me,  I  repeat.  None  in 
this  house  knows  of  his  restoration  but  I, 
yourself,  and  Corbet.  He  must  not  hve 
nei'e  ;  but  he  shall  want  neither  the  comforts 
nor  the  elegancies  of  Hfe,  at  all  events.  This 
is  enough  for  the  present,  so  mark  my  words, 
and  abide  b}-  them." 

He  then  left  her,  and  retired  to  his  private 
room,  where  he  unlocked  a  cabinet,  from 
which  he  took  out  some  papers,  and  having 
added  to  them  two  or  thi-ee  paragraphs,  he 
read  the  whole  over,  fi'om  beginning  to  end, 
then  locked  them  ujd  again,  and  retiUTied  to 
the  library. 

The  reader  may  perceive  that  this  unex- 
pected discovery  enabled  the  baronet  to  ex- 
tricate himself  from  a  situation  of  much 
difficulty  with  respect  to  Lucy  ;  nor  did  he 
omit  to  avail  himself  of  it,  in  oi'dcr  to  give  a 
new  turn  to  her  feelings.  The  affectionate 
girl's  heart  was  now  in  a  tumult  of  dehght, 
checked,  however,  so  obviously  by  the 
gloomy  retrospection  of  the  obhgation  she 
had  imposed  upon  herself,  that  fi'om  time  to 
time  she  could  not  repress  those  short  sobs 
by  which  recent  gi'ief,  as  in  the  case  of 
children  who  are  soothed  after  crying,  is 
fi-equently  indicated.  Next  to  the  hated 
marriage,  howevei',  that  wliich  pressed  most 
severely  upon  her  was  the  recollection  of  the 
manly  imd  admirable  quahties  of  him  whom 
she  had  now  forever  lost,  especially  as  con- 
trasted with  those  of  Dunroe.  The  former, 
for  some  time  past,  has  been  much  engaged 
in  atteroptrng  to  trace  Fentou,  as  well  as  itt 


business  connected  with  his  own  fortunes ; 
and  yet  so  high  was  his  feeling  of  generosity 
and  honor,  that,  if  left  to  the  freedom  of  his 
own  will,  he  would  have  postponed  every  ex- 
eriion  for  the  establishment  of  his  just  rights 
until  death  should  have  prevented  at  least 
one  honored  individual  from  experiencing 
the  force  of  the  blow  which  must  necessarily 
be  inflicted  on  him  by  his  proceedings. 

At  the  moment  when  the  baronet  was 
gi\-ing  such  an  adroit  turn  to  the  distracted 
state  of  his  daughter's  mind,  the  stranger  re- 
solved to  see  Birney,  who  was  then  prepar- 
ing to  visit  France,  as  agent  in  liis  aftairs,  he 
himself  having  preferred  staging  near  Lucy, 
from  an  apprehension  that  his  absence  might 
induce  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  to  force  on  her 
maiTiage.  On  passing  through  the  haU  of 
his  hotel,  he  met  his  friend  Father  ^I'Mixhon, 
who,  much  to  liis  sui-prise,  looked  cai-ewora 
and  pei*plexed,  haring  lost,  since  he  saw  him 
last,  much  of  his  natural  cheerfulness  and 
easy  simplicity  of  character.  He  looked 
travel-stained,  too,  and  altogether  had  the 
appearance  of  a  man  on  whose  kind  heart 
something  unpleasant  was  pressing. 

"My  excellent  fiiend,"  said  he,  "lam 
heartily  glad  to  see  you.  But  how  is  this  ? 
you  look  as  if  something  was  wrong,  and  you 
have  been  travelling.  Come  uj^stairs  ;  and  if 
you  have  any  lengthened  stay  to  make  in 
town,  consider  yourself  my  guest.  Nay,  as 
it  is,  you  must  stop  with  me.  Here,  Dandy 
— here,  you  Dulcimer,  bring  in  this  gentle- 
man's luggage,  and  attend  him  punctually." 

Dandy,  who  had  been  coming  fi'om  the 
kitchen  at  the  time,  was  about  to  comply 
with  his  ordei-s,  when  he  was  prevented  by 
the  priest. 

"Stop,  Dandy,  you  thief.  My  luggage, 
sir !  Li  tnith,  the  only  luggage  I  have  is 
this  bundle  under  my  arm.  As  to  my  time 
in  town,  sir,  I  hope  it  won't  be  long  ;  but, 
long  or  short,  I  must  stop  at  my  ould  place, 
the  Brazen  Head,  for  not  an  hour's  comfort 
I  could  have  in  any  other  place,  m;my  thanks 
to  you.  I'm  now  on  my  way  to  it ;  but  I 
thought  I'd  give  you  a  caU  when  passing." 

They  then  proceeded  upstairs  to  the 
stranger's  room,  where  brejxkfast  was  soon 
prorided  for  the  priest,  who  expressed  an 
anxiety  to  know  how  the  stranger's  aft'airs 
proceeded,  and  whether  any  siitisfactory 
trace  of  poor  Fenton  had  been  obtained. 

"  Nothing  satisfactory  has  turned  uj)  in 
either  case,"  replied  the  stx-anger.  "  No 
additionixl  clew  to  the  poor  yoimg  fellow 
has  been  got,  and  still  my  oy<u  affaire  are 
far  fi'om  being  complete.  Tlie  loss  of  im- 
poi'tant  documents  obtained  by  myself  in 
France  will  render  it  necessary  for  Birney  to 
proceed  to  that  country,  iu  order  to  procwe 


526 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S  WORKS. 


fresh  copies.  I  had  intended  to  accompany 
Tiim  myself ;  but  I  have  changed  my  mind 
on  that  point,  and  prefer  remaining  where  I 
am,  A  servant  in  whom  I  had  eveiy  confi- 
dence, but  who,  unfortunately,  took  to  di'ink, 
and  worse  vices,  robbed  me  of  them,  and 
has  fled  to  America,  with  a  pretty  French- 
woman, after  having  abandoned  his  wife." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  replied  the  pi'iest,  "  that  is  the 
old  story  ;  fii'st  drink,  and  after  that  wicked- 
ness of  every  description.  All,  sir,  it's  a 
poor  wretched  world  ;  but  at  the  same  time 
it  is  as  God  made  it ;  and  it  beconies  our 
duty  to  act  an  honest  and  a  useful  part  in  it, 
at  all  events." 

"  You  seemed  depressed,  sir,  I  think," 
observed  the  stranger  ;  "I  hope  there  is  no- 
thing wi'ong.  If  there  is,  command  my  ser- 
vices, my  fi'iendship,  my  piu-se ;  in  each,  in 
all,  command  me." 

"  Many  thanks,  many  thanks,"  returned 
the  other,  seizing  him  warmly  by  the  hand, 
whilst  the  tears  feU  from  his  eyes.  "  I  wish 
there  were  more  in  the  world  like  you. 
There  is  nothing  wrong  with  me,  however, 
but  what  I  will  be  able,  I  hope,  to  set  right 
soon." 

"  I  tnast  you  wdll  not  allow  any  false  deh- 
cacy  to  stand  in  your  way,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,"  said  the  stranger.  "I  possess 
not  only  the  wish  but  the  ability  to  serve 
you  ;  and  if " 

"  Not  now,"  rephed  the  priest ;  "  nothing 
to  signify  is  wrong  with  me.  God  bless 
you,  though,  and  he  will,  too,  and  prosper 
your  honoraljle  endeavors.  I  must  go  now  : 
I  have  to  call  on  old  Corbet,  and  if  I  can  in- 
fluence him  to  assist  you  in  tracing  that 
poor  young  man,  I  will  do  it.  He  is  hard 
and  cunning,  I  know  ;  but  then  he  is  not  in- 
sensible to  the  fear  of  death,  which,  indeed, 
is  the  only  argument  likely  to  prevail  with 
him." 

"You  should  dine  with  me  to-day,"  said 
his  friend,  "  but  that  I  am  myself  engaged 
to  dine  with  Dean  Palmer,  where  I  am  to 
meet  the  colonel  of  the  Thirty-third,  and 
some  of  the  officers.  It  is  the  first  time  I 
have  dined  out  since  I  came  to  the  country. 
The  colonel  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and 
can  be  depended  on." 

"The  dean  is  a  brother-in-law  of  Lady 
Gourlay's,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  is." 

"Yes,  and  what  is  better  stiU,  he  is  an 
excellent  man,  and  a  good  Cluristian.  I  wish 
there  were  more  like  him  in  the  country.  I 
know  the  good  done  by  him  in  my  own 
neighborhood,  where  he  has  established,  by 
his  individual  exertions,  two  admirable  in- 
stitutions for  the  poor — a  savings'  bank  and 
a  loan  fund — to  the  manifest  relief  of  every 


struggling  man  who  is  kno^\Ti  to  be  indug- 
trious  and  honest ;  and  see  the  consequences 
— he  is  loved  and  honored  by  all  who  know 
him,  for  he  is  perpetually  doing  good." 

"  Your  own  bishop  is  not  behindhand  in 
ofiices  of  benevolence  and  charity,  any  more 
than  Dean  Palmer,"  observed  the  stranger. 

"In  truth,  you  may  say  so,"  rephed  the 
other.  "With  the  piety  and  humility  of  an 
apostle,  he  possesses  the  most  childlike  sim- 
l^Ucity  of  heart ;  to  which  I  may  add,  learn- 
ing the  most  profound  and  extensive.  His 
private  charity  to  the  jDoor  wiU  always  cause 
himself  to  be  ranked  among  their  number. 
I  wish  every  dean  and  bishop  in  the  two 
churches  resembled  the  Christian  men  we 
speak  of ;  it  would  be  weU  for  the  country." 

"Mr.  Bii-ney,  I  know,  stands  weU  with 
you.  I  believe,  and  I  take  it  for  granted, 
that  he  does  also  with  the  people." 

"  You  may  be  certain  of  that,  my  dear 
sir.  He  is  one  of  the  few  attorneys  who  is 
not  a  rogTie,  but,  what  is  stiU  more  extra- 
ordinary, an  honest  man  and  an  excellent 
landlord.  I  will  tell  you,  now,  what  he  did 
some  time  ago.  He  has  propertj^,  you  know, 
in  my  parish.  On  that  property  an  arrear 
of  upwards  of  eight  hundred  pounds  had 
accumulated.  Now,  this  arrear,  in  consider- 
ation of  the  general  depression  in  the  value 
of  agricultural  produce,  he  not  only  wiped 
off,  but  abated  the  rents  ten  per  cent. 
Again,  when  a  certain  impost,  which  shall 
be  nameless  (tithe),  became  a  settled  charge 
upon  the  lands,  under  a  composition  act, 
instead  of  charging  it  against  the  tenants, 
he  paid  it  himself,  never  calUng  upon  a  ten- 
ant to  pay  one  farthing  of  it.  Now,  I  men- 
tion these  things  as  an  example  to  be  held 
up  and  imitated  by  those  who  hold  landed 
property  in  general,  many  of  whom,  the  Lord 
knows,  require  such  an  example  badly  ;  but 
I  must  not  stop  here.  Our  friend  Bii-ney 
has  done  more  than  this. 

"  For  the  last  fifteen  years  he  has  pur- 
chased for  and  sujDplied  his  tenants  with 
flaxseed,  and  for  which,  at  the  subsequent 
gale  time,  in  October,  they  merely  repay 
him  the  cost  price,  without  interest  or  any 
other  charge  save  that  of  carriage. 

"He  also  gives  his  tenantry,  fi'ee  of  all 
charges,  as  much  turf-bog  as  is  necessary 
for  the  abundant  supply  of  their  own  fuel. 

"  He  has  all  along  paid  the  poor-rates, 
without  charging  one  farthing  to  the  tenant. 

"  During  a  season  of  potato  blight,  he  for- 
gave every  tenant  paying  under  ten  pounds, 
haK  a  year's  rent  ;  under  twenty,  a  quarter's 
rent ;  and  over  it,  twenty  per  cent.  Now,  it 
is  such  landlords  as  this  that  are  the  best 
benefactors  to  the  people,  to  the  country, 
and  ultimately  to  themselves ;  but,  unfortu- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


527 


natolj',  we  cannot  get  them  to  think  so  ;  and 
1  fear  that  nothing  but  the  iron  scourge  of 
necessity  will  ever  teach  them  their  duty, 
and  then,  like  most  other  knowledge  de- 
rived from  the  same  painfal  source,  it  will 
probably  come  too  late.  One  would  imagine 
a  landlord  ought  to  know  without  teaching, 
that,  when  he  presses  his  tenantry  until  they 
fall,  he  must  himseK  fall  with  them.  In 
tnith,  I  must  be  off  now." 

"  Well,  then,  promise  to  dine  with  me  to- 
morrow." 

"  If  I  can  I  will,  then,  with  pleasure  ;  but 
still  it  may  be  out  of  my  power.  I'll  try, 
however.     What's  your  hour  ?  " 

"  Suit  your  own  convenience :  name  it 
yourself." 

"  Good  honest  old  five  o'clock,  then  ;  that 
is,  if  I  can  come  at  aU,  but  if  I  cannot,  don't 
be  disappointed.  The  Lord  knows  I'U  do 
everj'thing  in  my  power  to  come,  at  any 
rate  ;  and  if  I  fail,  it  won't  be  my  heart  that 
will  liinder  me." 

"When  he  had  gone,  the  stranger,  after  a 
pause,  rang  his  bell,  and  in  a  few  moments 
Dandy  Dulcimer  made  his  appearance. 

"  Dandy,"  said  his  master,  "  I  feai'  we 
are  never  likely  to  trace  this  woman,  !Mi-s. 
Norton,  whom  I  am  so  anxious  to  find." 

"Begad,  plaise  your  honor,  and  it  isn't 
but  there's  enough  of  them  to  be  had.  Sure 
it's  a  lew  I'm  houldin'  every  day  in  the  week 
wid  them,  and  only  that  I'm  engaged,  as 
they  say,  I'd  be  apt  to  turn  some  o'  them 
into  Mrs.  Dulcimer." 

"  How  is  that.  Dandy  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  I  gave  out  that  you're  young 
and  handsome,  God  pardon  me." 

"  How,  sirra,"  said  his  master,  laughing, 
"  do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  am  not  ?  " 

"Well,  sir,  wait  till  you  hear,  and  then 
you  ma}'  answer  yourself ;  as  for  me,  afther 
what  I've  seen,  I'll  not  undertake  to  give  an 
opinion  on  the  subject.  I  suppose  I'm  an 
ugly  fellow  myself,  and  yet  I  know  a  sarLin 
fair  one  that's  not  of  that  opinion — ahem  !  " 

"  Make  yourself  intelligible  in  the  mean- 
time," said  his  master  :  "I  don't  properly 
understand  you." 

"That's  just  what  the  INIrs.  Nortons  say, 
your  honor.  '  I  don't  understand  you,  sir  ; ' 
and  that  is  bekaise  you  keep  me  in  the  dai'k, 
and  that  I  can't  explain  to  them  properl}' 
what  you  want  ;  divil  a  thing  but  an  oracle 
you've  made  of  me.  But  as  to  beauty — 
only  listen,  sir.  This  mornin'  there  came  a 
woman  to  me  wid  a  thin,  sharp  face,  a  fieiy 
eye  that  looked  as  if  she  had  a  drop  in  it,  or 
was  goin'  to  fight  a  north-wester,  and  a  thin, 
red  nose  that  was  nothing  else  than  a  stun- 
ner. She  was,  moreover,  a  good  deal  of  the 
gentleman  on  the  upper  hp — not  to  mention 


two  or  three  separate  plantations  of  the 
same  growth  on  different  paris  of  the  chin. 
Altogether,  I  was  very  much  struck  with 
her  appearance." 

"  You  are  too  descriptive.  Dandy,"  said 
his  master,  after  enjoying  the  description^ 
however  ;  "come  to  the  point." 

"  Ay,  that's  just  what  she  said,"  rephed 
Dandy,  "  coaxing  the  point  of  her  nose  veid 
her  finger  and  thumb  :  '  Come  to  the  point,' 
said  she  ;  '  mention  the  sei's'ices  yoiu-  master 
requires  from  me.' 

"'From  you,'  says  I,  lookin'  astonished, 
as  you  may  suppose — '  from  you,  ma'am  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  my  good  man,  fi-om  me  ;  I'm  JVIrs. 
Norton.' 

"'Ai-e  you  indeed,  ma'am?'  says  I;  'I 
hope  you're  weU,  IMi-s.  Norton.  My  master 
will  be  delighted  to  see  you.' 

"  '  What  kind  of  a  man  is  he  ? '  she  asked. 

"  '  Young  and  handsome,  ma'am,'  says  I ; 
'  quite  a  janious  in  beauty.' 

"  '  Well,'  says  my  lady,  '  so  far  so  good  ; 
I'm  young  and  handsome  myself,  as  you  see, 
and  I  dare  say  we'U  live  happily  enough  to- 
gether ; '  and  as  she  spoke,  she  jDushed  up 
an  old  bodice  that  was  tied  round  some- 
thing that  resembled  a  dried  skeleton,  which 
it  only  touched  at  points,  Hke  a  reel  in  a 
bottle,  stririn',  of  course,  to  show  off  a  good 
figiu-e  ;  she  then  winked  both  eyes,  as  if  she 
was  meetin'  a  cloud  o'  dust,  and  agin 
shuttin'  one,  as  if  she  was  coverin'  me  wid  a 
rifle,  whispered,  'You'll  find  me  generous 
maybe,  if  you  desai*\'e  it.  I'll  increase  your 
allowances  afther  our  marriage.' 

"'Thanks,  ma'am,'  says  I,  'but  my  mas- 
ther  isn't  a  mam^in'  man — vmfortunately,  be 
is  married  ;  still,'  says  I,  recoverin'  myself 
— for  it  struck  me  that  she  might  be  the 
right  woman,  afther  all — 'although  he's 
man-ied,  his  mfe's  an  invalid  ;  so  that  it'j 
likely  you  may  be  the  lady  still.  Were  you 
ever  in  France,  ma'am  ? ' 

"  '  No,'  says  she,  tossing  up  the  stunner 
I  spoke  of,  '  I  never  was  in  France  ;  but  I 
was  in  Tipperaiy,  if  that  would  saiTe  him.' 

"  I  shook  my  head,  your  honor,  as  much 
as  to  say — '  It's  no  go  this  time.' 

"'Ma'am,'  says  I,  'that's  imfortunate — 
my  masther,  when  he  gets  a  loose  leg,  will 
never  maiTj'  any  woman  that  has  not  been 
in  France,  and  can  dance  the  fandango  like 
a  Frenchman.' 

'"I  am  Sony  for  his  ta.ste,'  says  she,  '  and 
for  yours,  too  ;  but  at  all  events,  you  had 
better  go  iip  and  tell  him  that  I'll  ^valk  down 
the  opi^osite  side  of  the  street,  and  then  he 
can  see  what  he  has  lost,  and  feel  what  France 
has  cost  him.' 

"  She  then  walked,  sir,  or  rather  sailed, 
down  the  other  side  of  the  streeti  holdin'  up 


528 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  WORKS. 


her  clothes  behind,  to  show  a  pair  of  legs 
like  telescopes,  with  her  head  to  it's  full 
height,  and  one  eye  squintin'  to  the  hotel, 
like  a  crow  lookin'  into  a  maiTOw  bone." 

"Well,"  said  his  master,  "  but  I  don't  see 
the  object  of  aU  this." 

"  "Why,  the  object,  sir,  is  to  show  you 
that  it's  not  so  aisy  to  know  whether  a  per- 
son's young  and  handsome  or  not.  You, 
8U-,  thmk  yoiu'self  both  ;  and  so  did  the  old 
skeleton  I'm  spakin'  of." 

"  I  see  your  moral.  Dandy,"  repHed  his 
master,  laughing  ;  "  at  aU  events,  make  every 
possible  inquiiy,  but,  at  the  same  time,  in  a 
quiet  way.  More  depends  upon  it  than  you 
can  imagine.  Not,"  he  added,  in  a  kind  of 
half  soliloquy,  "  that  I  am  acting  in  this  affair 
fit'om  motives  of  a  mere  personal  natvu-e  ;  I  am 
now  only  the  representative  of  another's 
wishes,  and  on  that  accovmt,  more  than  fi'om 
any  residt  affecting  myself,  do  I  proceed  in 
it." 

"I  vrish  I  knew,  sir,"  said  Dandy,  "what 
kind  of  a  woman  this  IMrs.  Norton  is  ;  whether 
she's  old  or  young,  handsome  or  otherwise. 
At  all  events,  I  think  I  may  confine  myself  to 
them  that's  young  and  handsome.  It's 
always  pleasanter,  su',  and  more  agreeable  to 
deal  with  a  hands " 

"  Confine  yourseK  to  truth,  sir,"  rephed 
his  master,  shai'ply ;  "make  prudent  in- 
quu-ies,  and  in  doing  so  act  hke  a  man  of 
sense  and  discretion,  and  don't  attempt  to 
indidge  in  your  buffooneiy  at  my  expense. 
No  woman  named  Norton  can  be  the  indi- 
Tidual  I  want  to  find,  who  has  not  lived  for 
some  years  in  France.  That  is  a  sufficient 
test ;  and  if  you  shoiild  come  in  the  way  of 
the  woman  I  am  seeking,  who  alone  can  an- 
swer this  description,  I  shall  make  it  worth 
your  while  to  have  succeeded." 


CHAPTER  XXXm. 

The  Priest  asks  for  a  Loan  of  Fifty  Omneas,  and 
Offers  '•  Freney  the  Robber  "  as  Security. 

Whilst  Father  M'Mahon  was  wending  his 
way  to  Constitution  Hill  from  the  Brazen 
Head,  where  he  had  deposited  his  Httle  bun- 
dle, containing  three  shirts,  two  or  thi-ee 
cravats,  and  as  many  paii's  of  stockings,  a 
dialogue  was  taking  place  in  old  Corbet's 
with  which  we  must  make  the  reader  ac- 
quainted. He  is  ah-eady  aware  that  Corbet's 
present  wife  was  his  second,  and  that  she 
had  a  daughter  by  her  first  maniage,  who 
had  gone  abroad  to  the  East  Indies,  many 
years  ago,  -VN-ith  her  husband.  This  woman 
was  no  other  than  IVIrs,  M'Bride,  wife  of  the 


man  who  had  abandoned  her  for  the  Frei  <;h 
girl,  as  had  been  mentioned  by  the  stranger 
to  Father  M'Mahon,  and  who  had,  as  was 
supposed,  eloped  Avith  her  to  America.  Such 
cei'tainly  was  M'Bride's  intention,  and  there 
is  no  doubt  that  the  New  World  would  have 
been  edified  by  the  admirable  example  of 
these  two  morahsts,  were  it  not  for  the  fact 
that  Mi's.  M'Bride,  herself  as  shrewd  as  the 
Frenchwoman,  and  biu-dened  with  as  Httle 
honesty  as  the  husband,  had  traced  them  to 
the  place  of  rendez^^ous  on  the  very  first 
night  of  their  disapj^earance  ;  where,  whilst 
they  lay  overcome  with  sleep  and  the  influ- 
ence of  the  rosy  god,  she  contrived  to  les'sen 
her  husband  of  the  jDocketbook  which  he 
had  helped  himself  to  fi-om  his  master's  es- 
critou-e,  with  the  exception,  simj^ly,  of  the 
papers  in  question,  which,  not  being  money, 
possessed  in  her  eyes  but  httle  value  to  her. 
She  had  read  them,  however ;  and  as  she 
had  through  her  husband  become  acquainted 
with  theu'  object,  she  determined  on  leaving 
them  in  his  hands,  with  a  hope  that  they 
might  become  the  means  of  compromising 
matters  with  his  master,  and  probably  of 
gaining  a  reward  for  theii*  restoration.  Un- 
fortunately, however,  it  so  hapi^ened,  that 
that  gentleman  did  not  miss  them  until 
some  time  after  his  arrival  in  Ii-eland  ;  but, 
on  putting  matters  together,  and  comparing 
the  flight  of  M'Bride  with  the  loss  of  his 
property,  he  concluded,  with  everything 
short  of  certainty,  that  the  latter  was  the 
thief. 

Old  Corbet  and  this  woman  were  seated  in 
the  Httle  back  parlor  Avhilst  j\Ii'S.  Corbet  kept 
the  shop,  so  that  theu*  conversation  could 
take  a  fi-eer  range  in  her  absence. 

"And  so  you  teU  me,  Kate,"  said  the 
fonner,  "  that  the  vagabond  has  come  back 
to  the  countiT?" 

"  I  seen  him  with  my  own  eyes,"  she  re- 
pHed ;  "there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it." 

"And  he  doesn't  suspect  3'ou  of  takin'  the 
money  fi'om  him  ?  " 

"  No  more  than  he  does  you  ;  so  far  fi-om 
that,  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  it's  the  French- 
woman he  suspects." 

"  But  hadn't  you  better  caU  on  him  ?  that 
is,  if  you  know  where  he  Hves.  Maybe  he'p 
soriy  for  lea-s-in'  you." 

"  He,  the  Aillain  !  No  ;  you  don't  know 
the  Hfe  he  led  me.  If  he  was  my  husband — 
as  unfortunately  he  is — a  thousand  times 
over,  a  single  day  I'U  never  live  with  liim. 
This  lameness,  that  1 11  cany  to  my  gi-ave,  is 
his  work.  Oh,  no  ;  death  any  time  sooner 
than  that." 

"WeU,"  said  the  old  man,  after  a  lung 
pause,  "it's  a  strange  story  you've  tould  me; 
and  I'm  soitj',  for  Lrord  Cvdlamore'o  sake,  to 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


529 


near  it.  He's  one  o'  the  goo(f  ould  gentlemen 
that's  now  so  scarce  in  the  country.  But,  tell 
me,  do  you  know  where  M'Bride  lives  ?  " 

"No,"  she  replied,  "I  do  not,  neither  do  I 
care  much  ;  but  I'd  be  glad  that  his  old  mas- 
ter had  back  his  pajjers.  There's  a  woman 
supi)osed  to  be  livin'  in  this  country  that 
could  prove  this  stranger's  case,  and  he  came 
over  here  to  find  her  out  if  he  could." 

"  Do  you  know  her  name  ?  " 

"  No  ;l  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  it,  or,  if  I 
did,  I  can't  at  all  remember  it.  INI'Bride  men- 
tioned the  woman,  but  I  don't  think  he  nam- 
ed her." 

"  At  all  events,"  rephed  Corbet,  "  it  doesn't 
signify.  I  hope  whatever  steps  they're  takin' 
against  that  good  ould  nobleman  will  fail ; 
and  if  I  had  the  papers  you  sjjeak  of  this 
minute,  I'd  put  them  into  the  tii*e.  In  the 
mane  time  try  and  make  out  where  your 
vagabone  of  a  husband  lives,  or,  rather,  set 
Ginty  to  work,  as  she  and  you  are  Uving  to- 
gether, and  no  doubt  she'U  soon  ferret  him 
out." 

"  I  can  t  understand  Ginty  at  all,"  replied 
the  woman.  "I  think,  although  she  has 
given  up  fortune  teUin',  that  her  head's  not 
altogether  right  yet.  She  talks  of  workin' 
out  some  prophecy  that  she  tould  Sir  Thom- 
as Gourlay  about  himself  and  his  daughter." 

"  She  may  talk  as  much  about  that  as  she 
likes,"  rephed  the  old  fellow.  "  She  called 
him  plain  Thomas  Gourlay,  didn't  she,  and 
said  he'd  be  stiipped  of  his  title  ?  " 

"  So  she  told  me  ;  and  that  his  daughter 
would  be  mamed  to  Lord  Dunroe." 

"Ay,  and  so  she  tould  myself;  but  there 
she's  in  the  dark.  The  daughter  will  be 
Lady  Dunroe,  no  doubt,  for  they're  goin'  to 
be  married  ;  but  she's  takin'  a  bad  way  to 
work  out  the  prophecy  against  the  father  by 
— hem " 

"By  what?" 

"  I'm  not  fi'ee  to  mention  it,  Kate  ;  but  this 
ver}'  day  it's  to  take  place,  and  I  suppose  it'll 
soon  be  knowTi  to  even'body." 

"  Well,  but  sure  you  might  mention  it  to 
me." 

"  I'U  make  a  bargain  ■^\'ith  you,  then.  Set 
Ginty  to  work  ;  let  her  find  out  your  hus- 
band ;  get  me  the  papers  you  spake  of,  and 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  father.  I'm  sure  I 
don't  cai"e  if  you  had  them  this  minute.  Let 
Ginty  tiy  her  hand,  and  if  she  can  succeed, 
well  and  good." 

"  Well,  Kate,"  said  her  father,  "I'm  glad  I 
seen  you  ;  but  I  think  it  was  yom-  duty  to 
call  upon  me  long  before  this." 

"I  would,  but  that  I  was  aft-aid  you 
wouldn't  see  me ;  and,  besides,  Ginty  told 
me  it  was  better  not  for  some  time.     She 


kept  me  back,  or  I  would  have  oome  months 
ago." 

"  Ay,  ay  ;  she  has  some  devil's  scheme  in 
vieW  that'll  end  in  either  nothing  or  some- 
thing. Good-by,  now  ;  get  me  these  papers, 
and  I'll  tell  you  what'U  be  worth  hearin'." 

Immediately  after  her  depiirture  Father 
M'Mahon  entered,  and  found  Corbet  behind 
his  counter  as  usual.  Each  on  looking  at 
the  other  was  much  struck  by  his  evident 
appeai'ance  for  the  worse  ;  a  circumstance, 
howevex",  which  cau.sed  no  obsen'ation  \mtil 
after  they  had  gone  into  the  httle  back  room. 

Corbet's  countenance,  in  addition  to  a 
carewora  look,  and  a  consequent  increase  of 
emaciation,  presented  a  very  difficult  study 
to  the  physiognomist,  a  study  not  unobseiTed 
by  the  priest  himself.  It  was  indicative  of 
the  conflicting  resolutions  which  had  for 
some  time  past  been  alternating  in  his  mind  ; 
but  so  roguishly  was  each  resolution  veiled 
by  an  assumed  expression  of  an  opposite 
nature,  that  although  the  general  inference 
was  time,  the  hypocrisy  of  the  whole  face 
made  it  individually  false.  Let  us  suppose, 
by  way  of  illustration,  that  a  man  whose 
heart  is  full  of  joy  successfully  puts  on  a  look 
of  grief,  and  vice  verm.  Of  course,  the  phy- 
siognomist "will  be  mistaken  in  the  conclu- 
sions he  draws  fi'om  each  individual  expres- 
sion, although  correct  in  perceiving  that  there 
are  before  him  the  emotions  of  joy  and  giief ; 
the  only  difference  being,  that  dissimulation 
has  put  wrong  labels  upon  each  emotion. 

"Anthony,"  said  his  reverence,  after  hav- 
ing taken  a  seat,  "I  am  soiTy  to  see  such  a 
change  upon  you  for  the  worse.  You  are 
very  much  broken  down  since  I  saw  you 
last ;  and  although  I  don't  wish  to  become  a 
messenger  of  bad  news,  I  feel,  that  as  a 
clergN'man,  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  so." 

"  Troth,  your  reverence,"  rephed  the  other, 
"I'm  sorry  that  so  far  as  bad  looks  go  I 
must  return  the  comphment.  It  grieves  me 
to  see  you  look  so  ill,  sir." 

"I  know  I  look  ill,"  replied  the  other; 
"  and  I  know  too  that  these  hints  are  sent  to 
us  in  mercy,  with  a  fatherly  design  on  the 
part  of  our  Creator,  that  we  may  make  the 
necessary  preparations  for  the  change,  the 
awful  change  that  is  before  us." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  sir,  it's  true  enough,"  re- 
plied Corbet,  whose  visage  had  become  miich 
blanker  at  this  serious  intimation,  notArith- 
standing  his  hypocrisy  ;  "  it's  true  enough, 
sir  ;  too  time,  indeed,  if  we  could  only  re- 
member it  as  we  ought.  Have  you  been 
unwell,  sir?" 

"Not  in  my  bodily  health,  thank  God, 
but  I've  got  into  trouble  ;  and  what  is  more, 
I'm  coming  to  you,  Anthony,  with  a  firm 
hope  that  you  will  bring  me  out  of  it" 


530 


WJZZIAM  CARLETON'S  WOBJIS. 


"  The  trouble  can't  be  very  gi-eat  then," 
repHed  the  api^rehensive  old  knave,  "or  / 
wouldn't  be  able  to  do  it." 

"  Anthony,"  said  the  priest,  "  I  have  known 
you  a  long  time,  now  forty  years  at  least, 
and  you  need  not  be  told  that  I've  stood  by 
some  of  yoiu'  fiiends  when  the}^  wanted  it. 
"When  your  daughter  ran  away  with  that 
M'Bride,  I  got  him  to  marry  her,  a  thing  he 
was  veiy  unwilling  to  do  ;  and  which  I  be- 
Ueve,  only  for  me,  he  would  not  have  done. 
On  that  occasion  you  know  I  advanced  twenty 
guineas  to  enable  them  to  begin  the  world, 
and  to  keep  the  fellow  with  her  ;  and  I  did 
this  all  for  the  best,  and  not  without  the 
hoj)e  either  that  you  would  see  me  reim- 
bursed for  what  you  ought,  as  her  father,  to 
have  given  them  yourseK.  I  spoke  to  you 
once  or  twice  about  it,  but  you  lent  me  the 
deaf  ear,  as  they  call  it,  and  from  that  day 
to  this  you  never  had  either  the  manliness  or 
the  honesty  to  repay  me." 

"  Ay,"  rephed  Corbet,  wdth  one  of  his  usual 
grins,  "  you  vohmteered  to  be  generous  to  a 
profligate,  who  di-ank  it,  and  took  to  the 
army." 

"  Do  you  then  vohmteer  to  be  generous 
to  an  honest  man  ;  /  will  neither  di'ink  it  nor 
take  to  the  army.  If  he  took  to  the  army, 
he  didn't  do  so  "v\ithout  taking  your  daughter 
along  with  him.  I  sjioke  to  Sir  Edward 
Goui'lay,  who  threatened  to  "^Tite  to  his  col- 
onel ;  and  throiigh  the  interference  of  the 
same  humane  gentleman  I  got  permission 
for  him  to  bring  his  wife  along  with  him. 
These  ai-e  circumstances  that  you  ought  not 
to  forget,  Anthony." 

"  I  don't  forget  them,  but  sure  you're  al- 
ways in  somebody's  affairs  ;  alwa3\s  goin' 
security  for  some  of  your  poor  parishioners  ; 
and  then,  when  they're  not  able  to  jDay,  down 
comes  the  responsibility  upon  you." 

"  I  cannot  see  a  poor  honest  man,  stinig- 
ghng  and  industrious,  at  a  loss  for  a  friendly 
act.  No  ;  I  never  could  stand  it,  so  long  as 
I  had  it  in  my  power  to  assist  him." 

"And  what's  wrong  now,  if  it's  a  fair 
question  ?  " 

"  Two  or  three  things  ;  none  of  them  very 
large,  but  amounting  in  all  to  about  fifty 
guineas." 

"  Wliew ! — fifty  guineas  !  " 

"  Ay,  indeed  ;  fifty  giaineas,  which  you  will 
lend  me  on  my  own  security." 

"Fifty  guineas  to  you?  Don't  I  know 
you  ?  ^Miy,  if  you  had  a  thousand,  let  alone 
fifty,  it's  among  the  poor  o'  the  parish  they'd 
be  afore  a  week.  Faith,  I  know  you  too  well. 
Father  Peter." 

"You  know  me,  man  alive— yes,  you  do 
know  me  ;  and  it  is  just  because  you  do  that 
I  expect  you  will  lend  me  the  money.     You 


wouldn't  wish  to  see  my  little  things  pulled 
about  and  auctioned  ;  my  laughy  Httle  librai'y 
gone ;  nor  would  you  wish  to  see  me  and 
poor  Freney  the  Robber  separated.  Big 
Ruly  desaved  me,  the  thief  ;  but  I  found  him 
out  at  last.  Money  I  know  is  a  great  tempta- 
tion, and  so  is  mate  when  trusted  to  a  shark 
like  him  ;  but  any  way,  may  the  Lord  par- 
don the  blackguard !  and  that's  the  worst  I 
•^•ish  him." 

There  are  some  situations  in  hfe  where 
conscience  is  more  awakened  by  coAparison, 
or  perhaps  we  should  say  by  the  force  of 
contrast,  than  by  aU  the  power  of  reason, 
religion,  or  philosophy,  put  together,  and  ad- 
vancing against  it  in  their  proudest  pomp 
and  formahty.  The  childlike  simphcity,  for 
instance,  of  this  good  and  benevolent  man, 
earnest  and  eccentric  as  it  was,  occasioned 
reflections  more  painful  and  touching  to  the 
caUous  but  timid  heart  of  this  old  manoeuvrer 
than  could  whole  homilies,  or  the  most  seri- 
ous and  lengthened  exhortations. 

"I  am  near  death,"  thought  he,  as  he 
looked  upon  the  countenance  of  the  priest, 
from  which  there  now  beamed  an  emanation 
of  regret,  not  for  his  difiiculties,  for  he  had 
forgotten  them,  but  for  his  knavish  servant — 
so  simj)le,  so  natural,  so  affecting,  so  benevo- 
lent, that  Corbet  was  deeply  struck  by  them. 
"I  am  near  death,"  he  jDroceeded,  "and 
what  would  I  not  give  to  have  within  me  a 
heart  so  jDure  and  free  from  villan}'  as  that 
man.  He  has  made  me  feel  more  by  think- 
in'  of  what  goodness  and  piety  can  do,  than 
I  ever  felt  in  my  life  ;  and  now  if  he  gets 
uj)on  Freney  the  Eobber,  or  lugs  in  that 
giant  Euly,  he'll  forget  debts,  difiiculties, 
and  all  for  the  time.  Heavenl}'  Father,  that 
I  had  as  hapj)y  a  heart  this  day,  and  as  fi'ee 
fi'om  sin ! " 

"Anthony,"  said  the  priest,  "I  must  tell 
you  about  Freney " 

"  No,  su',  if  you  j)laise,"  replied  the  other, 
"not  now." 

"  Well,  about  poor  Mat  Ruly  ;  do  you 
know  that  I  think  by  taking  him  back  I 
might  be  able  to  reclaim  him  yet.  The 
Lord  has  gifted  him  largely  in  one  way,  I 
admit ;  bvit  still " 

"But  still  your  bacon  and  gi'eens  would 
pay  for  it.  I  know  it  all,  and  who  doesn't  ? 
But  about  your  own  affairs  ?  " 

"In  ti-uth,  they  are  in  a  bad  state — the 
same  bacon  and  gi-eens — he  has  not  left  me 
much  of  either ;  he  made  clean  work  ol 
them,  at  any  rate,  before  he  went." 

"  But  about  your  affau's,  I'm  sajin'  ?  " 

"  Why,  they  can't  be  worse ;  I'm  nin  to 
the  last  pass  ;  and  Freney  now,  the  cratvu-e, 
when  the  saddle's  on  him,  comes  to  the 
mounting-stone  of  himself,  and  waits  thera 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


531 


till  Tm  ready.     Then,"  he  added,  mth  a  deep  ' 
sigh,  "  to  tliink  of  parting  with  him  !   And  I 
must  do  it — I  must ; "  and  here  the   tears 
rose  to  his  eyes  so  copiously  that  he  was  j 
obhged  to  take  out  his  cotton  handkerchief 
and  wipe  them  away.  ! 

The  heart  of  the  old  miser  was  touched. 
He  knew  not  why,  it  is  tnie,  hut  he  felt 
that  the  view  he  got  of  one  immortal  sphit 
uncorrupted  by  the  crimes  and  calculating 
hypocrisy  of  life,  made  the  contemplation  of 
his  o^\^l  state  and  condition,  as  well  as  of 
his  future  hopes,  fearful. 

"What  would  I  not  give,"  thought  he, 
"to  have  a  soul  as  free  fi-om  sin  and  guilt, 
and  to  be  as  tit  to  face  my  God  as  that  man  ? 
And  yet  they  say  it  can  be  brought  about. 
Well,  wait — wait  till  I  have  m}'  revenge  on 
this  black  villain,  and  I'll  see  what  may  be 
done.  Ay,  let  what  will  happen,  the  shame 
and  ruin  of  my  child  must  be  revenged. 
And  yet,  God  help  me,  what  am  I  sajin'  ? 
Would  tl\is  good  man  say  that?  He  that 
forgives  every  one  and  everything.  Still,  I'll 
repent  in  the  long  i-vm.  Come,  Father 
Peter,"  said  he,  "  don't  be  cast  dowTi ;  I'll 
thi-y  what  I  can  for  you  ;  but  then,  again,  if 
I  do,  what  secui'ity  can  you  give  me  ?  " 

"  Poor  Freney  the  Robber " 

"  Well,  now,  do  3'ou  hear  this  !  " 

" — Was  a  name  I  gave  him  on  account 
of " 

"  Troth,  I'U  put  on  my  hat  and  lave  you 
here,  if  you  don't  spake  out  about  what  you 
came  for.  How  much  is  it  you  say  3'ou 
want  ?  " 

The  good  man,  who  was  startled  out  of 
his  affection  for  Freney  by  the  tone  of  Cor- 
bet's voice  more  than  by  his  words,  now 
raised  his  head,  and  looked  about  him  some- 
what like  a  person  restored  to  conscious- 
ness. 

"Yes,  Anthony,"  said  he;  "yes,  man 
alive  ;  there's  kindness  in  that." 

"  In  what,  sir  ?  " 

"  In  the  veiy  tones  of  your  voice,  I  say. 
God  has  touched  your  he;u't,  I  hope.  But 
oh,  Anthouj-,  if  it  were  His  blessed  will  to 
soften  it — to  teach  it  to  feel  true  contrition 
and  repentance,  and  to  fill  it  with  love  for 
His  divine  will  in  aU  things,  and  for  your 
feUow -creatures,  too — how  little  would  I 
think  of  my  own  miserable  difficulties  !  Fa- 
ther of  all  mercy  !  if  I  could  be  sure  that  I 
had  gtiined  even  but  one  soul  to  heaven,  I 
would  say  that  I  had  not  been  bom  and 
Hved  in  vain  !  " 

"  Hell  never  let  me  do  it,"  thought  Cor- 
bet, vexed,  and  stiU  more  softened  by  the 
piety,  the  charity,  and  the  complete  forget- 
fulness  of  self,  which  the  priest's  conduct 
manifested.       Yet    was    this     change    not 


brought  about  without  difficulty,  and  those 
pitiful  misgi\-ings  and  calculations  which 
assail  and  re-assail  a  heart  that  has  Ijeen  foi 
a  long  time  under  the  intiueuce  of  the  world 
and  those  base  principles  by  which  it  is 
actuated.  In  fact,  this  close,  nervous,  and 
penurious  old  man  felt,  when  about  to  peii« 
form  tliis  generous  action,  all  that  alarm  and 
hesitation  which  a  vii'tuous  man  would  feel 
when  on  the  eve  of  committing  a  crime.  He 
was  about  to  make  an  im'oad  upon  his  own 
system — going  to  change  the  settled  habits 
of  his  whole  life,  and,  for  a  moment,  he  en- 
tertained thoughts  of  alteiing  his  pm*pose. 
Then  he  began  to  think  that  this  risit  of  the 
priest  might  have  been  a  merciful  and  pro- 
vidential one  ;  he  next  took  a  glimpse  at 
futurity — reflected  for  a  moment  on  his  un- 
pi*epared  state,  and  then  decided  to  assist 
the  priest  now,  and  consider  the  necessity 
for  repentance  as  soon  as  he  felt  it  conve- 
nient to  do  so  afterwards. 

How  strange  and  decejitive,  and  how  fuU 
of  the  subtlest  delusions,  ai'e  the  workings 
of  the  human  heart ! 

"And  now.  An thonj',"  proceeded  the  priest^ 
"  while  I  think  of  it,  let  me  speak  to  you  on 
another  affair." 

"I  see,  sir,"  rephed  Corbet,  somewhat 
querulously,  "that  you're  detenuined  to 
prevent  me  from  sar\in'  you.  If  my  mind 
changes,  I  won't  do  it ;  so  stick  to  your  own 
business  first.  I  know  very  weU  what  3'ou're 
goin'  to  spake  about.  How  much  do  you 
want,  you  say  ?  " 

"Fifty  guineas.  I'm  responsible  for  three 
bills  to  that  amount.  The  bills  ai-e  not  for 
myself,  but  for-  three  honest  families  that 
have  been  brought  low  by  two  of  the  worst 
enemies  that  ever  Ii*eland  had — bad  land- 
lords and  bad  times." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  give  you  the  money." 

"  God  bless  you,  Anthony  !  "  exclaimed 
the  good  man,  "  God  bless  you  !  and  above 
all  things  may  He  enable  you  and  all  of  us 
to  prepare  for  the  life  that  is  before  us." 

Anthony  paused  a  moment,  and  looked 
with  a  face  of  deep  perplexity  at  the  jniest. 

""NMiy  am  I  doin'  this,"  said  he,  half  re- 
pentant of  the  act,  "and  me  can't  afford  it? 
You  must  give  me  your  bill,  su',  at  three 
months,  and  I'll  charge  you  interest  be- 
sides. " 

"  111  give  you  my  bill,  certainly,"  replied 
the  priest,  "  and  you  may  charge  interest 
too  ;  but  be  moderate." 

Corbet  then  went  upstmrs,  much  at  that 
pace  which  chai-actcrizes  the  progress  of  a 
felon  from  the  press-room  to  the  gallows ; 
here  he  remained  for  some  time — reckoning 
the  money — paused  on  the  stairhead — and 
again  the  slow,  heavy,  lingering  step  waa 


9^2 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


allow  myself  to  be  made  a — a- 
your  money  away  out  of  tMs,  I 


heard  descending,  and,  as  nearly  as  one 
could  judge,  with  as  much  reluctance  as  that 
with  wliich  it  went  up.  He  then  sat  down 
and  looked  steadily,  but  with  a  good  deal  of 
abstraction,  at  the  priest,  after  having  first 
placed  the  money  on  his  o'oti  side  of  the 
table. 

"Have  you  a  blank  bill?"  asked  the 
priest. 

"Eh?" 

"Have  you  got  a  blank  bill?  or,  sui-e  we 
can  send  out  for  one." 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"For  a  blank  biU." 

"  A  blank  bill — yes — oh,  ay — fifty  guineas ! 
— why,  that's  half  a  hundre'.  God  protect 
me !  what  am  I  about  ?  "Well,  well ;  there — 
there — there  ;  now  jDut  it  in  youi-  pocket ; " 
and  as  he  spoke  he  shoved  it  over  hastily  to 
the  priest,  as  if  he  feared  his  good  resolution 
might  fail  him  at  last. 

"  But  about  the  bill,  man  alive?  " 

"  Hang  the  bill — deuce  take  all  the  bills 
that  ever  were  drawn  !  I'm  the  greatest 
ould  fool  that  ever  wore  a  head — to  go  to 

— ,  Take 
bid  yoii — 
your  money — no,  but  my  money.  I  suppose 
I  may  bid  farewell  to  it — for  so  long  as  any 
one  tells  you  a  story  of  distress,  and  makes 
a  pool  mouth  to  you,  so  long  you'll  get  j'oui-- 
self  into  a  scrape  on  theii*  accoimt." 

The  priest  had  ah'eady  put  the  money  in 
his  pocket,  but  he  instantly  took  it  out,  and 
placed  it  once  more  on  Corbet's  side  of  the 
table. 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  keep  it.  I  will  receive 
no  money  that  is  lent  in  such  a  churlish  and 
unchiistian  spirit.  And  I  tell  you  now, 
moreover,  that  if  I  do  accept  it,  it  must  be 
on  the  condition  of  your  hstening  to  what  I 
feel  it  my  duty  to  say  to  you.  You,  Anthony 
Corbet,  have  committed  a  black  and  deadly 
crime  against  the  bereaved  wddow,  against 
society,  against  the  will  of  a  merciful  and — 
take  cai-e  that  you  don't  find  him,  too — a  just 
God.  It  is  quite  useless  for  you  to  deny  it ; 
I  have  spoken  the  tinxth,  and  you  know  it. 
Why  vrill  you  not  enable  that  heart-broken 
and  kind  lady— whose  whole  hfe  is  one  per- 
petual good  action — to  trace  and  get  back 
her  son  ?  " 

"  /  can't  do  it." 

"  That's  a  deliberate  falsehood,  sir.  Your 
conscience  teUs  you  it's  a  he.  In  your  last 
conversation  with  me,  at  the  Brazen  Head, 
you  as  good  as  promised  to  do  something  of 
the  kind  in  a  couple  of  months.  That  time 
and  more  has  now  passed,  and  yet  you  have 
done  nothing." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Don't  I  ksow  that  the  widow  has  got  no 


trace  of  her  child  ?  A^-^  right  well  I  kno\t 
that  you  could  restore  Jum  to  her  if  you 
wshed.  However,  \  leave  you  now  to  the 
comfort  of  youj:  own  hai'dened  and  wicked 
heai't.  The  day  ssili  come  soon  when  the 
black  catalogue  of  your  own  guilt  will  rise  up 
feai'fully  before  you — when  a  death-bed,  with 
all  its  hoiTora,  will  starile  the  very  soul  with- 
in you  by  its  fiery  recollections.  It  is  then, 
my  fiiend,  that  you  will  feel — when  it  is  too 
late — what  it  is  to  have  tamjDered  with  and 
despised  the  mercy  of  God,  and  have  neglect- 
ed, while  you  had  time,  to  prejiare  yourseU 
for  His  awful  judgment.  Oh,  what  would  I 
not  do  to  tvu-n  your  heart  from  the  dark 
spirit  of  revenge  that  broods  in  it,  and 
changes  you  into  a  demon  !  Mai-k  these 
words,  Anthony.  They  are  spoken,  God 
knows,  with  an  anxious  and  earnest  wish  for 
5'our  repentance,  and,  if  neglected,  they  will 
rise  and  sound  the  terrible  sentence  of  your 
condemnation  at  the  last  awful  hour.  Listen 
to  them,  then — hsten  to  them  in  time,  I  en- 
treat, I  beseech  you — I  would  go  on  my  bare 
knees  to  you  to  do  so."  Here  his  tears  fell 
fast,  as  he  j^roceeded,  "  I  would ;  and, 
beheve  me,  I  have  thought  of  j'ou  and  prayed 
for  you,  and  now  you  see  that  I  cannot  but 
weep  for  you,  when  I  know  that  you  have 
the  knowledge — perhaps  the  guilt  of  this 
heinous  crime  locked  up  in  your  heart,  and 
will  not  reveal  it.  Have  comjDassion,  then, 
on  the  widow — enable  her  fiiends  to  restore 
her  child  to  her  longing  arms  ;  jjurge  your- 
self of  this  great  guilt,  and  you  may  believe 
me,  that  even  in  a  tempoi-al  jDoint  of  view  it 
will  be  the  best  rewarded  action  you  ever 
performed  ;  but  this  is  little— the  darkness 
that  is  over  j^our  heart  will  disappear,  your 
conscience  -will  become  hght,  and  all  its  re- 
flections sweet  and  full  of  heavenly  comfort ; 
your  death-bed  will  be  one  of  peace,  and 
hojDe,  and  joy.  Restore,  then,  the  widow's 
son,  and  forbeai'  youi'  deadly  revenge  against 
that  wTctched  baronet,  and  God  wiU  restore 
you  to  a  happiness  that  the  w'orld  can  neither 
give  nor  take  away.'' 

Corbet's  cheek  became  pale  as  death  itself 
w'hilst  the  good  man  sj^oke,  but  no  other 
symptom  of  emotion  was  perceptible  ;  un- 
less, indeed,  that  his  hands,  as  he  imcon- 
sciously  played  with  the  money,  were  quite 
tremulous. 

The  priest,  having  concluded,  rose  to  de- 
part, having  completely  forgotten  the  princi- 
pal object  of  his  visit. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  said  Corbet, 
"  won't  you  take  the  money  with  you  ?  " 

"  That  depends  upon  youi'  reply,"  returned 
the  priest ;  "  and  I  entreat  you  to  let  me 
have  a  favorable  one." 

"  One  part  of  what  you  wish  I  will  do/'  he 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


533 


replied  ;  "  the  other  is  out  of  my  power  at 
present.     I  am  not  able  to  do  it  yet." 

"  I  don't  properly  understand  you,"  said 
the  other ;  "  or  rather,  I  don't  understand 
you  at  all.  Do  you  mean  what  you  have  just 
said  to  be  favorable  or  otherwise  ?  " 

"I  have  come  to  a  resolution,"  rephed 
Corbet,  "  and  time  wiU  tell  whether  it's  in 
your  favor  or  not.  You  must  be  content 
\a\^l  this,  for  more  I  will  not  say  now  ;  I 
cjxnnot.  There's  your  money,  but  111  take 
no  bill  fi-om  ijou.  Yoiu*  promise  is  sufficient 
— only  say  you  wSSS.  pa}'  me  ?  " 

"  I  w411  pay  you,  if  God  spares  me  life." 

"  That  is  enough  ;  unless,  indeed  " — again 
pausing. 

"  Satisfy  youi'self,"  said  the  priest ;  "I  will 
give  you  either  my  bill  or  note  of  hand." 

"  No,  no  ;  I  tell  you.  I  am  satisfied. 
Leave  evenlhing  to  time." 

"  That  may  do  very  well,  but  it  does  not 
apjjly  to  eternity,  Anthony.  In  the  meantime 
I  thank  you  ;  for  I  admit  you  have  taken  me 
out  of  a  veiy  distressing  difficulty.  Good-by 
— God  bless  you  ;  and,  above  all  things, 
don't  forget  the  words  I  have  spoken  to 
you." 

■"  Now,"  said  Corbet,  after  the  priest  had 
gone,  "  something  must  bo  done  ;  I  can't 
stand  this  state  of  mind  long,  and  if  death 
should  come  on  me  before  I've  made  my  peace 
with  God — but  then,  the  black  villain  ! — 
come  or  go  what  may,  he  must  be  punished, 
and  Ginty's  and  Tom's  schemes  must  be 
broken.  That  vagabone,  too  !  I  can't  forget 
the  abuse  he  gave  me  in  the  watch-house  ; 
however,  I'll  set  the  good  act  against  the  bad 
one,  and  who  knows  but  the  one  may  wipe 
out  the  other  ?  I  suppose  the  promisin' 
youth  has  seen  his  father,  and  thinks  him- 
self the  welcome  heir  of  his  title  and  prop- 
erty by  this  ;  and  the  father  too — but  wait, 
if  I  don't  da.sh  that  cup  from  his  lips,  and  jjut 
one  to  it  tilled  with  gjdl,  I'm  not  here  ;  and 
then  when  it's  done,  I'll  take  to  reUgion  for 
the  remainder  of  my  life." 

^^1lat  old  Corbet  said  was,  indeed,  true 
enough  ;  and  this  brings  us  to  the  interview 
between  !Mi\  Ambrose  Gx'ay,  his  parent,  and 
his  sister. 

There  is  nothing  which  so  truly  and  often 
80  severely  tests  the  state  of  man's  heart,  or 
so  painfully  disturbs  the  whole  fi'ame  of  his 
moral  being  as  the  occiu-rence  of  some  im- 
portant event  that  is  fi-aught  with  happiness. 
Such  an  event  resembles  the  presence  of  a  l 
good  man  among  a  set  of  profligates,  causing 
them  to  feel  the  superiority  of  virtue  over 
vice,  and  imposing  a  di.sagi'eeable  restmint,  i 
not    only    upon    their    actions,   but    their  I 
veiT  thoughts.     "WTien  the  baronet,  for  in- 1 
glance,  went  from  his  bedroppa  to  the  _hb-  i 


rarj-,  he  experienced  the  full  force  of  this 
observation.  A  disagreeable  tumult  pre- 
vailed within  him.  It  is  true,  he  felt,  as  every 
parent  must  feel,  to  a  greater  or  less  extent 
dehghted  at  the  contemplation  of  his  son's 
restoration  to  him.  But,  at  the  same  time, 
the  tenor  of  his  past  hfe  rose  up  in  painful 
aiTay  before  him,  and  occasioned  reflections 
that  chsturbed  him  deeply.  Should  this 
young  man  prove,  on  examination,  to  i-esem- 
ble  his  sister  in  her  views  of  moral  life  in 
general — should  he  tind  him  as  dehcately 
virtuous,  and  animated  by  the  same  pure 
sense  of  honor,  he  felt  that  his  recoveiy 
would  disturb  the  future  habits  of  his  life, 
and  take  away  much  of  the  gi-atification 
which  he  expected  fi-om  his  society.  These 
considerations,  we  say,  rendered  him  so 
anxious  and  uneasy,  that  he  actually  wished 
to  find  him  something  not  ver\'  far  removed 
from  a  j^rofligate.  He  hojjed  that  he  might 
be  inspired  with  liis  own  views  of  society 
and  men,  and  that  he  would  now  have  some 
one  to  countenance  him  in  all  his  selfish  de- 
signs and  projects. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Toung  Gourltty^s  Affectionate  Intenieic  with  Hit 
Father — Rink  of  Strangulation — Mucements  oj 
M"  Bride, 

It  is  not  necessary  here  to  suggest  to  the 
reader  that  Tom  Corbet,  who  knew  the  baro- 
net's secrets  and  habits  of  life  so  thoroughly, 
had  prepai-ed  ]\lr.  Ambrose  Gray,  by  frequent 
rehetu'sals,  for  the  more  adroit  pei-formance 
of  the  task  that  was  before  him. 

At  length  a  knock,  modest  but  yet  indi- 
cative of  something  hke  authority,  was  heard 
at  the  haU-door,  and  the  baronet  immedi- 
ately descended  to  the  dining-room,  where  he 
knew  he  could  see  liis  son  with  less  risk  of 
inteiTuption.  He  had  ah'cady  intimated  to 
Lucy  that  she  should  not  m;xke  her  appear- 
ance until  summoned  for  that  purjiose. 

At  length  ^li\  Gray  was  shown  into  the 
dining-room,  and  the  baronet,  who,  as  usual, 
was  pacmg  it  to  and  fi'o,  suddenly  turned 
round,  and  without  any  motion  to  approach 
his  son,  who  stood  with  a  dutiful  look,  as  if 
to  await  his  will,  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  him 
with  a  long,  steady,  and  scrutinizing  gaze. 
There  they  stood,  contemplating  each  other 
with  eai'nestness,  and  so  striking,  so  extra- 
ordinary was  the  similiuity  between  their 
respective  features,  that,  in  evexything  but 
years,  they  appeared  more  like  two  counter- 
parts than  father  and  son.  Each,  on  looking 
at  the  other,  felt,  in  fact,  the  truth  of  thi« 


634 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S   WORKS. 


unusual  resemblance,  and  the  bai'onet  at 
once  acknowlcdfj^ed  its  influence. 

"Yes,"  be  exclaimed,  approaching  IVIr. 
Grajj  "  yes,  there  is  no  mistake  here  ;  he  is 
my  son.  I  acknowledge  him."  He  extended 
his  hand,  and  shook  that  of  the  other,  then 
seized  both  with  a  good  deal  of  warmth,  and 
welcomed  him.  Ambrose,  however,  was  not 
satisfied  with  this,  but,  extricating  his  hands, 
he  threw  his  arms  round  the  baronet's  neck, 
and  exclaimed  in  the  Mords  of  an  old  play, 
in  which  he  had  been  studying  a  similar 
scene  for  the  jDresent  occasion,  "Mj'  father  ! 
my  dear  father  !  Oh,  and  have  I  a  father ! 
Oh,  let  me  j)ress  him  to  my  heart !  "  And  as 
he  spoke  he  contrived  to  execute  half  a  dozen 
dry  sobs  (for  he  could  not  accomj^hsh  the 
teai's),  that  would  have  done  credit  to  the 
best  actor  of  the  day. 

The  baronet,  who  never  relished  any  exhi- 
bition of  emotion  or  tenderness,  began  to 
have  misgivings  as  to  his  chax'acter,  and  con- 
sequently suffered  these  dutiful  embraces  in- 
stead of  returning  them. 

"There,  Tom,"  he  exclaimed,  laughing, 
"that  -vN-ill  do.  There,  man,"  he  repeated, 
for  he  felt  that  Tom  was  about  recommencing 
another  rather  vigorous  attack,  whilst  the 
sobs  were  deafening,  "there,  I  say;  don't 
throttle  me  ;  that  will  do,  sirrah  ;  there  now. 
On  this  occasion  it  is  natural ;  but  in  general 
I  detest  snivelling — it's  unmanly." 

Tom  at  once  took  the  hint,  mped  his  eyes, 
a  work  in  this  instance  of  the  purest  suj)er- 
erogation,  and  repHed,  "So  do  I,  father  ;  it's 
decidedly  the  province  of  an  old  woman 
when  she  is  past  everything  else.  But  on 
such  an  occasion  I  shoiild  be  either  more  or 
less  than  man  not  to  feel  as  I  ought." 

"Come,  that  is  very  well  said.  I  hope 
you  are  not  a  fool  hke  your — Corbet,  go  out. 
I  shall  send  for  you  when  we  w\ant  you.  I 
hope,"  he  repeated,  after  Corbet  had  disap- 
peared, "I  hope  you  are  not  a  fool,  like  your 
sister.  Not  that  I  can  call  her  a  fool,  either; 
but  she  is  obstuiate  and  self- willed. " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  this,  sii*.  My  sister 
ought  to  have  no  will  but  yours." 

"  ^Vhy,  that  is  better,"  replied  the  baro- 
net, inibbing  his  hands  cheerfully.  "  Hang 
it,  how  like  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  looking  at  him 
once  more.  "  You  resemble  me  confound- 
edly, Tom — at  least  in  i^erson  ;  and  if  you 
do  in  mind  and  purpose,  we'll  harmonize 
perfectly.  Well,  then,  I  have  a  thousand 
questions  to  ask  you,  but  I  will  have  time 
enough  for  that  again  ;  in  the  meantime, 
Tom,  what's  your  opinion  of  life — of  the 
world — of  man,  Tom,  and  of  woman  ?  I 
wish  to  know  what  kind  of  stuff  you're  made 
of." 

*'  Of  life,  sir — why,  that  we  are  to  take 


the  most  we  can  out  of  it.  Of  the  world-  ^ 
that  I  desjjise  it.  Of  man — that  eveiy  one 
is  a  rogue  when  he's  found  out,  and  that  il 
he  suffers  himself  to  be  fox^nd  out  he's  a  fool , 
so  that  the  fools  and  the  rogues  have  it  be* 
tween  them." 

"  And  where  do  you  leave  the  honest  nien» 
Tom?" 

"  The  what,  sir  ?  " 

"  The  honest  men." 

"  I'm  not  acquainted,  sir,  nor  have  I  ever 
met  a  man  who  was,  with  any  animal  of  that 
class.  The  world,  sir,  is  a  moral  fiction  ;  a 
mere  term  in  language  that  represents  nega- 
tion." 

"Well,  but  woman?" 

"  Born  to  administer  to  our  pleasure,  our 
interest,  or  our  ambition,  wdtli  no  other  pvu'- 
l^ose  in  life.  Have  I  answered  my  catechism 
like  a  good  boy,  sir  ?  " 

"  Verj^  well,  indeed,  Tom.  "WTiy,  in  your 
notions  of  hfe  and  the  world,  you  seem  to  be 
quite  an  adept." 

"  I  am  glad,  sir,  that  you  approve  of  them. 
So  far  we  are  likely  to  agree.  I  feel  quite 
proud,  sir,  that  my  sentiments  are  in  unison 
with  yours.  But  Avhere  is  my  sister,  sir  ?  I 
am  quite  impatient  to  see  her." 

"I  will  send  for  her  immediately.  And 
now  that  I  have  an  opportunity,  let  me  guard 
you  against  her  influence.  I  am  anxious  to 
bring  abovit  a  marriage  between  her  and  a 
young  nobleman — Lord  Dunroe — who  will 
soon  be  the  Earl  of  Cullamore,  for  his  old 
father  is  dying,  or  near  it,  and  then  Lucy 
will  be  a  countess.  To  effect  this  has  been 
the  great  ambition  of  my  life.  Now,  you 
must  not  only  prevent  Lucy  from  gaining 
you  over  to  her  interests,  for  she  would  neai-- 
ly  as  soon  die  as  marry  him." 

"  Pshaw !  " 

"  What  do  you  pshaw  for,  Tom  ?  " 

"All  nonsense,  sir.  She  doesn't  know  her 
own  mind  ;  or,  rather,  she  ought  to  have  r  o 
mind  on  the  subject." 

"  Peii'ectly  right  ;  my  identical  sentiments. 
Lucy,  however,  detests  this  lord,  notwith- 
standing— ay,  worse  than  she  does  the  deuce 
himself.  You  must,  therefore,  not  permit 
yourself  to  be  changed  or  swayed  by  her  in- 
fluence, but  suj^port  me  by  every  argument 
and  means  in  yoiu'  jjower." 

"Don't  fear  me.  sir.  Yotu*  interests, 
or  rather  the  girl's  own,  if  she  only  knows 
them,  shall  have  my  most  strenuous  sup- 
jDort." 

"  Thank  you,  Tom.  I  see  that  you  and  I 
are  likely  to  agree  thoroughly.  I  shall  now 
send  for  her.  She  is  a  superb  creature,  and 
less  than  a  countess  I  shall  not  have  lier." 

Lucy,'  when  the  servant  announced  her 
father's  wish  to  see  her,  was  engaged  in  pic- 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


>35 


tuving  to  herself  the  subject  of  her  brother's  I  withheld  from  hira,  on  account  of  a  circum 


personal  appearan(;e.  She  had  always  heard 
that  he  resembled  her  mother,  and  on  this 
account  alone  she  felt  how  very  dear  he 
should  be  to  her.  A\^ith  a  flushing,  joyful, 
but  palpitating  heart,  she  descended  the 
stairs,  and  with  a  trembling  hand  knocked  at 
the  door.  On  entering,  she  was  about  to 
rush  into  her  newly-found  relative's  arms, 
but,  on  casting  her  eyes  around,  she  per- 
ceived her  father  and  him  standing  side  by 
side,  so  startlinglv  ahke  in  feature,  expres- 
sion, and  personal  figure,  that  her  lieart,  un- 
til then  bounding  witli  r,i})ture,  sank  at  once, 
and  almost  became  stQl.  The  quick  but  deh- 
cate  instincts  of  her  nature  took  the  alarm, 
and  a  sudden  weakness  seized  her  wliole 
frame.  "In  this  young  man,"  she  said  to 
herself,  "  I  have  found  a  brother,  but  not  a 
fi'iend  ;  not  a  featiu-e  of  my  dear  mother  in 
that  face." 

This  change,  and  this  inish  of  reflection, 
took  place  almost  in  a  moment,  and  ere  she 
had  time  to  speak  she  found  herself  in  Mr. 
Ambrose  Gray's  arms.  The  tears  at  once 
rushed  to  her  ej-es,  but  they  were  not  such 
tears  as  she  expected  to  have  shed.  Joy 
there  was,  but,  alas,  how  much  mitigated 
was  its  fervency !  And  when  her  brother 
spoke,  the  strong,  deep,  harsh  tones  of  his 
voice  so  completely  startled  her,  that  she 
almost  believed  she  was  on  the  breast  of  her 
father.  Her  tears  flowed  ;  but  they  Avere 
mingled  with  a  sense  of  disappointment  that 
amounted  almost  to  bitteiTiess. 

Tom  on  this  occasion  forebore  to  enact  the 
rehearsal  scene,  as  he  had  done  in  the  case 
of  his  father.  His  sister's  beauty,  at  once 
melancholy  but  commanding,  her  wonderful 
grace,  her  dignity  of  manner,  added  to  the 
influence  of   her  tull,   elegant  figure,  awed 


stance  over  which  he  had  no  control,  that  ful- 
ness of  aifection,  with  which  she  had  prepared 
herself  to  welcome  him.  A  sentiment,  first 
of  compassion,  then  of  self-reproach,  and  ul- 
timately of  awakened  affection,  arose  in  her 
mind,  associated  with  and  made  still  more 
tender  by  the  melancholy  memory  of  her  de- 
parted mother.  She  again  took  his  hand, 
on  which  the  tears  now  fell  in  showers,  and 
after  a  slight  pause  said, 

"  I  hope,  my  dear  Thomas,  you  have  not 
suffered,  nor  l)een  subject  to  the  wants  and 
privations  which  usually  attend  the  path  oi 
the  yoimg  and  friendless  in  this  unhappy 
world  ?  Alas,  there  is  one  voice — but  is  now 
forever  still — that  would,  oh,  how  rapturous- 
ly !  have  welcomed  you  to  a  longing  and  a 
loving  heart." 

The  noble  sincerity  of  her  present  emotion 
was  not  A^dthout  its  effect  upon  her  brother. 
His  eyes,  in  spite  of  the  hardness  of  his  na- 
ture, swam  in  sometliing  like  moistui'e,  and 
he  gazed  upon  her  Avith  wonder  and  pride, 
that  he  actually  was  the  brother  of  so  divine 
a  creature  ;  and  a  certain  descrijition  of  affec- 
tion, such  as  he  had  never  before  felt,  for  it 
was  pure,  warm,  and  unselfish. 

"  Oh,  how  I  do  long  to  hear  the  history  oi 
your  past  life  !  "  she  exclaiifted.  "  I  dare  say 
you  had  many  an  early  struggle  to  encounter ; 
many  a  privation  to  sutler  ;  and  in  sickness, 
with  none  but  the  cold  hand  of  the  stranger 
about  you  ;  but  stOl  it  seems  that  God  has 
not  deserted  you.  Is  it  not  a  consolation, 
papa,  to  think  that  he  retm-ns  to  us  in  a  con^ 
dition  of  life  so  gratifying  ?  " 

"Gratifying  it  unquestionably  is,  Lucy. 
He  is  well  educated  ;  and  \\ill  soon  be  fit  to 
take  his  proper  position  in  society." 

"  Soon  !  I  trust  immediately,  papa  ;  I  hope 


him  so  completely,  that  he  felt  himself  in-  j  you  will  not  allow  him  to  remain  a  moment 
capable  of  aiming  at  R,nything  like  dramatic  longer  in  obscurity  ;  compensate  liim  at  least 
effect.  Nay,  as  lier  warm  tears  fell  upon  his  for  his  sufferings.  But,  my  dear  Thomas," 
face,  he  experienced  a  softening  influence  she  proceeded,  turning  to  him,  "  let  me^g'^j'j^ 
that  resembled  emotion,  but,  like  his  father,  do  you  remember  mamma?  If  '^he  y^^^j^^j^^jj 
he  annexed  associations  to  it  that  were  self-  here,  how  her  f>'flectionate^h^'^'pj.gggjj^9  » 
ish,  and  full  of  low,  ungenerous  caution.         |  joice  !      Do    you  renif^v,"   said   the   other  • 


"  My  father's  right,"  thought  he  ;  "I  must 
be  both  cool  and  firm  here,  othermse  it  wiU 
be  difticiilt  not  to  support  her 


Thomas?" 

Not  d^ 
irvac 


ouny 


a  A 


I  had  are  now  gone  to 
that  by  to-morrow   or 


"Well,  Lucy,"  said  her  father,  vr^i\\  unu^-'^j^a  a  m^^'^  ,,  .   *-,\i/ 


9L^^^'\  '^.pholv  V-iorced  to  give  mv  teeth  a 


sual  cheerfulness,  after  Tom  had  handed  Y'  \  .' Yovi  '^"^ ,  ^.J^^^^^eplied  Norton,  "  that's  too 
to  a  seat,  "I  hope  you  hke  yoiu:  .'  -g. \  Ued,  "  y^^| J,  cren ouud  note  for  vou,  at  all 
Is  he  not  a  fine,  manly  youjLi*r  *  Jr.  "  she  x  g^etcb  "^^y^^^  ^'a^-^l  now  ;  if  we  can  uncler. 
Is  he  not  nr  .brotlul,  ,,:,  ^vai^y  y®^,     '  ^ 


so 


pHed,  "  restored  to  xi«  ''^^''{psevted  vis- 
restored  when  \»u->pe  ba-*-*^  *■    '   ,> 


-when 


we  had  given  ^l^iivi  up 

As  she  utt'''^vpd  tbc  ^wv^-   .       •   ^ 

ered;  agen   ^^oub  reactxou^;^^^  ^,,  Ua^'^Bg 

her  breast     ;  g^e  blamed  iie^ 


'^^     1     her  voice  q^^:'; 


;Uetcboibej-^-^^   l„^,,. 

tionate,  ^^^^  ii-,^  slia'n't  want ;  and  I'll 

resii:?^'^^^®^  _    do.     .\iter  leaving  his 

liet^-'         Tucy"  sai^'ue  to  my  room,  where 

\      ""^^^'r'anvP«^^^'>  ^lie  eyes,  and  there 

cou\A^e»^^''^  ^  n  to  our  chat.     You 


586 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"now  that  you  have  seen  your  brother,  I 
think  you  may  withdraw,  at  least  for  the  pres- 
ent. He  and  I  have  matters  of  importance 
to  talk  of ;  and  you  know  you  ■VN'ill  have 
enoiigh  of  him  ap^ain — plenty  of  time  to 
hear  his  past  histoi-y,  which,  by  the  way,  I 
am  as  anxious  to  hear  as  you  are.  You  may 
now  withdraw,  my  love." 

"  Oh,  not  so  soon,  father,  if  you  please," 
said  Thomas ;  "  allow  us  a  Httle  more  time 
together." 

"  Well,  then,  a  few  minutes  only,  for  I  my- 
self must  take  an  aii'ing  in  the  carriage,  and 
I  must  also  call  upon  old  Cullamore." 

"  Papa,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  am  about  to  dis- 
close a  httle  secret  to  you  which  I  hesitated 
to  do  before,  but  this  certainlj'  is  a  proper 
occasion  for  doing  it ;  the  secret  I  speak  of 
will  disclose  itself.  Here  is  where  it  lay  both 
day  and  night  since  mamma's  death,"  she 
added,  putting  her  hand  upon  her  heart ;  "  it 
is  a  miniature  portrait  of  her  which  I  my- 
self got  done." 

She  immediately  di'ew  it  uj)  by  a  black 
silk  ribbon,  and  after  contemplating  it  with 
tears,  she  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  her 
brother. 

This  act  of  Lucy's  placed  him  in  a  position 
of  great  j)ain  and  embarrassment.  His  pre- 
tended recollection  of  Lady  Gourlay  was,  as 
the  reader  ah'eady  guesses,  nothing  more 
than  the  description  of  her  which  he  had  re- 
ceived fi'om  Corbet,  that  he  might  be  able  to 
play  his  part  with  an  appearance  of  more 
natural  effect.  With  the  baronet,  the  task 
of  deception  was  by  no  means  difficult ;  but 
with  Lucy,  the  case  was  altogether  one  of  a 
different  complexion.  His  father's  princijDles, 
as  expounded  by  his  illegitimate  son's  worthy 
uncle,  were  not  only  almost  familiar  to  him, 
but  also  in  complete  accordance  with  his  own. 
With  htm,  therefore,  the  deception  consisted 
in  little  else  than  keeping  his  own  secret, 
and  satisfying  his  father  that  theii'  moral 
views  of  hfe  were  the  same.  He  was  not  pre- 
.nared,  however,  for  the  effect  which  Lucy's 
^      "^Ois'^  1  ^'ijUties  produced  upon  him  so  soon. 

vioTr'^^^.^+  -Il^tl  never  met  with  or  known 
risy  ouTu-  -'■Tif  hi-     1  •   •      •    1 

J  ""  ^^^^'^ •  ^^mmg  m  her  o^vn  person 

biw^'''^!'/''^  '^^  mc^^^rl  dignity-such 
bmations  that  result  f/^^°"^-°..eful  and 
iike  the  bits  of  ^lassV;   ^^^  couIol. 
which,    when   ^S>^^.4l^^o^r 
order  nor  beauty,  but.  j'°^eh  trutti  2 J  or 
our  own  mistaken   imM^l, Absolutely  con-  ' 
tave  properties  which  tK^irto  feel  ho^v 
%    a^d  to  produce  results  fllVS-,  andrefin 
Tc  and  winch  would  mi.sleal  C  the  sphere  of 
woribsolute  inference   froml^an  for  instance, 
xvashnest  advances,  kaleid  "^K  J^ved  iuto  such 
.  n^'  ^"""^  *^  ^^^  a<^'  .      her  character  and 
^^  '\llf  almost  unable  to 

xdertakentoplay,80 


far  at  least  as  she  was  concerned.  In  fact,  he 
felt  himself  changed  for  the  better,  and  was 
forced,  as  it  were,  to  look  in  upon  his  own 
heai*t,  and  contemplate  its  deformity  by  the 
light  that  emanated  fi'om  her  character.  Nor 
was  this  singular  but  natural  influence  un- 
perceived  by  her  father,  who  began  to  fear 
that  if  they  were  to  be  much  together,  he 
must  ultimately  lose  the  connivance  and  sup- 
poi-t  of  his  son. 

Thomas  took  the  portrait  from  her  hand, 
and,  after  contemj^lating  it  for  some  time, 
felt  himself  bovmd  to  kiss  it,  which  he  did, 
with  a  momentary'  consciousness  of  his  hypo- 
crisy that  felt  like  guilt. 

"  It  is  most  interesting,"  said  he  ;  "  there 
is  goodness,  indeed,  and  benignity,  as  you 
say,  in  every  line  of  that  placid  but  sorrow- 
ful face.  Here,"  said  he,  "  take  it  back,  my 
dear  sister ;  I  feel  that  it  is  painful  to  me  to 
look  upon  it." 

"  It  has  been  my  secret  companion,"  said 
Lucy,  gazing  at  it  MT.th  deep  emotion,  "  and 
my  silent  monitress  ever  since  poor  mamma's 
death.  It  seemed  to  say  to  me  with  those 
sweet  lijDS  that  will  never  more  move  :  Be 
patient,  my  child,  and  put  your  firm  tinist  in 
the  hopes  of  a  better  hfe,  for  this  world  is 
one  of  trial  and  suffering." 

"That  is  all  very  fine,  Lucy,"  said  her 
father,  somewhat  fi-etfully ;  "  but  it  would 
have  been  as  well  if  she  had  preached  a  les- 
son of  obedience  at  the  same  time.  How- 
ever, you  had  better  -n-ithdraw,  my  dear  ;  as 
I  told  you,  Thomas  and  I  have  many  impor- 
tant matters  to  talk  over." 

"  I  am  ready  to  go,  papa,"  she  replied  ; 
"  but,  by  the  way,  my  dear  Thomas,  I  had 
always  heard  that  you  resembled  her  very 
much  ;  instead  of  that,  you  are  papa's  very 
image." 

"  A  circumstance  which  ynUl  take  from  his 
favor  with  you,  Lucy,  I  fear,"  obsei'ved  her 
father  ;  "  but,  indeed,  I  myseK  am  surprised 
at  the  change  that  has  come  over  you, 
Thomas  ;  for,  unquestionably,  when  young 
you  were  very  like  her." 

"These  changes  are  not  at  all  unfrequent, 

I  believe,"  replied  his  son.     "  I  have  myself 

known  instances  where  the  individual  when 

young  resembled  one  parent,  and  yet,  in  the 

course  of  time,  became  as  it  were  the  very 

;niage  and  reflex  of  the  other." 

laii-y^^  are  perfectly  right,  Tom,"  said  his 

,  fYier    "  ^^^^y  family  is  aware  of  the  fact, 

1  -rmi  vo.  m"^^  are  a  remarkable  illustra- 
aud  you  J  u'  Tom. 
1- i  u.  "      \    - 


^'""I'amBot  ^Try  1-  r.eseUbHng  my  dear 
t  n  «v  Tiucv  "  ojser^'ed  her  ^^^j^        ,,  ^^ 
Ifnow^  S^U  los.  nothing  x^     ,^  g,,^ 
u  rm  that  account,  but  rathei  ^.    ^    .^  „ 
"Lucy's  eyes  were  already  failed  ^^^^^^^^ 

/ 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


537 


at  the  ungenerous  and  unfeeling  insinuation 
of  her  father. 

"  You  shall  not,  indeed,  Thomas,"  she  re- 
plied ;  "  and  you,  pajoa,  are  scarcely  just  to 
me  in  saying  so.  I  judge  no  person  by 
theii"  external  appearance,  nor  do  I  suffer 
myself  to  be  j^rejudiced  by  looks,  although  I 
grant  that  the  face  is  very  often,  but  by  no 
means  always,  an  index  to  the  character.  I 
judge  my  friends  by  my  exjierience  of  their 
conduct— -b}'  their  heart — their  princijDles — 
their  honor.  Good-by,  now,  my  dear  broth- 
er ;  I  am  quite  impatient  to  hear  your  his- 
toi-y,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  gi'atify  me  as 
soon  as  you  can." 

She  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it,  but,  in 
the  act  of  doing  so,  obsen'ed  under  every 
nail  a  semicircular  Hue  of  black  diift  that 
jai-red  very  painfully  on  her  feeUngs.  Tom 
then  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  her  forehead, 
and  she  withdrew. 

"When  she  had  gone  out,  the  baronet  bent 
liis  eyes  upon  her  brother  with  a  look  that 
seemed  to  enter  into  his  verj'  soul — a  look 
which  his  son,  from  his  fi-equent  teachings, 
ven,-  well  understood. 

"Now,  Tom,"  said  he,  "that  you  have 
seen  your  sister,  what  do  you  think  of  her  ? 
Is  it  not  a  pity  that  she  should  ever  move 
under  the  rjink  of  a  coantess  ?  " 

"  Under  the  rank  of  a  queen,  sir.  She 
woidd  grace  the  throne  of  an  empress." 

"And  yet  she  has  all  the  simphcity  of  a 
child  ;  but  I  can't  get  her  to  feel  ambition. 
Now,  mark  me,  Tom  ;  I  have  seen  enough 
in  this  short  intex'view  to  convince  me  that 
if  you  are  not  as  firm  as  a  rock,  she  will  gain 
you  over." 

"  Impossible,  sir  ;  I  love  her  too  well  to 
lend  myself  to  her  prejudices  against  her 
interests.  Her  objections  to  this  "marriage 
must  proceed  solely  fi-om  inexperience.  It  is 
true.  Lord  Dunroe  bears  a  very  indifferent 
character,  and  if  you  could  get  any  other 
nobleman  with  a  better  one  as  a  husband 
for  her,  it  would  certainly  be  more  agree- 
able." 

"It  might,  Tom;  but  I  cannot.  The 
truth  is,  I  am  an  unpopulai-  man  among 
even  the  fashionable  circles,  and  the  conse- 
quence is,  that  I  do  not  mingle  much  \\4th 
them.  The  disappearance  of  my  brother's 
heii*  has  attached  suspicions  to  me  which 
your  discoveiy  %\ill  not  tend  to  removes 
Then  there  is  Lucy's  approaching  mj^'iage, 
which  yo\ir  turning  up  at  this  j^-i^ticular 
juncture  may  upset.  Dunroe,  I  am  aware, 
is  incapable  of  appreciat>tf^  such  a  gu-1  as 
Lucy." 

"Then  why,  sir,  does  he  marry  her?" 

'■  In  consequence  of  her  property.  You 
perceive,  then,  that  unless  you  he  by  until 


after  this  marriage,  my  whole  schemes  iot 
this  girl  may  be  destroyed." 

"But  how,  sir,  could  my  appearance  or 
reappearance  effect  such  a  catastrophe  ?  " 

"Simply  because  you  come  at  the  most 
j  unlucky  moment." 

!  "Unlucky,  sir!"  excLaimed  the  youth, 
I  ^vith  much  affected  astonishment,  for  he  had 
j  now  relapsed  into  his  original  character, 
I  and  felt  himself  completely  in  his  element 

"  Don't  misimderstaud  me,"  said  his  fa- 
I  ther ;    "I   will   explain   myself.      Had   you 
j  never  appeared,  Lucy  would  have  inherited 
j  the  family  estates,   which,   in  right   of  his 
wife,  would  have  passed  into  the  possession 
of  Dunroe.     Your  appearance,  however,  if 
made  known,  wiU  prevent  that,  and  proba- 
bly cause  Dunroe  to  get  out  of  it ;  and  it  is 
for  this  reason  that  I  ^\•ish  to  keep  your  very 
existence  a  secret  until  the  mairiage  is  over." 

"  I  am  wiUing  to  do  anything,  su-,"  rephed 
worthy  Tom,  with  a  very  dutiful  face,  "any- 
thing to  obhge  you,  and  to  fall  in  with  your 
puiijoses,  provided  my  o\vn  rights  ai'e  not 
compromised.  I  trust  you  ■will  not  blame 
me,  sir,  for  looking  to  them,  and  for  a  natu- 
ral anxiety  to  sustain  the  honor  and  pro- 
long the  name  of  my  family." 

"  Blame  you,  siiTah  ! "  said  his  father, 
laughing.  "Confound  me,  but  you're  a 
trump,  and  I  am  proud  to  hear  you  express 
such  sentiments.  How  the  deuce  did  you 
get  such  a  shrewd  notion  of  the  world  ? 
But,  no  matter,  attend  to  me.  Your  rights 
shall  not  be  compromised.  A  clause  shall 
be  inserted  in  the  marriage  articles  to  the 
effect  that  in  case  of  your  I'ecoverj'  and  res- 
toration, the  estates  shall  revert  to  you,  as 
the  legitimate  heir.     Ai-e  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"Perfectly,  sir,"  rei)hed  Thomas,  "per- 
fectly ;  on  the  understanding  that  these  pro- 
visions are  duly  and  properly  canned  out" 

"  Undoubtedly  they  .shall ;  and  besides," 
rephed  his  father  with  a  grin  of  triumph, 
"it^\ill  be  only  giving  Dunroe  a  quid  pro 
quo,  for,  as  I  told  you,  he  is  marrvi'^^  -^ 
sister  merely  for  the  property^^-j^  .  ..^^^^  j^ 
you  cut  hmi.  ^      ^  ^^^^^^  acquainted. 

"  Of  course,  my^^^^^^^  ^^  present?  " 

other   "I  am  -;jo  i      .   ^^^^{  ^^^   ^^^ 

meantune,  ^ow  and  ^  t  7    i  a 

,  .t^„  1  had  are  now  gone  to 

°  'She  first  pV     ^Y.  ^>'.t«-^^o^-l-«^^^o' 

-that  is  the  piii^^^^^^l  t«  g^^'^  "^y  t^^^  * 

vou  mav  Hve  whei      i-    i  x-  _a        «  n    i-    i 

i'i^,„i  „iK,i"eplied  Norton,  "that s  too 

vou  a  hberal  alio'    ^    ,        ,     ,  '  ,     ,, 

^iinul  note  for  you,  at  aU 

your  appearance  ♦  ,  . ,         *'      '      . 

perity.     The  marri    ""^^ 

soon 


if  we  can  under-. 


*  „ft.      ^u; .],  ^^i  sha'n't  want ;  and  111 
;  after  which  ,    ,         ...  '  .        ,  . 

your  own,  when  it  y^.  ^^«-  ,  ^'^^^''  ^^*'^^'^"^,  ^''^ 

to  retract     Here,  fo^^^^^^  ^^'  ^««^'  ^\^^^« 

for  two  hundred  ar.^^  ^\^  ^y^«'  ^f  ^^^^ 
ion  to  our  chat.     You 


638 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


must  be  frugal  and  cautious  in  its  expendi- 
ture. Don't  suffer  j'ourself  to  break  out : 
always  keep  a  firm  hold  of  the  helni.  Get  a 
book  in  which  you  wiU  niixi'k  down  your  ex- 
penses ;  for,  mai'k  me,  you  must  render  a 
strict  account  of  this  money.  On  the  day 
after  to-morrow  j'ou  must  dine  with  Lucy 
and  me  ;  but,  if  you  take  my  advice,  you  will 
see  her  as  seldom  as  possible  until  after  her 
marriage.  She  wishes  me  to  release  her 
from  her  engagement,  and  she  will  attempt 
to  seduce  you  to  her  side  ;  but  I  warn  you 
that  tliis  would  be  a  useless  step  for  you  to 
take,  as  my  mind  is  immovable  on  the  sub- 
ject." 

They  then  separated,  each,  but  especially 
Mr.  Ambrose  Gray,  as  we  must  again  call  him, 
feeling  very  well  satisfied  with  the  result  of 
the  inten'iew. 

"Now,"  said  the  baronet,  as  he  paced  the 
floor,  after  his  son  had  gone,  "am  I  not 
right,  after  aU,  in  the  views  which  I  enter- 
tain of  hfe  ?  I  have  sometimes  been  induc- 
ed to  fear  that  Providence  has  placed  in  hu- 
man society  a  moral  machinery  which  acts 
with  retributive  effect  ujDon  those  who,  in 
the  practice  of  their  hves,  depart  from  what 
are  considered  his  laws.  And  yet  here  am  I, 
whose  whole  life  has  been  at  variance  with 
and  disregarded  them — here  I  am,  I  say, 
with  an  easier  heart  than  I've  had  for  many 
a  day  :  my  son  restored  to  me — my  daughter 
upon  the  j)oint  of  being  married  according 
to  my  highest  wishes — aU  my  projects  pros- 
pering ;  and  there  is  my  brother's  wife— 
WTretched  Lady  Gourlay — who,  forsooth,  is 
rehgious,  benevolent,  humane,  and  charita- 
ble— ay,  and  if  report  speak  true,  who  loves 
her  fellow-creatures  as  much  as  I  scorn  and 
detest  them.  Yes — and  what  is  the  upshot? 
Why,  that  aU  these  vii'tues  have  not  made 
her  one  whit  happier  than  another,  nor  so 
happy  as  one  in  ten  thousand.  Gai  bono, 
then  I  ask — where  is  this  moral  machinery 
which  I  sometimes  dreaded  ?  I  cannot  per- 
^^ceive  its  operations.  It  has  no  existence  ;  it 
-iiimpvn  •  hke  many  another  bug- 

,  ,  ,    ."'^ lines  prod 
onM.toha\v.  i,ad  ne\.. 

risy  on"t*-c!  otiic.      ^t  ^"/,"^'','t  merely  a  thing 

of  chances,  and  its  in^mindents  i^      '     ^^^_ 

binations  that  result  ht^^om  its  evoluu^.^^  -^^^ 

like  the  bits  of  glassVi",  the  kaleidos;:^ 

which,   when   \iewed   na,  ^j-ed,    have   neithcl 

order 'nor  beauty,  but  \]^  lien  seen  through 

our  own  mistaken   impr£^|;ssions,    appear  to 

have  properties  which  thei  y  do  not  possess, 

and  to  produce  results  V  _nat  are  deceptive, 

1  and  which  would  misleard  us  if  we  drew  any 

woibsolute  inference   from]     them.      Here  the 

wish-iest  advances,  kaleid- »scope  in  hand,  and 

of."     ires  you  to  look  at  }^^  tmsel  and  obsei-ve 

'"  Of  .  I 


mred,  howev^}^®^^  ■'  .         ,        ,  ,.,         ,„ 
1  hl^   -„i^»,„„  ,.,r^i3iing  01  credunty  and  tear 


•iperstition  and  hypoc- 


its  order.  Well,  you  do  so,  and  imagine 
that  the  beauty  and  order  you  see  he  in  the 
things  themselves,  and  not  in  the  prism 
through  which  you  ^'iew  them.  But  you  are 
not  satisfied — you  must  examine.  You  take 
the  kaleidoscope  to  pieces,  and  where  then 
are  the  order  and  beauty  to  be  found  ? 
Away !  I  am  right  stiU.  The  doctrine  oi 
hfe  is  a  doctiine  of  chances  ;  and  there  is  no- 
thing certain  but  death — death,  the  gloomy 
and  terrible  uncreator — heigho  !  " 

Whilst  the  unbeheving  bai-onet  was  con- 
gi-atulating  himself  ujDon  the  truth  of  his 
prmcijjles  and  the  success  of  his  j^lans,  mat- 
ters were  about  to  take  place  that  Avere  soon 
to  subject  them  to  a  still  more  efiicient  test 
than  the  accommodating  but  deceptive  spirit 
of  his  own  scepticism.  Lord  CuUamore's 
mind  was  gradually  sinking  under  some  se- 
cret sorrow  or  calamit}^,  which  he  refused  to 
disclose  even  to  his  son  or  Lady  Emily. 
M'Bride's  visit  had  produced  a  most  melan- 
choly effect  upon  him  ;  indeed,  so  deeply 
was  he  weighed  down  by  it,  that  he  was  al- 
most incapable  of  seeing  any  one,  with  the 
exception  of  his  daughter,  whom  he  caressed 
and  wept  over  as  one  Avould  over  some  be- 
loved being  whom  death  was  about  to  snatch 
fi'om  the  heart  and  eyes  forever. 

Sir  Thomas  Goui'lay,  since  the  discovery 
of  his  son,  called  eveiy  day  for  a  week,  but 
the  reply  was,  "His  lordshij)  is  unable  to  see 
any  one." 

One  evening,  about  that  time,  Ginty 
Cooper  had  been  to  see  her  brother,  Tom 
Corbet,  at  the  baronet's,  and  was  on  her  way 
home,  when  she  accidentally  spied  M'Bride 
in  conversation  with  Norton,  at  Lord  CuUa- 
more's hall-door,  which,  on  her  way  to  Sir 
Thomas's,  she  necessarih'  passed.  It  was 
just  about  dusk,  or,  as  they  call  it  in  the 
country,  between  the  two  lights,  and  as  the 
darkness  was  every  moment  deepening,  she 
resolved  to  watch  them,  for  the  pui-j^ose  of 
tracing  M'Bride  home  to  his  lodgings.  They, 
in  the  meantime,  proceeded  to  a  pubhc- 
house  in  the  vicmity,  into  which  both  en- 
tered, and  having  ensconced  themselves  in  a 
httle  back  closet  off  the  common  tap-room, 
took  their  seats  at  a  small  round  table,  Nor- 
ton haAdng  jireviously  ordered  some  punch. 
Ginty  felt  rather  disappointed  at  this  caution, 
but  in  a  few  minutes  a  red-faced  girl,  with,  a 
blowzy  head  of  hair  strong  as  vdre,  and  crisp- 
^^  ^'nto  small  obstinate  undulations  of  sur- 
face wi^icii  neither  comb  nor  coaxing  could 
smooth  a-^ay,  soon  followed  them  -vNdth  the 
punch  and  a  cai^le.  By  the  hght  of  the  lat- 
ter, Ginty  jJercem^-  that  there  was  nothing 
between  tliem  but  a  thin  partition  of  boai'ds, 
through  the  slits  of  which  she  I'ould,  by  ap- 
plying her  eye  or  eai-,  as  the  cas^'  might  be, 


TJJE  BLACK  BARONET. 


630 


botli  see  and  hear  them.  The  tap-room  at 
the  time  was  empty,  aud  Ginty,  lest  her 
voice  might  be  heard,  went  to  the  bar,  from 
whence  she  herself  brought  in  a  glass 
of  porter,  and  having  taken  her  seat  close  to 
the  partition,  overheard  the  following  con- 
versation : 

"  In  half  an  hour  he's  to  see  you,  then  ?  " 
said  Noi-ton,  rejjeating  the  words  mth  a  face 
of  inquiiy. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  in  half  an  hour." 

"  Well,  now,"  he  continued,  "  I  assure  you 
I'm  neither  curious  nor  inquisitive  ;  yet,  un- 
less it  be  a  very  profound  secret  indeed,  I 
give  m}'  honor  I  should  \N-ish  to  hear  it." 

"  There's  others  in  your  family  would  be 
glad  to  hear  it  as  well  as  you,"  rephed 
M'Bride. 

"  Tlie  earl  has  seen  you  once  or  twice  be- 
fore on  the  subject,  I  think  ?  " 

"He  has,  sir?" 

"  And  this  is  the  third  time,  I  beheve  ?  " 

"It  ivill  be  the  third  time,  at  all  events." 

"  Come,  man,"  said  Norton,  "  take  your 
punch  ;  put  yourseK  in  spirits  for  the  inter- 
\'iew.  It  requires  a  man  to  pluck  up  to  be 
able  to  sjDeak  to  a  nobleman." 

"  I  have  spoken  to  as  good  as  ever  he 
was  ;  not  that  I  say  anything  to  his  lordshij^'s 
disparagement,"  replied  ]\I'Bride  ;  "  but  I'll 
tiike  the  punch  for  a  better  reason — because 
I  have  a  fellow  feeling  for  it.  And  yet  it 
was  my  destmction,  too  ;  however,  it  can't 
be  helped.  Yes,  faith,  it  made  me  an  un- 
grateful scoundrel  ;  but,  no  matter  ! — sir, 
here's  your  health  !  I  must  only,  as  they  say, 
make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain — must  biing 
my  cattle  to  the  best  market." 

"  Ay,"  said  Norton,  diyly  and  significant- 
ly ;  "  and  so  you  think  the  old  earl,  the  re 


better  hands.  Unless  Lord  Cullamore  ia 
doting,  I'm  sure  of  that  fact.  I  don't  intend 
to  remain  in  this  countluy.  I'll  go  back  to 
France  or  to  America  ;  I  can't  yet  say  which." 

"Take  j-our punch  in  the  meantime  ;  take 
off  youi'  hquor,  I  say,  and  it'll  clear  your 
head.  Come,  off  with  it.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  I  have  taken  a  tmcy  to  you.  Y'^our 
face  is  an  honest  one,  and  if  I  knew  what 
youi'  business  with  his  lordship  is,  I'd  give 
you  a  hft." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  rejDlied  the  other  ;  "  but 
the  truth  is,  I'm  afeard  to  take  much  till 
after  I  see  him.  I  must  have  all  my  wits 
about  me,  and  keep  myself  steady." 

"  Do  put  it  in  my  power  to  serve  you. 
Tell  me  what  your  business  is,  and,  by  the 
honor  of  my  name,  I'U  assist  you." 

"  At  present,"  repUed  ^M'Bride,  "  I  can't ; 
but  if  I  could  meet  you  after  I  see  his  lord- 
ship, I  don't  say  but  we  might  talk  more 
about  it." 

"  Very  weU,"  rephed  Norton  ;  "  you  won't 
regret  it.  In  the  course  of  a  short  time  I 
shall  have  the  complete  management  of  the 
whole  Cullamore  propert}' ;  and  who  can  say 
that,  if  jow.  piit  confidence  in  me  now,  I  may 
not  have  it  in  my  power  to  emply  you  bene- 
ficially for  yourself  ?  " 

"Come  then,  sir,"  replied  M'Bride,  "let 
me  have  another  tumbler,  on  the  head  of  it. 
I  think  one  more  will  do  me  no  harm ;  as 
you  say,  sir,  it'll  clear  my  head." 

This  was  accordingly  produced,  and 
M'Bride  began  to  become,  if  not  more  com- 
municative, at  least  more  loquacious,  and 
seemed  disposed  to  place  confidence  in  Nor- 
ton, to  whom,  however,  he  communicated 
nothing  of  substantial  importance. 

"  I  thmk,"  said  the  latter,  "if  I  don't  mis- 


spectable  old  nobleman,  is  yonv  best  chap-    take,  that  I  am  acqujiinted  with  some  of  your 


man  y     Am  I  right  ?  " 

"I  may  go  that  far,  any  way,"  rephed  the 
fellow,  with  a  knowing  gi'in  ;  "but  I  don't 
lave  you  much  the  wiser." 

"No,  faith,  you  don't,"  rephed  Norton, 
grinning  in  his  turn.  "However,  hsten  to 
me.  Do  you  not  think,  now,  that  if  you 
placed  your  case  in  the  hands  of  some  one  that 
stands  well  with  his  lordship,  and  who  could 
use  his  influence  in  your  behalf,  you  might 
have  better  success  ?  " 

"  I'm  the  best  judge  of  that  myself,"  re- 
plied MBride.  "As  it  is,  I  have,  or  can 
have,  two  strings  to  my  bow.  I  have  only 
to  go  to  a  certain  person,  and  say  I'm  sony 
for  what  I've  done,  and  I've  no  doubt  but  I'd 
come  well  oft'." 

"Well,  and  why  don't  you?  If  I  were  in 
your  case,  I'd  consider  7)^v.^r//"  first,  though." 

"  I  don't  know,"  rephed  the  other,  as  if 
undecided.       "I   think,    afther  aU,    I'm   in  , 


relations." 

"Tliat  may  easily  be,"  rephed  the  other; 
"  and  it  has  struck  me  two  or  three  times 
that  I  have  seen  your  face  before,  but  I  can't 
tell  where." 

"  Veiy  hkely,"  rephed  Norton  ;  "but  111 
tell  you  what,  we  must  get  better  acquainted. 
Are  you  in  any  employment  at  present  ?  " 

"  I'm  doing  nothing,"  said  the  other ; 
"  and  the  few  i)ounds  I  had  are  now  gone  to 
a  few  shillings  ;  so  that  by  to-morrow  or 
next  day,  I'U  be  forced  to  give  my  teeth  a 
holiday." 

"  Poor  fellow,"  rejDlied  Norton,  "  that's  too 
bad.  Here's  a  pound  note  for  you,  at  all 
events.  Not  a  word  now  ;  if  we  can  under-, 
stand  each  other  you  sha'n't  want ;  and  111 
tell  you  what  you'll  do.  After  lea\-ing  his 
loi'dship  you  nuist  come  to  my  room,  where 
you  can  have  punch  to  the  eyes,  and  there 
will  be  no  interdiction  to  our  chat.     You 


540 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S  WORKS. 


can  tlien  tell  me  anything  you  like  ;  but  it 
must  come  willingly,  for  I'd  scorn  to  force  a 
secret  from  any  man — that  is,  if  it  is  a  secret. 
Do  you  agree  to  this  ?  " 

"I  agree  to  it,  and  many  thanks,  worthy 
sir,"  rephed  M'Bride,  putting  the  pound  note 
in  his  nocket ;  after  which  they  chatted  upon 
indifferent  matters  until  the  period  for  his 
inter\iew  with  Lord  Cullamore  had  anived. 
Ginty,  who  had  not  lost  a  syllable  of  this 
dialogue,  to  whom,  as  the  reader  perhaps 
may  suspect,  it  was  no  novelty,  followed 
them  at  a  safe  distance,  until  she  saw  them 
enter  the  house.  The  interest,  however, 
which  she  felt  in  M'Bride's  movements,  pre- 
vented her  fi'om  going  home,  or  allowing 
him  to  shp  through  her  finger  vdthout  ac- 
comphshiug  a  project  that  she  had  for  some 
time  before  meditated,  but  had  hitherto 
found  no  opportunity  to  execute. 

Lord  Cullamore,  on  M'Bride's  entrance,  was 
in  much  the  same  state  which  we  have  al- 
ready described,  except  that  in  bodily  appear- 
ance he  was  somewhat  more  emaciated  and 
feeble.  There  was,  however,  visible  in  his 
features  a  tone  of  solemn  feeling,  elevated 
but  sorrowful,  that  seemed  to  besjieak  a 
heart  at  once  resigned  and  suffering,  and 
disposed  to  receive  the  dispensations  of  life 
as  a  man  would  whose  philosophy  was  soft- 
ened by  a  Christian  spirit.  In  the  general 
plan  of  life  he  clearly  recognized  the  ^risdom 
which,  for  the  example  and  the  benefit  of 
aU,  runs  with  singular  beauty  through  the  in- 
finite combinations  of  human  action,  verifying 
the  very  theory  which  the  baronet  saw  dim- 
ly, but  doubted  ;  we  mean  that  harmonious 
adaptation  of  moral  justice  to  those  actions 
by  which  the  original  prmciples  that  difinse 
happiness  through  social  life  ai-e  disregarded 
and  riolated.  The  vei'y  oi'der  that  char- 
acterizes all  creation,  taught  him  that  we  are 
not  here  without  a  purpose,  and  when  hu- 
man natui'e  failed  to  satisfy  him  upon  the 
mystery  of  life,  he  went  to  revelation,  and 
found  the  problem  solved.  The  consequence 
was,  that  whilst  he  felt  as  a  man,  he  endured 
as  a  Christian — aware  that  this  life  is,  for 
purposes  which  we  cannot  question,  cheq- 
uered with  erils  that  teach  us  the  absolute 
necessity  of  another,  and  make  us,  in  the 
meantime,  docile  and  submissive  to  the  will 
of  him  who  called  us  into  being. 

His  lordship  had  been  reading  the  Bible  as 
M'Bride  entered,  and,  after  having  closed  it, 
and  placed  his  spectacles  between  the  leaves 
as  a  mark,  he  motioned  the  man  to  come 
forward. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  have  you  brought  those 
documents  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  have,  my  lord." 

"  Pray,"  said  he^  "  aUow  me  to  see  them." 


M'Bride  hesitated  ;  being  a  knave  him- 
self, he  naturally  suspected  every  other  man 
of  trick  and  dishonesty ;  and  yet,  when  he 
looked  upon  the  mild  but  dignified  counte- 
nance of  the  old  man,  made  reverend  by  age 
and  suffering,  he  had  not  the  courage  to 
give  any  intimation  of  the  base  suspicion:, 
he  entertained. 

"  Place  the  papers  before  me,  sir,"  said 
his  lordship,  somewhat  shai-ply.  "What 
ojjinion  can  I  form  of  theii'  value  with, 
out  .  having  first  inspected  and  examined 
them  ?  " 

As  he  spoke  he  took  the  spectacles  from 
out  the  Bible,  and  settled  them  on  his 
face. 

"I  know,  my  lord,"  replied  M'Bride,  tak- 
ing them  out  of  a  pocket-book  rather  the 
worse  for  wear,  "  that  I  am  placing  them 
in  the  hands  of  an  honorable  man." 

His  lordshijD  took  them  Mdthout  seeming 
to  have  heard  this  observation  ;  and  as  he 
held  them  up,  M'Bride  cotdd  j^erceive  that 
a  painfid  change  came  over  him.  He  be- 
came ghastly  j)ale,  and  his  hands  trembled 
so  violently,  that  he  was  unable  to  read 
their  contents  until  he  jDlaced  them  flat 
ujDon  the  table  before  him.  At  length,  after 
having  read  and  examined  them  closely,  and 
eridently  so  as  to  satisfy  himself  of  theil 
authenticity,  he  turned  round  to  M'Bride, 
and  said,  "  Is  any  person  aware  that  you  ai'e 
in  possession  of  these  documents  ?  " 

"Aha,"  thought  the  feUow,  "there's  an 
old  knave  for  you.  He  would  give  a  round 
sum  that  they  were  in  ashes,  I'll  engage  ; 
but  I'll  make  him  shell  out  for  all  that. — I 
don't  think  there  is,  my  lord,  unless  the 
gentleman — yoiu'  lordship  knows  who  I 
mean — that  I  took  them  fi'om." 

"  Did  you  take  them  deliberately  from 
him?" 

The  man  stood  uncertain  for  a  moment, 
and  thought  that  the  best  thing  he  could  do 
was  to  make  a  merit  of  the  affair,  by  affect- 
ing a  strong  disposition  to  serve  his  lord- 
ship. 

"  The  ti*uth  is,  my  lord,  I  was  in  his  con- 
fidence, and  as  I  heard  how  mattei'S  stood,  I 
thought  it  a  pity  that  your  lordship  should 
be  annoyed  at  your  time  of  life,  and  I  took 
it  into  my  head  to  place  them  in  your  lord- 
ship's hands." 

"  These  are  genuine  documents,"  obsers^ed 
his  lordship,  looking  at  them  again.  "  I  re- 
member the  handwriting  distinctly,  and 
have  in  my  possession  some  letters  written 
by  the  same  individual.  Was  your  master 
a  kind  one  ?  " 

"  Both  kind  and  generous,  my  lord  ;  and 
I  have  no  doubt  at  all  but  he'd  forgive  me 
everj'thing,  and  advance  a  lai'ge  sum  besides, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


541 


in  order  to  get  these  two  little  papers  back. 
Your  lordship  knows  he  can  do  nothing 
against  you  without  them  ;  and  I  hope  you'll 
consider  that,  my  lord." 

"  Did  he  voluntaiily,  that  is,  wilhngly,  and 
of  his  OAvn  accord,  admit  you  to  his  confi- 
dence ?  and,  if  so,  upon  what  gi'ounds  ?  " 

"  A\Tiy,  my  lord,  my  wife  and  I  were  ser- 
vants to  his  father  for  years,  and  he,  when  a 
shp  of  a  boy,  was  very  fond  of  me.  "VMien 
he  came  over  here,  m}'  lord,  it  was  rather 
against  his  will,  and  not  at  all  for  his  own 
sake.  So,  as  he  knew  that  he'd  require  some 
one  in  this  country  that  could  act  prudently 
for  hira,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  take  me 
with  him,  especially  as  my  wife  and  myself 
were  both  anxious  to  come  back  to  our  own 
coimtry.  '  I  must  trust  some  one,  M'Bride,' 
said  he,  '  and  I  will  trust  you '  ;  and  then 
he  tould  me  the  raisou  of  his  journey 
here." 

"Well,"  rephed  his  lordship,  "proceed; 
have  you  anything  more  to  add  !  " 

"Nothing,  my  lord,  but  what  I've  tould 
you.  I  thought  it  a  pitiful  case  tx)  see  a 
nobleman  at  your  time  of  life  afflicted  by 
the  steps  he  was  about  to  take,  and  I  brought 
these  i^apers  accordingly  to  your  lordship. 
I  hope  you'll  not  forget  that,  my  lord." 

"  What  value  do  you  place  on  these  two 
documents  ?  " 

"  \VTiy,  I  think  a  thousand  pounds,  my 
lord." 

"  Well,  sir,  your  estimate  is  a  very  low  one 
— ten  thousand  would  come  somewhat  nearer 
the  tlmig." 

"  Isly  lord,  I  can  only  say,"  said  !M'Bride, 
"  that  I'm  willin'  to  take  a  thous;md ;  but, 
if  your  lordship,  knowin'  the  value  of  the 
papers  as  you  do,  chooses  to  add  anything 
more,  I'll  be  veiy  happy  to  accept  it." 

"  I  have  anotli  r  question  to  ask  you,  sir," 
said  his  lordship,  "  which  I  do  -with  great 
pain,  as  I  do  assure  you  that  this  is  as 
painful  a  dialogue  as  I  ever  held  in  my  hfe. 
Do  you  think  now,  that,  provided  you  had 
not  taken — that  is,  stolen — these  papers 
from  your  master,  he  would,  upon  the  suc- 
cess of  the  steps  he  is  taking,  have  given 
you  a  thousand  pounds  ?  " 

Tlie  man  hesitated,  as  if  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  man's  object  in  putting 
the  question.  "  ^^Tiy — hem — no  ;  I  don't 
think  I  could  expect  that,  my  lord  ;  but  a 
handsome  pi-esent,  I  dare  say,  I  might  come 
in  for." 

Lord  CuUamore  raised  liimself  in  his 
chair,  and  after  looking  at  the  treacherous 
^•illain  with  a  calm  feeling  of  scorn  and  in- 
dignation, to  which  his  illness  imparted  a 
solemn  and  lofty  severity,  that  made  ^I'Bride 
feel  as  if  he  -wished  to  sink  through  the  floor. 


"Go,"  said  he,  looking  at  him  with  an  eye 
that  was  kindled  into  something  of  its  for^ 
mer  tire.  "Begone,  sir:  take  away  j'our 
papers  ;  I  will  not — I  cannot  enter  into  any 
compact  with  an  ungrateful  and  perfidious 
\'illain  hke  you.  These  papers  have  come 
into  your  hands  by  robbery  or  theft — that  is 
sufficient ;  there  they  are,  sir — take  them 
away.  I  shall  defend  myself  and  my  rights 
upon  principles  of  justice,  but  never  shall 
stoop  to  support  them  by  chshonor." 

On  concluding,  he  flung  them  across  the 
table  with  a  degree  of  energy  that  surprised 
M'Bride,  whilst  his  color,  hitherto  so  pale,  was 
heightened  by  a  flash  of  that  high  feeling 
and  untarnished  integiity  which  are  seldom 
so  beautifully  impressive  as  when  exhibited 
in  the  honorable  indignation  of  old  age.  It 
might  have  been  compared  to  that  pale  but 
angry  red  of  the  winter  sky  which  flashes  so 
transiently  over  the  snow-clad  earth,  when 
the  sun,  after  the  fatigues  of  his  short  but 
chilly  journey,  is  about  to  sink  from  our 
sight  at  the  close  of  day. 

M'Bride  slimk  out  of  the  room  crestfallen, 
disappointed,  and  abashed  ;  but  on  reaching 
the  outside  of  the  door  he  found  Norton 
awaiting  him.  This  worthy  gentlemrm,  after 
beckoning  to  him  to  follow,  haAing  been 
striving,  -with  his  whole  soul  centred  in  the 
key-hole,  to  hear  the  puqoort  of  their  confer- 
ence, now  proceeded  to  his  own  room,  ac- 
companied by  M'Bride,  where  we  shall  leave 
them  without  intemiption  to  theii-  conversa- 
tion and  enjoyment,  and  retiuTi  once  more 
to  Ginty  Cooper. 

Until  the  hour  of  half-past  twelve  that 
night  Ginty  most  reUgiously  kept  her  watch 
convenient  to  the  door.  Just  then  it  opened 
verv"  quietly,  and  a  man  staggered  down  the 
hall  steps,  and  bent  his  course  toward  the 
northern  part  of  the  city  suburbs.  A  female 
might  be  obsei-ved  to  follow  him  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  ever  as  he  began  to  mutter  his 
dnmken  meditations  to  himself,  she  ap- 
proached him  more  closely  behind,  in  order, 
if  possible,  to  lose  nothing  of  what  he 
said. 

"  An  ould  fool,"  he  hiccupped,  "  to  throw 
them  back  to  me — hie — an'  the  other  a 
kna-a-ve  to  want  to — to  look  at  them  ;  but  I 
was  lip — up  ;  if  the  young-oung  1-lor-ord  will 
buy  them,  he  mu-must-ust  pay  for  them,  for 
I  iiav-ave  them  safe.  Hang  it,  my  head's 
tura-tum-turnin'  al>out  hke  the " 

At  this  portion  of  his  reflections  he  turned 
into  a  low,  dark  line  of  cabins,  some  inhab- 
ited, and  others  iiiined  and  waste,  followed 
b}'  the  female  in  question  ;  and  if  the  reader 
cannot  ascertain  her  object  in  dogging  him, 
he  must  expect  no  assistance  in  guessing  it 
from  us. 


54^ 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOIiKS. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

lAiey's  Vain  but  Affecting  Exposttdation  with  her 
Father — Her  Terrible  Denunciation  of  Ambrose 
Gray. 

The  next  moming,  after  breakfast,  Lord 
Dunroe  found  Norton  and  M'Bride  in  the 
stable  yard,  when  the  following  coHversation 
took  place. 

" Norton,"  said  his  lordship,  "I  can't  un- 
derstand what  they  mean  by  the  postpone- 
ment of  this  trial  about  the  mare.  1  feai* 
they  will  beat  us,  and  in  that  case  it  is  bet- 
ter, perhaps,  to  compromise  it.  You  know 
that  that  attorney  fellow  Biniey  is  engaged 
against  us,  and  by  all  accoimts  he  has  his 
wits  about  him." 

"  Yes,  my  lord ;  but  Bimey  is  leaving 
home,  going  to  France,  and  they  have  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  it  postponed  until  the  next 
term.  My  lord,  this  is  the  man,  M'Bride, 
that  I  told  you  of  this  morning.  IM'Bride, 
have  you  brought  those  documents  with  you  ? 
I  wish  to  show  them  to  his  lordship,  who,  I 
think,  you  will  find  a  more  liberal  piu-chaser 
than  his  father." 

"  "WTiat's  that  you  said,  sir,"  asked  M'Bride, 
with  an  appearance  of  deej)  interest,  "about 
Mr.  Birney  going  to  France  ?  " 

.  "  This  is  no  place  to  talk  about  these  mat- 
ters," said  his  lordsliij) ;  "bring  the  man  up 
to  your  own  room,  Norton,  and  I  will  join 
you  there.  The  thing,  however,  is  a  mere 
farce,  and  my  father  a  fool,  or  he  would  not 
give  himself  any  concern  about  it.  Bring 
him  to  your  room,  where  I  will  join  you  pres- 
ently. But,  observe  me,  Norton,  none  of 
these  tricks  upon  me  in  future.  You  said 
you  got  only  twenty-five  for  the  mare,  and 
now  it  appears  3'ou  got  exactly  double  the 
sum.  Now,  upon  my  honor,  I  won't  stand 
anymore  of  tlus." 

"  But,  my  lord,"  repHed  Norton,  laughing, 
"  don't  you  see  how  badly  you  reason  ?  I 
got  fifty  for  the  mare  ;  of  this  I  gave  your 
lordship  twenty-five — the  balance  I  kept  my- 
self. Of  course,  then,  you  can  faii'ly  say,  or 
swear,  if  you  hke,  that  she  bi-ought  you  in 
nothing  but  the  fair  value.  In  fact,  I  kejDt 
you  completely  out  of  the  transaction  ;  but, 
after  all,  I  only  j)aid  myself  for  the  twenty- 
five  I  won  of  you." 

Dunroe  was  by  no  means  in  anything  hke 
good-humor  this  morning.  Tlie  hints  which 
Norton  had  communicated  to  him  at  break- 
fast, respecting  the  subject  of  M'Bride's  pri- 
vate interviews  with  his  father,  had  filled 
him  with  more  alarm  than  he  wished  to  ac- 
knowledge. Neither,  on  the  other  hand, 
had  he  any  serious  apprehensions,  for,  un- 
happily for  himself,  he  was  one  of  those  easy 
and  unreflecting  men  who  seldom  look  be- 


yond the  present  moment^  and  can  never  be 
brought  to  a  reasonable  consideration  of 
their  own  interests,  until,  perhaps,  it  is  too 
late  to  secure  them. 

All  we  can  communicate  to  the  reader  with 
respect  to  the  conference  between  these  three 
redoubtable  indiriduals  is  simply  its  results. 
On  that  evening  Norton  and  IM'Bride  started 
for  France,  with  what  object  wiU  be  seen 
hereafter,  Bimey  having  followed  on  the 
same  route  the  morning  but  one  afterwards, 
for  the  piu'pose  of  seeming  the  documents 
in  question. 

Dimroe  now  more  than  ever  felt  the  neces- 
sity of  urging  his  marriage  with  Lucy.  He 
knew  his  father's  honorable  sjiirit  too  well  to 
believe  that  he  would  for  one  moment  yield 
his  consent  to  it  under  the  circumstances 
which  were  now  pending.  "With  the  full 
knowledge  of  these  circumstances  he  was  not 
acquainted.  M'Bride  had  somewhat  over- 
stated the  share  of  confidence  to  which  in 
this  matter  he  had  been  admitted  by  his 
master.  His  information,  therefore,  on  the 
subject,  was  not  so  accui-ate  as  he  wished, 
although,  fi'om  motives  of  dishonesty  and  a 
desire  to  sell  his  documents  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, he  made  the  most  of  the  knowledge 
he  jDOSsessed.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Dunroe 
determined,  as  we  said,  to  biing  about  the 
nuptials  without  delay,  and  in  this  he  was 
seconded  by  Sii*  Thomas  Gourlay  himself, 
who  also  had  his  own  motives  for  hastening 
them.  In  fact,  here  were  two  men,  each  de- 
liberately attemi^ting  to  impose  upon  the 
other,  and  neither  possessed  of  one  spark  of 
honor  or  tnith,  although  the  transaction  be- 
tween them  was  one  of  the  most  solemn  im- 
jDortance  that  can  occur-  in  the  gi'eat  business 
of  Ufe.  The  world,  however,  is  filled  with 
similar  characters ;  and  not  aU  the  misery 
and  calamity  that  ensue  fi'om  such  fraudulent 
and  dishonest  practices  will,  we  fear,  ever 
prevent  the  selfish  and  ambitious  fi'om  pur- 
suing the  same  courses. 

"  Sir  Thomas,"  said  Dunroe,  in  a  conver- 
sation with  the  baronet  held  on  the  very  day 
after  Norton  and  IM'Bride  had  set  out  on 
theu'  secret  expedition,  "this  marriage  is 
unnecessarily  delayed.  I  am  anxious  that 
it  should  take  place  as  soon  as  it  possibly 
can." 

" But,"  replied  the  baronet,  "I  have  not 
been  able  to  see  joxir  father  on  the  subject, 
in  consequence  of  his  illness." 

"  It  is  not  necessary,"  rephed  his  lordship. 
"  You  know  what  kind  of  a  man  he  is.  Li 
fact,  I  fear  he  is  very  neaiiy  non  compos  as 
it  is.  He  has  got  so  confoundedly  crotchety 
of  late,  that  I  sliould  not  feel  sui-prised  if, 
under  some  whim  or  other,  he  set  his  face 
against  it  altogether.     In  fact,  it  is  useless^ 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


54S 


and  worse  tb^n  useless,  to  consult  him  at  all 
about  it.  I  move,  therefore,  that  we  go  on 
without  him." 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  returned  the 
other  ;  "and  I  have  not  the  slightest  objec- 
tion :  name  the  day.  The  contract  is  dra^\•n 
up,  and  only  re(iuires  to  be  signed." 

"  I  should  say,  on  Monday  next,"  rephed 
his  lordship ;  "  but  I  fear  we  will  have 
objections  and  protestations  from  ^liss  Gour- 
lay  ;  and  if  so,  how  are  we  to  manage  ?  " 

"  Leave  the  management  of  Miss  Gourlay 
to  me,  my  lord,"  rephed  her  father.  "I 
have  managed  her  before  and  shall  manage 
her  now." 

His  lordship  had  scarcely  gone,  when 
Lacy  was  immediately  sent  for,  and  as  usual 
found  her  father  in  the  librar^^ 

"Lucy,"  said  he,  with  as  much  blandness 
of  manner  as  he  could  assume,  "  I  have  sent 
for  you  to  say  that  you  are  called  upon  to 
make  yoiu*  father  happy  at  last." 

"And  myself  \\T:etched  forever,  papa." 

"But  yoiu'  word,  Lucy — your  promise — 
your  honor :  remember  that  promise  so 
solemnly  given  ;  remember,  too,  your  duty 
of  obedience  as  a  daughter. " 

"  Alas  !  I  remember  eveiything,  papa  ;  too 
keenly,  too  bitterly  do  I  remember  aU." 

"  You  •will  be  prepared  to  marrj'  Dunroe 
on  Monday  next.  The  affair  will  be  com- 
paratively private.  That  is  to  say,  we  will 
ask  nobody — no  dejeuner — no  nonsense.  The 
fewer  the  better  at  these  matters.  Would 
you  wish  to  see  your  brother — hem — I  mean 
Mr.  Gray?" 

Lucy  had  been  standing  while  he  spoke  ; 
but  she  now  staggered  over  to  a  seat,  on 
which  she  fell  rather  than  sat.  Her  large, 
lucid  eyes  lost  their  lustre ;  her  frame 
qmvered  ;  her  face  became  of  an  ashy  pale- 
ness ;  but  still  those  eyes  were  bent  upon 
her  father. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  at  length,  in  a  low  voice 
that  breathed  of  horror,  "  do  not  kill  me." 

"  Kill  j-ou,  foohsh  girl !  Now  really,  Lu- 
cy, this  is  extremely  ridiculous  and  vexatious 
too.  Is  not  my  daughter  a  woman  of 
honor  ? " 

"Papa,"  she  said,  solemnly,  going  down 
upon  her  two  knees,  and  joining  her  lovely 
and  snowy  hands  together,  in  an  attitude  of 
the  most  earnest  and  heai't-rending  supph- 
cation  ;  "  papa,  heai'  me.  You  have  said 
that  I  saved  your  life  ;  be  now  as  generous 
as  I  was — save  mine." 

"  Lucy,"  he  rephed,  "  this  looks  hke  want 
of  principle.  You  would  ^iolate  j'our  prom- 
ise. I  should  not  wish  Dimroe  to  heai-  this, 
or  to  know  it.  He  might  begin  to  reason 
upon  it,  and  to  say  that  the  .woman  who 
could  dehberately  break  a  solemn  promise 


might  not  hesitate  at  the  marriage  vow.  I 
do  not  apply  this  rea.soning  to  you,  but  he 
or  others  might.  Of  course,  I  expect  that, 
as  a  woman  of  honor,  you  will  keep  your 
word  with  me,  and  many  Dvmroe  on  Mon- 
day. You  Avill  have  no  troulile — everything 
shall  be  managed  by  them ;  a  brilhant 
trotisi^eau  can  be  pro\-ided  as  well  afterwards 
as  before." 

Lucy  rose  up  ;  and  as  she  did,  the  blood, 
which  seemed  to  have  pre%'iously  gathered 
to  her  heart,  now  returned  to  her  cheek,  and 
began  to  mantle  ujion  it,  whilst  her  figure, 
before  submissive  and  imploring,  dilated  to 
its  fuU  size. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  "  since  you  will  not 
hear  the  voice  of  supphcation,  hear  that  of 
reason  and  truth.  Do  not  entertiiin  a 
doubt,  no,  not  for  a  moment,  that  if  I  am 
urged — driven — to  this  maniage,  hateful 
and  utterly  detestable  to  me  as  it  is,  I  shall 
hesitate  to  marrj'  tliis  man.  I  say  this,  how- 
ever, because  I  tell  you  that  I  am  about  to 
appeal  to  your  interest  in  my  true  happiness 
for  tlie  last  time.  Is  it,  then,  kind ;  is  it 
fatherly  in  you,  sir,  to  exact  fi"om  me  the 
fulfilment  of  a  promise  given  under  circum- 
stances that  ought  to  touch  yovu'  heai-t  into 
a  generous  perception  of  the  sacrifice  which 
in  giving  it  I  made  for  your  sake  alone? 
You  were  ill,  and  laboring  under  the  appre- 
hension of  sudden  death,  principally,  you 
said,  in  consequence  of  my  refusal  to  be- 
come the  wife  of  that  man.  I  saw  this  ;  and 
although  the  effort  was  infinitely  worse  than 
death  to  me,  I  did  not  hesitate  one  moment 
in  jdelding  up  what  is  at  any  time  deai'er  to 
me  than  hfe — my  happiness — that  you  might 
be  spared.  Alas,  m}'  dear  father,  if  you 
knew  how  painful  it  is  to  me  to  be  forced  to 
plead  all  this  in  my  o^vn  defence,  you 
would,  you  must,  pity  me.  A  generous 
heart,  almost  under  any  cu'cum  stances, 
scorns  to  plead  its  own  acts,  especially  when 
they  are  on  the  side  of  virtue.  But  I,  alas, 
am  forced  to  it ;  am  forced  to  do  that  which 
I  would  othei'wise  scorn  and  blush  to  do." 

"Lucy,"  replied  her  father,  who  felt  in 
his  ambitious  and  tyrannical  soul  the  full 
force,  not  only  of  what  she  said,  but  of  the 
fraud  he  hml  practised  on  her,  but  which 
she  never  susjjected  :  "Lucy,  my  child,  you 
wUl  drive  me  mad.  Perhaps  I  am  ^^Tong  ^ 
but  at  the  same  time  my  heart  is  so  com-! 
pletely  fixed  uj^ou  this  marriage,  that  if  it  be 
not  bi'ought  about  I  feel  I  shall  go  insane. 
The  value  of  hfe  would  be  lost  to  me,  and 
most  probably  I  shall  die  the  dishonorable 
death  of  a  suicide." 

"And  have  you  no  fear  for  me,  my  father 
— no  apprehension  that  I  may  escape  fi-om 
this  my  wTetched  destiny  to  the  peace  of  the 


544 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJ^'S  WORKS. 


grave?  But  you  need  not.  Thank  God,  I 
trust  and  feel  that  my  regard  for  His  pre- 
cepts, and  my  perceptions  of  His  pro^idence, 
are  too  cleai*  and  too  firm  ever  to  suffer  me 
to  fly  hke  a  coward  from  the  post  in  life 
which  He  has  assigned  me.  But  why,  dear 
father,  should  you  make  me  the  miserable 
victim  of  yoiu'  ambition? — I  am  not  am- 
bitious." 

"  I  know  you  are  not :  I  never  could  get 
an  honorable  ambition  instilled  into  you." 

"I  am  not  mean,  however — nay,  I  trust 
that  I  possess  all  that  honest  and  honorable 
pride  which  would  prevent  me  from  doing 
an  imworthy  act,  or  one  unbecoming  either 
my  sex  or  my  position." 

"You  would  not  break  your  word,  for 
instance,  nor  render  your  father  wretched, 
insane,  madj  or,  perhaps,  cause  his  di-eadful 
malady  to  return.  No — no — but  yet  fine 
talking  is  a  fine  thing.  Madam,  cease  to 
plead  your  virtues  to  me,  unless  you  prove 
that  you  possess  them  by  keeping  your  hon- 
orable engagement  made  to  Lord  Dunroe, 
through  the  sacred  medium  of  your  own 
father.  ^Vhatever  you  may  do,  don't  attemj)t 
to  involve  me  in  your  disgrace." 

"I  am  exhausted,"  she  said,  "and  cannot 
speak  any  longer  ;  but  I  will  not  despair  of 
you,  father.  No,  my  dear  papa,"  she  said, 
thi'owing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  laying 
her  he*d  upon  his  bosom,  and  bursting  into 
tears,  "  I  will  not  think  that  you  could  sacri- 
fice your  daughter.  You  will  relent  for 
Lucy  as  Lucy  did  for  you — but  I  feel  weak. 
You  know,  papa,  how  this  fever  on  my 
spirits  has  worn  me  do'vvn  ;  and,  after  all, 
the  day  might  come — and  come  with  bitter- 
ness and  remorse  to  your  heart — when  j^ou 
may  be  forced  to  feel  that  although  you 
made  your  Lucy  a  countess  she  did  not  re- 
main a  countess  long." 

"  What  do  you  mean  now  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  see,  papa,  that  my  heart  is 
breaking  fast?  If  you  will  not  hear  my 
Words — if  they  cannot  successfully  plead 
for  me — let  my  declining  health — let  my 
pale  and  wasted  cheek — let  my  want  of 
spirits,  my  want  of  appetite — and,  above  all, 
let  that  which  you  cannot  see  nor  feel — the 
sickness  of  my  unhappy  heart — plead  for 
me.  Permit  me  to  go,  dear  papa  ;  and  will 
you  allow  me  to  lean  upon  you  to  my  own 
room  ? — for,  alas !  I  am  not,  after  this  pain- 
ful excitement,  able  to  go  there  myself. 
Thank  you,  papa,  thank  you." 

He  was  thus  compelled  to  give  her  his 
arm,  and,  in  doing  so,  was  surprised  to  feel 
the  extraordinary  tremor  by  which  her  frame 
was  shaken.  On  reaching  her  room,  she 
turned  round,  and  laying  her  head,  with  an 
affectionate  and  supphcating  confidence,  once 


more  upon  his  breast,  she  whispered  with 
streaming  eyes,  *'  Alas !  my  dear  papa,  you 
forget,  in  urging  me  to  marry  this  hateful 
profligate,  that  my  heai*t,  my  aflections,  my 
love — in  the  fullest,  and  purest,  and  most 
disinterested  sense — are  irrevocably  fixed 
upon  another ;  and  Dunroe,  all  mean  and 
unmanly  as  he  is,  knows  this." 

"  He  knows  that — there,  sit  down — why 
do  you  tremble  so  ? — Yes,  but  he  knows 
that  what  you  consider  an  attachment  is  a 
mere  girUsh  fancy,  a  whimsical  predilection 
that  your  own  good-sense  will  show  you  the 
folly  of  at  a  future  time." 

"  Recollect,  papa,  that  he  has  been  extrav- 
agant, and  is  said  to  be  embarrassed  ;  the 
truth  is,  sir,  that  the  man  values  not  your 
daughter,  but  the  jjroperty  to  which  he 
thinks  he  will  become  entitled,  and  which  I 
have  no  doubt  will  be  very  welcome  to  his 
necessities.  I  feel  that  I  speak  truth,  and 
as  a  test  of  his  selfishness,  it  will  be  only 
necessary  to  acquaint  him  with  the  reappear- 
ance of  my  brother — yovu^  son  and  heir — 
and  you  will  be  no  further  troubled  by  his 
importunities." 

"  Troubled  by  his  importunity  !  Why, 
girl,  it's  I  that  am  troubled  with  apprehen- 
sion lest  he  might  discover  the  existence  of 
your  brother,  and  draw  off." 

One  broad  gaze  of  wonder  and  dismay 
she  turned  upon  him,  and  her  face  became 
crimsoned  with  shame.  She  then  covered 
it  with  her  open  hands,  and,  turning  round, 
placed  her  head  uj)on  the  end  of  the  sofa, 
and  moaned  with  a  deep  and  bursting  an- 
guish, on  hearing  this  acknowledgment  of 
deliberate  baseness  from  his  own  hps. 

The  baronet  understood  her  feelings,  and 
regretted  the  words  he  had  uttered,  but  he 
resolved  to  bear  the  matter  out. 

"  Don't  be  sm-prised,  Lucy,"  he  added, 
"nor  alarmed  at  these  sentiments  ;  for  I  tell 
you,  that  rather  than  be  defeated  in  the  ob- 
ject I  j)ropose  for  your  elevation  in  life,  I 
would  trample  a  thousand  times  upon  all 
the  moral  obligations  that  ever  bound  man. 
Put  it  down  to  what  you  like — insanity — 
monomania,  if  you  wiU — but  so  it  is  with 
me  :  I  shall  work  my  2)urpose  out,  or  either 
of  us  shall  die  for  it ;  and  from  this  you  may 
perceive  how  likely  your  resistance  and  ob- 
duracy are  to  become  available  against  the 
determination  of  such  a  man  as  I  am.  Com- 
pose yourself,  girl,  and  don't  be  a  fool.  The 
only  Avay  to  get  properly  through  life  is  to 
accommodate  ourselves  to  its  necessities,  or, 
in  other  words,  to  have  shrewdness  and 
common  sense,  and  foil  the  world,  if  we  can, 
at  its  own  weapons.  Give  up  your  fine  sen- 
timent, I  desire  you,  and  go  down  to  the 
drawing-room,  to  receive  your  brother ;  he 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


645 


»eill  be  here  very  soon.  I  am  j^oing  to  the 
assizes,  and  shall  not  return  till  about  four 
o'clock.  Come,  come,  all  will  end  better 
than  you  imagine." 

The  mention  of  her  brother  was  anything 
but  a  comfort  to  Lucy.  Her  father  at  first 
entertained  api^rehensions,  as  we  have  al- 
ready said,  that  this  promising  youth  might 
support  his  sister  in  her  aversion  Igainst 
the  maiTiage.  Two  or  three  conversations 
on  the  subject  soon  undeceived  him,  how- 
ever, in  the  view  he  had  taken  of  his  char- 
acter ;  and  Lucy  herself  now  dreaded  him, 
on  this  subject,  almost  as  much  as  she  did 
her  father. 

"With  respect  to  this  same  brother,  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  now  to  say,  that  Lucy's 
feehngs  had  undergone  a  very  considerable 
change.  On  hearing  that  he  not  only  was  in 
existence,  but  that  she  would  soon  actually  be- 
hold him,  her  impassioned  imagination  paint- 
ed him  as  she  wished  and  hoped  he  might 
prove  to  be — that  is,  in  the  first  place — tall, 
elegant,  handsome,  and  with  a  strong  like- 
ness to  the  mother  whom  he  had  been  said 
so  much  to  resf'.uble  ;  and,  in  the  next — oh, 
how  her  tremMing  heart  yearned  to  find 
him  aftectiouate,  tender,  generous,  and  full 
of  all  those  noble  and  manly  virtues  on 
which  might  rest  a  delightful  sympathy,  a 
pm*e  and  generous  affection,  and  a  tender 
and  trusting  confidence  between  them.  On 
casting  her  eyes  upon  him  for  the  first  time, 
however,  she  felt  at  the  moment  like  one 
disenchanted,  or  awakening  fi'om  some  de- 
Ughtful  illusion  to  a  reaUty  so  much  at  vari- 
ance with  the  heaxi  ideal  of  her  imagination, 
as  to  occasion  a  feeling  of  disappointment 
that  amounted  almost  to  pain.  There  stood 
before  her  a  young  man,  with  a  countenance 
so  hke  her  father's,  that  the  fact  startled 
her.  Still  there  was  a  diiference,  for — 
whether  fi-om  the  consciousness  of  bii'th,  or 
authority,  or  position  in  life — there  was 
something  in  her  father's  features  that  re- 
deemed them  fi-om  absolute  vulgarity.  Here, 
however,  although  the  resemblance  was  ex- 
traordinary, and  every  feature  almost  iden- 
tical, there  might  be  read  in  the  countenance 
of  her  brother  a  low,  commonplace  expres- 
sion, that  looked  as  if  it  were  composed  of 
effrontery,  cunning,  and  profligacy.  Lucy 
lor  a  moment  shrank  back  from  such  a 
countenance,  and  the  shock  of  disapi)oint- 
ment  chilled  the  warmth  with  which  she 
had  been  prepared  to  receive  him.  But, 
then,  her  generous  heart  told  her  that  she 
might  probably  be  prejudging  the  innocent 
— that  neglect,  want  of  education,  the  influ- 
ence of  the  world,  and,  worst  of  all,  distress 
and  suffering,  might  have  caused  the  stronger, 
ikore  vulgar,  and  exceedingly  disagreeable 
18 


expression  which  she  saw  before  her ;  and 
the  reader  is  already  aware  of  the  conse- 
quences which  these  struggles,  at  their  first 
interview,  had  ui)on  her.  Subsequently  to 
that,  however,  jVIi*.  Ambrose,  in  supporting 
his  father's  views,  advanced  principles  in 
such  complete  accordance  with  them,  as  to 
excite  in  his  sister's  breast,  first  a  deep  regret 
that  she  could  not  love  liim  as  she  had  hoped 
to  do  ;  then  a  feehng  stronger  than  indiffer- 
ence itself,  and  ultimately  one  little  short  of 
aversion.  Her  father  had  been  now  gone 
about  half  an  hour,  and  she  hoped  that  her 
brother  might  not  come,  when  a  servant 
came  to  say  that  'Mx.  Gray  was  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  requested  to  see  her. 

She  felt  that  the  inteniew  would  be  a 
painful  one  to  her;  but  still  he  was  her 
brother,  and  she  knew  she  could  not  aroid 
seeing  him. 

After  the  first  salutations  were  over, 

""What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Lucy?" 
he  asked  ;  "  you  look  iU  and  distressed.  I 
suj^pose  the  old  subject  of  the  mairiage — 
eh?" 

"  I  trust  it  is  one  which  you  will  not  re- 
new, Thomas.  I  entreat  you  to  spare  me  on 
it." 

"I  am  too  much  your  friend  to  do  so, 
Lucy.  It  is  really  inconceivable  to  me  why 
you  should  oppose  it  as  you  do.  But  the 
truth  is,  you  don't  know  the  world,  or  you 
would  think  and  act  veiy  differently." 

"Thomas,"  she  rephed,  whilst  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  "I  am  ahnost  weary  of  hfe. 
There  is  not  one  bring  indiridual  to  whom 
I  can  tura  for  sympathy  or  comfort.  Papa 
has  forbidden  me  to  risit  Lady  Gourlay  or 
jMi'S.  Mainwaring  ;  and  I  am  now  utterly 
friendless,  with  the  exception  of  God  alone 
But  I  will  not  despair — so  long,  at  least,  oa 
reason  is  left  to  me." 

"I  assure  you,  Lucy,  you  astonish  me. 
To  you,  whose  imagination  is  heated  with  a 
foolish  passion  for  an  adventurer  whom  no 
one  knows,  jill  tliis  suffering  may  seem  very 
distressing  and  romantic  ;  but  to  me,  to  my 
father,  and  to  the  world,  it  looks  like  gi-eat 
folly — excuse  me,  Lucy — or  rather  hke  great 
weakness  of  character,  grounded  upon  strong 
obstinacy  of  disposition.  Believe  me,  if  the 
world  were  to  know  this  you  would  be  laugh- 
ed at ;  and  there  is  scarcely  a  mother  or 
daughter,  from  the  cottage  to  the  castle,  that 
would  not  say,  '  Lucy  Gourlay  is  a  poor,  in- 
exj^erienced  fool,  who  thinks  she  can  find  a 
world  of  angels,  and  par.igous,  and  purity  to 
live  in.'  " 

"  But  I  care  not  for  the  world,  Thomas  ; 
it  is  not  my  idol — I  do  not  worship  it,  nor 
sbxU  I  ever  do  so.  I  wish  to  guide  myseU 
by   the  voice   of  my  own  conscience,  by  c 


546 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'S   WOIiKS. 


Bense  of  what  is  right  and  proper,  and  by  the 
principles  of  Christian  truth." 

"  These  doctrines,  Lucy,  are  very  -well  for 
the  closet ;  but  they  will  never  do  in  life,  for 
which  they  are  little  short  of  a  disqualifi- 
cation. Wliere,  for  instance,  will  you  find 
them  acted  on  ?  Not  by  people  of  sense,  I 
assure  you.     Now  hsten  to  me." 

"Spare  me,  if  you  please,  Thomas,  the  ad- 
vocacy of  such  25rinciples.  You  occasion  me 
great  pain — not  so  mucli  on  my  own  account 
as  on  yours — you  alarm  me." 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  I  tell  you  ;  but  hsten 
to  me,  as  I  said.  Here,  now,  is  this  marriage: 
you  don't  love  this  Dunroe — you  dishke,  you 
detest  him.  Very  well.  "What  the  deuce  has 
that  to  do  with  the  prosjDects  of  your  own 
elevation  in  life  ?  Think  for  yourself — become 
the  centre  of  your  o\va  world  ;  make  this 
Dunroe  youi*  footstool — put  him  under  your 
foot,  I  say,  and  mount  by  him  ;  get  a  position 
in  the  woi'ld — j)lay  your  game  in  it  as  you 
see  others  do  ;  and " 

"Pray,  sir," said  Lucy,  scarcely  restraining 
her  indignation,  "  where,  or  when,  or  how 
did  you  come  by  these  odious  and  detestable 
doctrines  ?  " 

"Faith,  Lucy,  from  honest  nature — from 
experience  and  observation.  Is  there  any 
man  with  a  third  idea,  or  that  has  the  use  of 
his  eyes,  who  does  not  know  and  see  that 
this  is  the  game  of  hfe?  Dunroe,  I  dare  say, 
lesen^es  your  contempt;  report  goes,  cer- 
tainly, that  he  is  a  profligate  ;  but  what  ought 
esj)ecially  to  reconcile  him  to  you  is  this 
simple  fact — that  the  man's  a  fool.  Egad,  I 
think  that  ought  to  satisfy  you." 

Lucy  rose  up  and  went  to  the  window, 
where  she  stood  for  some  moments,  her  eyes 
sparkling  and  scintillatmg,  and  her  bosom 
heaving  with  a  tide  of  feelings  which  were 
repressed  by  a  strong  and  exceedingly  diffi- 
cxilt  effort.  She  then  returned  to  the  sofa, 
her  cheeks  and  temples  in  a  blaze,  whilst 
ever  and  anon  she  eyed  her  brother  as  if 
fi'om  a  new  point  of  view,  or  as  if  something 
sudden  and  exceedingly  disagreeable  had 
struck  her. 

"You  look  at  me  very  closely,  Lucy," said 
he,  with  a  confident  grin. 

"I  do,"  she  replied.     "Proceed,  sir." 

"  I  will.  WeD,  as  I  was  sajing,  you  will 
find  it  remarkably  comfoi-table  and  con- 
venient in  many  ways  to  be  married  to  a 
fool :  he  will  give  you  very  little  trouble  ; 
fools  are  never  suspicious  ;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, distinguished  for  an  almost  sublime 
credulity.  Then,  again,  you  love  this  other 
gentleman  ;  and,  with  a  fool  for  your  hus- 
band, and  the  example  of  the  world  before 
you,  what  the  deuce  difficulty  can  you  see 
ijx  the  match  ?  " 


Lucy  rose  up,  and  for  a  few  moments  the 
veiy  force  of  her  indignation  kept  her  silent ; 
at  length  she  spoke. 

"  Villain  —  impostor  —  cheat !  you  stand 
there  convicted  of  an  infamous  attempt  to 
impose  yourself  on  me  as  my  legitimate 
brother — on  my  father  as  his  legitimate  son ; 
but  know  that  I  disclaim  you,  sii'.  "WTiat ! 
the  fine  and  gentle  bloocl  of  my  blessed 
mother  to  flow  in  the  veins  of  the  profligate 
monster  who  could  give  utterance  to  princi- 
ples worthy  of  hell  itself,  and  attempt  to 
pour  them  into  the  ears  and  heart  of  his  own 
sister !  Sir,  I  feel,  and  I  thank  God  for  it, 
that  3'ou  are  not  the  son  of  my  blessed  mo- 
ther— no  ;  but  you  stand  there  a  false  and 
spui'ious  knave,  the  dishonest  instiniment  of 
some  fi-audulent  conspiracy,  concocted  for 
the  piirpose  of  putting  you  into  a  position  of 
inheriting  a  name  and  property  to  which 
you  have  no  claim.  I  ought,  on  the  moment 
I  first  saw  you,  to  have  been  guided  by  the 
instincts  of  my  ovm  heart,  which  prompted 
me  to  recoil  from  and  disclaim  you.  I  know 
not,  nor  do  I  wish  to  know,  in  what  low 
haunts  of  vice  and  infamy  you  have  been 
bred  ;  but  one  thing  is  certain,  that,  if  it  be 
within  the  hmits  of  my  power,  you  shall  be 
traced  and  unmasked.  I  now  remember  me 
that — that — there  existed  an  early  scandal — 
yes,  sir,  I  remember  it,  but  I  cannot  even 
repeat  it ;  be  assured,  however,  that  this  in- 
human and  demolish  attempt  to  poison  my 
principles  will  jDrove  the  source  of  a  retribu- 
tive judgment  on  your  head.  Begone,  sir, 
and  leave  the  house  !  " 

The  iDaUor  of  detected  guilt,  the  conscious- 
ness that  in  this  iniquitous  lecture  he  had 
overshot  the  mark,  and  made  a  grievous  mis- 
calculation in  pushing  his  detestable  argu- 
ment too  far — but,  alDove  all«  the  stai'thng 
suspicions  so  boldly  and  energetically  ex- 
pressed by  Lucy,  the  truth  of  which,  as  well 
as  the  ajjprehensions  that  filled  him  of  their 
discovery,  all  imited,  made  him  feel  as  if  he 
stood  on  the  brink  of  a  mine  to  which  the 
train  had  been  ali'eady  apphed.  And  yet, 
notwithstanding  all  this,  such  was  the  natural 
force  of  his  effrontery — such  the  -vulgar  in- 
solence and  bitter  disposition  of  his  nature, 
that,  instead  of  soothing  her  insidted  feelings, 
or  offering  either  explanation  or  apology,  he 
could  not  restrain  an  impudent  exhibition  of 
ill-temper. 

"  You  forget  yourseK,  Lucy,"  he  replied  ; 
"  you  have  no  authority  to  order  me  out  of 
this  house,  in  which  I  stand  much  firmer  than 
yourself.  Neither  do  I  comprehend  your  al- 
lusions, nor  regai'd  3'our  tlu-eats.  The  jjroofs 
of  my  identity  and  legitimacy  are  abundant 
and  iiTesistible.  As  to  the  advice  I  gave  yon, 
I  gave  it  like  one  who  knows  the  wond  " 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


547 


"  No,  sir,"  she  replied,  indignantly  ;  "  you 
gave  it  like  a  man  who  knows  only  its  \'ices. 
It  is  sickening  to  hear  every  profligate  quote 
his  o^v^l  experience  of  life,  as  if  it  were  com- 
posed of  nothing  but  crimes  and  vices,  sim- 
ply because  they  constitute  the  guilty  phase 
of  it  ^^•ith  which  he  is  acquainted.  But  the 
world,  sii',  is  not  the  scene  of  general  de- 
pravity which  these  persons  would  present 
it.  No :  it  is  fuU  of  gi-eat  \irtues,  noble  ac- 
tions, high  principles  ;  and,  what  is  better 
still,  of  time  religion  and  elevated  humanity. 
"What  right,  then,  sir,  have  you  to  hbel  a 
world  which  you  do  not  vmderstand  ?  You 
are  merely  a  portion  of  its  dregs,  and  I 
would  as  soon  receive  lessons  in  honesty 
from  a  tloief  as  principles  for  my  guidance 
in  it  from  you.  As  for  me,  I  shall  disregard 
the  proofs  of  your  identity  and  legitimacy, 
which,  however,  must  be  produced  and  in- 
vestigated ;  for,  from  this  moment,  estabhsh 
them  as  you  may,  I  shall  never  recognize 
you  as  a  brother,  as  an  acquaintance,  as  a 
man,  nor  as  anything  but  a  selfish  and  aban- 
doned villain,  who  would  have  corrupted  the 
principles  of  his  sister." 

Without  another  word,  or  the  sHghtest 
token  of  respect  or  courtesy,  she  dehberately, 
and  with  an  air  of  indignant  scorn,  walked 
out  of  the  drawing-room,  lea^'ing  Mr.  Am- 
brose Gray  in  a  position  which  we  dare  say 
nobody  wiU  envy  him. 


CHAPTEK  XXXYL 

ffhibh  contains  a  Variety  of  Matters,  some  to  Laugh 
and  some  to  Weep  at. 

Ou«  readers  may  have  observed  that  Sir 
Thomas   Grourlay   led  a   secluded  life  ever 
since  the  commencement  of  our  narrative. 
The  fact  was,  and  he  felt  it  deeply,  that  he  i 
had  long  been  an  unpopular  man.     That  he 
was  a  bad,  overbeaiing  husband,   too,  had 
been  well  kno^\^l,  for  such  was  the  violence 
of  his  temper,  and  the  unvaried  harshness  of  | 
his  disposition  toward  his  wife,  that  the  gen- 
eral tenor  of  his  conduct,  so  far  even  as  she 
was  concerned,  could  not  be  concealed.    His 
observations  on  hfe  and  personal  character  ; 
were  also  so  cjTiical  and  severe,  not  to  say 
unjust,  that  his  society  was  absolutely  avoid- 
ed, unless  by  some  few  of  his  own  disposi-  i 
don.     And  yet  notlung  could  be   more  re- 
markable  than  the    contrast    that    existed  I 
between  his  principles  and  conduct  in  many  I 
points,  ihus  affording,  as  they  did,  an  invol-  I 
ftntary  acknowledgment  of  his  moral  errors.  I 


He  would  not,  for  instance,  admit  his  scep- 
tical friends,  who  laughed  at  the  existence  of 
virtue  and  rehgion,  to  the  society  of  hia 
daughter,  with  the  exception  of  Lord  Dun- 
roe,  to  whose  rices  his  unaccountable  ambi- 
tion for  her  elevation  completely  bhnded  him. 
Neither  did  he  Arish  her  to  mingle  much  \rith 
the  world,  from  a  latent  apprehension  that 
she  might  find  it  a  different  thing  fi'om  what 
he  himself  represented  it  to  be  ;  and  perhaps 
might  learn  there  the  low  estimate  which  it 
had  formed  of  her  futui'e  husband.  Like 
most  misanthi'ojjical  men,  therefore,  whose 
hatred  of  life  is  derived  principally  from  that 
uneasiness  of  conscience  which  proceeds  fi-om 
their  own  vices,  he  kept  aloof  from  society 
as  far  as  the  necessities  of  his  position  al- 
lowed him. 

Mrs.  Main  waring  had  called  upon  him  sev- 
eral times  with  an  intention  of  making  some 
communication  which  she  tinisted  would 
have  had  the  effect  of  opening  his  eyes  to 
the  danger  into  which  he  was  about  to  pre- 
cipitate his  daughter  by  her  contemplated 
marriage  with  Dunroe.  He  unifonnly  re- 
fused, however,  to  see  her,  or  to  allow  her 
any  opportunity  of  introducing  the  subject. 
Finding  herself  dehberately  and  studiously 
repulsed,  tliis  good  lady,  who  stiU  occasion- 
ally coiTesjJonded  with  Lucy,  came  to  the 
resolution  of  A\i'iting  to  him  on  the  subject, 
and,  accordingly,  Gibson,  one  morning, 
with  his  usual  cool  and  deferential  manner, 
presented  him  with  the  following  letter : 

"SUMMERFIELD   CoTTAGE. 

"Sm, — I  should  feel  myself  utterly  un- 
worthy of  the  good  opinion  which  I  trust  I 
am  honored  with  by  your  admirable  daugh- 
ter, were  I  any  longer  to  remain  silent  upon 
a  subject  of  the  deepest  importance  to  her 
future  hapi^iness.  I  understixnd  that  .she  is 
almost  immediately  about  to  become  the 
wife  of  Lord  Dunroe.  Now,  su-,  I  entreat 
your  most  serious  attention  ;  and  I  am  cer- 
tain, if  you  A\ill  only  bestow  it  upon  the  few 
words  I  am  about  to  wi'ite,  that  you,  and 
especially  ^liss  Gourla}-,  will  live  to  thank 
God  that  I  intei'posed  to  prevent  this  un- 
hallowed union.  I  say  then,  emphatically, 
as  I  shall  be  able  to  prove  most  distuictly, 
that  if  you  permit  Miss  Gourlay  to  become 
the  \rife  of  this  "young  nobleman  you  will  seal 
her  ruin — defeat  the  chief  object  which  you 
cherish  for  her  in  Ufe,  and  hve  to  curse  the 
day  on  which  you  urged  it  on.  The  com- 
munications which  I  have  to  make  are  of  too 
much  importance  to  be  committed  to  paper  , 
but  if  you  will  only  allow  me,  and  I  once 
more  implore  it  for  the  sixke  of  your  child, 
as  well  as  for  your  own  future  ease  of  mind, 
the   privilege   of  a  short  inteniew,  I  shall 


548 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


«ompietely  satisfy  you  as  to  the  truth  of  what 
I  state. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir, 

"  Your  obUged  and  obedient  servant, 

"  ]MaETH.\    MAnrSVARINQ." 

Having  perused  the  first  sentence  of  this 
.earnest  and  fi-iendly  letter,  Sir  Thomas  in- 
Idignantly  flung  it  into  a  drawer  where  he 
tept  all  communications  to  which  it  did  not 
please  him  at  the  moment  to  pay  pai'ticular 
attention. 

Lucy's  health  in  the  meantime  was  fast 
breaking  :  but  so  dehcate  and  true  was  her 
sense  of  honor  and  duty  that  she  would  have 
looked  upon  any  clandestine  communication 
with  her  lover  as  an  infi'action  of  the  solemn 
engagement  into  which  she  had  entered  for 
her  father's  sake,  and  by  which,  even  at  the 
expense  of  her  own  happiness,  she  consider- 
ed herself  bound.  Still,  she  felt  that  a  com- 
munication on  the  subject  was  due  to  him, 
and  her  piincipal  hope  now  was  that  her 
father  would  allow  her  to  make  it.  If  he, 
however,  refused  this  sanction  to  an  act  of 
common  justice,  then  she  resolved  to  write 
to  him  openly,  and  make  the  wi'etched  cu'- 
cumstances  in  which  she  was  involved,  and 
the  eternal  baiiier  that  had  been  placed 
between  them,  known  to  him  at  once. 

Her  father,  however,  now  found,  to  his 
utter  mortification,  that  he  was  driving  mat- 
ters somewhat  too  fast,  and  that  his  daugh- 
ter's health  must  unquestionably  be  restored 
before  he  could  think  of  outraging  humanity 
and  pubUc  decency  by  forcing  her  fi'om  the 
sick  bed  to  the  altar. 

After  learing  her  brother  on  the  occasion 
of  their  last  remarkable  interview,  she  re- 
tired to  her  room  so  full  of  wretchedness,  in- 
dignation, and  despair  of  all  human  aid  or 
sympathy,  that  she  scarcely  knew  whether 
their  conversation  was  a  dream  or  a  reahty. 
Above  aU  things,  the  shock  she  received 
thi'ough  her  whole  moral  system,  delicately 
and  finely  tempered  as  it  was,  so  completely 
prostrated  her  physical  strength,  and  es- 
tranged all  the  rirtuous  instincts  of  her 
noble  nature,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she 
reached  her  o^\^l  room.  "When  there,  she 
immediately  rang  for  her  maid,  who  at  once 
perceived  by  the  indignant  sparkle  of  her 
eye,  the  heightened  color  of  her  cheek,  and 
the  energetic  agitation  of  her  voice,  that  some- 
thing exceedingly  unpleasant  had  occurred. 

"My  gracious,  miss,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  what  has  happened  ?  You  look  so  dis- 
turbed !  Something,  or  somebody,  has  of- 
fended you." 

"  I  am  disturbed,  Alice,"  she  replied,  "  I 
am  disturbed  ;  come  and  lend  me  your  arm  ; 
my  knees  are  trembling  so  that  I  cannot  walk 


without  assistance  ;  but  must  sit  down  for  a 
moment.  Indeed,  I  feel  that  my  strength  is 
fast  departing  from  me.  I  scarcely  know 
what  I  am  thinking.  I  am  all  confused, 
agitated,  shocked.  Gracious  heaven !  Come, 
my  dear  Alice,  help  yoi\r  mistress ;  you, 
Alice,  are  the  only  friend  I  have  left  noT?. 
Are  you  not  my  fi-iend,  Alice  ?  " 

She  was  sitting  on  a  lounger  as  she  spoke, 
and  the  poor  affectionate  girl,  who  loved  her 
as  she  did  her  hfe,  threw  herself  over,  anc| 
leaning  her  head  upon  her  mistress's  knees 
wept  bitterly. 

"  Sit  beside  me,  Alice,"  said  she  ;  "  whatever 
distance  social  distinctions  may  have  placed 
between  us,  I  feel  that  the  tnith  and  sincer- 
ity of  those  tears  justify  me  in  placing  you 
near  my  heart.  Sit  beside  me,  but  compose 
yourself  ;  and  then  you  must  assist  me  to 
bed." 

"  They  are  killing  you,"  said  Alley,  still 
weeping.  "  What  deAol  can  tempt  them  to 
act  as  they  do  ?  As  for  me,  miss,  it's  break- 
ing my  heart,  that  I  see  what  you  are  suffer- 
ing, and  can't  assist  you." 

"  But  I  have  yoiu-  love  and  sympathy,  your 
fidehty,  too,  my  dear  Ahce  ;  and  that  now  is 
aU  I  beheve  the  world  has  left  me." 

"  No,  miss,"  rephed  her  maid,  wiping  her 
eyes,  and  striving  to  comjDose  herself,  "  no, 
indeed ;  there  is  another — another  gentle- 
man, I  mean — as  well  as  myself,  that  feels 
deeply  for  your  situation." 

Had  Lucy's  spii'it  been  such  as  they  were 
wont  to  be,  she  could  have  enjoyed  this 
httle  blunder  of  Alice's  ;  but  now  her  heart, 
like  some  precious  jewel  that  Hes  too  deep  in 
the  bosom  of  the  ocean  for  the  sun's  strong- 
est beams  to  reach,  had  sunk  beneath  the  in- 
fluence of  either  cheefulness  or  mirth. 

"  There  is  indeed,  miss,"  continued  Alice, 

"  And  pray,  Ahce,"  asked  her  mistress. 
"  how  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  miss,"  replied  the  girl,  "  I  am  told 
that  of  late  he  is  looking  very  ill,  too.  They 
say  he  has  lost  his  spu'its  all  to  pieces,  and 
seldom  laughs — the  Lord  save  us  ! " 

"  They  say ! — who  say,  Alice  ?" 

"  ^Miy,"  replied  Ahce,  with  a  perceptible 
heightening  of  her  color,  "  ahem  !  siiem  1 
why.  Dandy  Dulcimer,  miss." 

"  And  where  have  you  seen  him  ?  Dvd- 
cimer,  I  mean.  He,  I  suppose,  who  used  oc- 
casionally to  play  upon  the  instiaiment  of  that 
name  in  the  HaU  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  the  same.  Don't  you  re- 
member how  beautiful  ho  played  it  the 
night  we  came  in  the  coach  to  town  ?  " 

"  I  remember  there  was  something  very 
unpleasant  between  him  and  a  farmer,  I 
believe  ;  but  I  did  not  pay  much  attention 
to  it  at  the  time." 


THE  BLACK   UAltO^UiT. 


540 


"  I  am  sorry  for  that,  miss,  for  I  declare  to 
goodness,  Dandy's  dulcimer  isn't  such  an 
unpleasant  instrument  as  you  think  ;  and, 
besides,  he  has  got  a  new  one  the  other  day 
that  plays  lovely." 

Lucy  felt  a  good  deal  anxious  to  hear 
some  further  information  from  Alley  upon 
the  subject  she  had  introduced,  but  saw  that 
Dandy  and  his  dulcimer  were  likely  to  be 
substituted  for  it,  all  unconscious  as  the  poor 
girl  was  of  the  preference  of  the  man  to  the 
master. 

"  He  looks  ill,  you  say,  Alice  ?  " 

"  Never  seen  him  look  so  rosy  in  my  life, 
miss,  nor  in  such  spirits." 

Lucy  looked  into  her  face,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment's space  one  slight  and  feeble  gleam, 
which  no  suftering  could  prevent,  passed 
over  it,  at  this  intimation  of  the  object  which 
Alley's  fancy  then  dwelt  upon. 

"  He  danced  a  hornpipe,  miss,  to  the  tune 
of  the  S^vaggerin'  Jig,  upon  the  kitchen  ta- 
ble," she  proceeded  ;  "  and,  sorra  be  off  me, 
but  it  would  do  your  heart  good  to  see  the 
springs  he  would  give — eveiy  one  o'  them  a 
yard  high — and  to  hear  how  he'd  crack  his 
fingers  as  loud  as  the  shot  of  a  pistol." 

A  shght  gloom  overclouded  Lucy's  face  ; 
but,  on  looking  at  the  artless  transition  from 
the  honest  symimthy  which  Alley  had  just 
felt  for  her  to  a  sense  of  happiness  which  it 
was  almost  a  ciime  to  distui'b,  it  almost  in- 
stantly disappeai'ed. 

"I  must  not  be  angry  with  her,"  she  said 
to  herself ;  "  this  feeling,  after  all,  is  only 
natural,  and  such  as  God  in  his  goodness 
bestows  upon  every  heart  as  the  gi'eatest  gift 
of  hfe,  when  not  abused.  I  cannot  be  dis- 
pleased at  the  naivete  with  which  she  has 
forgotten  my  lover  for  her  own  ;  for  such  I 
perceive  this  pei*sou  she  speaks  of  evidently 
is." 

She  looked  once  more  at  her  maid,  whose 
eyes,  with  true  Celtic  feeling,  were  now 
dancing  with  delight,  whilst  yet  red  with 
teai's.  "  Alice,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  of  indul- 
gent reproof,  "who  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"  Why,  of  Dandy,  miss,"  replied  Alley; 
but  in  an  instant  the  force  of  the  reproof  as 
well  as  of  tlie  indulgence  was  felt,  and  sho 
acknowledged  lier  error  by  a  blush. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  she  said ; 
"  I'm  a  thoughtless  creature.  "WTiat  can  you 
care  about  what  I  was  sa^nn'  ?  But — hem — 
well,  about  him — sure  enough,  poor  Dandy 
told  me  that  ever^'thing  is  going  wrong  ^\'ith 
liim.  He  doesn't,  as  I  said,  speak  or  smile 
as  he  used  to  do." 

"  Do  you  know,"  asked  her  mistress, 
"  whether  he  goes  out  much  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  miss,  I  think  ;  he  goes  some- 
times to  Ladv  Gourlav's  and   to  Dean  Pal- 


mer's. But  do  you  know  what  I  heard,  missi 
I  hope  you  won't  grow  jealous,  though  ?  " 

Lucy  gave  a  faint  smile.  "  I  hope  not,  Alice. 
"WTiat  is  it  ?  "  But  here,  on  recollecting  again 
the  scene  she  had  just  closed  below  stairs, 
she  shuddered,  and  could  not  help  exclaim- 
ing, "  Oh,  gracious  heaven  !  "  Then  sud- 
denly throwing  off,  as  it  were,  aU  thought 
and  reflection  connected  with  it,  she  looked 
again  at  her  maid,  and  repeated  the  question, 
"  \Miat  is  it,  Ahce  ?  " 

"Why,  miss,  have  you  ever  seen  Lord 
Dunroe's  sister  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  London  ;  but  she  was  only  a  girl, 
though  a  lovely  girl." 

"Well,  miss,  do  you  know  what?  She's 
in  love  with  some  one." 

"  Poor  girl !  "  exclaimed  Lucy,  "  I  trust 
the  course  of  her  love  may  run  smoother 
than  mine  ;  but  who  is  she  supposed  to  be 
in  love  with  ?  "  she  asked,  not,  however,  with- 
out a  blush,  which,  with  all  her  ^irtues,  was, 
as  woman,  out  of  her  power  to  supjDress. 

"  Oh,"  replied  Alley,  "  not  -with  him — and 
dear  knows  it  would  be  no  disgrace  to  her, 
but  the  contrary,  to  fall  in  love  with  such  a 
gentleman — no  ;  but  with  a  j'ouiig  officer  of 
the  Thii'ty-thii-d,  who  they  say  is  lovely." 

"  ^\^^at  is  his  name,  do  you  not  know, 
Alice  ?  " 

"Roberts,  I  think.  They  met  at  Dean. 
Palmer's  and  Lady  Gourlay's  ;  for  it  seems 
that  Colonel  Dundas  was  an  old  brother  of- 
ficer of  Sir  Edwai'd's,  when  he  was  young 
and  in  the  army." 

"  I  have  met  that  young  officer,  Ahce," 
rephed  Lucy,  "  and  I  know  not  how  it  was, 
but  I  felt  an — a — a — in  fact,  I  cannot  de- 
scribe it.  Those  Avho  were  present  obseiTed 
that  he  and  I  resembled  each  other  very 
much,  and  indeed  the  resemblance  struck 
mj-self  very  forcibly." 

"  Troth,  and  if  he  resembled  you,  miss, 
I'm  not  siuprised  that  Lady  Emily  fell  in 
love  with  him." 

"  But  how  did  you  come  to  hear  all  this, 
Alice  ?  "  asked  Lucy  with  a  good  deal  of 
anxiety. 

"  Why,  miss,  there's  a  cousin  of  my  own 
maid  to  Mrs.  Palmer,  and  you  may  remem- 
ber the  evenin'  you  gave  me  lave  to  spend 
with  her.  She  gave  a  party  on  the  same 
evenin'  and  Dandy  was  there.  I  think  I 
never  looked  better  ;  I  liad  on  my  new  stays, 
and  my  hair  was  done  up  Grecian.  Aiiy 
way,  I  wasn't  the  worst  of  them." 

"I  am  fatigued,  Alice,"  said  Lucy; 
"  make  your  narrative  as  short  as  you  can." 

"I  haven't  much  to  add  to  it  now,  miss," 
she  replied.  "It  was  obsei-ved  that  Lady 
Emil3''s  eyes  and  his  were  never  off  one 
another.      She  refused,   it  seems,  to  dance 


550 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


with  some  major  that's  a  great  lord  in  the 
regiment,  and  danced  with  Mr.  Roberts  af- 
terwards. He  brought  her  do\\Ti  to  supper, 
too,  and  sat  beside  her,  and  you  know  what 
that  looks  like." 

Lucy  paused,  and  seemed  as  if  anxious 
about  something,  but  at  length  asked, 

"  Do  you  know,  Ahce,  was  he  there  ?  " 

"No,  miss,"  repUed  the  maid;  "Dandy 
tells  me  he  goes  to  no  great  parties  at  all, 
he  only  dines  where  there's  a  few.  But,  in- 
deed, by  all  accounts  he's  very  vmhappy." 

"  A^Tiat  do  you  mean  by  all  accounts,"  ask- 
ed Luc}',  a  httle  startled. 

"  TVTiy,  Dandy,  miss ;  so  he  tells  me." 

"  Poor  Ahce  ! "  exclaimed  Lucy,  looking 
benignantly  upon  her.  "I  did  not  think, 
Ahce,  that  any  conversation  could  have  for  a 
moment  won  me  from  the  painful  state  of 
mind  in  which  I  entered  the  room.  Aid  me 
me  now  to  my  bedchamber.  I  must  he 
down,  for  I  feel  that  I  shovdd  endeavor  to  re- 
cruit my  strength  some  way.  If  I  could 
sleep,  I  should  be  probably  the  better  for  it ; 
but,  alas,  Ahce,  you  need  not  be  told  that 
misery  and  desjDair  are  wi'etched  bedfel- 
lows." 

"  Don't  say  despair,"  rephed  Alice  ;  "  re- 
member there's  a  good  God  above  us,  who 
can  do  better  for  us  than  ever  we  can  for 
ourselves.  Trust  in  him.  ^\Tio  knows  but 
he's  only  trjing  you  ;  and  severely  tried  you 
are,  my  darlin'  mistress." 

^Vhilst  uttering  the  last  words,  the  affec- 
tionate creature's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She 
rose,  however,  and  having  assisted  Lucy  to 
her  sleeping-room,  helped  to  undress  her, 
then  fixed  her  with  tender  assiduity  in  her 
bed,  where,  in  a  few  minutes,  exhaustion  and 
anxiety  of  mind  were  for  the  time  forgotten, 
and  she  fell  asleep. 

The  penetration  of  seiwants,  in  tracing, 
at  fashionable  parties,  the  emotions  of  love 
thi'ough  all  its  various  garbs  and  disguises, 
constitutes  a  princij^al  and  not  the  least  dis- 
agreeable portion  of  their  duty.  The  his- 
tory of  Lady  Emily's  attachment  to  Ensign 
Roberts,  though  a  profound  secret  to  the 
world,  in  the  opinion  of  the  parties  them- 
selves, and  only  hoped  for  and  suspected  by 
each,  was  nevei'theless  perfectly  well  knoAvn 
by  a  good  number  of  the  quality  below  stairs. 
The  circumstance,  at  all  events,  as  detailed 
by  Alley,  was  one  which  in  this  instance  jus- 
tified their  sagacity.  Roberts  and  she  had 
met,  precisely  as  Alley  said,  three  or  four 
times  at  Lady  Gourlay's  and  the  Dean's, 
where  their  several  attractions  were,  in  fact, 
the  theme  of  some  observation.  Those  long, 
conscious  glances,  however,  which,  on  the 
subject  of  love  are  such  traitors  to  the  heart, 
by  disclosing  its  most  secret  operations,  had 


sufficiently  well  told  them  the  state  of  every. 
thing  within  that  mysterious  little  garrison ; 
and  the  natural  result  was  that  Lady  Emily 
seldom  thought  of  any  one  or  anj'thing  but 
Ensign  Roberts  and  the  aforesaid  glances, 
nor  %\x.  Roberts  of  anything  but  hers  ;  for  it 
so  happened,  that,  with  the  peculiar  over- 
sight in  so  many  things  by  which  the  passion 
is  characterized.  Lady  Emily  forgot  that  she 
had  herself  been  glancing  at  the  ensign,  or 
she  could  never  have  obseiwed  and  interpret- 
ed his  looks.  With  a  similar  neglect  of  his 
own  offences,  in  the  same  way  must  we 
charge  Mr.  Roberts,  who  in  his  imagination 
saw  nothing  but  the  blushing  glances  of  this 
fau'  patrician. 

Time  went  on,  however,  and  Lucy,  so  far 
from  recovering,  was  nearly  one-half  of  the 
week  confined  to  her  bed,  or  her  apartment. 
Sometimes,  by  way  of  varying  the  scene,  and, 
if  possible,  enhvening  her  sjiirits,  she  had 
forced  herself  to  go  down  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  occasionally  to  take  an  airing  in 
the  carriage.  A  fortnight  had  elaj^sed,  and 
yet  neither  Norton  nor  his  fellow-traveler  had 
retui-ned  fi-om  France.  Neither  had  IMr. 
Biruey  ;  and  our  friend  the  stranger  had 
failed  to  get  any  possible  intelligence  of  un- 
fortunate Fenton,  whom  he  now  beheved  to 
have  perished,  either  by  foul  practices  or  the 
influence  of  some  intoxicating  debauch. 
Thanks  to  Dandy  Dulcimer,  however,  as 
well  as  to  Alle}^  Mahon,  he  was  not  without 
information  concerning  Lucy's  state  of  health; 
and,  unfortunately,  all  that  he  could  hear 
about  it  was  only  calculated  to  dejDress  and 
distract  him. 

Dandy  came  to  him  one  morning,  about 
this  period,  and  after  rubbing  his  head  sHght- 
ly  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  said, 

"  Bedad,  sir,  I  was  very  near  havin'  coidh 
the  right  Mrs.  Norton  yestherday — I  mane,  1 
thought  I  was." 

"  How  was  that  ?  "  asked  his  master. 

"  Why,  sir,  I  heard  there  was  a  fine,  good- 
looking  widow  of  that  name,  livin'  in  Meek- 
lenburgh  street,  where  she  keeps  a  dairy  ; 
and  sure  enough  there  I  found  her.  Do  you 
undherstand,  sir  ?  " 

"Why  should  I  not,  sLrra?  "WTiat  mystery 
is  there  in  it  that  I  should  not  ?  " 

"Deuce  a  sich  a  blazei-  of  a  v^idow  I  seen 
this  seven  years.  I  went  early  to  her  place, 
and  the  first  thing  I  saw  Avas  a  lump  of  a 
six-year-ould — a  son  of  hers — lila^'in'  the  Pan- 
dean pipes  upon  a  whack  o'  bread  and  but- 
ther  that  he  had  aiten  at  the  toj)  into  canes. 
Somehow,  although  I  can't  tell  exactly 
why,  I  tuck  a  fancy  to  become  acquainted 
with  her,  and  proposed,  if  she  had  no  ob- 
jection, to  take  a  cup  o'  tay  with  her  yes- 
therday evenin',  statin'  at  the  time  that  I  had 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


651 


something  to  say  that  might  turn  out  to  her 
advantage." 

"  But  what  mystery  is  there  in  all  this  ?  " 
said  his  master. 

•'  Mysthery,  sir — why,  where  was  there 
ever  a  widow  since  the  creation  of  Peter 
White,  that  hadn't  more  or  less  of  mysthery 
about  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  but  what  was  the  mystery  here  ?  " 
asked  the  other.  "  I  do  not  perceive  any,  so 
far." 

"  Take  your  time,  sir,"  rej^lied  Dandy ; 
"  it's  comin'.  The  young  performer  on  the 
Pandeana  that  I  tould  you  of  wasn't  more 
than  five  or  six  at  the  most,  but  a  woman 
over  the  way,  that  I  made  inquiries  of, 
tould  me  the  length  o'  time  the  husband  was 
dead.  Do  you  imdherstand  the  mysthery 
now,  sir  ?  " 

" Go  on,"  rejilied  the  other  ;  "I  am  amus- 
ed by  you  ;  but  I  don't  see  the  mystery,  not- 
withstanding.    What  was  the  result  ?  " 

"I  tell  you  the  truth — she  was  a  fine, 
comely,  Jiaglioola  woman  ;  and  as  I  heard  she 
had  the  shiners,  I  began  to  think  I  might  do 
worse." 

"  I  thought  the  girl  called  Alley  Mahon 
was  your  favorite  ?  " 

"  So  she  is,  sir — that  is,  she's  one  o'  them  : 
but,  talkin'  o'  favorites,  I  am  seldom  without 
half-a-dozen." 

"  Very  liberal,  indeed.  Dandy  ;  but  I  wish 
to  hear  the  upshot." 

"Why,  sir,  we  had  a  cup  o'  tay  together 
yestherday  evenin',  and,  between  you  and 
me,  I  began,  as  it  might  be,  to  get  fond  of 
her.  She's  very  pretty,  sir  ;  but  I  must  say, 
that  the  man  who  marries  her  will  get  a 
mouth,  plaise  goodness,  that  he  must  kiss  by 
instalments.  Faith,  if  it  could  be  called  pro- 
perty, he  might  boast  that  his  is  extensive  ; 
and  divil  a  mistake  in  it." 

"  She  has  a  large  mouth,  then  ?  " 

"  Upon  ray  soul,  sir,  if  you  stood  at  the 
one  side  of  it  you'd  require  a  smart  telescope 
to  see  to  the  other.  No  man  at  one  attempt 
could  ever  kiss  her.  I  began,  sir,  at  the  left 
side — that's  always  the  right  side  to  kiss  at 
and  went  on  successfully  enough  till  I  got 
half  way  through  ;  but  you  see,  sir,  the  even- 
in 's  is  but  short  yet,  and  as  I  had  no  time  to 
finish,  I'm  to  go  back  this  evenin'  to  get  to 
the  other  side. 

"  Still  I'm  at  a  loss,  Dandy,"  replied  his 
master,  not  knowing  whether  to  smile  or  get 
angi-y  ;  "  finish  it  without  going  about  in  this 
manner." 

"  Faith,  sir,  and  that's  more  than  I  could 
do  in  kissing  the  widow.  Divil  such  a  cir- 
cumbendibus ever  a  man  had  as  I  had  in  get- 
tin'  as  far  as  the  nose,  where  I  had  to  give  up 
until  this  evenin'  as  I  said.  Now,  sir,  whether 


to  consider  that  an  advantage  or  disadvan- 
tage is  another  mysther}'  to  me.  There's 
some  women,  and  they  have  such  a  small, 
rosy,  little  mouth,  that  a  man  must  gather 
up  his  lips  into  a  bird's  bill  to  kiss  them. 
Now,  tliere's  Miss  Gour " 

A  look  of  fury  from  his  master  di\ided  the 
word  in  his  mouth,  and  he  paused  from  ter- 
ror. His  master  became  more  composed, 
however,  and  said,  "  To  what  purpose  have 
you  told  me  all  this  ?  " 

"  Gad,  sir  to  teU  you  the  truth,  I  saw  you 
were  low-spirited,  and  wanted  something  to 
rouse  you.     It's  truth  for  all  that." 

"  Is  this  Mrs.  Norton,  however,  the  woman 
whom  we  are  seeking  ?  " 

"Well,  w'jll,"  exclaimed  Dandy,  casting 
down  his  hand,  with  vexatious  vehemence, 
against  the  open  air  ;  "  by  the  piper  o'  Mo.se8, 
I'm  the  stupidest  man  that  ever  peeled  a 
phatie.  Troth,  I  was  so  engaged,  sir,  that 
I  forgot  it ;  but  I'll  remember  it  to-night, 
plaise  goodness." 

"  Ah,  Dandy,"  exclaimed  his  master,  smil- 
ing, "  I  fear  you  are  a  faithless  swain.  I 
thouji;ht  Alley  Mahon  was  at  least  the  fii'st  on 
the  list." 

"Troth,  sir,"  replied  Dandy,  "I  believe 
she  is,  too.  Poor  Alley !  By  the  way,  sir,  I 
beg  your  pardon,  but  I  have  news  for  you 
that  I  fear  will  give  you  a  hea\T  heart." 

"How,"  exclaimed  his  master,  "how — ■ 
what  is  it?    Tell  me  instantl}-." 

"  Miss  Gourlay  is  iU,  sir.  She  was  go  in" 
to  be  married  to  this  lord  ;  her  father,  I  be- 
lieve, had  the  day  apjDointed,  and  she  had 
given  her  consent." 

His  master  seized  him  by  the  collar  with 
both  hands,  and  peering  into  his  eyes,  whilst 
his  own  blazed  Avith  actual  fire,  he  held  him 
for  a  moment  as  if  in  a  vise,  exclaiming, 
"  Her  consent,  3'ou  villain  I  "  But,  as  if  rec- 
ollecting himself,  he  suddenly  let  him  go, 
and  said,  cjilmly,  "  Go  on  with  what  you  were 
about  to  sa}'. " 

"I  have  very  Httle  more  to  say.  sir,"  re- 
phed  Dandy  ;  "  herself  and  Lord  Dunroe  is 
only  waitin'  till  she  gets  well  and  then  they're 
to  be  married  ?  " 

"  You  said  she  gave  her  consent,  did  you 
not !  " 

"  No  doubt  of  it,  sir,  and  that,  I  believe, 
is  what's  breakin'  her  heart.  However,  it's 
not  my  aftair  to  direct  any  one  ;  still,  if  I  was 
in  somebody's  shoes,  I  know  the  tune  I'd 
smg." 

"  And  what  tvme  would  you  sing? "  asked 
his  master. 

Dandy  sung  the  following  stave,  and,  as 
he  did  it,  he  threw  his  comic  eye  upon  his 
master  with  such  humorous  significance  that 
the  latter,  although  wrapped  in  deep  refleu- 


552 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


tion  at  the  moment,  on  suddenly  observing 
it,  could  not  avoid  smiling  : 

"  Will  you  list,  and  come  with  me,  fair  maid  ? 
Will  you  list,  and  come  with  me,  fair  maid  ? 
Will  you  list,  and  come  with  me,  fair  maid  ? 
And  folly  the  lad  with  the  white  cockade  ?  " 

"If  you  haven't  a  good  voice,  sir,  you 
could  whisper  the  words  into  her  ear,  and 
as  you're  so  near  the  mouth — hem — a  word 
to  the  wise — then  point  to  the  chaise  that 
you'll  have  standin'  outside,  and  my  life  for 
you,  there's  an  end  to  the  fees  o'  the 
docther." 

His  master,  who  had  relapsed  into  thought 
before  he  concluded  his  advice,  looked  at  him 
without  seeming  to  have  heard  it.  He  then 
traversed  the  room  several  times,  his  chin 
supported  by  his  finger  and  thumb,  after 
which  he  seemed  to  have  formed  a  resolution. 

"  Go,  sir,"  said  he,  "  and  put  that  letter  to 
Father  M'Mahon  in  the  post-of&ce.  I  shall 
not  want  you  for  some  time." 

"Will  I  ordher  a  chaise,  su'?"  rephed 
Dandy,  with  a  serio-comic  face. 

One  look  from  his  masler,  however,  sent 
him  about  his  business  ;  but  the  latter  could 
hear  him  lilting  the  "  White  Cockade,"  as  he 
went  down  stairs. 

"Now,"  said  he,  when  Dandy  was  gone, 
"  can  it  be  possible  that  she  has  at  length 
given  her  consent  to  this  marriage  ?  Never 
voluntarily.  It  has  been  extorted  by  foiol 
deceit  and  threatening,  by  some  base  fraud 
practised  vipon  her  generous  and  unsuspect- 
ing nature.  I  am  culpable  to  stand  tamely 
by  and  allow  this  great  and  glorious  creature 
to  be  sacrificed  to  a  bad  ambition,  and  a 
worse  man,  withoiit  coming  to  the  rescue. 
But,  in  the  meantime,  is  this  information 
true  ?  Alas,  I  fear  it  is  ;  for  I  know  the  un- 
scrupulous spirit  the  dear  girl  has,  alone  and 
unassisted,  to  contend  •with.  Yet  if  it  be 
true,  oh,  why  should  she  not  have  written  to 
me  ?  Wliy  not  have  enabled  me  to  come  to 
her  defence  ?  I  know  not  what  to  think.  At 
all  events,  I  shall,  as  a  last  resource,  call  up- 
on her  father.  I  shall  explain  to  him  the 
risk  he  inins  in  mari'ying  his  daughter  to  this 
man  who  is  at  once  a  fool  and  a  scoundrel. 
But  how  can  I  do  so  ?  Birney  has  not  yet 
returned  from  France,  and  I  have  no  proofs 
on  which  to  rest  such  serious  allegations  ; 
nothing  at  present  but  bare  assertions,  which 
her  father,  in  the  heat  and  fury  of  his  ambi- 
tion, might  not  only  disbelieve,  but  misin- 
teri:)ret.  Be  it  so  ;  I  shaU  at  least  warn  him, 
take  it  as  he  wiU  ;  and  if  aU  else  should  fail, 
I  will  disclose  to  him  my  name  and  family, 
in  order  that  he  may  know,  at  aU  events, 
ihat  I  am  no  impostor.     My  present  remon- 


strance may  so  far  alarm  him  as  to  cause  the 
persecution  against  Lucy  to  be  suspended  for 
a  time,  and  on  Bii-ney's  return,  we  shall,  I 
trust,  be  able  to  speak  more  emphatically." 

He  accordingly  sent  for  a  chaise,  into 
which  he  stepped  and  ordered  the  driver  to 
leave  him  at  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  and  to 
wait  there  for  him. 

Lord  Dunroe  was  at  this  period  perfectly 
well  aware  that  Birney's  visit  to  France  was 
occasioned  by  purposes  that  boded  nothing 
favorable  to  his  interests  ;  and  were  it  not 
for  Lucy's  illness,  there  is  httle  doubt  that 
the  marriage  would,  ere  now,  *have  taken 
place.  A  fortnight  had  elapsed,  and  every 
day  so  completely  fiUed  him  vdth  alarm,  that 
he  proposed  to  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  the  ex- 
pediency of  getting  the  license  at  once,  and 
having  the  ceremony  performed  privately  in 
her  father's  house.  To  this  the  father  would 
have  assented,  were  it  not  that  he  had  taken 
it  into  his  head  that  Lucy  was  ralljdng,  and 
would  soon  be  in  a  condition  to  go  through 
it,  in  the  parish  church,  at  least.  A  few  days, 
he  hojDed,  would  enable  her  to  bear  it ;  but 
if  not,  he  was  willing  to  make  every  conces- 
sion to  his  lordship's  wishes.  Her  delicate 
health,  he  said,  would  be  a  sufficient  justifica- 
tion. At  all  events,  both  agi-eed  that  there 
could  be  no  harm  in  having  the  license  pro- 
vided :  and,  accordingly,  upon  the  morning 
of  the  stranger's  visit,  Sir  Thomas  and  Lord 
Dunroe  had  just  left  the  house  of  the  former 
for  the  Ecclesiastical  Court,  in  Henrietta 
street,  a  few  minutes  before  his  arrival.  Sir 
Thomas  was  mistaken,  however,  in  imagining 
that  his  daughter's  health  was  imj^roving. 
The  doctor,  indeed,  had  ordered  carriage  ex- 
ercise essentially  necessary  ;  and  Lucy  being 
none  of  those  weak  and  foohsh  girls,  who 
sink  under  illness  and  calamity  by  an  apa- 
thetic neglect  of  their  health,  or  a  crimiual 
indifference  to  the  means  of  guarding  and 
prolonging  the  existence  into  which  God  has 
called  them,  left  nothing  undone  on  her  part 
to  second  the  efforts  of  the  j^hysician.  Ac- 
cordingly, whenever  she  was  able  to  be  up, 
or  the  weather  jDcrmitted  it,  she  sat  in  the 
cari'iage  for  an  hour  or  two  as  it  drove  through 
some  of  the  beautiful  suburban  scenery  by 
which  our  city  is  surrounded. 

The  stranger,  on  the  door  being  opened, 
was  told  by  a  servant,  through  mistake,  that 
Sir  Thomas  Govirlay  was  within.  Tlife  man 
then  showed  him  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  he  said  there  was  none  but  Miss 
Gourlay,  he  believed,  who  was  waiting  for 
the  can-iage  to  take  her  airing. 

On  hearing  this  j^iece  of  intelligence  the 
stranger's  heart  began  to  palpitate,  and  his 
whole  system,  physical  and  spiritual,  was 
disturbed    by   a  general    commotion    that 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


553 


amoimted  to  pain,  and  almost  banished  his 
presence  of  mind  for  the  moment.  He 
tapped  at  the  drawing-room  door,  and  a 
low,  melancholy  voice,  that  penetrated  his 
heai-t,  said,  "Come  in."  He  entered,  and 
there  on  a  sofa  sat  Lucy  before  him.  He 
did  not  bow — his  heart  was  too  deeply  in- 
terested in  her  fate  to  remember  the  formal- 
ities of  ceremony — but  he  stood,  and  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  her  ^snth  a  long  and  anxious 
gaze.  There  she  sat ;  but,  oh  I  how  much 
changed  in  appearance  fi*om  what  he  had 
known  her  on  everj'  pre%dous  interview. 
Not  that  the  change,  wliilst  it  spoke  of  sor- 
row and  suflfei-ing,  was  one  which  dimin- 
ished her  beauty  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  had 
only  changed  its  character  to  something 
far  more  touching  and  impressive  than  health 
itself  with  all  its  blooming  hues  could  have 
bestowed.  Her  features  were  certainly  thin- 
ner, but  there  was  visible  in  them  a  serene 
but  mournful  spirit — a  voluptuous  languor, 
heightened  and  spiritualized  by  purity  and  in- 
tellect into  an  expression  that  realized  our 
notions  rather  of  angehc  beauty  than  of  the 
loveHness  of  mere  woman.  To  all  this,  sor- 
row had  added  a  dignity  so  full  of  melan- 
choly and  commanding  gi-ace — a  seriousness 
indicative  of  such  tiiith  and  honor — as  to 
make  the  heart  of  the  spectator  wonder,  and 
the  eye  almost  to  weep  on  witnessing  an 
association  so  strange  and  incomprehensible, 
as  that  of  such  beauty  and  erident  goodness 
with  su£feiiugs  that  seem  rather  like  ciimes 
against  purity  and  innocence,  and  almost 
tempt  the  weak  heart  to  revolt  against  the 
dispensations  of  Providence. 

"WTien  their  eyes  rested  on  each  other,  is 
it  necessary  to  say  that  the  melancholy  po- 
sition of  Lucy  was  soon  read  in  those  large 
orbs  that  seemed  about  to  dissolve  into 
tears?  The  shock  of  the  stranger's  sudden 
and  imexpected  appearance,  when  taken  in 
connection  with  the  loss  of  him  forever,  and 
the  sacrifice  of  her  love  and  happiness, 
which,  to  save  her  father's  life,  she  had  so 
heroically  and  nobly  made,  was  so  strong, 
she  felt  unable  to  rise.  He  approached  her, 
struck  deeply  by  the  dignified  entreaty  for 
sympathy  and  pardon  that  was  in  her  looks. 

"  I  am  not  well  able  to  rise,  deai*  Charles," 
she  said,  breaking  the  short  silence  which 
had  occurred,  and  extending  her  hand  ; 
"  and  I  suppose  you  have  come  to  reproach 
me.  As  for  me,  I  have  nothing  to  ask  you 
for  now — nothing  to  hope  for  but  pai'don, 
and  that  you  will  forget  me  henceforth. 
Will  you  be  noble  enough  to  forgive  her  who 
was  once  your  Lucy,  but  who  can  never  be 
80  more  ?  " 

The  dreadful  solemnity,  together  ^^•ith  the 
pathetic   spirit   of  tenderness   and   despair 


that  breathed  in  these  words,  caused  a  pulsa/- 
tion  in  his  heart  and  a  sense  of  suffocation 
about  his  throat  that  for  the  moment  pre- 
vented him  fi-om  speaking.  He  seized  her 
hand,  which  was  placed  passively  in  his,  and 
as  he  put  it  to  his  lips,  Lucy  felt  a  warm 
tear  or  two  fall  upon  it.  At  length  he 
spoke  : 

"  Oh,  why  is  this,  Lucy  ?  "  he  said  ;  "  your 
appeai-ance  has  unmanned  me  ;  but  I  see  it 
and  feel  it  all.  I  have  been  sacrificed  to 
ambition,  yet  I  blame  you  not." 

"  No,  deal-  Charles,"  she  rephed  ;  "  look 
upon  me  and  then  ask  yourself  who  is  the 
victim." 

"  But  what  has  hajspened  ?  "  he  asked  ; 
"  what  machinerj'  of  hell  has  been  at  work 
to  reduce  you  to  this  ?  Fraud,  deceit,  trea- 
chery have  done  it.  But,  for  the  sake  of 
God,  let  me  know,  as  I  said,  what  has  oc- 
curred since  our  last  inten-iew  to  occasion 
this  deplorable  change — this  rooted  sorrow 
— this  awful  sjiii'lt  of  desi^air  that  I  read  in 
your  face  ?  " 

"Not  despair,  Charles,  for  I  wiU  never 
}-ield  to  that ;  but  it  is  enough  to  sa}',  that 
a  barrier  deep  as  the  gi-ave,  and  which  only 
that  can  remove,  is  between  us  forever  in 
this  life." 

"  You  mean  to  say,  then,  that  you  never 
can  be  mine  ?  " 

"  That,  alas,  is  what  I  mean  to  say — what 
I  must  say." 

"  But  why,  Lucy — why,  deai-est  Lucy — 
for  still  I  must  call  you  so  ;  what  has  occa- 
sioned this?    I  cannot  understand  it." 

She  then  related  to  him,  briefly,  but  feel- 
ingly, the  solemn  promise,  which.  <is  our 
readers  are  aware  of,  she  had  given  her 
father,  and  imder  what  circumstances  she 
had  given  it,  together  with  his  determina- 
tion, unchanged  and  ii-revocable,  to  force 
her  to  its  fulfilment.  Having  heard  it  he 
paused  for  some  time,  whilst  Lucy's  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  him,  as  if  she  expected  a 
verdict  of  Hfe  or  death  from  his  Hps. 

"Alas,  my  dear  Lucy,"  he  said;  "noble 
girl !  how  can  I  quarrel  with  your  virtues? 
You  did  it  to  save  a  father's  hfe,  and  have 
left  me  nothing  to  reproach  you  with  ;  but 
in  increasing  my  admii-ation  of  you,  my 
heai't  is  doubly  struck  with  anguish  at  the 
thought  that  I  must  lose  you." 

"All,  yes,"  she  replied;  "but  you  must 
take  comfort  from  the  difference  in  our  fates. 
You  merely  have  to  endure  the  pain  of  loss  ; 
but  I — oh,  deal-  Charles — what  have  /  to  en- 
counter ?  You  are  not  forced  into  a  mai-riage 
with  one  who  possesses  not  a  single  senti- 
ment or  principle  of  rirtue  or  honor  in  com- 
mon with  yourself.  No  ;  you  are  merely 
deprived  of  a  woman  whom  you  love  ;  but 


554 


WILLTAM  CARLETOIT'S   WORKS. 


you  are  not  forced  into  marriage  with  a 
woman,  abandoned  and  unprincipled,  whom 
you  hate.  Yes,  Charles,  you  must  take 
comfort,  as  I  said,  fi-om  the  difference  of  our 
fates." 

"  What,  Lucy !  do  you  mean  to  say  I  can 
take  comfort  from  your  misery  ?  Am  I  so 
selfish  or  ungenerous  as  to  thank  God  that 
you,  whose  happiness  I  prefer  a  thousand 
times  to  my  own,  are  more  miserable  than  I 
am  ?    I  thought  you  knew  me  better." 

"Alas,  Charles,"  she  rephed,  "have  com- 
passion on  me.  The  expression  of  these 
generous  sentiments  almost  kills  me.  As- 
sume some  moral  error — some  semblance  of 
the  least  odious  vice — some  startling  blemish 
of  character — some  weakness  that  may  en- 
able me  to  feel  that  in  losing  you  I  have  not 
so  much  to  lose  as  I  thought ;  something 
that  may  make  the  contrast  between  the 
wretch  to  whom  I  am  devoted  and  yoiu'self 
less  repulsive." 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Lucy,"  he  re- 
phed, with  a  melancholy  smile,  "  that  I  have 
my  errors,  my  weaknesses,  my  fi-ailties,  if  that 
will  comfort  you  ;  so  many,  indeed,  that  my 
greatest  virtue,  and  that  of  which  I  am  most 
proud,  is  my  love  for  you." 

"  Ah,  Charles,  you  reason  badly,"  she  re- 
phed, "  for  3^ou  prove  yourself  to  be  capable 
of  that  noble  affection  which  never  yet  ex- 
isted in  a  vicious  heart.  As  for  me,  I  know 
not  on  what  hand  to  turn.  It  is  said  that 
when  a  person  hanging  by  some  weak  branch 
fi'om  the  brow  of  a  precipice  finds  it  begin- 
ning to  give  way,  and  that  the  plunge  below 
is  unavoidable,  a  certain  courage,  gained 
fi'om  despair,  not  only  diminishes  the  terror 
of  the  fall,  but  relieves  the  heart  by  a  bold 
and  terrible  feehng  that  for  the  moment 
banishes  fear,  and  reconciles  him  to  his 
fate." 

"It  is  a  dreadful  analogy,  my  dear  Lucy  ; 
but  you  must  take  comfort.  Who  knows 
what  a  day  may  bring  forth  ?  You  are  not 
yet  hanging  upon  the  precipice  of  Hfe." 

"  I  feel  that  I  am,  Charles  ;  and  what  is 
more,  I  see  the  depth  to  which  I  must  be 
precipitated  ;  but,  alas,  I  possess  none  of  that 
fearful  courage  that  is  said  to  reconcile  one 
to  the  fall." 

"Lucy,"  he  replied,  "into  this  gulf  of 
destniction  you  shall  never  fall.  Beheve  me, 
there  is  an  invisible  hand  that  will  suj^j^ort 
you  when  you  least  expect  it ;  a  power  that 
shapes  our  purposes,  roughhew  them  as  we 
wiU.  I  came  to  request  an  interview  with 
your  father  upon  this  very  subject.  Have 
courage,  dearest  girl ;  fi'iends  are  at  work 
who  I  trust  will  ere  long  be  enabled  to  place 
documents  in  his  hands  that  will  soon  change 
his  purposes.  I  grant  that  it  is  possible  these 


documents  may  faU,  or  may  not  be  procured  j 
and  in  that  case  I  know  not  how  we  are  to 
act.  I  mention  the  probabihty  of  failure  lest 
a  future  disappointment  occasion  such  a 
shock  as  in  yoiu-  present  state  you  may  be 
incapable  of  sustaining  ;  but  still  have  hope, 
for  the  probability  is  in  our  favor." 

She  shook  her  head  incredulously,  and  re- 
plied, "  You  do  not  know  the  inflexible  de- 
termination of  my  father  on  this  point ; 
neither  can  I  conceive  what  documents  you 
could  place  before  him  that  would  change  his 
purpose." 

"  I  do  not  conceive  that  I  am  at  Hberty 
even  to  you,  Lucy,  to  mention  cu'cumstances 
that  may  cast  a  stain  upon  high  integrity  and 
spotless  innocence,  so  long  as  it  is  possible 
the  proofs  I  speak  of  may  fail.  In  the  latter 
case,  so  far  at  least  as  the  world  is  concerned, 
justice  would  degenerate  into  scandal,  whilst 
great  evil  and  httle  good  must  be  the  con- 
sequence. I  think  I  am  bound  in  honor  not 
to  place  old  age,  venerable  and  virtuous,  on 
the  one  hand,  and  unsuspecting  innocence 
on  the  other,  in  a  contingency  that  may 
cause  them  irreparable  injury.  I  will  now 
say,  that  if  your  happiness  were  not  invol- 
ved in  the  success  or  failure  of  our  proceed- 
ings, I  should  have  ceased  to  be  a  party  in 
the  steps  we  are  taking  until  the  grave  had 
closed  upon  one  individual  at  least,  while 
unconscious  of  the  shame  that  was  to  fall 
upon  his  family." 

Lucy  looked  upon  him  with  a  feeling  of 
admiration  w^hich  could  not  be  misvmder- 
stood.  "  Dear  Charles,"  she  exclaimed ; 
"  ever  honorable  —  ever  generous  —  ever 
considerate  and  imselfish  ;  I  do  not  of  course 
understand  your  allusions  ;  but  I  am  confi- 
dent that  whatever  you  do  will  be  done  in  a 
spirit  worthy  of  yourself." 

The  look  of  admiration,  and  why  should 
we  not  add  love,  which  Lucy  had  bestowed 
upon  him  was  observed  and  felt  deeply. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  seizing  her  hand  again, 
he  whispered,  in  that  low  and  tender  voice 
which  breathes  the  softest  and  most  conta- 
gious emotion  of  the  heart,  "Alas,  Lucy, 
you  could  not  even  dream  how  inexpressi- 
bly dear  you  are  to  me.  Without  you,  Hfe 
to  me  will  possess  no  blessing.  All  that  I 
ever  conceived  of  its  purest  and  most  exalt- 
ed enjoyments  were  centred  in  you,  and  in 
that  sweet  communion  which  I  thought  we 
were  destined  to  hold  together ;  but  now, 
now — oh,  my  God,  what  a  blank  will  my 
whole  future  existence  be  without  you ! " 

"  Charles — Charles,"  she  rephed,  but  at 
the  same  time  her  eyes  were  swimming  in 
tears,  "  spare  me'  this  ;  do  not  overload  my 
heart  with  suqh  an  excess  of  sorrow  ;  have 
compassion   on  me,  for  I   am  already  too 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


555 


sensible  of  my  own  misery — too  sensible  of 
the  happiness  I  have  lost.  I  am  here  isolated 
and  alone,  with  no  kind  voice  to  wliisper  one 
word  of  consolation  to  my  unhappy  heart, 
my  poor  maid  only  excepted  ;  and  I  am  often 
forced,  in  order  to  escape  the  pain  of  pres- 
ent reflections,  to  make  a  melancholy  strug- 
gle once  more  to  entrance  myself  in  the  in- 
nocent dreams  of  m}'  early  lijfe.  Yes,  and  I 
will  confess  it,  to  cidl  back  if  I  can  those 
visions  that  gfive  the  delicious  hues  of  hope 
and  happiness  to  the  love  which  bound  3'our 
heart  and  mine  together.  The  illusion, 
however,  is  too  feeble  to  struggle  success- 
fully Avith  the  abiding  consciousness  of  my 
wretchedness,  and  I  awake  to  a  bitterness  of 
anguish  that  is  drinking  up  the  fountains  of 
my  life,  out  of  which  hfe  I  feel,  if  this  state 
continues,  I  shall  soon  pass  away." 

On  concluding,  she  w^jjed  away  the  tears 
that  were  fast  falling  ;  and  her  lover  was  so 
deeply  moved  that  he  could  scarcely  restrain 
his  o\\Ti. 

"There  is  one  word,  dearest  Lucy,"  here- 
pHed,  "  but  though  short  it  is  full  of  com- 
fort— hope. " 

"  Alas  !  Charles,  I  feel  that  it  has  been 
blotted  out  of  the  destiny  of  my  life.  I  look 
for  it ;  I  seiU'ch  for  it,  but  in  vain.  In  this 
life  I  cannot  lind  it ;  I  say  in  this,  because  it 
is  now,  when  all  about  me  is  darkness,  and 
pain,  and  suflfering,  that  I  feel  the  consola- 
tion which  arises  fi-om  our  trust  in  another. 
This  consolation,  however,  though  true,  is 
sad,  and  the  very  joy  it  gives  is  melancholy, 
because  it  anses  fi-om  that  mysterious  change 
which  ^N-ithdraws  us  from  existence ;  and 
when  it  leads  us  to  happiness  we  cannot  for- 
get that  it  is  through  the  gate  of  the  grave. 
But  still  it  is  a  consolation,  and  a  great  one 
— to  a  sufferer  hke  me,  the  only  one — we 
must  all  die." 

Like  a  strain  of  soft  but  solemn  music, 
these  mournful  words  proceeded  fi-om  her 
hps,  fi'om  which  they  seemed  to  catch  the 
touching  sweetness  which  characterized 
them. 

"I  ought  not  to  shed  these  teai's,"  she 
added  ;  "  nor  ought  you,  dear  Charles,  to  feel 
so  deeply  what  I  say  as  I  j^ei'ceive  you  do  ; 
but  I  know  not  how  it  is,  I  am  impressed 
with  a  presentiment  that  this  is  probably 
our  last  meeting  ;  and  I  confess  that  I  am 
filled  with  a  moui-nful  satisfaction  in  speak- 
ing to  you — in  looking  ui:)on  you — yes,  I 
confess  it ;  and  I  feel  all  the  springs  of  ten- 
derness opened,  as  it  were,  in  my  unhappy 
lieart.  In  a  short  time," — she  added,  and 
here  she  almost  sobbed,  "  it  "\rill  be  a  crime 
to  think  of  j^ou — to  allow  my  veiy  imagina- 
tion to  turn  to  your  image  ;  and  I  shall  be  j 
called  upon   to  banish  that  image  forever  I 


i  from  my  heart,  which  I  must  strive  to  do, 
for  to  ehei-ish  it  there  will  be  wrong  ;  but 
I  shall  struggle,  for  " — she  added,  proudly 
— "  whatever  my  duty  may  be,  I  shall  leave 
nothing  undone  to  preserve  my  conscience 
free  from  its  own  reproaches." 

"  Take  comfort,  Lucy,"  he  rephed  ;  "  this 
will  not — shfill  not  be  our  last  meeting.  It 
is  utterly  impossible  that  such  a  creature  as 
you  are  should  be  doomed  to  a  fate  so 
wi-etched.  Do  not  allow  them  to  hurrj'  you 
into  this  odious  marriage.  Gain  time,  and 
we  shall  yet  triumph." 

"Yes,  Charles,"  she  replied  ;  "but,  then, 
misery  often  grows  apathetic,  and  the  will, 
wearied  down  and  weakened,  loses  the  power 
of  resistance.  I  have  more  than  once  felt 
attacks  of  this  kind,  and  I  know  that  if  they 
should  observe  it,  I  am  lost.  Oh,  how  little 
is  the  love  of  woman  understood  !  And  how 
httle  of  hfe  is  known  except  through  those 
false  appearances  that  are  certain  to  deceive 
all  who  look  ujion  them  as  realities  !  Here 
am  I,  sui'rounded  by  ever}'  luxury  that  this 
world  can  present,  and  how  many  thousands 
imagine  me  happy !  AMiat  is  there  within 
the  range  of  fashion  and  the  compass  of 
wealth  that  I  cannot  command?  and  3'et 
amidst  all  this  dazzle  of  grandeur  I  am  more 
WTetched  than  the  beggar  whom  a  morsel  of 
food  will  make  contented." 

"  Eesist  this  marriage,  Lucy,  for  a  time, 
that  is  all  I  ask,"  replied  her  lover  ;  "be 
firm,  and,  above  all  things,  hope.  You  may 
ere  long  understand  the  force  and  meaning 
of  my  words.  At  present  you  cannot,  nor 
is  it  in  my  power,  with  honor,  to  sjjeak  more 
plainly." 

"My  father,  rephed  this  high-minded 
and  sensitive  creature,  "said  some  time  ago, 
'Is  not  ???(!/ df^ughter  a  woman  of  honor?' 
Yes,  Charles,  I  inu>^t  be  a  woman  of  honor. 
But  it  is  time  you  should  go  ;  onh*  before 
you  do,  hear  me.  Henceforth  we  have  each 
of  us  one  gi'eat  mutual  task  imposed  upon  us 
— a  task  the  fulfilment  of  which  is  dictated 
alike  by  honor,  rirtue,  and  religion." 

"Alas,  Lucy,  what  is  that  ?" 

"To  forget  each  other.  Fi'om  the  mo- 
ment I  become,"  she  sobbed  aloud — "  you 
know,"  she  added,  "  what  I  would  say,  but 
what  I  cannot — fi'om  that  moment  memory 
becomes  a  crime." 

"  But  an  involuntarv*  crime,  my  ever  dear 
Lucy.  As  for  my  i)art,"  he  replied,  vehe- 
mently, and  with  sometlmig  akin  to  distrac- 
tion, "  I  feel  that  is  impossible,  and  that 
even  were  it  possible,  I  would  no  more  at- 
tempt to  banish  your  image  from  my  heart 
than  I  would  to  deliberately  still  its  pulses. 
Never,  never — such  an  attempt,  such  an  act, 
if  successful,  would  be  a  murder  of  the  affec- 


556 


WIZLIAJf  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


tions.  No,  Lucy,  whilst  one  spark  of  mor- 
tal life  is  aUve  in  my  body,  whilst  memory 
can  remember  the  dreams  of  only  the  pre- 
ceding moment,  whilst  a  single  faculty  of 
heart  or  intellect  remains  by  which  your 
image  can  be  preserved,  I  shall  cling  to 
that  image  as  the  shipwrecked  sailor  would 
to  the  plank  that  bears  him  through  the 
midnight  storm — as  a  despairing  soul  would 
to  the  only  good  act  of  a  wicked  life  that  he 
could  plead  for  his  salvation." 

"VMiUst  he  spoke,  Lucy  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  his  noble  featui*es,  now  wrought  up 
into  an  earnest  but  melancholy  animation, 
and  when  he  had  concluded,  she  exclaimed, 
"And  this  is  the  man  of  whose  love  they 
would  deprive  me,  whose  very  acknowledg- 
ment of  it  comes  upon  my  spiiit  hke  an  an- 
them of  the  heart  ;  and  I  know  not  what  I 
have  done  to  be  so  tried  ;  yet,  as  it  is  the 
will  of  God,  I  receive  it  for  the  best.  Dear 
Charles,  you  must  go  ;  but  you  spoke  of  re- 
monstrating with  my  father.  Do  not  so  ;  an 
intei^view  would  only  aggravate  him.  And 
as  you  admit  that  certain  documents  are 
wanted  to  produce  a  change  in  his  opinions, 
you  may  see  clearly  that  until  you  produce 
them  an  expostulation  would  be  worse  than 
useless.  On  the  contrary,  it  might  precipi- 
tate matters  and  ruin  all.     Now  go." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  replied,  "  as 
you  always  are  ;  how  can  I  go  ?  How  can  I 
tear  mj^self  from  you  ?  Dearest,  dearest 
Lucy,  what  a  love  is  mine  !  But  that  is  not 
surprising — who  could  love  you  with  an  or- 
dinary passion  ?  " 

Apprehensive  that  her  father  might  re- 
turn, she  rose  up,  but  so  completely  had  she 
been  exhausted  by  the  excitement  of  this  in- 
terview that  he  was  obUged  to  assist  her. 

"  I  hear  the  carriage,"  said  she  ;  "  it  is  at 
the  door  :  will  you  ring  for  my  maid  ?  And 
now,  Charles,  as  it  is  possible  that  we  must 
meet  no  more,  say,  before  you  go,  that  you 
forgive  me." 

"  There  is  everj-ihing  in  your  conduct  to 
be  admired  and  loved,  my  dearest  Lucy  ; 
but  nothing  to  be  forgiven." 

"Is  it  possible,"  she  said,  as  if  in  com- 
munion with  herself,  "  that  we  shall  never 
meet,  never  speak,  never,  probably,  look  up- 
on each  other  more  ?  " 

Her  lover  observed  that  her  face  became 
suddenly  pale,  and  she  staggered  a  little, 
after  which  she  sank  and  would  have  fallen 
had  he  not  supi^orted  her  in  his  arms.  He 
had  already  mng  for  Alley  Mahon,  and  there 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  place  Lucy  once 
more  upon  the  sofa,  whither  he  was  obhged 
to  cai-ry  her,  for  she  had  fainted.  Having 
placed  lier  there,  it  became  necessary  to  sup- 
j^jui't,  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  in  doing 


so — is  it  in  human  nature  to  be  severe  upon 
him? — he  rapturously  kissed  her  lips,  and 
pressed  her  to  his  heart  in  a  long,  tender, 
and  melancholy  embrace.  The  appearance 
of  her  maid,  however,  who  always  accompa- 
nied her  in  the  carriage,  terminated  this 
pardonable  theft,  and  after  a  few  words  oi 
ordinary  conversation  they  separated. 


CHAPTEK  XXXVn. 

Dandy's  Visit  to  Snmmerfield  Cottage,  where  he 
Makes  a  most  UngaUant  Mistake — Returns  with 
Tidings  of  both  Mrs.  Norton  and  Fenton — and 
Generously  Patronizes  his  Master. 

On  the  morning  after  this  interview  the 
stranger  was  waited  on  by  Birney,  who  had 
returned  fi'om  France  late  on  the  preceding 
night. 

"  Well,  my  fi'iend,"  said  he,  after  they  had 
shaTien  hands,  "  I  hope  you  are  the  bearer  of 
welcome  intelligence  ! " 

The  gloom  and  disappointment  that  were 
legible  in  this  man's  round,  rosy,  and  gener- 
ally good-humored  countenance  were  ob- 
served, however,  by  the  stranger  at  a  second 
glance. 

"  But  how  is  this  ?  "  he  added  ;  "  you  are 
silent,  and  I  fear,  now  that  I  look  at  you  a 
second  time,  that  matters  have  not  gone 
well  with  you.  For  God's  sake,  however,  let 
me  know  ;  for  I  am  impatient  to  hear  the 
result." 

"  All  is  lost,"  repHed  Bimey  ;  "  and  I  fear 
we  have  been  outgeneralled.  The  clergy- 
man is  dead,  and  the  book  in  which  the  re- 
cord of  her  death  was  registered  has  dis- 
appeared, no  one  knows  how.  I  strongly 
suspect,  however,  that  yovu*  opponent  is  at 
the  bottom  of  it." 

"  You  mean  Dunroe  ?  " 

"I  do ;  that  scoundrel  Norton,  at  once 
his  master  and  his  slave,  accompanied  by  a 
susjiicious-looking  fellow,  whose  name  I  dis- 
covered to  be  Mulholland,  were  there  before 
us,  and  I  fear,  carried  their  point  by  se- 
cui'ing  the  register,  which  I  have  no  doubt 
has  been  by  this  time  reduced  to  ashes." 

"  Li  that  case,  then,"  rej^hed  the  stranger, 
despondingly,  "it's  all  up  -nith  us." 

"Unless,"  observed  Birney,  "you  have 
been  moi-e  successful  at  home  than  I  have 
been  abroad.    Any  trace  of  oVIrs.  Norton  ?  " 

"  None  whatsoever.  But,  my  dear  Bu-- 
ney,  what  you  tell  me  is  surprisingly  myste- 
rious. How  could  Dunroe  become  aware  of 
the  existence  of  these  documents  ?  or,  indeed, 
of  our  proceedings  at  all  ?  And  who  is  this 
MullioUand  you  speak  of  that  accompanied 
him  ?  " 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


557 


"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  him," 
replied  Bimey,  "  except  that  he  is  a  fellow 
of  dissolute  appearance,  ^N^ith  sandy  hair,  not 
ill-looking,  setting  aside  what  is  caUed  a 
battered  look,  and  a  face  of  the  most  con- 
summate efii-ontery." 

"  I  see  it  all,"  replied  the  other.  "That 
drunken  scoundi'el  M'Bride  has  betrayed  us, 
as  far,  at  least,  as  he  could.  The  fellow,  while 
his  conduct  continued  good,  was  in  my  con- 
fidence, as  far  as  a  servant  ought  to  be.  In 
this  matter,  however,  he  did  not  know  all, 
unless,  indeed,  by  inference  from  the  nature 
of  the  document  itself,  and  from  kno-wing 
the  name  of  the  family  whose  position  it  af- 
fected. How  it  might  have  affected  them, 
however,  I  don't  think  he  knew." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  that  this  Mulhol- 
land  is  that  man  ?  " 

"  From  your  description  of  him  I  am  con- 
fident there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it — not 
the  shghtest  ;  he  must  have  changed  his 
name  piu-posely  on  this  occasion  ;  and,  I  dare 
say,  Duni'oe  has  hberally  paid  him  for  his 
treacher}-." 

"  But  what  is  to  be  done  now  ? "  asked 
Bimey ;  "  here  we  are  fairly  at  fault." 

"  I  have  seen  ^liss  Gourlay,"  replied  the 
other,  "  and  if  it  were  only  from  motives  of 
humanity,  we  must  try,  by  every  means  con- 
sistent with  honor,  to  sto]3  or  retard  her 
marriage  with  Dunroe." 

"  But  how  are  we  to  do  so? " 

"  I  know  not  at  present ;  but  I  shall  think 
of  it.  This  is  most  imfortunate.  I  declare 
solemnly  that  it  was  only  in  so  far  as  the 
facts  we  were  so  anxious  to  estabhsh 
might  have  enabled  us  to  prevent  this  ac- 
cursed union,  that  I  myself  felt  an  interest 
in  our  success.  !Miss  Gourlay 's  happiness 
was  my  sole  motive  of  action." 

"I  beheve  you,  sir,"  replied  Bimey ;  "but 
in  the  meantime  we  are  completely  at  a 
stand.  Chance,  it  is  time,  may  throw  some- 
thing in  our  way ;  but,  in  the  present  posi- 
tion of  circumstances,  chance,  nay,  all  the 
chances  are  against  us." 

"It  is  unfortunately  too  true,"  rephedthe 
stranger  ;  "  there  is  not  a  single  opening  left 
for  us  ;  we  are,  on  the  contraiy,  shut  out 
completely  in  every  direction.  I  shall  write, 
however,  to  a  lady  who  possesses  much  in- 
fluence with  Miss  Goui-lay  ;  but,  alas,  to  what 
purpose  ?  ^liss  Govirlay  herself  has  no  in- 
fluence whatever ;  and,  as  to  her  father,  he 
does  not  live  who  could  divert  him  from  his 
object.  His  ^'ile  ambition  only  in  the  matter 
of  his  daughter  could  influence  him,  and  it 
will  do  so  to  her  destruction,  for  she  cannot 
survive  this  maniage  long." 

"  You  look  thin,  and  a  good  deal  care- 
worn," observed  Bimey,  "  which,  indeed,  I 


am  sorry  to  see.  Constant  anxiety,  however, 
and  perpetual  agitation  of  spirits  will  wear 
any  man  dovNTi.  WeU,  I  must  bid  you  good 
morning  ;  but  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  ir^- 
quire  about  poor  Fenton.  Any  trace  of  "mm 
during  m}'  absence  ?  " 

"  Not  the  slightest.  In  fact,  every  point  ia 
against  us.  Lady  Gourlay  has  relapsed  into 
her  original  hopelessness,  or  nearly  so,  and  I 
myself  am  now  more  depressed  than  I  have 
ever  been.  Perish  register,  documents,  cor- 
rupt knaves,  and  ungi-ateful  traitors — perish 
all  the  machinery'  of  justice  on  the  one  hand, 
and  of  ^illainy  on  the  other  ;  only  let  us  suc- 
ceed in  seeming  ]Miss  Gourlay 's  happiness, 
and  I  am  contented.  That,  now  and  hence- 
forth, is  the  absorbing  object  of  my  life. 
Let  her  be  happy;  let  Ixer  be  but  happy — 
and  this  can  only  be  done  by  preventing  her 
union  with  this  heartless  young  man,  whosfl 
principal  motive  to  it  is  her  property." 

Birney  then  took  his  departure,  leaving 
his  fiiend  in  such  a  state  of  distress,  and  al- 
most of  despair,  on  Lucy's  account,  as  we 
presume  o\ir  readers  can  very  sufficiently 
,  imderstand,  without  any  further  assistance 
fi'om  us.     He  covdd  not,  howevei-,  help  con- 
gratulating himself  on  his  prudence  in  \\-ith- 
holding   fi-om  ^liss   Gom-Liy   the  sanguine 
expectations  which  he  himself  had  entertain- 
I  ed  upon  the  result  of  Bimey's  journey  to 
j  France.     Had  he  not  done  so,  he  knew  that 
I  she  would  have  j^aiiicipated  in  his  hopes, 
and,  as  a  natui-al  consequence,  she  must  now 
have  had  to  bear  this  deadly  blow  of  disap- 
pointment, probably  the  last  cherished  hope 
of  her  heart ;  and  under  such  circumstances, 
it  is  difficult  to  say  what  its  effect  upon  her 
might  have  been.     This  was  now  his  only 
satisfaction,  to  which  we  may  add  the  con- 
j  sciousness  that  he  had  not,  by  making  pre- 
mature disclosures,  been  the  means  of  com- 
I  promising  the  innocent. 

After  much  thought  and  reflection  upon 
the  gloomy  position  in  which  both  he  him- 
self and  especially  Lucy  were  placed,  he  re- 
solved to  vrnie  to  Mi-s.  Mainwaiing  upon 
the  subject  ;  although  at  the  moment  he 
scarcely  knew  in  what  tenns  to  address  her, 
or  what  steps  he  could  suggest  to  her,  as  one 
feeling  a  deep  interest  in  ]Miss  Gourlay 's 
happiness.  At  length,  after  much  anxious 
rumination,  he  wTote  the  following  short  let- 
ter, or  rather  note,  more  with  a  view  of 
alarming  Mi's.  ^lainwaring  into  activity,  than 
of  dictating  to  her  any  line  of  action  as  pe- 
cuhaiiy  suited  to  the  circumstances. 

"  IVIadam, — The  fact  of  ]Miss  Gourlay  hay- 
ing taken  refuge  vriih.  you  as  her  friend,  up- 
on a  cei-tain  occasion  that  was,  I  beheve. 
verj-  painful  to  that  young  lady,  I  think  sui 


558 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ficiently  justifies  me  in  supposing  that  you 
feel  a  warm  interest  in  her  fate.  For  this 
reason,  therefore,  I  have  taken  the  hberty  of 
addressing  you  A^dth  reference  to  her  pres- 
ent situation.  If  ever  a  human  being  re- 
quired the  aid  and  consolation  of  fiiendship, 
IMiss  Gourlay  now  does  ;  and  I  will  not  sup- 
pose that  a  lady  whom  she  honored  with  her 
esteem  and  affection,  could  be  capable  of 
withholding  from  her  such  aid  and  such  con- 
solation, in  a  crisis  so  dej^lorable.  You  are 
probably  aware,  madam,  that  she  is  on  the 
point  of  being  sacrificed,  by  a  forced  and 
hated  union,  to  the  ambitious  -views  of  her 
father  ;  but  you  covild  form  a  very  slight 
concej)tion  indeed  of  the  hoiTor  with  which 
she  approaches  the  giilf  that  is  before  her. 
Could  there  be  no  means  devised  by  which 
this  imhappy  young  lady  might  be  enabled 
with  honor  to  extricate  herself  fx*om  the 
wi'etchedness  with  which  she  is  encompass- 
ed ?  I  beg  of  you,  madam,  to  think  of  this  ; 
there  is  httle  time  to  be  lost.  A  few  days 
may  seal  her  misery  forever.  Her  health 
and  spirits  are  fast  sinking,  and  she  is  be- 
ginning to  entertain  apprehensions  that 
that  apathy  which  proceeds  fi*om  the  united 
influence  of  exhaustion  and  misery,  may,  in 
some  unhappy  moment,  deprive  her  of  the 
power  of  resistance,  even  for  a  time.  Ma^ 
dam,  I  entreat  that  you  will  either  write  to 
her  or  see  her  ;  that  you  %\ill  sustain  and 
console  her  as  far  as  in  you  hes,  and  en- 
deavor, if  possible,  to  throw  some  obstnic- 
tion  in  the  way  of  this  acciu'sed  marriage  ; 
whether  thi'ough  youi'  influence  with  herself, 
or  her  father,  matters  not.  I  beg,  madam,  to 
apologize  for  the  hbert}- 1  have  taken  in  ad- 
dr-essing  you  upon  this  painful  but  deeply 
important  subject,  and  I  appeal  to  yourself 
whether  it  is  possible  to  know  INIiss  Gourlay, 
and  not  to  feel  the  deepest  interest  in  eveiy- 
thing  that  involves  her  happiness  or  misery.- 
"I  have  the  honor  to  be,  madam, 

"  Your  obedient,  faithful  sei-vant,  and 
"  Her  Sincere  Friend. 

"P.  S. — I  send  this  letter  by  my  servant, 
as  I  am  anxious  that  it  should  reach  no 
hands,  and  be  subjected  to  no  eyes,  but  your 
own  ;  and  I  refer  you  to  IVIiss  Gourla}^  her- 
self, who  will  satisfy  you  as  to  the  honor  and 
purity  of  my  motives  in  writing  it." 

Having  sealed  this  communication,  the 
stranger  rang  for  Dulcimer,  who  made  his 
appeai-ance  accordmgly,  and  received  his  in- 
structions for  its  safe  deliveiy. 

"  You  must  deliver  thife  note,  Dandy,"  said 
he,  "  to  the  lady  to  whom  Miss  Gourlay  and 
her  maid  drove,  the  morning  you  took  the  un- 
warrantable liberty  of  follo%ving  them  there." 


"And  for  all  that,"  replied  Dandy,  "it 
hapiiens  very  luckily  that  I  chance,  for  that 
very  raison,  to  know  now  where  to  find  her." 

"  It  does  so,  certainly,"  rej)Hed  his  master. 
"Here  is  money  for  you — take  a  car,  or 
whatever  kind  of  vehicle  you  prefer.  Give 
this  note  into  her  own  hand,  and  make  aa 
httle  delay  as  you  can." 

"  Do  you  exj)ect  an  answer,  sir  ?  "  replied 
Dandy  ;  "  and  am  I  to  wait  for  one,  or  ask 
for  one  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  quite  certain  of  that,"  said  thft 
other  ;  "  it  is  altogether  discretionary  with 
her.  But  there  can  be  no  harm  in  asking 
the  question,  at  all  events.  Any  other  ]\Irs, 
Norton  in  the  way.  Dandy  ?  " 

"Deuce  a  once,  sir.  I  have  sifted  the 
whole  city,  and,  barrin'  the  tlu'ee  dozen  i 
made  out  already,  I  can't  find  hilt  or  hare  of 
another.  Faith,  sir,  she  ought  to  be  worth 
something  when  she's  got,  for  I  may  fairly 
say  she  has  cost  me  trouble  enough  at  any 
rate,  the  skulkin'  thief,  whoever  she  is  ;  and 
me  to  lose  my  hundre'  pounds  into  the  bar- 
gain— bad  scran  to  her  !  " 

"  Only  find  me  the  true  Mrs.  Norton," 
said  his  master,  "and  the  hundred  pounds 
are  yoiu-s,  and  for  Fenton  Mty.  Be  off,  now, 
lose  no  time,  and  bring  me  her  answer  if  she 
sends  any." 

Dandy's  motions  were  aU  remarkably 
rapid,  and  we  need  not  say  that  he  allowed 
no  grass  to  gi'ow  under  his  feet  while  getting 
over  his  journey.  On  ai-riving  at  Summer- 
field  Cottage,  he  learned  that  IMrs.  Main  war- 
ing was  in  the  garden ;  and  on  stating  that 
he  had  a  letter  to  dehver  into  her  own  hands, 
that  lady  desired  him  to  be  brought  m,  as 
she  was  then  in  conversation  with  her  daugh- 
ter, who  had  been  comj)elled  at  length  to  fly 
fi'om  the  brutality  of  her  husband,  and  re- 
turn once  more  to  the  j)rotection  of  her 
mother's  roof.  On  ojDening  the  letter  and 
looking  at  it,  she  staiied,  and  turning  to  her 
daughter  said, 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  my  dea*'  Maria, 
for  a  few  moments,  but  don't  forget  to  finish 
what  you  were  teUing  me  about  this  unfor- 
tunate young  man,  Fenton,  as  he,  you  say. 
caDs  himself,  from  BaUytrain." 

"Hello!"  thought  Dandy,  "her^-'s  a  dis- 
covery. By  the  elevens,  I'U  hould  goold  to 
silver  that  this  is  poor  Fenton  that  disap- 
peared so  suddenly." 

"  I  beg  youi-  pardon,  miss,"  said  he,  ad- 
dressing IMrs.  Scarman  ass  an  unmarried 
lady,  as  he  perceived  that  she  ^^•as  the  per- 
son from  whom  he  could  receive  the  best 
inteUigence  on  the  subject ;  "I  hope  it's  no 
offence,  miss,  to  ax  a  question  ? "' 

"  None,  certainly,  my  good  man,"  replied 
her  mother,  'provided  it  be  aiproper  one." 


TEE  BLACK  BARONET. 


55» 


*'I  tliink,  miss,"lie  continued,  "that  you 
were  mentioning  something  to  this  lady 
about  a  young  man  named  Fenton,  from 
BaUytrain  ?  " 

"  I  was,"  replied  Mrs.  Scarman,  "  certainly  ; 
but  what  interest  can  you  have  in  him  ?  " 

"If  he's  the  young  man  I  mane,"  con- 
tinued Dandy,  "  he's  not  quite  steady  in  the 
head  sometimes." 

"  If  he  were,  he  would  not  be  in  his  pres- 
ent abode,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  And  pray,  miss — beg  pardon  again," 
said  Dandy,  w"ith  the  best  bow  and  scrape 
he  could  manage  ;  "  pray,  miss,  might  I  be 
so  bould  as  to  ask  where  that  is  ?  " 

^Ii*s.  Scarman  looked  at  her  mother. 
"  Mamma,"  said  she,  "  but,  bless  me  !  what 
is  the  matter  ?  you  are  in  tears." 

"I  will  tell  you  by  and  by,  my  dear 
Maria,"  repHed  her  mother  ;  "  but  you  were 
going  to  ask  me  something— what  was  it  ?  " 

"  This  man,"  rephed  her  daughter,  "  wishes 
to  know  the  abode  of  the  person  I  was 
speaking  about." 

"  Pray,  what  is  his  motive  ?  What  is 
your  motive,  my  good  man,  for  asking  such 
a  question  ?  " 

"  Bekaise,  ma'am,"  repHed  Dandy,  "  I 
happen  to  know  a  gentleman  who  has  been 
for  some  time  on  the  lookout  for  him,  and 
wishes  very  much  to  find  where  he  is.  If  it 
be  the  young  man  I  spake  of,  he  disappeared 
some  three  or  four  months  ago  from  the 
to^^^l  of  Balh'train." 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Mainwaring,  with 
her  usual  good-sense  and  sagacity,  "as  I 
know  not  what  yovu*  motive  for  asking  such 
a  question  is,  I  do  not  think  this  lady  ought 
to  answer  it ;  but  if  the  gentleman  himself 
is  anxious  to  know,  let  him  see  her ;  and 
upon  giving  satisfactory  reasons  for  the  in- 
terest he  takes  in  him,  he  shall  be  informed 
of  his  present  abode.  You  must  rest  satisfied 
with  this.  Go  to  the  kitchen  and  say  to 
the  servant  that  I  desired  her  to  give  you 
refreshment." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Dandy ; 
"faith,  that's  a  Hvely  message,  anyhow,  and 
one  that  I  feel  gi-eat  pleasure  in  deliverin'. 
This  Wicklow  air's  a  regular  cutler  ;  it  has 
shai-pened  my  teeth  aU  to  pieces  ;  and  if  the 
cook  'ithin  shows  me  good  feedin'  I'll  show 
her  something  in  the  shape  of  good  atin'. 
I'm  a  regular  man  of  talent  at  my  victuals, 
ma'am,  an'  was  often  tosld  I  might  hve  to 
die  an  alderman  yet,  plaise  God ;  many 
thanks  agin,  ma'am."  So  saying,  Dandy 
proceeded  at  a  brisk  pace  to  the  kitchen. 

"  That  communication,  mamma,"  said  ]\Irs. 
Scai-man,  after  Dandy  had  left  them,  "  has 
distressed  you." 

"  It  has,  my  child.     Poor  Miss  Gourlay  is 


in  a  most  wretched  state.  This  I  know  is 
from  her  lovei*.  In  fact,  they  will  be  the 
death — absolutely  and  beyond  a  doubt — the 
death  of  this  admrrable  and  most  lovely 
creature.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  Her  father 
win  not  permit  me  to  visit  her,  neither  will 
he  permit  her  to  correspond  ^\-ith  me.  I 
have  ah'eady  %vritten  to  him  on  the  risk  to 
which  he  submits  his  daughter  in  this  omi- 
nous marriage,  but  I  received  neither  notice 
of,  nor  reply  to  my  letter.  Oh,  no  ;  the  dear 
girl  is  vmquestionably  doomed.  I  think, 
however,  I  shall  write  a  few  lines  in  reply  to 
this,"  she  added,  "  but,  alas  the  day !  they 
cannot  speak  of  comfort." 

"Whilst  she  is  thus  engaged,  we  will  take 
a  peep  at  the  on-goings  of  Dandy  and  Nancy 
Gallaher,  in  the  kitchen,  where,  in  pursu- 
ance of  his  message  our  bashful  valet  was 
corroborating,  by  very  able  practice,  the  ac- 
count which  he  had  given  of  the  talents  he 
had  eulogized  so  justly. 

"Well,  in  troth,"  said  he,  "but,  first  and 
foremost,  I  haven't  the  jjleasrure  of  knowin' 
yer  name." 

"  Nancy  Gallaher's  my  name,  then,"  she 
replied. 

"Ah,"  said  Dandy,  suspending  the  fork 
and  an  immense  piece  of  ham  on  the  top  ol 
it  at  the  Charybdis  which  he  had  opened  to 
an  unusual  extent  to  receive  it ;  "  ah,  ma'am, 
it  wasn't  always  that,  I'll  go  bail.  My  coim- 
thiymen  knows  the  value  of  such  a  purty 
woman  not  to  stamp  some  of  their  names 
upon  her.  Not  that  you  have  a  mamed 
look,  either,  any  more  than  myself ;  you're 
too  fi'esh  for  that,  now  that  I  look  at  you 
again." 

A  certain  cloud,  which,  as  Dandy  could 
perceive,  was  beginning  to  darken  her  coun- 
tenance, suggested  the  quick  tiu-n  of  his  last 
observation.  The  countenance,  however, 
cleai'ed  again,  and  she  rephed,  "It  is  my 
name,  and  what  is  more,  I  never  changed  it. 
I  was  hard  to  plaise — and  I  am  hard  to 
plaise,  and  ever  an'  jilways  hful  a  dread  of 
gettin'  int©  bad  company,  especiiilly  when  I 
knew  that  the  same  bad  company  was  to 
last  for  hfe." 

"An  ould  maid,  by  the  Rock  of  Cashel," 
said  Dandy,  to  himself. 

"  Blood  alive,  I  wondher  has  she  money  ; 
but  here  goes  to  thry.  Ah,  Nancy,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  you  wor  too  hard  to  plaise  ;  and 
now,  that  you  have  got  money  hke  myself, 
nothing  but  a  steady  man,  jmd  a  full  purse, 
will  shoot  your  convanience — isn't  that  pure 
gospel,  now,  you  good  lookin'  thief  ?  " 

Nancy's  face  was  now  hke  a  cloudless  sky. 
"  Well,"  she  replied,  "  maybe  there's  truth 
in  that,  and  maybe  there's  not  ;  but  I  hope 
you  are  takin'  cai-e  of  yourself?    That's  what 


660 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


I  always  did  and  ever  will,  plaise  God. 
How  do  you  like  the  ham  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  so  well  dressed  a  bit  o'  ham  ever 
I  ett — it  melts  into  one's  mouth  like  a  kiss 
from  a  purty  woman.  Troth,  Nancy,  I 
f.hink  I'm  kissing  you  ever  since  I  began  to 
ait  it." 

"  Get  out,"  said  Nancy,  laughing  ;  "  troth, 
you're  a  quare  one ;  but  you  know  our 
Wickla'  hams  is  famous." 

"  And  so  is  your  "Wicklow  girls,"  replied 
Dandy  ;  "  but  for  my  pai-t,  I'd  sooner  taste 
their  hps  than  the  best  hams  that  ever  were 
©tt  any  day." 

"  WeU,  but,"  said  Nancy,  "  did  you  ever 
taste  our  bacon  ?  bekaise,  if  you  didn't,  lave 
off  what  you're  at,  and  in  three  skips  I'll  get 
you  a  rasher  and  eggs  that'll  make  you  look 
nine  ways  at  once.  Here,  tlirow  that  by,  it's 
could,  and  I'll  get  you  something  hot  and 
comfortable." 

"  Go  on,"  repUed  Dandy  ;  "  I  hate  idle- 
ness. Get  the  eggs  and  rasher  j-ou  spake  of, 
and  while  j'ou're  doin'  it  I'U  thry  and  amuse 
myself  wid  what's  before  me.  Industhry's 
the  first  of  virtues,  Nancy,  and  next  to  that 
comes  perseverance  ;  I  defy  you  in  the  mane 
time  to  do  a  rasher  as  weU  as  you  did  this 
ham — hoch — och^ — och.  God  bless  me,  a 
bit  was  near  stickin'  in  my  throat.  Is  your 
wather  good  here  ?  and  the  raison  why  I  ax 
you  is,  that  I'm  the  devil  to  plaise  in  wather  ; 
and  on  that  account  I  seldom  take  it  without 
a  sup  o'  spirits  to  dilute  it,  as  the  docthors 
say,  for,  indeed,  that's  the  way  it  agi'ees  with 
me  best.  It's  a  kind  of  family  failin'  with 
us — devil  a  one  o'  my  blood  ever  could 
look  a  glass  of  mere  wather  in  the  face  with- 
out blushin'." 

Dandy  was  now  upon  what  they  call  the 
simphcity  dodge  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  affected 
that  character  of  wisdom  for  which  certain 
indi^^duals,  whose  knowledge  of  life  no  earth- 
ly experience  ever  can  improve,  are  so  ex- 
tremely anxious  to  get  credit.  Every  word 
he  uttered  was  accompanied  by  an  oafish 
grin,  so  ludicrously  balanced  between  sim- 
phcity and  cunning,  that  Nancy,  who  had 
been  half  her  life  on  the  lookout  for  such  a 
man,  and  who  knew  that  this  indecision  of 
expression  was  the  characteristic  of  the  tribe 
with  which  she  classed  him,  now  saw  be- 
fore her  the  great  dream  of  her  heart 
realized. 

"Well,  in  troth,"  she  repHed,  "you  are  a 
quare  man  ;  but  still  it  would  be  too  bad  to 
make  you  blush  for  no  stronger  raison  than 
mere  wather.  So,  in  the  name  o'  goodness, 
here's  a  tumbler  of  grog,"  she  added,  filling 
him  out  one  on  the  instant,  "and  as  you're 
BO  modest,  you  must  only  drink  it  and  keep 
your  countenance  ;  it'll  prepare  you,  besides, 


for  the  rasher  and  eggs  ;  and,  by  the  same 
token,  here's  an  ould  candle-box  that's  here 
the  Lord  knows  how  long  ;  but,  faix,  now  it 
must  help  to  do  the  rasher.  Come  then ;  if 
you  are  stronger  than  I  am,  show  your 
strength,  and  pull  it  to  pieces,  for  you  see  I 
can't." 

It  was  one  of  those  flat  little  candle-boxes 
made  of  deal,  with  which  every  one  in  the 
habit  of  burning  moulds  is  acquainted. 
Dandy  took  it  ujd,  and  whilst  about  to  pull 
it  to  pieces,  observed  written  on  a  paper  la- 
bel, in  a  lai'ge  hand,  something  between  writ- 
ing and  print,  "Mrs.  Norton,  Summerfield 
Cottage,  Wicklow." 

"What  is  this?  "  said  he  ;  "what  name  is 
this  upon  it?  Let  us  see,  'Mrs.  Norton,  Sum- 
merfield Cottage,  Wicklow ! '  "VNTio  the  dick- 
ens is  Mrs.  Norton  ?  " 

"  ^\^y,  my  present  mistress,"  replied  Nan- 
cy ;  "  IVIi'.  Mainwaring  is  her  second  husband, 
and  her  name  was  Mrs.  Norton  before  she 
married  him." 

"  Norton,"  said  Dandy,  whose  heart  was 
going  at  full  sjDeed,  with  a  hope  that  he  had 
at  length  got  into  the  right  track,  "it's 
a  purty  name  in  troth.  Arra,  Nancy,  do 
vou  know  was  your  misthress  ever  in 
France  ?  " 

"  Ay,  was  she,"  replied  Nancy.  "  Many  a 
year  maid  to — let  me  see — what's  this  the 
name  is  ?  Ay !  Cullamore.  Maid  to  the 
wife  of  Lord  Cullamore.  So  I  was  tould  by 
Alley  Mahon,  a  young  woman  that  was  here 
on  a  ^isit  to  me." 

Dandy  put  the  glass  of  grog  to  his  mouth, 
and  having  emptied  it,  sprung  to  his  feet, 
commenced  an  Lish  jig  through  the  kitchen, 
in  a  spirit  so  outrageously  whimsical — buoy- 
ant, mad,  hugging  the  box  all  the  time  in  his 
arms,  that  poor  Nancy  looked  at  him  with  a 
degree  of  alarm  and  then  of  jealousy  which 
she  could  not  conceal. 

"  In  the  name  of  aU  that's  wonderful,"  she 
exclaimed,  "  what's  wrong — what's  the  mat- 
ter? What's  the  value  of  that  blackguard 
box  that  you  make  the  mistake  about  in  hug- 
gin'  it  that  way  ?  Upon  mj^  conscience,  one 
wovdd  think  you're  in  a  desolate  island.  Re- 
member, man  alive,  that  you're  among  flesh 
and  blood  like  your  own,  and  that  you  have 
friends,  although  the  acquaintance  isn't  very 
long,  I  grant,  that  wishes  you  betther  than 
to  see  you  makin'  a  sweetheart  of  a  tallow- 
box.     What  the  sorra  is  that  worth  ?  " 

"  A  hundred  pounds,  my  darlin' — a  hun- 
dred pounds  —  bravo,  Dandy  —  weU  done, 
brave  Dulcimer — wealthy  Nancy.  Faith,  you 
may  sweaiv  upon  the  frying-pan  there  that 
I've  the  cash,  and  sm-e  'tis  yourself  I  was 
lookin'  out  for." 

"  I  don't  think,  then,   that  ever  I  resem- 


rriE  BLACK  BARONET. 


56\ 


oletJ  a  candle-box  in  my  life,"  she  replied, 
rather  annoyed  that  the  article  in  question 
came  in  for  such  a  prodigality  of  his  hugs, 
kisses,  and  embraces,  of  all  shapes  and  char- 
acters. 

"  WeU,  Nancy,"  said  he,  "  charming  Nan- 
cy, you're  my  fmcy,  but  in  the  meantime  I 
have  the  honor  tmd  pleasure  to  bid  you  a 
good  day." 

"  Why,  where  ai-e  you  goin'^  "  asked  the 
woman.  "  Won't  you  wait  for  the  rasher  ?  " 
"  Keep  it  hot,  chtu-ming  Nancy,  tdl  I  come 
back  ;  I'm  just  goin'  to  take  a  constitutional 
walk."  So  saying,  Dandy,  with  the  candle- 
box  under  his  arm,  darted  out  of  the  kitch- 
en, and  without  waiting  to  know  whether 
there  was  an  answer  to  be  brought  back  or 
not,  mounted  his  jai-vey,  and  desiring  the 
man  to  drive  as  if  the  de\'il  and  all  his  imps 
were  at  their  heels,  set  off  at  full  speed  for 
the  city. 

"Bad  luck  to  you  for  a  scamp,"  exclaimed 
the  indignant  cook,  shouting  after  him  ;  "is 
that  the  way  you  trate  a  decent  woman  after 
gettin'  your  skinful  of  the  best  ?  Wait  till 
you  put  your  nose  in  this  kitchen  again,  an' 
it's  different  fare  you'll  get." 

On  reaching  his  master's  hotel.  Dandy 
went  upstairs,  where  he  found  him  prepai*- 
ing  to  go  out.  He  had  just  sealed  a  note, 
and  leaning  himself  back  on  the  chair,  look- 
ed at  his  servant  with  a  good  deal  of  sur- 
prise, in  consequence  of  the  singularity  of 
his  manner.  Dandy,  on  the  other  hand, 
took  the  candle-box  fi"om  under  his  arm,  and 
putting  it  flat  on  the  table,  with  the  label 
downwards,  placed  his  two  hands  upon  it, 
and  looked  the  other  right  in  the  face  ;  after 
which  he  closed  one  eye,  and  gave  him  a  very 
knowing  wink. 

"  WTiat  do  you  mean,  you  scoundrel,  by 
this  impudence  ?  "  exclaimed  his  master,  al- 
though at  the  same  time  he  could  not  avoid 
laughing ;  for,  ia  tinith,  he  felt  a  kind  of 
presentiment,  gi-ounded  upon  Dandy's  very 
assurance,  that  he  was  the  bearer  of  some 
agTeeable  intelligence.  ""What  do  you 
•mean,  sirra  ?     You're  drunk,  I  think. " 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,"  replied  Dandy, 
*'  ''om  tnis  day  out,  lapon  my  soul,  I'll  pat- 
rt'^ize  ;y0U  like  a  man  as  I  am;  that  is  to 
saj,  provided  you  continue  to  deserve  it." 

"Come,  Sirra,  you're  at  yoiu:  buffoonery' 
again,  or  e^ae  you're  drunk,  as  I  said.  Did 
the  lady  send  any  reply  ?  " 

"Have  you  any  cash  to  spare?"  replied 
Dandy.  "I  want  to  invest  a  thrifle  in  the 
funds." 

"  What  can  this  impudence  mean,  siira  ?  " 
asked  the  other,  sadly  puzzled  to  under- 
stand his  couduct.  "  AMiy  do  you  not  reply 
to  me  ?     Did  the  lady  send  an  answer '? "        i 


I      "Most  fortunate  of  all  masthers,"  rephed 
■  Dandy,  "  in  havin'  such  a  sen'ant ;  the  ladj 
did  send  an  answer." 

"And  where  is  it,  sirra?" 
I  "  There  it  is  I  "  repUed  the  other,  shoving 
the  candle-box  triumphantly  over  to  him. 
The  stranger  looked  steadily  at  him,  and 
was  beginning  to  lose  his  temper,  for  he 
took  it  now  for  granted  that  his  servant  was 
drunk. 
'  "I  shall  dismiss  you  instantly,  sirra," 
he  said,  "if  you  don't  come  to  your  sen- 
ses." 

"I  suppose  so,"  repHed  the  other,  still 
maintaining  his  cool,  unabashed  efiErontery. 
"I  dare  say  you  will,  just  after  I've  made  a 
man  of  you — changed  you  from  nothing  to 
something,  or,  rather,  fi'om  nobody — ^for 
devil  a  much  more  you  were  up  to  the  pres- 
ent time  yet — to  somebody.  In  the  mean- 
time, read  the  lady's  answer,  if  you  plaise." 

"^Miere  is  it,  you  impudent  knave?  I  see 
no  note — no  answer." 

"  Troth,  su",  I  am  af eared  many  a  time  you 
were  ornamented  "nith  the  dunce's  cap  in 
yom-  school-days,  and  well,  I'll  be  boimd, 
you  became  it.  Don't  I  sa}-  the  answer's  be- 
fore you  there  ?  " 

"There  is  nothing  here,  you  scoundrel, 
but  a  deal  box." 

"  Right,  sir  ;  and  a  deal  of  intelligence  can 
it  give  you,  if  you  have  the  sense  to  find  it 
out.  Now,  listen,  su*.  So  long  as  you  hve, 
ever  and  always  examine  both  sides  of  every 
subject  that  comes  before  you,  even  if  it  was 
an  ould  deal  box." 

His  master  took  the  hint,  and  instantly 
turning  the  box,  read  to  his  astonishment, 
Mrs.  Norton,  Summerfield  Cottage,  Wicklow, 
and  then  looked  at  Dandy  for  an  explanation. 
The  latter  nodded  ^Nith  his  usual  easy  confi- 
dence, and  proceeded,  "It's  all  right,  sir- 
she  was  in  France — own  maid  to  Lady  Culla- 
more — came  home  and  got  married — first  to 
a  !Mi'.  Norton,  and  next  to  a  person  named 
Mainwarin' :  and  there  she  is,  the  true  ^Irs. 
Norton,  safe  and  sound  for  you,  in  Summer- 
field  Cottage,  under  the  name  of  !Mrs.  Main>. 
warin'." 

"Dandy,"  said  his  master,  starting  to  his 
feet,  "  I  forgive  you  a  thousand  times. 
Throw  that  letter  in  the  post-office.  Yoti 
shall  have  the  money.  Dandy,  more,  perhaps, 
than  I  promised,  provided  this  is  the  lady ; 
but  I  cannot  doubt  it.  I  am  now  going  to 
!Mr.  Bimey  ;  but,  stay,  let  us  be  certain.  How 
did  you  become  acquainted  with  these  cir- 
cumstances ?  " 

Dandy  gave  him  his  authority  ;  after  which 
his  master  put  on  his  hat,  and  was  about 
proceeding  out,  when  the  fDrnier  exclaimed 
"  Hello,  sir,  where  are  jou  goin'  ?  " 


562 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"To  see  Bimey,  I  have  already  told 
you." 

"  Come,  come,"  replied  his  man,  "  take 
your  time — be  steady,  now — be  cool — and 
listen  to  what  your  fi'iend  has  to  say  to 
you." 

"  Don't  trifle  with  me  now,  Dandy ;  I  really 
can't  bear  it." 

"Faith,  but  you  must,  though.  There's 
one  act  I  pathi'ouized  you  in  ;  now,  how  do 
you  know,  as  I'm  actin'  the  great  man,  but 
1  can  pathronize  you  in  another  ?  " 

"  How  is  that  ?  For  heaven's  sake,  don't 
ti'ifle  with  me  ;  eveiy  day,  every  hour,  eveiy 
moment,  is  precious,  and  may  involve  the 
happiness  of " 

"I  see,  sii',"  replied  this  extraordinary 
valet,  with  an  intelligent  nod,  "  but,  still,  fair 
and  ais}'  goes  far  in  a  day.  There's  no  dan- 
ger of  her,  you  know — don't  be  unaisy. 
Fenton,  su* — ehem — Fenton,  I  say — Fenton 
and  fifty  I  say." 

"  Fenton  and  a  htmdred,  Dandy,  if  there's 
an  available  trace  of  him." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  call  an  available 
trace,"  rephed  Dandy,  "  but  I  can  send  you 
to  a  lady  who  knows  where  he  is,  and  where 
you  can  find  him." 

The  stranger  returned  from  the  door,  and 
sitting  down  again  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  as  if  to  collect  himself  ;  at  length  he 
said,  "  This  is  most  extraordinary  ;  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

Dandy  related  that  with  which  the  reader 
is  akeady  acquainted,  and  did  so  with  such 
an  air  of  comic  gravity  and  pompous  superi- 
ority, that  his  master,  now  in  the  best  pos- 
sible spirits,  was  exceedingly  amused. 

"  Well,  Dandy,"  said  he,  "  if  your  infor- 
mation respecting  Fenton  prove  correct, 
reckon  upon  another  hundred,  instead  of  the 
fifty  I  mentioned.  I  suppose  I  may  go  now  ?  " 
he  added,  smihng. 

Dandy,  still  maintaining  his  gi-avily,  waved 
his  hand  with  an  air  of  suitable  authority, 
intimating  that  the  other  had  permission  to 
depart.  On  going  out,  however,  he  said,  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  sir,  biit  while  you're 
abroad,  I'd  take  it  as  a  favor  if  you'd  find  out 
the  state  o'  the  funds.  Of  course,  I'U  be  in- 
vestin' ;  and  a  man  may  as  well  do  things 
with  his  eyes  open — may  as  well  examine 
both  sides  o'  the  candle-box,  you  know.  You 
may  go,  sir." 

"  Well,"  thought  the  stranger  to  himself, 
as  he  literally  went  on  his  way  rejoicing 
toward  Bimey 's  office,  "no  man  in  this  life 
should  ever  yield  to  despair.  Here  was  I 
this  morning  encompassed  by  doubt  and 
darkness,  and  I  may  almost  say  by  despair 
itself.  Yet  see  how  easUy  and  naturally  the 
hand  of  Providence,  for  it  is  nothing  less, 


has  changed  the  whole  tenor  of  my  existence 
Everything  is  beginning  not  only  to  brighten, 
but  to  present  an  appearance  of  order,  by 
which  we  shall,  I  trust,  be  enabled  to  guide 
ourselves  through  the  maze  of  difliculty  that 
Ues,  or  that  did  he,  at  all  events,  before  us. 
Alas,  if  the  wi-etehed  suicide,  who  can  see 
nothing  but  cause  of  despondency  about  him 
and  before  Mm,  were  to  reflect  upon  the 
possibihty  of  what  only  one  day  might  evolve 
from  the  ongoing  circumstances  of  life,  how 
many  would  that  wholesome  reflection  pre- 
vent fi'om  the  awful  crime  of  impatience  at 
the  wisdom  of  God,  and  a  want  of  confidence 
in  his  government !  I  remember  the  case  of 
an  unhajDiDy  young  man  who  j^lunged  into  a 
future  life,  as  it  were,  to-day,  who,  had  he 
maintained  his  pai't  vmtil  the  next,  would 
have  formd  himself  master  of  thousands.  No  ; 
I  shall  never  desjoair.  I  will  in  this,  as  in 
every  other  virtue,  imitate  my  beloved  Lucy, 
who  said,  that  to  whatever  depths  of  MTctch- 
edness  life  might  bring  her,  she  wovdd  never 
yield  to  that." 

"  Good  news,  Bimey !  "  he  exclaimed,  on 
entering  that  gentleman's  ofiice  ;  "  charming 
intelligence  !     Both  are  found  at  last." 

"  Explain  yourself,  my  dear  sir,"  rephed 
the  other  ;  "how  is  it?  ^Miat  has  happen- 
ed ?     Both  of  whom  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Norton  and  Fenton." 

He  then  explained  the  circumstances  as 
they  had  been  explained  to  himself  by  Dan- 
dy ;  and  Bimey  seemed  gi-atified  certainly, 
but  not  so  much  as  the  stranger  thought  he 
ought  to  have  been. 

"How  is  tliis?"  he  asked  ;  "this  discov- 
ery, this  double  discovery,  does  not  seem  to 
give  3-ou  the  satisfaction  which  I  had  ex- 
pected it  would  ?  " 

"Perhaps  not,"  replied  the  steady  man  of 
law,  "but  I  am  highly  gi-atified,  notwith- 
standing, j)rovided  everything  you  tell  me 
turns  out  to  be  correct.  But  even  then,  I 
apprehend  that  tlie  testimony  of  this  IMrs. 
Norton,  unsupjDorted  as  it  is  by  documentary 
evidence,  \\all  not  be  sufiicieut  for  our  pur  ■ 
pose.  It  will  require  corroboration,  and  how 
are  we  to  corroborate  it  ?  " 

"If  it  will  enable  us  to  prevent  'J:a 
marriage,"  rephed  the  other,  "I  am  sati> 
fied." 

"  That  is  veiy  generous  and  disinterested, 
I  grant,"  said  Bimey,  "  and  what  few  are 
capable  of  ;  but  still  there  are  forms  of  law 
and  piinciples  of  common  justice  to  be  ob- 
sei-ved  and  complied  with  ;  and  these,  at 
pi'esent,  stand  in  our  way  for  want  of  the 
documentary  evidence  I  speak  of." 

""WHiat  then  ought  our  next  step  to  be? 
— but  I  suppose  I  can  anticipate  you — to  see 
INIrs.  Norton." 


THE  BLACK   BAROXET. 


563 


"  Of  course,  to  see  IVIrs.  Norton  ;  and  I 
propose  that  we  start  immediately.  There 
is  no  time  to  be  lost  about  it.  I '  shall  get 
on  my  boots,  and  change  my  dress  a  Utile, 
and,  with  this  man  of  yours  to  guide  us,  we 
shall  be  on  the  way  to  Summerlield  Cottage 
in  half-an-hour. " 

"  Should  I  not  communicate  this  intelli- 
gence to  Lady  Gourlay  ?  "  said  the  stranger. 
"  It  will  restore  her  to  life  ;  and  surely  the 
removal  of  only  one  day's  sorrow  such  as 
lies  at  her  heart  becomes  a  duty." 

"But  suppose  our  information  should 
prove  incorrect,  into  what  a  dreadful  relapse 
would  you  plunge  her  then  ! " 

"  Oh,  very  true — very  true,  indeed  :  that 
is  well  thought  of ;  let  us  first  see  that  there 
is  no  mistake,  and  afterwards  we  can  proceed 
with  confidence." 

Poor  Lucy,  unconscious  that  the  events  we 
have  related  had  taken  place,  was  passing  an 
existence  of  which  every  day  brought  round 
to  her  nothing  but  anguish  and  misery.  She 
now  not  only  refused  to  see  her  brother  on 
any  occasion,  or  under  any  circumstances, 
but  requested  an  inteniew  with  her  father, 
in  order  to  make  him  acquainted  with  the 
abominable  jDrinciples,  by  the  inculcation  of 
which,  as  a  rule  of  Hfe  and  conduct,  he  had 
attempted  to  corinipt  her.  Her  father  hav- 
ing heard  this  portion  of  her  complaint,  di- 
minished in  its  heinousness  as  it  necessarily 
was  by  her  natural  modesty,  appeared  very 
angry,  and  swore  roundly  at  the  young 
scapegrace,  as  he  called  him. 

"  But  the  tnith  is,  Lucy,"  he  added,  "  that 
however  wrong  and  wicked  he  may  have 
been,  and  was,  yet  we  cannot  be  over  severe 
on  him.  He  has  had  no  opportunities  of 
knowing  better,  and  of  course  he  will  mend. 
I  intend  to  lecture  him  severely  for  uttering 
such  principles  to  you;  but,  on  the  other  hand, 
I  know  him  to  be  a  shrewd,  keen  young 
fellow,  who  promises  well,  notwithstanding. 
In  truth,  I  like  him,  scamp  as  he  is ;  and  I 
believe  that  whatever  is  bad  in  him " 

"  "WTiatever  is  bad  in  him  !  "VMiy,  papa, 
there  is  nothing  good  in  him." 

"  Tut,  Lucy  ;  I  believe,  I  say,  that  what- 
ever is  bad  in  him  he  has  picked  up  from  the 
kind  of  society  he  mixed  with." 

"  Papa,"  she  rephed,  "  it  grieves  me  to 
hear  you,  sir,  paUiate  the  conduct  of  such  a 
person — to  become  almost  the  apologist  of 
principles  so  utterly  fiendish.  You  know 
that  I  am  not  and  never  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  using  ungenerous  language  against 
the  absent.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  he 
has  riolated  all  the  claims  of  a  brother — has 
foregone  all  title  to  a  sister's  love  ;  but  that 
is  not  all — I  believe  him  to  be  so  essentially 
corrupt  and  yjcious  in  heart  and  soul,  so 


thoroughly  and  blackly  diabolical  in  his  prin- 
ciples— monJ  I  cannot  call  them — that  I 
would  stake  my  existence  he  is  some  base 
and  plotting  impostor,  in  whose  veins  there 
flows  not  one  single  drop  of  my  pure-hearted 
mother's  blood.  I  therefore  warn  you,  sir, 
that  he  is  an  impostor,  with,  perhaps,  a  dis- 
honorable title  to  your  name,  but  none  at  all 
to  your  property." 

"Nonsense,  you  fooHsh  girl.  Is  he  not 
my  image  ?  " 

"I  admit  he  resembles  you,  sir,  very  much, 
and  I  do  not  deny  that  he  may  be  " — she 
paused,  and  alternately  became  pale  and  red 
by  turns — "  what  I  mean  to  say,  sir,  is  what 
I  have  already  said,  that  he  is  not  my 
mother's  son,  and  that  although  he  may  be 
pri^■ileged  to  bear  yoiu*  name,  he  has  no 
claim  on  either  yovir  property  or  title.  Does 
it  not  strike  you,  sii",  that  it  might  be  to 
make  waj'  for  this  person  that  my  legitimate 
brother  was  removed  long  ago  ?  And  I  have 
also  heard  youi-self  say  frequently,  while 
talking  of  my  brother,  how  extremely  like 
mamma  and  me  he  was." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  he  was,"  repHed  her 
father,  somewhat  stinick  by  the  force  of  her 
observations  ;  "  and  I  was  myself  a  good  deal 
sui-^Drised  at  the  change  which  must  have 
taken  place  in  him  since  his  childhood. 
However,  you  know  he  accounted  for  this 
himself  verv'  fairly  and  verj-  naturally." 

"Very  ingeniously,  at  least,"  she  rephed  ; 
"with  more  of  ingenuity,  I  fear,  than  truth. 
Now,  sir,  hear  me  fui'ther.  You  are  aware 
that  I  never  liked  those  Corbets,  who  have 
been  always  so  deejily,  and,  excuse  me,  sir, 
so  mysteriously  in  your  confidence." 

"Yes,  Lucy,  I  know  you  never  did  ;  but 
that  is  a  prejudice  you  inherited  fi*om  yoiur 
mother." 

"I  appeal  to  your  own  conscience,  sir, 
whether  mamma's  prejudice  against  them 
was  not  just  and  well  founded.  Y'et  it  was 
not  so  much  j^rejudice  as  the  antipathy  which 
good  bears  to  e\al,  honesty  to  fraud,  and 
truth  to  darkness,  dissimulation,  and  false- 
hood. I  entreat  you,  then,  to  investigate 
this  matter,  papa  ;  for  as  sure  as  I  have  life, 
so  certfiinly  was  my  dear  brother  removed,  in 
order,  at  the  proper  time,  to  m;ike  way  for 
this  impostor.  You  know  not,  sir,  but  there 
may  be  a  base  and  inhuman  murder  involved 
in  this  matter — nay,  a  douV)le  murder — that 
of  my  cousin,  too  ;  yes,  and  the  worst  of  all 
murders,  the  mui'der  of  the  innocent  and 
defenceless.  As  a  man,  as  a  magistrate, 
but,  above  all,  a  thousand  times,  as  a  father 
— as  the  father  and  uncle  of  the  very  two 
children  that  have  disappeared,  it  becomes 
your  duty  to  examine  into  this  dark  businesa 
thoroughly." 


6U 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  I  have  no  reason  to  suspect  the  Corbets, 
Lucy.  I  Lave  ever  found  them  faithful  to 
me  and  to  my  interests." 

"  I  know,  sii',  you  have  ever  found  them 
obsequious  and  slavish  and  ready  to  abet 
you  in  many  acts  which  I  regret  that  you  ever 
committed.  There  is  the  case  of  that  unfor- 
tunate man,  Trailcudgel,  and  many  similar 
ones  ;  were  they  not  as  active  and  cheerful 
in  bearing  out  your  very  harsh  orders  against 
him  and  others  of  your  tenantry,  as  if  they 
had  been  advancing  the  cause  of  human- 
ity?" 

"  Say  the  cause  of  justice,  if  j^ou  please, 
Lucy — the  rights  of  a  landlord." 

"But,  papa,  if  the  unfortunate  tenantry  by 
whose  toil  and  labor  we  Hve  in  affluence  and 
luxui-y  do  not  find  a  fi'iend  in  theii'  landlord, 
who  is,  by  his  relation  to  them,  theu'  natvu'al 
protector,  to  whom  else  in  the  wide  world 
can  they  tui-n?  This,  however,  is  not  the 
subject  on  which  I  wish  to  speak.  I  do  be- 
heve  that  Thomas  Corbet  is  deep,  design- 
ing, and  vindictive.  He  was  always  a  close, 
dark  man,  mthout  either  cheerfiilness  or 
candor.  Beware,  therefore,  of  him  and  of 
his  family.  Nay,  he  has  a  capacity  for  being 
dangerous  ;  for  it  strikes  me,  sir,  that  his 
intellect  is  as  far  above  his  position  in  hfe  as 
his  principles  are  beneath  it." 

There  was  much  in  what  Lucy  said  that 
forced  itself  upon  her  father's  reflection, 
much  that  startled  him,  and  a  good  deal  that 
gave  him  pain.  He  paused  for  a  consider- 
able time  after  she  had  ceased  to  speak,  and 
said, 

*'  I  wiU  think  of  these  matters,  Lucy.  I 
will  probably  do  more  ;  and  if  I  find  that 
they  have  played  me  foul  by  imjjosing  upon 

me "    He  paused  abruptly,  and  seemed 

embarrassed,  the  truth  being  that  he  knew 
and  felt  how  comj)letely  he  was  in  their 
power. 

"Now,  papa,"  said  Lucy,  "after  having 
heard  my  opinion  of  this  young  man — after 
the  wanton  outrage  upon  all  female  delicacy 
and  virtue  of  which  he  has  been  guilty,  I 
trust  you  will  not  in  future  attempt  to  ob- 
trude him  upon  me.  I  will  not  see  him, 
speak  to  him,  nor  acknowledge  him  ;  and 
such,  let  what  may  happen,  is  my  final  de- 
termination." 

"  So  far,  Lucy,  I  will  accede  to  your 
wishes.  I  shall  take  care  that  he  troubles 
you  wdth  no  more  wicked  exhortations." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  papa  ;  this  is  kind,  and 
I  feel  it  so." 

"Now,"  said  her  father,  after  she  had 
withdrawn,  "how  am  I  to  act?  It  is  not 
impossible  but  there  may  be  much  ti-uth  in 
what  she  says.  I  remember,  however,  the 
death  of  the  only  son  that  could  possibly  be 


imposed  on  me  in  the  sense  alluded  to  b} 
her.  He  svu-ely  does  not  live  ;  or  if  he  does, 
the  far-sighted  sagacity  which  made  the  ac- 
comat  of  his  death  a  fraud  upon  my  credulity, 
for  such  selfish  and  treacherous  pm-poses,  is 
worthy  of  being  concocted  in  the  deepest 
pit  of  hell.  Yet  that  some  one  of  them  has 
betrayed  me,  is  evident  from  the  charges 
brought  against  me  by  this  stranger  to  whom 
Lucy  is  so  devotedly  attached,  and  which 
charges  Thomas  Corbet  covdd  not  clear  up. 
If  one  of  these  base  but  dexterous  villains, 
or  if  the  whole  gang  were  to  outwit  me, 
positively  I  could  almost  blow  my  veiy  brains 
out,  for  allowing  myself,  after  all,  to  become 
theii-  dujje  and  pla}i;hing.  I  will  think  of 
it,  however.  And  again,  there  is  the  like- 
ness ;  there  does  seem  to  be  a  difficulty  in 
that ;  for,  beyond  all  doubt,  my  legitimate 
child,  up  until  his  disappearance,  did  not 
bear  in  his  countenance  a  single  feature  of 
mine  but  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  his 
mother ;  whereas  this  Tom  is  my  bom 
image  !  Yet  I  like  him.  He  has  all  my  points  ; 
knows  the  world,  and  despises  it  as  much  as 
I  do.  He  did  not  know  Lucy,  however,  or 
he  wovdd  have  kept  his  worldly  opinions  to 
himself.  It  is  true  he  said  very  little  but 
what  we  see  about  us  as  the  regiilating  prin- 
ciples of  hfe  every  day  ;  but  Lucy,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  no  every-day  girl,  and  will  not 
receive  such  doctiines,  and  I  am  glad  of  it. 
They  jnay  do  very  well  in  a  son  ;  but  some- 
how one  shudders  at  the  contemj)lation  of 
their  existence  in  the  heai-t  and  principles  of 
a  daughter.  Unfortunately,  however,  I  am 
in  the  power  of  these  Corbets,  and  I  feel  that 
exposure  at  this  loeriod,  the  crisis  of  my 
daughter's  marriage,  would  not  only  frus- 
trate my  ambition  for  her,  but  occasion  my 
very  death,  I  fear.  I  know  not  how  it  is,  but 
I  think  if  I  were  to  hve  my  life  over  again,  I 
would  try  a  different  course." 


CHAPTER  XXXVm 

Antlixmy  Corbet  gives  Important  Documents  to  the 
Stranger — An  Unpleasant  Disclosure  to  Dunroe 
— Norton  catches  a  Tartar. 

The  next  morning  the  stranger  was  agree- 
ably surprised  by  seeing  the  round,  rosy, 
and  benevolent  features  of  Father  M'Mahon, 
as  he  presented  himself  at  his  breakfast 
table.  Their  meeting  was  cordial  and  friendly, 
with  the  exception  of  a  slight  appearance  of 
embarrassment  that  was  evident  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  priest. 

"The  last  time  you  were  in  to^\Ti,"  said 
the  former,  "I  was  sorry  to  observe  that  you 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


\iA 


seemed  rather  careworn  and  depressed  ;  but 
I  think  you  look  better  now,  and  a  good  deal 
more  cheerful." 

"  And  I  think  I  have  a  good  right,"  repHed 
the  priest ;  "  and  I  tliink  no  man  ought  to 
know  the  cause  of  it  better  than  yourself.  I 
charge  you,  su',  with  an  act  of  benevolence 
to  the  poor  of  my  i^arish,  through  their 
humble  pastor  ;  for  which  you  stand — I  beg 
your  pardon — sit  there,  a  guilty  man." 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  other,  smiling. 

"  By  means  of  an  anonymous  letter  that 
contained  a  hundred  pouud  note,  sir." 

"Well,"  said  the  strangei*,  "there  is  no 
use  in  teUing  a  falsehood  about  it.  The  truth 
is,  I  was  aware  of  the  extent  to  which  you 
involved  yourself,  in  order  to  relieve  many 
of  the  small  farmers  and  other  struggling 
persons  of  good  repute  in  your  jjaiush,  and  I 
thought  it  too  bad  that  you  should  suffer 
distress  yourself,  who  had  so  frequently  re- 
heved  it  in  others." 

"God  bless  you,  my  fi-iend,"  replied  the 
priest ;  "  for  I  will  call  3'ou  so.  I  wish  every 
man  possessed  of  weixlth  was  guided  by  your 
principles.  Freney  the  Robber  has  a  new 
saddle  and  bridle,  anyhow;  and  I  came  up  to 
town  to  pay  old  Anthony  Corbet  a  sum  I 
borrowed  fi*om  him  the  last  time  I  was 
here  ?  " 

"  Oh,  have  you  seen  that  cautious  and  dis- 
agreeable old  man  ?  We  could  make  nothing 
of  him,  although  I  feel  quite  certain  tiiat  he 
knows  everything  connected  with  the  dis- 
appeanmce  of  Lady  Gourlay's  son." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it  myself," rej^lied  the 
priest ;  "and  I  now  find,  that  what  neither 
rehgion,  nor  justice,  nor  humanity  covdd  in- 
fluence him  to  do,  superstition  is  likely  to 
effect.  He  has  had  a  drame,  he  says,  in 
which  his  son  James  that  was  in  Lady  Gour- 
lay's sen'ice  has  appeared  to  him,  and 
threatens  that  unless  he  renders  her  justice, 
he  has  but  a  poor  chance  in  the  other 
world." 

"  That  is  not  at  all  unnatural,"  said  the 
stranger  ;  "  the  man,  though  utterly  without 
religion,  was  nevertheless  both  hesitating 
and  timid  ;  precisely  the  character  to  do  a 
just  act  from  a  wrong  motive." 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,"  continued  the  priest, 
"  I  have  a  message  from  him  to  you." 

"  To  me  !  "  replied  the  other.  "  I  am  much 
obliged  to  him,  but  it  is  now  too  late.  We 
have  ascertained  where  Lady  Gourlay's  son 
is,  without  any  assistance  fi'om  him  ;  and  in 
the  course  of  this  very  day  we  shall  fimiish 
oui'selves  with  proper  authority  for  claiming 
and  producing  him." 

"  I  am  dehghted  to  hear  it,"  said  the  priest. 
"  God  be  praised  that  the  heart  of  that 
diiu-itable  and  Christian  woman  will  be  re-  \ 


1  lieved  at  last,  and  made  happy;  but  still  \ 
say,  see  old  Anthony.  He  is  as  deep  as  a 
i  draw-well,  and  as  close  as  an  oyster.  See 
i  him,  sir.  Take  my  advice,  now  that  the 
drame  has  frightened  him,  and  call  upon  the 
I  old  sinner.  He  may  sei-ve  you  in  more  ways 
I  than  you  know." 

I       "Well,  as  you  advise  me  to  do  so,  I  shall ', 
I  but  I  do  not  rehsh  the  old  fellow  at  all." 

"  Nobody  does,  nor  ever  did.  He  and  all 
his  family  lived  as  if  every  one  of  them  car- 
ried a  Httle  world  of  their  own  within  them. 
Maybe  they  do  ;  and  God  forgive  me  for  say- 
ing it,  but  I  don't  think  if  its  secrets  were 
kno^vn,  that  it  would  be  fovmd  a  verj'  pleasant 
world.  May  the  Lord  change  them,  and 
turn  their  hearts  ! " 

After  some  further  chat,  the  priest  took 
his  departure,  but  j^romised  to  see  his  friend 
fi'om  time  to  time,  before  he  should  leave 
town. 

The  stranger  felt  that  the  priest's  advice 
to  see  old  Corbet  again  was  a  good  one. 
The  interview  could  do  no  harm,  and  might 
be  productive  of  some  good,  provided  he 
could  be  prevailed  on  to  speak  out.  He  ac- 
cordingly dii'ected  his  stejjs  once  more  to 
Constitution  Hill,  where  he  found  the  old 
man  at  his  usual  post  behind  the  counter. 

"  Well,  Corbet,"  said  he,  "ahve  still?  " 

"Alive  still,  sir,"  he  replied;  "but  can't 
be  so  always  ;  the  best  of  us  must  go." 

"  Very  ti-ue,  Corbet,  if  we  could  think  of 
it  as  we  ought ;  but,  somehow,  it  happens 
that  most  people  hve  in  this  world  as  if  they 
were  never  to  die." 

"That's  too  true,  sii* — unfortimately  too 
true,  God  help  us  !  " 

"Corbet,"  proceeded  the  stranger,  "noth- 
ing can  convince  me  that  you  don't  know 
something  about " 

"  I  beg  your  pai-don,  sir,"  said  the  old 
man  ;  "  we  had  betther  go  into  the  next 
room.  Here,  Polly,"  he  shouted  to  his  \vife, 
who  was  inside,  "  will  you  come  and  stand 
the  shop  awhile  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  ^rill."  replied  the  old  wo- 
man, making  her  appearance.  "  How  do  you 
do,  sir,"  she  added,  addressing  the  stranger; 
"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well" 

'^' Thank  you,  madam,"  replied  the  stran- 
ger: "I  can  retui'n  the  compliment,  as  they 
say." 

"Keep  the  shop,  Polly,"  said  the  old  man 
sharply,  "and  don't  make  the  same  mistake 
you  made  awhile  ago — give  away  a  stone  o' 
meal  for  half  a  stone.  No  woudher  for  us  to 
be  poor  at  sich  a  rate  of  doin'  things  as  that 
Walk  in,  if  you  plaise,  sir." 

Tliey  accordingly  entered  the  room,  and 
the  stranger,  after  they  had  taken  seats,  re- 
sumed, 


o66 


WILLIAM  CAIiLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  I  was  going  to  say,  Corbet,  that  nothing 
can  conv'ince  me  that  you  don't  know  more 
about  the  disappearance  of  Lady  Gourlay's 
heir  than  you  are  disposed  to  acknowledge." 

The  hard,  severe,  disagi'eeable  expression 
returned  once  more  to  his  featiu'es,  as  he  re- 
pHed, 

"  Troth,  sir,  it  appears  you  xoill  believe  so, 
whether  or  not.  But  now,  sh-,  in  case  I  did, 
what  would  you  say  ?  I'm  talkin'  for  supjDO- 
Bition's  sake,  mind.  Wouldn't  a  man  de- 
«arve  something  that  could  give  you  infor- 
mation on  the  subject  ?  " 

"This  avaricious  old  man,"  thought  the 
(Stranger,  pausing  as  if  to  consider  the  pro- 
position, "was  holding  us  out  all  along,  in 
order  to  make  the  most  of  his  information. 
The  information,  however,  is  ah'eady  in  oiu' 
possession,  and  he  comes  too  late.  So  far  I 
am  gi'atified  that  we  are  in  a  position  to 
punish  him  by  disappointing  his  avarice." 

"  We  Avould,  Corbet,  if  the  information 
♦(rere  necessaiy,  but  at  present  it  is  not ;  we 
don't  require  it." 

Corbet  started,  and  his  keen  old  eyes 
gleamed  with  an  expression  between  terror 
and  incredulity. 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  you  don't  require  it ! 
Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  so.  Some  time  ago  we  would 
have  rewarded  you  hberally,  had  you  made 
any  available  disclosure  to  us  ;  but  now  it  is 
too  late.  The  information  we  had  been 
seeking  for  so  anxiously,  accidentally  came  to 
us  from  another  quarter.  You  see  now, 
Corbet,  how  you  have  overshot  the  mark, 
and  punished  yourseK.  Had  you  been  in- 
fluenced by  a  principle  of  common  justice, 
you  would  have  been  entitled  to  expect  and 
receive  a  most  ample  compensation  ;  a  com- 
pensation beyond  your  hopes,  probably  be- 
yond your  very  wishes,  and  certainly  beyond 
your  wants.  As  matters  stand,  however,  I 
tell  you  now  that  I  would  not  give  you  six- 
pence for  any  information  you  could  com- 
municate." 

Anthony  gave  him  a  derisive  look,  and 
pursed  up  his  thin  miserUke  lips  into  a  gi*in 
of  most  sinister  triumph. 

'*  Wouldn't  you,  indeed  ?  "  said  he.  "  Are 
you  quite  sure  of  what  you  say  ?  " 

"Quite  certain  of  it." 

"  Well,  now,  how  positive  some  people  is. 
You  have  found  him  out,  then  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  a  shrewd  look.  "  You  have  found  him, 
and  you  don't  require  any  information  from 
me. 

"  "Whether  we  have  found  him  or  not," 
rephed  the  other,  "  is  a  question  which  I  will 
not  answer ;  but  that  we  require  no  infor- 
mation from  you,  is  fact.  While  it  was  a 
marketable  commodity,  you  refused  to  dis- 


pose of  it ;  but,  now,  we  have  got  the  supplj 

elsewhere." 

"Well,  SU-,"  said  Anthony,  "all  I  can  sa^ 
is,  that  I'm  very  glad  to  hear  it ;  and  it's  no 
harm,  surely,  to  wish  you  joy  of  it." 

Tlie  same  mocking  sneer  which  accom- 
panied this  observation  was  jDerfectly  vexa- 
tious ;  it  seemed  to  say,  "  So  you  think,  but 
you  may  be  mistaken.  Take  care  that  I 
haven't  you  in  my  jDOAver  still." 

"  Why  do  you  look  in  that  disagreeable 
way,  Corbet?  I  never  saw  a  man  whose 
face  can  express  one  thing,  and  his  words 
another,  so  effectually  as  yoiu*s,  when  you 
wish." 

"  You  mane  to  say,  sir,"  he  returned,  with 
a  time  sardonic  smile,  "  that  my  face  isn't  an 
obedient  face  ;  but  sure  I  can't  help  that. 
This  is  the  face  that  God  has  given  me,  and 
I  must  be  content  with  it,  such  as  it  is." 

"I  was  told  this  morning  by  Father 
M'Mahon,"  rejDlied  the  other,  anxious  to  get 
rid  of  him  as  soon  as  he  coiild,  "  that  you 
had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  me." 

"  I  believe  I  did  say  something  to  that  ef- 
fect ;  but  then  it  appears  you  know  every- 
thing yourself,  and  don't  want  my  assist- 
ance." 

"Any  assistance  we  may  at  a  future  time 
requu'e  at  your  hands  we  shall  be  able  to  ex- 
tort from  you  through  the  laws  of  the  land 
and  of  justice ;  and  if  it  appears  that  you. 
have  been  an  accomplice  or  agent  in  such 
a  deejD  and  diabolical  crime,  neither  jDower, 
nor  wealth,  nor  cunning,  shall  be  able  to 
protect  you  fi'om  the  utmost  rigor  of  the 
law.  You  had  neither  mercy  nor  com- 
passion on  the  widow  or  her  child  ;  and  the 
probability  is,  that,  old  as  you  are,  you  will 
be  made  to  taste  the  deepest  disgi'ace,  and 
the  heaviest  punishment  that  can  be  annexed 
to  the  crime  you  have  committed." 

A  singular  change  came  over  the  features 
of  the  old  man.  Paleness  in  age,  especially 
when  conscience  bears  its  secret  but  jDower- 
ful  testimony  against  the  individual  thug 
charged  home  as  Corbet  was,  sometimes 
gives  an  awful,  almost  an  appalling  ex- 
pression to  the  countenance.  The  stranger, 
who  knew  that  the  man  he  addressed, 
though  cunning,  evasive,  and  unscrupulous, 
was,  nevertheless,  hesitating  and  timid,  saw 
by  his  looks  that  he  had  jDroduced  an  un- 
usual impression  ;  and  he  resolved  to  follow 
it  ujD,  rather  to  gratify  the  momentary 
amusement  which  he  felt  at  his  alarm,  than 
from  any  other  motive.  In  fact,  the  appear- 
ance of  Corbet  was  extraordinaiy.  A  death- 
hke  color,  which  his  advanced  state  of  Ufe 
renders  it  impossible  to  describe,  took  pos- 
session of  him  ;  his  eyes  lost  the  bitter  ex- 
pression so  pecuhar  to  them — his  firm  thic 


THK  BLACK  BARONET. 


567 


iips  relaxed  and  spread,  and  the  comers  of 
his  mouth  drojiped  so  hig'ubriously,  that 
the  stranger,  although  he  felt  that  the  ex- 
ample of  cowering  guilt  then  before  him  was 
a  solemn  one,  could  scax'cely  refrain  from 
smiling  at  what  he  witnessed. 

"  How  far  now  do  you  think,  sir,"  asked 
Corbet,  "  could  punishment  in  such  a  case 
go?  Mind,  I'm  putting  myself  out  of  the 
question  ;  I'm  safe,  any  how,  and  that's  one 
comfort." 

"Forarej^ly  to  that  question,"  returned 
the  other,  "  you  will  have  to  go  to  the  judge 
and  the  hangman.  There  was  a  time  when 
you  might  have  asked  it,  and  answered  it 
too,  with  safet}'  to  yourself ;  but  now  that 
time  has  gone  by,  and  I  fear  very  much  that 
your  day  of  gi*ace  is  past." 

"  That's  very  like  Avhat  James  tould  me  m 
my  dlirame,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  solilo- 
quy, dictated  by  his  alarm.  "  Well,  sir,"  he 
replied,  "  maybe,  afther  all — but  didn't  you 
say  awhile  ago  that  j-ou  wouldn't  give  six- 
pence for  any  information  I  coiild  fvuniish 
you  with  ?  " 

"  I  did,  and  I  do." 

A  gleam  of  his  former  character  returned 
to  his  eye,  as,  gathering  uj)  his  hps  again, 
he  said,  "I  could  soon  show  you  to  the 
contrary." 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  M'iU  not  do  so.  I  see  clear- 
ly that  you  are  infatuated.  It  appears  to 
me  that  there  is  an  e\al  fate  hanging  over 
you,  like  some  hungiy  raven,  following  and 
watching  the  motions  of  a  sick  old  horse  that 
is  reduced  to  skin  and  bone.  You're  doom- 
ed, I  think." 

"  Well,  now,"  replied  Anthony,  the  comers 
of  whose  mouth  dropped  again  at  this  stai't- 
Ung  and  not  inappro^mate  compai-ison,  "to 
show  how  much  you  are  mistaken,  let  me  ask 
how  your  business  with  Lord  CuUamore 
gets  on?  I  believe  there's  a  screw  loose 
there  ? — eh  ?     I  mean  on  your  side — eh  ?  " 

It  w\asn't  in  his  nature  to  restrain  the  sin- 
ister expression  which  a  consciousness  of  his 
advantage  over  the  stranger  caused  him  to  feel 
in  his  tui'n.  The  grin,  besides,  wliich  he  gave 
him,  after  he  had  thrown  out  these  hints, 
had  something  of  reprisal  in  it ;  and,  to  tell 
the  truth,  the  stranger's  face  now  became  as 
blank  and  lugubrious  as  Anthony's  had  been 
before. 

"If  I  don't  mistake,"  he  continued — for 
the  other  was  too  much  astonished  to  reply, 
"  if  I  don't  mistake,  there's  a  couple  o'  bits 
of  paper  that  would  stand  your  friend,  if  you 
could  lay  your  claws  upon  them." 

"Whether  they  could,  or  could  not,  is  no 
affair  of  yours,  my  good  su-,"  replied  the 
stranger,  rising  and  getting  his  hat;  "and 
whether  I  have  changed  my  mind  on  the 


subject  you  hint  at  is  a  matter  known  onl^ 
to  myself.     I  wish  you  good-day." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Anthony,  prob< 
ably  satisfied  with  the  fact  of  his  having 
turned  the  tables  and  had  liis  revenge  on 
the  stranger  ;  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  Let 
us  part  friends,  at  aU  events.  Set  in  case 
now " 

"  I  will  hsten  to  none  of  those  half  sen- 
tences. You  cannot  possibly  speak  out,  I 
see  ;  in  fact,  you  are  tongue-tied  by  the  cord 
of  your  evil  fate.  Upon  no  subject  can  you 
speak  until  it  is  too  late." 

"  God  direct  me  now  !  "  exclaimed  Corbet 
to  himself.  "  I  think  the  time  is  come  ;  for, 
unless  I  relieve  my  conscience  before  I'm 
called — James  he  tould  me  the  other  night — 
Well,  sir,"  he  pi-oceeded,  "  listen.  If  I  be- 
friend you,  will  you  promise  to  stand  my 
friend,  if  I  should  get  into  any  difficulty  ?  " 

"  I  will  enter  into  no  compromise  of  the  kind 
vrith  you,"  said  the  other.  "  If  you  are 
about  to  do  an  act  of  justice,  you  ought  to 
do  it  Avithout  conditions  ;  and  if  you  possess 
any  document  that  is  of  value  to  another, 
and  of  none  to  yourself,  and  yet  wiU  not  re- 
store it  to  the  j)roper  owner,  you  are  grossly 
dishonest,  and  capable  of  all  that  will  soon,  I 
trust,  be  established  against  you  and  your 
employ ei-s.     Good-by,  ^^Ir.  Corbet." 

"  Aisy,  sir,  aisy,"  said  the  tenacious  and 
vacillating  old  knave.  "  Aisy,  I  say.  You 
will  be  generous,  at  any  rate  ;  for  you  know 
their  value.  How  much  will  you  give  me 
for  the  papers  I  spake  of — that  is,  in  case  I 
could  get  them  for  you  ?  " 

"  Not  sixpence.  A  friend  has  just  returned 
from  France,  who — no,"  thought  he,  "I  will 
not  state  a  falsehood — Good-day,  ^Ii'.  Cor- 
bet ;  I  am  wasting  my  time." 

"  One  minute,  sir — one  minute.  It  may 
be  worth  your  wliile." 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  trifle  vnWi  me  by  these  re- 
luctant and  penurious  communications." 

Anthony  had  laid  doNNTi  his  head  ujjon  his 
hands,  whose  backs  were  supported  by  the 
table  ;  and  in  this  i)osition,  as  if  he  were 
working  himself  into  an  act  of  vii-tue  suffi- 
cient for  a  last  effort,  he  remained  until  the 
stranger  began  to  wonder  what  he  meant. 
At  length  he  arose,  went  up  stairs  as  on  a 
former  occasion,  but  Arith  less — and  not 
mucli  less — hesibition  and  delay  ;  he  return- 
ed and  handed  him  the  identical  documents 
of  which  M'Bride  had  deprived  him. 
"Now,"  said  he,  "listen  tome.  You  know 
the  value  of  tliese  ;  but  that  isn't  wliat  I 
want  to  si)ake  to  you  about.  "\Miatever  you 
do  about  the  AAidow's  son,  don't  do  it  without 
lettin'  me  know,  and  consultin'  me — ay,  and 
bein'  guided  by  me  ;  for  although  you  all 
think  youi'selves  right,  you  may  find  your- 


5«8 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


Belves  in  the  wrong  box  still.  Tliink  of  this 
now,  and  it  will  be  better  for  yon.  I'm  not 
sure,  but  I'll  open  all  your  eyes  yet,  and  that 
before  long  ;  for  I  believe  the  time  has  come 
at  last.  Now  that  I've  given  you  these 
papers,"  (extracted,  by  the  way,  fi'oni 
M'Bride's  pockets  during  his  drunkenness, 
by  Ginty  Cooper,  on  the  night  she  dogged 
him,)  "  you  must  promise  me  one  thing." 

"WTiatisthat?" 

"I  suppose  you  know  where  this  boy  is? 
Now,  when  you're  goin'  to  find  him,  vdll  you 
bring  me  with  you  ?  " 

"  ^^^ly  so  ? "  ■' 

"  It  11  plaise  an  ould  man,  at  any  rate  ; 
but  there  may  be  other  raisons.  Will  you 
do  this?" 

The  stranger,  concluding  that  the  wisest 
thing  was  to  give  him  his  way,  promised  ac- 
cordingly, and  the  old  man  seemed  some- 
what satisfied. 

"  One  man,  at  all  events,  I'll  punish,  if  I 
should  sacrifice  ever}-  child  I  have  in  doin' 
so  ;  and  it  is  in  order  that  he  may  be  jounisli- 
ed  to  the  heart — to  the  marrow: — to  the  soul 
witliin  him — that  I  got  these  papers,  and 
gave  them  to  you." 

"  Corbet,"  said  the  stranger,  "  be  the 
cause  of  yoiu*  revenge  what  it  may,  its  prin- 
ciple in  your  heart  is  awful.  You  are,  in 
fact,  a  dreadful  old  man.  May  I  ask  how 
you  came  by  these  papers  ?  " 

"You  may,"  he  replied  ;  "but  I  won't  an- 
swer you.  At  a  future  time  it  is  likely  I  wall 
— but  not  noAV.  It's  enough  for  you  to  have 
them." 

On  his  way  home  the  stranger  called  at 
Biniey's  office,  where  he  produced  the  docu- 
ments ;  and  it  was  arranged  that  the  latter 
gentleman  should  wait  ujdou  Lord  Culla- 
aiore  the  next  day,  in  order  to  lay  before 
tiira  the  j^roofs  on  which  they  were  about 
to  proceed  ;  for,  as  they  were  now  complete, 
they  thought  it  more  respectful  to  that 
venerable  old  nobleman  to  appeal  privately 
to  his  own  good  sense,  whether  it  would  not 
be  more  for  the  honor  of  his  family  to  give 
him  an  opportunity  of  yielding  quietly,  and 
Avithout  public  scandal,  than  to  drag  the 
matter  before  the  world  in  a  court  of  justice. 
It  was  so  aiTanged  ;  and  a  suitable  warrant 
having  been  procured  to  enable  them  to  pro- 
duce the  body  of  the  unfortvmate  Fen  ton, 
the  proceedings  of  that  day  closed  very  much 
to  their  satisfaction. 

The  next  day,  between  two  and  three 
o'clock,  a  visitor,  on  particular  business,  was 
announced  to  Lord  CuUamore  ;  and  on  be- 
ing desired  to  walk  up,  our  fiiend  Birney 
made  his  bow  to  his  lordship.  Having  been 
desu'ed  to  take  a  seat,  he  sat  down,  and  his 
lordship,  who  appeared  to  be  very  feeble. 


looked  inquiringly  at  him,  intimating  ther^ 
by  that  he  waited  to  know  the  object  of  his 
"\4sit. 

"My  lord,"  said  the  attorney,  "in  the 
whole  com-se  of  my  professional  life,  a  duty 
so  painful  as  this  has  never  devolved  upon 
me.  I  come  supported  with  proofs  suffi- 
cient to  satisfy  you  that  your  title  and  pro- 
perty cannot  descend  to  your  son.  Lord 
Dimroe." 

"I  have  no  other  son,  su*,"  said  his  lord- 
ship, reprovingly. 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  insinuate  that  you  have, 
my  lord.  I  only  assert  that  he  who  is  sup- 
jDOsed  to  be  the  present  heir,  is  not  really  so 
at  all." 

"  Upon  what  proofs,  sir,  do  3'ou  gi-ound 
that  assertion  ?  " 

"  Upon  proofs,  my  lord,  the  most  valid 
and  irrefragable  ;  proofs  that  cannot  bo 
questioned,  even  for  a  moment  ;  and,  least 
of  all,  by  your  lordshiiD,  who  ai'e  best  ac- 
quainted with  their  force  and  authenticity." 

"Have  you  got  them  about  you?  " 

"  I  have  got  copies  of  the  documentary 
proofs,  my  lord,  and  I  shall  now  place  them 
before  you." 

"  Yes  ;  have  the  goodness  to  let  me  see 
them." 

Birney  immediately  handed  him  the  docu- 
ments, and  mentioned  the  facts  of  which 
they  were  the  proofs.  In  fact,  only  one  of 
them  was  ahsolutehi  necessary,  and  that  was 
simjDly  the  record  of  a  death  duly  and  regu- 
larly attested. 

The  old  man  seemed  struck  with  dismay  ; 
for,  until  this  moment  he  had  not  bee;i  clear- 
ly in  possession  of  the  facts  which  were  now 
brought  against  him,  as  they  were  stated,  and 
made  plain  as  to  their  results,  by  ]\Ir.  Bii'ney. 

"I  do  not  know  much  of  law,"  he  said, 
"  but  enough,  I  think,  to  satisfy  me,  that  un- 
less you  have  other  and  stronger  jjroofs  than 
this,  you  cannot  succeed  in  disinheriting  my 
son.  I  have  seen  the  oi'iginals  of  those  be- 
fore, but  I  had  forgotten  some  facts  and 
dates  connected  with  them  at  the  time." 

"We  have  the  collateral  proof  you  speak 
of,  my  lord,  and  can  produce  persontil  evi- 
dence to  corroborate  those  which  I  have 
shown  you." 

"  May  I  ask  who  that  evidence  is  ?  " 

"A  ]\ii's.  Main  waring,  my  lord — formerly 
Norton — who  liad  been  maid  to  your  first 
wife  while  she  i-esided  jDrivately  in  France — • 
was  a  witness  to  her  death,  and  had  it  duly 
registered." 

"  But  even  gi-anting  this,  I  think  you  wilj 
be  called  on  to  prove  the  intention  on  my 
part :  that  which  a  man  does  in  ignorance 
cannot,  and  ought  not  to  be  called  a  violation 
of  the  law. " 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


56« 


"  But  the  law  'n  thjg  case  w-ill  deal  only 
with  facts,  ray  lord  ;  and  your  lordship  must 
new  see  and  feel  that  we  ai-e  in  a  capacity  to 
prove  them.  And  before  I  proceed  further, 
rcj  lord.  I  beg  to  say,  that  I  am  instructed 
to  appeal  to  yoiu  lordship's  good  sense, 
and  to  that  consideration  for  the  feelings  of 
your  family,  b}'  which,  I  trust,  you  will  be 
influenced.  *7hether,  satisfied  as  you  must  be 
of  your  position,  't  would  not  be  more  judi- 
cious on  your  o^vn  part  to  concede  our  just 
rights,  seeing,  as  you  clearly  may,  that  they 
are  incontrovertible,  than  to  force  us  to 
Dring  the  matter  before  the  pubhc  ;  a  cir- 
cumstance which,  so  far  as  you  are  yourself 
concerned,  must  be  inexpressibly  painful, 
&nd  as  regards  other  members  of  your  fam- 
ily, perfectly  deplorable  and  distressing.  We 
wish,  my  lord,  to  spare  the  innocent  as  much 
as  we  can." 

"  I  am  innocent,  sir  ;  your  proofs  only  es- 
tabhsh  an  act  done  by  me  in  ignorance." 

"We  grant  that,  my  lord,  at  once,  and 
without  for  a  moment  charging  you  with  any 
dishonorable  motive  ;  but  what  we  insist  on 
— can  prove — and  your  lordship  cannot  deny 
— is,  that  the  act  you  speak  of  xms  done,  and 
done  at  a  certain  period.  I  do  beseech  you, 
my  lord,  to  think  well  and  seriously  of  my 
proposal,  for  it  is  made  in  a  kind  and  respect- 
ful spirit." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  replied  his  lordship, 
"  and  those  who  instructed  you  to  regard  my 
feelings  ;  but  this  you  must  admit  is  a  case 
of  too  much  importance,  in  which  interests 
of  too  much  consequence  are  involved,  for 
me  to  act  in  it  without  the  advice  and  opin- 
ion of  my  kiwv'ers." 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,  my  lord  ;  I  ex- 
pected no  less  ;  and  if  your  lordship  will  re- 
fer me  to  them,  I  shall  have  no  hesitation  in 
laying  the  gi'ounds  of  our  proceedings  be- 
fore them,  and  the  proofs  by  which  they  will 
be  sustained." 

This  was  assented  to  on  the  part  of  Lord 
Cullamore,  and  it  is  only  necessary  to  say, 
that,  in  a  few  days  subsequently,  his  lawyers, 
upon  sifting  and  thoroughly  examining 
everything  that  came  before  them,  gave  it  as 
their  opinion — and  both  were  men  of  the 
very  highest  standing — that  his  lordship  had 
no  defence  whatsoever,  and  that  his  wisest 
plan  was  to  yield  without  allo'wing  the  mat- 
ter to  go  to  a  pubUc  trial,  the  details  of 
which  must  so  deeply  aflfect  the  honor  of  his 
children. 

This  communication,  signed  in  the  form 
of  a  regular  opinion  by  both  these  eminent 
gentlemen,  was  received  by  his  lordship  on 
the  fourth  ((ay  after  Biraey's  visit  to  him  on 
the  subject 

Abomt  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  he  had 


perused  it,  his  lordship's  bell  rang,  and  Mor- 
ty  O'Flaherty,  his  man,  entered. 

"Morty,"  said  his  lordsliip,  "  desu'e  Lord 
Dunroe  to  come  to  me  ;  I  wish  to  speak  with 
him.     Is  he  within  ?  " 

"  He  has  just  come  in,  my  lord.  Yes,  my 
lord,  I'll  send  him  up." 

His  lordship  tapped  the  arms  of  his  easy 
chair  with  the  fingers  of  both  hands,  and 
looked  unconsciously  upon  his  servant,  with 
a  face  full  of  the  deepest  sorrow  and  anguish. 

The  look  was  not  lost  upon  !Morty,  who 
said,  as  he  went  down  stairs,  "There's  some- 
thing beyond  the  common  on  my  lord's  mind 
this  day.  He  was  bad  enough  before  ;  but 
now  he  looks  like  a  man  that  has  got  the 
veiy  heart  within  him  broken." 

He  m^t  Dunroe  in  the  hall,  and  delivered 
his  message,  but  added, 

"I  think  his  lordship  has  had  disagree- 
able tidin's  of  some  kind  to-day,  my  lord.  I 
never  saw  him  look  so  ill.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  my  lord,  I  think  he  has  death  in  his 
face." 

"Well,  Morty,"  replied  his  lordship,  ad- 
justing his  collar,  "  you  know  we  must  all 
die.  I  cannot  guess  what  unpleasant  tidings 
he  may  have  heard  to-day  ;  but  I  know  that 
I  have  heard  little  else  fi'om  him  this  many 
a  day.  Tell  ]Mr.  Norton  to  see  about  the 
bills  I  gave  him,  and  have  them  cashed  as 
soon  as  possible.  If  not,  curse  me.  111  shy 
a  decanter  at  his  head  after  dinner." 

He  then  went  rather  reluctantly  up  stairs, 
and  presented  himself,  in  no  very  amiable 
temper,  to  his  father. 

Having  taken  a  seat,  he  looked  at  the  old 
man,  and  found  his  eyes  fixed  upon  him 
TAith  an  expression  of  reproof,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  most  profound  affliction. 

"  Dunroe,"  said  the  earl,  "you  did  not  call 
to  inquire  after  me  for  the  last  two  or  three 
days." 

"I  did  not  call,  my  lord,  certainly  ;  but, 
nevertheless,  I  inquired.  The  fact  is,  I  feel 
disinclined  to  be  lectured  at  such  a  rate  every 
time  I  come  to  see  you.  As  for  Norton,  I 
have  alread}'  told  you,  with  every  respect  for 
your  opinion  and  authority,  that  you  have 
taken  an  unfounded  prejudice  against  him, 
and  that  I  neither  can  nor  will  get  rid  of  him, 
as  you  call  it.  You  surely  would  not  expect 
me  to  act  dishonorably,  my  lord." 

"  I  did  not  send  for  you  now  to  speak  about 
him,  John.  I  have  a  much  more  serious,  and 
a  much  more  distressing  communication  to 
make  to  you." 

The  son  opened  his  eyes,  and  stared  at 
him. 

"It  mav  easilv  be  so,  mv  lord  ;  but  what 
is  it?" 

"Unfortunate  young  man,  it  is  this— You 


!570 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS, 


are  oat  off  from  the  inheritance  of  my  prop- 
erty and  title." 

"  Sickness,  my  lord,  and  peevishness,  have 
impaired  your  intellects,  I  think.  What 
kind  of  language  is  this  to  hold  to  me,  yoiur 
son  and  heir  ?  " 

"  My  son,  John,  but  not  my  heir." 

"  Don't  you  know,  my  lord,  that  what  you 
say  is  impossible.  If  I  am  your  son,  I  am, 
of  course,  your  heir." 

"  No,  John,  for  the  simplest  reason  in  the 
world.  At  jDresent  you  must  rest  contented 
with  the  fact  which  I  announce  to  you — for 
fact  it  is.  I  have  not  now  strength  enough 
to  detail  it ;  but  I  shall  when  I  feel  that  I  am 
equal  to  it.  Indeed,  I  knew  it  not  myself, 
with  perfect  certainty,  until  to-day.  Some 
vague  suspicion  I  had  of  late,  but  the  proofs 
that  were  laid  before  me,  and  laid  before  me 
in  a  generous  and  forbearing  spu'it,  have  now 
satisfied  me  that  you  have  no  claim,  as  I  said, 
to  either  title  or  property." 

"  A\Tiy,  as  I've  life,  my  lord,  this  is  mere 
dotage.  A  foul  consjDiracy  has  been  got  up, 
and  you  yield  to  it  without  a  stiiiggle.  Do 
you  think,  whatever  you  may  do,  that  I  will 
bear  this  tamely  ?  I  am  aware  that  a  con- 
spii-acy  has  been  getting  up,  and  /also  have 
had  my  suspicions." 

'•It  is  out  of  my  power,  John,  to  secure 
you  the  inheritance." 

"This  is  stark  folly,  my  lord — confounded 
nonsense— if  you  will  pardon  me.  Out  of 
youi-  power  !  Made  silly  and  weak  in  mind 
by  illness,  your  opinion  is  not  now  worth 
much  upon  any  subject.  It  is  not  your  fault, 
I  admit  ;  but,  upon  my  soul,  I  reaUy  have 
serious  doubts  whether  you  are  in  a  sufficient- 
ly sane  state  of  mind  to  manage  your  own 
affairs." 

"  Undutiful  young  man,"  repHed  his  father, 
with  bitterness,  "if  that  were  a  test  of  in- 
sanity, you  yourself  ought  to  have  been  this 
many  a  day  in  a  strait  waistcoat.  I  know  it 
is  natural  that  you  should  feel  this  blow 
deeply  ;  but  it  is  neither  natural  nor  dutiful 
that  you  should  address  your  parent  in  such 
unpardonable  language." 

"  If  what  that  parent  says  be  time,  my  lord, 
he  has  himseK,  by  his  past  rices,  disinherited 
his  son." 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  old  man,  whilst  a 
languid  flush  of  indignation  was  risible  on 
his  face,  "he  has  not  done  so  by  his  rices  ; 
but  you,  sir,  have  morally  disinherited  your- 
self by  your  rices,  by  your  general  profligacy, 
by  your  indefensible  extravagance,  and  by 
yoirr  egregious  foil}',  A  man  placed  in  the 
position  which  you  would  have  occupied, 
ought  to  be  a  light  and  an  example  to  society, 
and  not  what  you  have  been,  a  reproach  to 
your  family,  and  a  disgrace  to  jour  class. 


The  virtues  of  a  man  of  rank  should  be  io 
proportion  to  his  station  ;  but  you  have  dis- 
tinguished yourself  only  by  holding  up  to 
the  world  the  debasing  example  of  a  dishon- 
orable and  Ucentious  life.  "What  virtue  can 
you  plead  to  estabUsh  a  just  claim  to  a  po- 
sition which  demands  a  mind  capable  of  un- 
derstanding the  weighty  responsibihties  that 
are  annexed  to  it,  and  a  heart  possessed  of 
such  enhghtened  principles  as  may  enable 
him  to  discharge  them  in  a  spirit  that  will 
constitute  him,  what  he  ought  to  be,  a  high 
example  and  a  generous  benefactor  to  his 
kind?  Not  one  :  but  if  sel^shness,  contempt 
for  all  the  moral  obligations  of  life,  a  Hcen- 
tious  spirit  that  mocks  at  religion  and  looks 
upon  human  virtue  as  an  unreahty  and  a  jest 
— if  these  were  to  give  you  a  claim  to  the 
possession  of  rank  and  property,  I  know  of 
no  one  more  admirably  qualified  to  enjoy 
them.  Dunroe,  I  am  not  now  far  from  the 
gi'ave  ;  but  listen,  and  pay  attention  to  my 
voice,  for  it  is  a  warning  voice." 

"It  was  always  so,"  replied  his  son,  with 
sulky  indignation  ;  "it  was  never  anything 
else  ;  a  mere  passing  bell  that  uttered  noth- 
ing but  advices,  lectures,  coffins,  and  cross- 
bones." 

"It  uttered  only  truth  then,  Dunroe,  as 
you  feel  noio  to  your  cost.  Change  your  im- 
moral habits.  I  will  not  bid  you  repent ;  be- 
cause you  would  only  sneer  at  the  word  ;  but 
do  endeavor  to  feel  regret  for  the  kind  of  life 
you  have  led,  and  give  up  your  evil  propen- 
sities ;  cease  to  be  a  heartless  spendthi'ift ; 
remember  that  you  are  a  man  :  remember 
that  you  have  important  duties  to  perform  ; 
beheve  that  there  are  such  things  as  religion, 
and  rirtue,  and  honor  in  the  world  ;  believe 
that  there  is  a  God,  a  wise  Providence,  who 
governs  that  world  ujion  jii-inciiDles  of  eternal 
truth  and  justice,  and  to  whom  you  must  ac- 
count, in  another  life,  for  your  conduct  in 
this." 

"WeU,  really,  my  lord,"  replied  Dunroe, 
"  as  it  appeal's  that  the  lecture  is  all  you  have 
to  bestow  upon  me,  I  am  quite  Milling  that 
you  should  disinherit  me  of  that  also.  I 
waive  every  claim  to  it.  But  so  do  I  not  to 
my  just  rights.  We  shall  see  what  a  court 
of  law  can  do." 

"You  may  try  it,  ani  entail  disgrace  upon 
yourself  and  your  sister.  As  for  my  child, 
it  vrill  break  her  heart.  My  God  !  my  child ! 
my  child !  " 

"Not,  certainly,  my  lord,  if  we  should 
succeed." 

"  All  hopes  of  success  ai-e  out  of  the 
question,"  replied  his  father. 

"No  such  thing,  my  lord.  Your  mind,  as 
I  said,  is  enfeebled  by  illness,  and  you  yield 
too  easily.     Such  conduct  on  your  part  is 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


571 


really  ridiculous.  We  shall  have  a  tug  for  it, 
I  am  determined." 

"Here,"  said  his  father,  "cast  your  eye 
over  these  papers,  aud  they  will  enable 
you  to  understand,  not  merely  the  grounds 
upon  -which  our  opponents  jiroceed,  but  the 
utter  hopelessness  of  contesting  the  matter 
with  them." 

Dun  roe  took  the  papers,  but  before  look- 
ing at  them  replied,  A\'ith  a  great  deal  of 
confidence,  "you  ai'e  quite  mistaken  there, 
my  lord,  with  eveiy  respect.  They  are  not 
in  a  position  to  prove  their  allegations." 

"  How  so?  "  said  his  father. 

"For  the  best  reason  in  the  world,  my 
lord.  We  have  had  their  proofs  in  our 
possession  and  destroyed  them." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"  The  fellow,  M'Bride,  of  whom  I  think 
your  lordshij)  knows  something,  had  their 
documents  iu  his  possession."  * 

"  I  am  aware  of  that." 

"  Well,  m}'  lord,  while  in  a  drunken  fit,  he 
either  lost  them,  or  some  one  took  them  out 
of  his  pocket.  I  certixinly  would  have  piu'- 
chased  them  from  him." 

"  Did  you  know  how  he  came  by  them  ?  " 
asked  his  father,  with  a  look  of  reproof  and 
anger. 

"  That,  my  lord,  was  no  consideration  of 
mine.  As  it  was,  however,  he  certainly  lost 
them  ;  but  we  learned  fi'om  him  that  Bir- 
ney,  the  attorney,  was  about  to  proceed  to 
France,  in  order  to  get  fresh  attested  copies  ; 
upon  which,  as  he  knew  the  pai'ty  there  in 
whose  hands  the  registiw  was  kept,  Norton 
and  he  stai'ted  a  day  or  two  in  advance  of 
him,  and  on  aiTiving  there,  thej'  found,  much 
to  our  advantage,  that  the  register  was  dead. 
M'Bride,  however,  who  is  an  adroit  fellow, 
and  was  well  acquainted  with  his  house  and 
premises,  contrived  to  secure  the  book  in 
which  the  original  record  was  made — which 
book  he  has  burned — so  that,  in  point  of 
fact,  they  have  no  legal  proofs  on  which  to 
proceed." 

"  Dishonorable  man !  "  said  his  father, 
rising  up  in  a  state  of  the  deepest  emotion. 
"  You  have  made  me  weaiy  of  life  ;  you 
have  broken  my  heart :  and  so  you  would 
stoop  to  defend  youi'self,  or  your  rights,  by 
a  crime — by  a  crime  so  low,  fraudulent,  and 
base — that  here,  in  the  privacy  of  my  own 
chamber,  and  standing  face  to  face  with  you, 
I  am  absolutely  ashamed  to  call  you  my  son. 
Ivnow,  sir,  that  if  it  wei*e  a  dukedom,  I 
should  scom  to  contest  it,  or  to  retain  it,  at 
the  expense  of  my  honor." 

"That's  all  verj'  fine  talk,  my  lord  ;  but, 
upon  my  soul,  wherever  I  can  get  an  ad- 
vantage, I'll  take  it.  I  see  little  of  the  honor 
or  virtue  you  spc.olc  of  going,  and,  I  do  assiu-e 


you,  I  won't  be  considered  at  all  remarkable 
for  acting  up  to  my  o%vn  principles.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  by  following  yours  that  I 
should  be  so." 

"I  think,"  said  the  old 'man,  "that  I  see 
the  hand  of  God  in  this.  Unfortunate, 
obstinate,  and  irreclaimable  young  man,  it 
remains  for  me  to  tell  you  that  the  very 
documents,  which  you  say  have  been  lost  by 
the  villain  M'Bride,  with  whom,  in  his 
villainy,  you,  the  son  of  an  earl,  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  associate  yourself,  are  now  in  the 
possession  of  our  opponents.  Take  those 
papers  to  your  room,"  he  added,  bui-.sting 
into  tears  :  "  take  them  away,  I  am  iinable 
to  prolong  this  interview,  for  it  has  been  to 
me  a  source  of  deeper  affliction  than  the  loss 
of  the  highest  title  or  honor  that  the  hand  of 
royalty  could  bestow." 

"WTien  Dun  roe  was  about  to  leave  the 
room,  the  old  man,  who  hiid  again  sat  down, 
said : 

"  Stop  a  moment.  Of  course  it  is  un- 
necessary to  say,  I  should  hope,  that  this 
union  between  you  and  Miss  Gourkiy  cannot 
proceed." 

Duni'oe,  who  felt  at  once  that  if  he  allowed 
his  father  to  suppose  that  he  persisted  in  it, 
the  latter  would  immediately  disclose  his 
position  to  the  biu'onet,  now  repUed  : 

"  No,  my  lord,  I  have  no  gi-eat  ambition 
for  any  kind  of  alliance  vAWi  Sir  Thomas 
Goui'lay.  I  never  liked  him  personally,  and 
I  am  sufficiently'  a  man  of  spirit,  I  trust,  not 
to  \u'ge  a  marriage  with  a  girl  who — who — 

cannot   appreciate "      He    paused,    not 

knowing  exactly  how  to  fill  up  the  sentence. 

"Who  has  no  rehsh  for  it,"  added  his 
father,  "  and  can't  appreciate  youi'  virtues, 
you  mean  to  say." 

""VMiat  I  mean  to  say,  my  lord,  is,  that 
where  there  is  no  great  share  of  aftection  on 
either  side,  there  can  be  but  little  prospect  of 
happiness." 

"  Then  you  give  up  the  match  ?  " 

"  I  give  up  the  match,  my  lord,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation.  You  may  rest  assured 
of  that." 

"Because,"  added  his  father,  "if  I  found 
that  you  persisted  in  it,  and  attempted  to 
enter  the  family,  and  impose  yourself  on  this 
adminible  girl,  as  that  which  you  are  not,  I 
would  consider  it  my  duty  to  acquaint  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  with  the  unfortunate  dis- 
covery which  has  been  made.  Before  you 
go  I  will  thank  you  to  read  that  letter  for 
me.  It  comes,  I  think,  fi'om  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor. My  sight  is  very  feeble  to-day,  and 
perhaps  it  may  requii'e  a  speedy  answer." 

Dunroe  opened  the  letter,  which  informed 
Lord  C'uUamore,  that  it  had  aftbrded  him, 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  much  satisfaction   to 


672 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJV'S  WOBKS. 


promote  Periwinkle  Crackenfudge,  Esq.,  to 
the  magistracy  of  the  county  of ,  under- 
standing, as  he  did,  from  the  communication 
of  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  enclosed  in  his  lord- 
shijD's  letter,  that  he  (Crackenfudge)  was,  by 
his  many  virtues,  good  sense,  discretion, 
humanity,  and  general  esteem  among  all 
classes,  as  well  as  by  his  popularity  in  the 
country,  a  person  in  every  way  fitted  to 
discharge  the  important  duties  of  such  an 
appointment. 

"  I  feel  my  mind  at  ease,"  said  the  amiable 
old  nobleman,  "  in  aiding  such  an  admu'able 
coimtry  gentleman  as  this  Crackenfudge 
must  be,  to  a  seat  on  the  bench ;  for,  after 
all,  Dunroe,  it  is  only  by  the  contemplation 
of  a  good  action  that  we  can  be  haj)!^}'.  You 
may  go." 

Some  few  days  passed,  when  Dunroe, 
having  read  the  papers,  the  contents  of 
which  he  did  not  wish  Norton  to  see,  re- 
tui'ned  them  to  his  father  in  sullen  silence, 
and  then  rang  his  bell,  and  sent  for  his  wor- 
thy associate,  that  he  might  avail  himself  of 
his  better  judgment. 

"Norton,"  said  he,  "it  is  all  up  with  us." 

"  How  is  that,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Those  papers,  that  M 'Bride  says  he  lost, 
are  in  the  hands  of  oui*  enemies." 

"Don't  believe  it,  my  lord.  I  saw  the 
fellow  yesterday,  and  he  told  me  that  he  de- 
stroyed them  in  a  di-unken  fit,  for  which  he 
says  he  is  ready  to  cut  his  throat." 

"But  I  have  read  the  opinion  of  my 
father's  counsel,"  repUed  his  lordshij),  "and 
they  say  we  have  no  defence.  Now  you 
know  what  a  la^v;)^er  is :  if  there  were  but  a 
hair-breadth  chance,  they  would  never  make 
an  admission  that  might  keep  a  good  fat 
case  fi'om  getting  into  their  hands.  No  ;  it 
is  all  up  with  us.  The  confounded  old  fool 
above  had  ever}i,hing  laid  before  them,  and 
such  is  the  uj^shot.     "Wliat  is  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Marriage,  without  loss  of  time— mar- 
riage, before  your  disaster  reaches  the  ears 
of  the  Black  Baronet." 

"Yes,  but  there  is  a  difficulty.  If  the 
venerable  old  nobleman  should  hear  of  it, 
he'd  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  and  leave  me 
in  the  lurch,  in  addition  to  the  penalty  of  a 
three  hours'  lecture  upon  honor.  Every- 
thing, however,  is  admirably  arranged  quoad 
the  marriage.  We  have  got  a  special  hcense 
for  the  purpose  of  meeting  our  peculiar 
case,  so  that  the  marriage  can  be  private ; 
that  is  to  say,  can  take  place  in  the  lady's 
own  house.  Do  you  think  though,  that 
M'Bride  has  actually  destroyed  the  papers  ?  " 

"  The  dninken  ruffian  !  ceriainly.  He 
gave  me  great  insolence  a  couple  of  days 
ago." 

"Why  so?" 


"Because  I  didn't  hand  him  over  a  htm- 
dred  pounds  for  his  journey  and  the  theft  of 
the  registry." 

"And  how  much  did  you  give  him, 
pray?" 

"  A  fifty  pound  note,  after  having  paid 
his  expenses,  which  was  quite  enough  for 
him.  However,  as  I  did  not  wish  to  make 
the  scoundrel  our  enemy,  I  have  promised 
him  something  more,  so  that  I've  come  on 
good  terms  with  him  again.  He  is  a  slippery 
customer." 

"Did  you  get  the  bills  cashed  yet?  " 

"  No,  my  lord  ;  I  am  going  about  it  now  ; 
but  I  tell  you  beforehand,  that  I  will  have 
some  difficulty  in  doing  it.  I  hope  to 
manage  it,  however ;  and  for  that  reason  I 
must  bid  you  good-bj^" 

"  The  first  thing  to  do,  then,  is  to  settle 
that  ugly  business  about  the  mare.  By  no 
means  must  we  let  it  come  to  trial." 

"  Very  weU,  my  lord,  be  it  so." 

Norton,  after  leaving  his  dupe  to  medi- 
tate upon  the  circumstances  in  which  he 
found  himself,  began  to  reflect  as  he  went 
along,  that  he  himself  was  necessarily  in- 
volved ia  the  ruin  of  his  friend  and  pa- 
tron. 

"  I  have  the  cards,  however,  in  my  own 
hands,"  thought  he,  "and  M'Bride's  adrice 
was  a  good  one.  He  having  destroj'ed  the 
other  documents,  it  follows  that  this  registry, 
which  I  have  safe  and  snug,  will  be  just^ 
what  his  lordship's  enemies  will  leap  at.  Of 
course  they  are  humbugging  the  old  jaeer 
about  the  other  papers,  and,  as  I  know,  it  is 
dcAiHsh  easy  to  humbug  the  young  one. 
]My  agency  is  gone  to  the  winds  ;  but  I  think 
the  registry  will  stand  me  instead.  It  ought, 
in  a  case  hke  this,  to  be  well  worth  five 
thousand  ;  at  least,  I  shall  ask  this  sum — 
not  saying  but  I  will  take  less.  Here  goes 
then  for  an  interview  with  Birney,  who  has 
the  character  of  being  a  shrewd  feUow — 
honorable,  they  say— but  then,  is  he  not  an 
attome}^?  Y^es,  Birney,  have  at  you,  my 
boy ; "  and  having  come  to  fliis  rirtuous 
conclusion,  lie  directed  his  steps  to  that 
gentleman's  office,  whom  he  foimd  engaged 
at  his  desk. 

"  Mr.  Birney,  I  presume,"  with  a  very 
fashionable  bow. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Bimey,  "that  is  my 
name." 

"Haw!  If  I  don't  mistake,  Mr.  Birney," 
with  a  veiy  EngHsh  accent,  which  no  one 
could  adopt,  when  he  pleased,  Avith  more 
success  than  our  Kerry  boy — "if  I  don't 
mistake,  we  both  made  a  journey  to  France 
very  recently  ?  " 

"  That  may  be,  sir,"  replied  Bimey,  "but 
I  am  not  aware  of  it." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


573 


"  But  I  /lam,  though,"  tij)pmg  Bii-ney  the 
iJondon  cockney. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Bimey,  verj'  coolly,  "  and 
what  follows  fi'om  that  ?  " 

"Why  haw — haw — I  don't  exactly  know 
at  present ;  but  I  think  a  good  dee-al  may 
follow  from  it." 

"As  how,  sir?" 

"  I  beheve  you  were  /lOver  there  on  mat- 
ters connected  with  Lord  Cullamore's  family 
—haw?" 

"  Sir,"  replied  Bimey,  "  you  are  a  perfect 
stranger  to  me — I  haven't  the  honor  of 
knowing  you.  If  you  are  coming  to  me  on 
anything  connected  with  my  professional 
services,  I  will  thank  you  to  state  it." 

"  Haw  ! — My  name  is  Norton,  a  friend  of 
Lord  Dunroe's." 

"Well,  IVIr.  Norton,  if  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  mention  the  business  which 
causes  me  the  honor  of  your  visit,  I  will 
thank  you  ;  but  I  beg  to  assure  you,  that  I 
am  not  a  man  to  be  pumped  either  by  Lord 
Dunroe  or  any  of  his  fi-iends.  You  compel 
me  to  speak  very  plainl}',  sir." 

"  Haw  !  Very  good — very  good  indee-ed  ' 
but  the  truth  /«is,  I've  given  Dunroe  /mp." 

"  Well,  sir,  and  how  is  that  my  affair  ? 
What  interest  can  I  feel  in  your  quarrels  ? 
Personally  I  know  very  little  of  Lord  Dun- 
roe, and  of  you,  sir,  nothing." 

"  Haw  !  but  everything  'as  a  beginning, 
Mr.  Bimey." 

"  At  this  rate  of  going,  I  fear  we  shall  be 
a  long  time  ending,  IVIi".  Norton." 

"Well,"  replied  Norton,  "I  beheve  you 
are  riglit ;  the  sooner  we  /lunderstand  each 
other,  the  better." 

"Certainly,  sir,"  repHed  Birney  ;  "I  think 
so,  if  you  have  any  business  of  importance 
with  me." 

"  Well,  I  rayther  think  you  will  find  it 
^important — that  is,  to  yoiu'  own  /(interests. 
You  are  a  /lattomey,  IMi'.  Birue^',  and  I  think 
you  will  /ladniit  that  every  man  in  this  world, 
as  it  goes,  /^ought  to  look  to  'is  OAvn  /liuter- 
ests." 

Bimey  looked  at  him,  and  said,  very  grave- 
ly, "  Pray,  sir,  what  in  your  business  with 
me  ?  My  time,  sir,  is  viduable.  My  time  is 
money — a  portion  of  my  landed  property, 
sir." 

"  Haw  !  Verj'  good  ;  but  you  .fT Irish  are 
so  fiery  and  impatient !  However,  I  will 
come  to  the  point.  You  are  about  to  /joust 
that  young  scamp,  by  the  way,  /tout  of  the 
title  and  property.  I  say  so,  because  I  Aam 
up  to  the  thing.  Yet  you  want  dockiments 
to  estabhsh  your  case — haw?  "         • 

"  Well,  sir,  and  suppose  we  do  ;  you,  I 
presume,  as  the  fi-ieud  of  Lord  Dunroe,  are 
not  coming  to  furnish  us  with  them  ?  " 


"That  is,  Mr.  Bimey,  as  we  shall  /lunder-. 
stand  one  another.  You  failed  in  your  mis- 
sion to  France  ? ' 

"I  shall  hear  any  proposal,  sir,  you  have 
to  make,  but  will  answer  no  questions  on 
the  subject  until  I  understand  your  motive 
for  putting  them." 

"Good — verj'cool  and  cautious — but  sup- 
pose, now,  that  I,  who  know  you  'ave  failed 
in  procuring  the  dockiments  in  question, 
could  supply  you  with  them — haw  !-~do  you 
Aunderstand  me  now  ?  " 

"Less  than  ever,  sir,  I  assure  you.  Ob- 
serve that  you  introduced  yourself  to  me  aa 
the  friend  of  Lord  Dunroe." 

"  Merely  to  connect  myself  with  the  pro- 
ceedings between  you.  I  'ave  or  /lam  about 
to  discard  him,  but  I  shaunt  go  about  the 
bush  no  longer.  I'm  a  native  of  Lon'on,  w'at 
is  farmed  a  cockney — haw,  haw  ! — and  he  'as 
treated  me  /(ill — very  /iill — and  I  am  detar- 
miued  to  retaliate." 

"How,  sir,  are  you  determined  to  retali- 
ate?" 

"The  tmtli  /as,  sii*,  I've  got  the  docki. 
ments  you  stand  in  need  of  /tin  my  posses- 
sion, and  can  fui-nish  you  with  them  for  a 
consideration." 

"  Why,  now  you  are  intelligible.  WTiat  do 
you  want,  Murray?    I'm  engaged." 

"To  speak  one  word  with  you  in  the  next 
room,  su".  The  gentleman  wtmts  you  to  say 
yes  or  no,  in  a  single  Une,  upon  !Mr.  Fair- 
field's business,  su' — besides,  I've  a  private 
message." 

"  Excuse  me  for  a  moment,  sir,"  said  Bir- 
ney ;  "  there's  this  morning's  paper,  if  you 
haven't  seen  it." 

"  Well,  Bob,"  said  he,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"Beware  of  that  fellow,"  said  he  :  "I  know 
him  well ;  his  name  is  Bryan  ;  he  was  a  horse 
jockey  on  the  Curragh,  and  was  obhged  to 
fly  the  country  for  dishonesty.  Be  on  your 
guai'd,  that  is  all  I  had  to  say  to  you." 

"Why,  he  says  he  is  a  Londoner,  and 
he  certainly  has  the  accent,"  repUed  the 
other. 

"Keny,  sir,  to  the  backbone,  and  a  dis- 
grace to  the  country,  for  di\'il  a  many  rogues 
it  produces,  whatever  else  it  may  do." 

"  Thank  you,  Mvu-ray,"  said  Bimey  ;  "  I 
will  be  doubly  guarded  now." 

This  occurred  between  Bii-ney  and  one  of 
his  clerks,  as  a  small  ii^terlude  in  theii'  con- 
versation. 

"Yes,  sir,"  resumed  Bimey,  once  more 
taking  his  place  at  the  des^,  "you  can  now 
be  understood." 

"Haw  !— yes,  I  raj'ther  fimcy  I  can  make 
myself  so  I  "  replied  Norton.  "  What,  now, 
do  you  suppose  the  papers  iv  question  maj 
be  worth  to  your  fx-ieuds?  ^ 


574 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Tou  cannot  expect  me  to  reply  to  that 
question,"  said  Bimey ;  "I am  acting  profes- 
sionally under  the  advice  and  instructions  of 
others  ;  but  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think  you 
had  better  do — I  can  enter  into  no  negotia- 
tion on  the  subject  without  consulting  those 
who  have  employed  me,  and  getting  their 
consent — write  down,  then,  on  a  sheet  of 
paper,  what  you  propose  to  do  for  us,  and 
the  compensation  which  you  expect  to  re- 
ceive for  any  documents  you  may  supply  us 
with  that  we  may  consider  of  value,  and  I 
shall  submit  it  for  consideration." 

"  jVlay  I  not  compromise  myseK  by  putting 
it  on  paper,  though  ?  " 

"  If  you  think  so,  then,  don't  do  it ;  but, 
for  my  part,  I  shall  have  no  fiirther  concern 
in  the  matter.  Verbal  communications  are 
of  Httle  consequence  in  an  aflfau-  of  this  kind. 
Reduce  it  to  writing,  and  it  can  be  tmder- 
stood  ;  it  will,  besides,  prevent  misconcep- 
tions in  future." 

"I  trust  you  are  a  man  of  honor?"  said 
Norton. 

"I  make  no  pretensions  to  anything  so 
high,"  replied  Bimey  ;  "  but  I  trust  I  am  an 
honest  man,  and  know  how  to  act  when  I 
have  an  honest  man  to  deal  with.  If  you  wish 
to  serve  our  cause,  or,  to  be  plain  with  you, 
wish  to  turn  the  documents  you  speak  of  to 
the  best  advantage,  make  your  proposal  in 
writing,  as  you  ought  to  do,  otherwise  I 
must  decline  any  fm-ther  negotiation  on  the 
subject." 

Norton  saw  and  felt  that  there  was  noth- 
ing else  for  it.  He  accordingly  took  pen 
and  ink  and  wrote  down  his  proposal — offer- 
ing to  place  the  documents  alluded  to,  which 
were  mentioned  by  name,  in  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Bimey,  for  the  sum  of  five  thousand 
pounds." 

"Now,  sir,"  said  Bimey,  after  looking 
over  this  treacheroiis  proposition,  "  you  see 
yourself  the  advantage  of  putting  matters 
down  in  black  and  white.  The  production 
of  this  will  save  me  both  time  and  trouble, 
and,  besides,  it  can  be  understood  at  a 
glance.  Tliank  you,  sir.  Have  the  goodness 
to  favor  me  with  a  call  in  a  day  or  two,  and 
we  shall  see  what  can  be  done." 

"  This,"  said  Norton,  as  lie  was  about  to 
go,  "  is  a  point  of  honor  between  us." 

"  Why,  I  think,  at  all  events,  it  ought," 
replied  Bimey  ;  "  at  least,  so  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, it  is  not  my  intention  to  act  dishon- 
orably by  am/  honcKt  man." 

"  Haw — haw  !  Vei-y  well  said,  indeed  ;  I 
'ave  a  good  /(opinion  of  your  discretion. 
Well,  sir,  I  wish  you  good  mornecn  ;  I  shall 
call  in  a  day  or  two,  and  expect  to  'ave  a 
■atisfactory  /; answer." 

"  What  a  scoundrel !  "  exclaimed  Bimey. 


"  Here's  a  fellow,  now,  who  has  been  fleecing 
that  unfortunate  sheep  of  a  nobleman  for  the 
last  four  years,  and  now  that  he  finds  him  at 
the  length  of  his  tether,  he  is  ready  to  betray 
and  sacrifice  him,  like  a  double-distilled  ras- 
cal as  he  is.  The  villain  thought  I  did  not 
know  him,  but  he  was  mistaken — quite  out 
in  his  calciilations.  He  will  find,  too,  that 
he  has  brought  his  treachery  to  the  wrong 
market" 


CHAPTER  XXXTX. 

Fenton  Recovered — The  Mad-House. 

Sir  Thoil^s  Gouelat,  on  his  return  with 
the  special  Hcense,  was  informed  by  the  same 
servant  who  had  admitted  the  stranger,  that 
a  gentleman  awaited  him  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  Who  is  he,  M'Gregor  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sii* ;  he  paid  you  a  visit 
once  at  Red  Hall,  I  think." 

"How  could  I  know  him  by  that,  you 
blockhead  ?  " 

"  He's  the  gentleman,  sir,  you  had  hot 
words  with." 

"  That  I  kicked  out  one  day  ?  Cracken- 
fudge,  eh  ?  " 

"No,  faith,  sir  ;  not  Crackenfudge.  I  know 
him  well  enough  ;  and  devil  a  kick  your 
honor  gave  liim  but  I  wished  was  nine.  This 
is  a  veiT  different  man.  su- ;  and  I  beheve 
you  had  warm  words  with  him  too,  sir." 

"  Oh  !  "  exclaimed  his  master  ;  "I remem- 
ber.    Is  he  above  ?  " 

"  I  beheve  so,  sii\" 

A  strange  and  disagi-eeable  feeUng  came 
over  the  baronet  on  healing  these  words — 
a  kind  of  presentiment,  as  it  were,  of  some- 
thing unpleasant  and  adveree  to  his  plans. 
On  entering  the  drawing-room,  however,  he 
was  a  good  deal  surprised  to  find  that  there 
was  nobody  there  ;  and  after  a  moment's  re- 
flection, a  feai'ful  suspicion  took  possession 
of  him  ;  he  rang  the  bell  fmiously. 

Gibson,  who  had  been  out,  now  entered. 

"  ^^^lere  is  ]\Iiss  Gourlav,  sii-  ?  "  asked  his 
master,  with  eyes  kindled  by  I'age  and 
alarm. 

"  I  was  out,  sir,"  rephed  Gibson,  "  and  can- 
not teU." 

"  You  can  never  teU  anything,  you  scoun- 
drel. For  a  thousand,  she's  oft"  with  him 
again,  and  all's  mined.  Here,  Matthews — 
]\I'Gregor — cidl  the  sen*auts,  sir.  "NMiere's 
her  niaidi — call  her  maid.  ^Miat  a  con- 
foimdetl  fool — ass — I  was.  not  to  have  made 
that  impudent  baggage  tramp  about  her 
business.  It's  true,  Lucy's  oft* — I  feel  it — ] 
felt  it.     Hang  her  hj'pocrisy  !    It's  the  case, 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


575 


however,  with  all  women.  They  have  neither 
truth,  nor  honesty  of  purpose.  A  compound 
of  treacherj^,  deceit,  and  dissimulation  ;  and 
yet  I  thought,  if  there  was  a  single  indi- 
vidual of  her  sex  exempted  fi'om  their  vices, 
that  she  was  that  individual.  Come  bere, 
M'Gregor^come  here  you  scoundrel — do 
you  know  where  Miss  Gourlay  is  ?  or  her 
maid  ?  " 

"  Here's  Matthews,  sir  ;  he  says  she's  gone 
out." 

"  Gone  out ! — Yes,  she's  gone  out  with  a 
vengeance.  Do  you  know  where  she's  gone, 
siiTa  ?  And  did  any  one  go  with  her  ? "  he 
added,  addressing  himself  to  Matthews. 

"  I  think,  sir,  she's  gone  to  take  her  usual 
airing  in  the  carriage." 

"  A\lio  was  A\ith  her  ?  " 

"  No  one  but  her  maid,  sir." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  they  would  not  go  off  together 
— that  would  be  too  open  and  barefaced. 
Do  you  know  what  direction  she  took  ?  " 

"  No,  sii- ;  I  dicbi't  observe." 

"  You  stupid  old  lout,"  repHed  the  baro- 
net, flying  at  him,  and  mauling  the  unfortu- 
nate man  without  mercy  ;  "  take  that — and 
that — and  that — for  your  stupidit}'.  Why 
did  you  not  obsen'e  the  way  she  went,  you 
villain  ?  You  have  suffered  her  to  eloj^e,  you 
hound !  You  have  all  suffered  her  to  elope 
with  a  smoothfaced  impostor — a  fellow  whom 
no  one  knows — a  blackleg — a  swindler — a 
thief — a — a — go  and  saddle  haK  a  dozen 
horses,  and  seek  her  in  all  directions.  Go 
instantly,  and — hold — easy — stop — hang  you 
all,  stop  ! — here  she  is — and  her  maid  with 
her — "  he  exclaimed,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow. "  Ha !  I  am  relieved.  God  bless  me  ! 
God  bless  me  !  "  He  then  looked  at  the  ser- 
vants with  something  of  deprecation  in  his 
face,  and  waAing  his  hand,  said,  "Go— go 
quietly  ;  and,  obsen'e  me — not  a  word  of 
this — not  a  syllable — for  your  lives  !  " 

His  anger,  however,  was  only  checked  in 
mid  volley.  The  idea  of  her  having  received 
a  clandestine  visit  fi'om  her  lover  during  his 
absence  rankled  at  his  heart ;  and  although 
satisfied  that  she  was  still  safe,  and  in  his 
power,  he  could  barely  restrain  his  temper 
within  moderate  hmits.  Nay,  he  felt  angry 
at  her  for  the  alarm  she  had  occasioned 
him,  and  the  passion  he  had  felt  at  her  ab- 
sence. 

"  Well,  Lucy,"  said  he,  addressing  her,  as 
she  entered,  in  a  f  oice  chafed  with  passion, 
"  have  you  taken  your  drive  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa,"  she  repUed  ;  "  but  it  threat- 
ened rain,  and  we  returned  earher  that 
usual." 

"You  look  pale." 

"  I  dare  say  I  do,  sir.  I  want  rest — re- 
pose ;  "  and  she  reclined  on  a  lounger  as  she 


spoke.  "  It  is  surprising,  papa,  how  weak  I 
am  ! " 

"  Not  too  weak,  Lucy,  to  receive  a  stolen 
vLsit,  eh  ?  " 

Lucy  immediately  sat  up,  and  rephed 
with  surj^rise,  "A  stolen  visit,  sir?  I  don't 
iinderstand  you,  papa." 

"Had  you  not  a  visitor  here,  in  my  ab- 
sence ?  " 

"I  had,  sir,  but  the  visit  was  intended  for 
you.  Our  interview  was  perfectly  acciden- 
tal." 

"  Ah !  faith,  Lucy,  it  was  too  well  timed 
to  be  accidental.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  that 
comes  to.  Accidental,  indeed  !  Lucy,  you 
should  not  say  so." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  stating  an  un- 
truth, papa.  The  visit,  sir — I  shoiild  rather 
say,  the  intei'\dew — was  purely  accidental ; 
but  I  am  glad  it  took  place." 

"The  deuce  you  are  !  That  is  a  singular 
acknowledgment,  Luc}-,  I  think." 

"It  is  tnith,  sir,  notwithstanding.  I  was 
anxious  to  see  him,  that  I  might  acquaint 
him  with  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in 
my  unhapjjy  destiny.  If  I  had  not  seen  him, 
I  should  have  asked  your  permission  to 
write  to  him." 

"Which  I  would  not  have  given." 

"I  would  have  submitted  my  letter  to 
you,  su'." 

"  Even  so  ;  I  would  not  have  consented." 

"Well,  then,  sir,  as  tnith  and  honor  de- 
manded that  act  fi'om  me,  I  would  have  sent 
it  without  your  consent.  Excuse  me  for 
saying  this,  papa  ;  but  you  need  not  be  told 
that  there  are  some  peculiar  cases  Avhere 
duty  to  a  parent  must  yield  to  truth  and 
honor." 

"  Some  peculiar  cases  !  On  the  contrary, 
the  cases  you  sj^eak  of  are  the  general  iide, 
my  girl — the  general  inile — and  rational  obe- 
dience to  a  jDarent  the  exception.  "WTiere  is 
there  a  case — and  there  ai-e  millions — where 
a  parent's  wish  and  will  are  set  at  naught 
and  scorned,  in  which  the  same  argument  is 
not  used  ?  I  do  not  relish  these  discussions, 
however.  AATiat  I  A\'ish  to  impress  upon  you 
is  this — 5'ou  must  see  this/t'//o»'  no  more." 

Lucy's  temples  were  immediately  in  a 
blaze.  "  Ai-e  you  aware,  papa,  that  you  in- 
sult and  degrade  your  daughter,  by  applying 
such  a  term  to  him  ?  If  you  ^\ill  not  spare 
him,  sii*,  spare  me  ;  for  I  assiu-e  you  that  I 
feel  anything  said  against  him  with  ten 
times  more  emotion  than  if  it  were  uttered 
against  myself." 

"  Well,  well ;  he's  a  fine  fellow,  a  gentle- 
man, a  lord  ;  but,  be  he  what  he  may,  you 
must  see  him  no  more." 

"  It  is  not  my  intention,  papa,  to  see  him 
again," 


576 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  You  must  not  -write  to  him." 

"  It  will  not  be  necessary." 

"  But  vou  must  not." 

"  WeU,  then,  I  shall  not." 

"  Nor  receive  his  letters." 

"  Nor  receive  his  letters,  knowing  them  to 
be  his." 

"  You  promise  all  this  ?  " 

"  I  do,  sh-,  faithfully.  I  hope  you  are  now 
satisfied,  papa  ?  " 

"I  am,  Lucy — I  am.     You  are  not  so  bad 

a  girl  as  I  sus no,  you  are  a  very  good 

gii-1 ;  and  when  I  see  you  the  Countess  of 
CuUamore,  I  shall  not  have  a  single  wish  un- 
gratified." 

Lucy,  indeed,  poor  giii,  was  well  and  vigi- 
lantly giaarded.  No  communication,  whether 
written  or  otherwise,  was  permitted  to  reach 
her ;  nor,  if  she  had  been  lodged  in  the 
deepest  dungeon  in  Eui'ope,  and  secured  by 
the  strongest  bolts  that  ever  enclosed  a  pris- 
oner, could  she  have  been  more  rigidly  ex- 
cluded from  all  intercourse,  her  father's  and 
her  maid's  only  excej^ted. 

Her  lover,  on  receiving  the  documents  so 
often  alluded  to  fi'om  old  Corbet,  immedi- 
ately transmitted  to  her  a  letter  of  hope  and 
encouragement,  in  which  he  stated  that  the 
object  he  had  alluded  to  was  achieved,  and 
that  he  would  take  care  to  place  such  docu- 
ments before  her  father,  as  must  cause  even 
him  to  forbid  the  bans.  This  letter,  however, 
never  reached  her.  Neither  did  a  similar 
communication  from  !Mi's.  Mainwaring,  who 
after  three  successive  attempts  to  see  either 
her  or  her  fathei',  was  forced  at  last  to  give 
up  all  hope  of  preventing  the  man-iage.  She 
seemed,  indeed,  to  have  been  fated. 

In  the  meantime,  the  stranger,  having,  as 
he  imagined,  relieved  Lucy's  mind  fi'om  her 
dreaded  union  with  Dunroe,  and  left  the 
further  and  more  complete  disclosui-e  of  that 
young  nobleman's  position  to  jVIrs.  Main- 
waring,  provided  himself  with  competent 
legal  authority  to  claim  the  person  of  un- 
fortunate Fenton.  It  is  unnecessaiy  to  de- 
scribe his  journey  to  the  asylum  in  which  the 
wretched  young  man  was  placed ;  it  is 
enough  to  say  that  he  arrived  there  at  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  accompanied  by  old 
Corbet  and  three  officers  of  justice,  who  re- 
mained in  the  carnage  ;  and  on  asking  to 
see  the  proprietor,  was  shown  into  a  parlor, 
where  he  found  that  worthy  gentleman 
reading  a  newspaper. 

Tliis  fellow  was  one  of  those  men  who  are 
remarkable  for  thick,  massive,  and  saturnine 
features.  At  a  first  glunce  he  was  not  at  all 
ill-looking ;  but,  on  examining  his  beetle 
brows,  which  met  in  a  mass  of  black  thick 
h.'iir  across  liis  face,  and  on  wiitching  the 
dull,  selfish,  cruel  eyes  that  they  hung  over 


— dead  as  they  were  to  every  generons  emo* 
tion,  and  incapable  of  kindling  even  at 
cruelty  itself — it  was  impossible  for  any 
man  in  the  habit  of  observing  nature  closely 
not  to  feel  that  a  brutal  i-uffian,  obstinate, 
indiu-ated,  and  uuscinipulous,  was  before 
him.  His  forehead  was  low  but  broad,  and 
the  whole  shape  of  his  head  such  as  would 
induce  an  inteUigent  phrenologist  to  pro- 
I  nounce  him  at  once  a  thief  and  a  murderer. 
j  The  stranger,  after  a  survey  or  two,  felt 
j  his  blood  bon  at  the  contemplation  of  his 
very  visage,  which  was  at  once  plausible  and 
diabohcal  in  expression.  After  some  pre- 
liminary' chat  the  latter  said  : 

"Your  establishment,  sii',  is  admirably 
situated  here.  It  is  remote  and  isolated  ; 
and  these,  I  suppose,  are  advantages  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,  sir,"  rephed  the  doctor,  "the 
further  we  remove  our  patients  from  human 
society,  the  better.  The  exhibition  of  reason 
has,  in  general,  a  bad  effect  upon  the  in- 
sane." 

"  Upon  what  principle  do  you  account  for 
that?"  asked  the  stranger.  "To  me  it 
would  appear  that  the  reverse  of  the  proposi- 
tion ought  to  hold  true." 

"  That  may  be,"  rephed  the  other ;  "  but 
no  man  can  form  a  correct  opinion  of  insane 
persons  who  has  not  mingled  "nith  them,  or 
had  them  under  his  care.  The  contiguity 
of  reason — I  mean  in  the  persons  of  those 
who  apjDroach  them — alv^'ays  exercises  a 
dangerous  influence  upon  lunatics  ;  and  on 
this  account,  I  sometimes  j)lace  those  who 
are  less  insane  as  keepers  upon  such  as  are 
decidedly  so." 

"  Does  not  that,  sir,  seem  very  like  setting 
the  bhnd  to  lead  the  blind  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  heavy, 
heartless  laugh,  "  your  analogy  fails  ;  it  is 
rather  like  setting  a  man  with  one  eye  to 
guide  another  who  has  none." 

"  But  why  should  not  a  man  who  has  two 
guide  him  better  ?  " 

"  Because  the  consciousness  that  there  is 
but  the  one  eye  between  both  of  them,  wiU 
make  him  proceed  more  cautiously." 

"  But  that  in  the  blind  is  an  act  of  rea- 
son," rephed  the  stranger,  "which  cannot 
be  apphed  to  the  insane,  in  whom  reason  is 
deficient." 

"  But  where  reason  does  not  exist,"  said 
the  doctor,  "  we  must  regmlate  them  by  their 
passions." 

"  By  the  exercise  of  which  passion  do  you 
gain  the  greatest  ascendency  over  them  ? ' 
asked  the  stranger. 

"  By  fear,  of  course.  We  can  do  noth- 
ing, at  least  very  httle,  without  inspiring 
leiTor." 

••  All,"  thought  the  stranger,  "I  have  now 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


bll 


got  the  key  to  his  conduct ! — But,  sir,"  he 
added.  "  we  never  fear  and  love  the  same  ob- 
ject at  the  same  time." 

"True  enough,  sir,"  repHed  the  ruffian; 
"  but  who  could  or  ought  to  calculate  upon 
the  attachment  of  a  madman  ?  Boys  are 
corrected  more  fi'equently  than  men,  because 
their  reason  is  not  developed  :  and  those  in 
»vhom  it  does  not  exist,  or  in  whom  it  has 
been  impaired,  must  be  subjected  to  the 
same  discipline.  Terror,  besides,  is  the 
principle  upon  which  reason  itself,  and  all 
society,  are  governed." 

"But  suppose  I  had  a  brother,  now,  or  a 
relative,  might  I  not  hesitate  to  place  him  in 
an  establishment  conducted  on  principles 
which  I  condemn  ?  " 

"  As  to  that,  sir,"  rephed  the  fellow,  who, 
expecting  a  patient,  feai-ed  that  he  had  gone 
too  far,  "  our  system  is  an  adaptable  one  ;  at 
least,  our  ajDplication  of  it  vaiies  according 
'  to  circumstances.  As  oui'  fii'st  object  is  cure, 
we  must  necessaiily  allow  ourselves  consider- 
able latitude  of  experiment  until  we  hit  up- 
on the  right  key.  This  being  found,  the 
process  of  recoveiy,  when  it  is  possible,  may 
be  conducted  with  as  much  mildness  as  the 
absence  of  reason  will  admit.  We  are  mild, 
when  we  can^  and  severe  only  where  we 
must." 

"  Shiiffliug  scoundrel  I  "  thought  the  stran- 
ger. "  I  perceive  in  this  language  the 
double  dealing  of  an  unpiincipled  \illain. — 
Would  you  have  any  objection,  sii',"  he  said, 
"  that  I  should  look  thi'ough  your  estabhsh- 
ment  ?  " 

"I  can  conduct  you  through  the  convales- 
cent wards,"  rephed  the  doctor  ;  "but,  a^  ^ 
said,  we  find  that  the  appearance  of  s  an-  i 
gers — which  is  what  I  meant  by  the  ccicigu- 
ity  of  reason — is  attended  with  very  l)ad, 
and  sometimes  deplorable  consequences. 
Under  all  circumstances  it  retai'ds  a  cvu'e.  | 
under  others  occasions  a  relapse,  and  in 
some  accelerates  the  malady  so  rapidly 
that  it  becomes  hopeless.  You  may  see  the 
convalescent  ward,  however — that  is,  if  you 
wish." 

"You  will  obhge  me,"  said  the  stranger.      ! 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  "  if  you  will  remain 
here  h  moment,  I  will  send  a  gentleman  who 
will  accompany  you,  and  explain  the  charac- 
ters of  some  of  the  patients,  should  you  de- 
sire  it,  and  also  the  cause  of  their  respective 
maladies."  I 

He  then  disappeared,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
a  mild,  intelHgent,  gentlemanly  msm,  of 
modest  and  imassuming  manners,  presented 
himself,  and  said  he  would  feel  much  pleas- 
ure in  she  .ving  him  the  convalescent  side  of 
the  house.  The  stranger,  however,  went 
out  and  bi-ouglit  old  Corbet  in  from  the  . 
19 


carriage,  where  he  and  the  officers  had  been 
sitting  ;  and  tliis  he  did  at  Corbet's  own  re- 
quest. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  place  before  oui 
readers  any  lengthened  description  of  this 
gloomy  temple  of  depai-ted  reason.  Every 
one  who  enters  a  lunatic  asylum  for  the  fii'st 
time,  must  feel  a  wild  and  indescribable  emo- 
tion, such  as  he  has  never  before  experienc- 
ed, and  which  amounts  to  an  extraordinai*}' 
sense  of  solemnity  and  fear.  Nor  do  the 
sensations  of  the  stranger  rest  here.  He 
feels  as  if  he  were  siuTounded  by  something 
sacred  as  well  as  melancholy,  sometliing  that 
creates  at  once  pity,  reverence,  and  awe.  In- 
deed, so  strongly  antithetical  to  each  other 
are  his  first  imf)res.sious,  that  a  kind  of  con- 
fusion arises  in  his  mind,  and  he  begins  to 
feai-  that  his  senses  have  been  affected  by  the 
atmosphere  of  the  jilace.  That  a  shock  takes 
place  which  shghtly  disaiTanges  the  faciUty 
of  thought,  and  generates  strong  but  eiTone- 
ous  impressions,  is  still  more  clearly  estab- 
lished by  the  fact  that  the  risitor,  for  a  con- 
siderable time  after  leaving  an  asylum,  can 
scarcely  rid  himself  of  the  behef  that  eVery 
person  he  meets  is  insane. 

The  stranger,  on  entering  the  long  room 
in  which  the  convalescents  were  assembled, 
felt,  in  the  silence  of  the  patients,  and  in 
their  vague  and  fantastic  movements,  that 
he  was  in  a  position  where  novelty,  in  gen- 
eral the  soiu'ce  of  pleasiure,  was  here  associ- 
ated only  ^\-ith  pain.  Theii*  startling  looks, 
the  absence  of  interest  in  some  instances, 
and  its  intensity  in  others,  at  the  ai:)pearance 
of  strangers,  without  any  intelligent  motive 
in  either  case,  produced  a  feeling  that  seem- 
d  to  bear  the  character  of  a  disagreeable 
..  eam. 

"All  the  patients  here,"  said  his  conduc- 
tor, "  are  not  absolutely  in  a  state  of  convales- 
cence. A  great  number  of  them  are  ;  but 
we  also  allow  such  confirmed  lunatics  as  ju'e 
harmless  to  mingle  with  them.  There  is 
scai'cely  a  profession,  or  a  passion,  or  a  van- 
ity in  life,  which  has  not  here  its  representa- 
tive. Law,  rehgion,  physic,  the  arts,  the 
sciences,  all  contribute  their  share  to  this 
melancholy  picture  gallery.  Avarice,  Ic  :, 
ambition,  pride,  jealousy,  haring  ove.  i^-owii 
the  force  of  reason,  are  here,  as  it-  itleaj 
skeletons,  wild  and  gigantic — fi'etting  gam- 
bolhng,  moping,  giinning,  raving,  and  va|> 
oring — each  Mi-ajjped  in  its  own  Vision,  and 
indifferent  to  all  the  influence  of  the  collat- 
eral faculties.  Thei'e,  now,  is  a  man,  mop- 
ing about,  the  very  pictvu-e  of  stolidity  ;  ob- 
serve how  his  heavy  hesul  hangs  down  imtU 
his  chin  rests  upon  his  brea.stbone,  his 
mouth  open  and  almost  dribbhng.  That 
man,  sir,  so  unpoetical  and  idiotic  in  appear- 


37S 


WILLIAM  CARLETOiTS   WORKS. 


Alice,  imagines  himself  the  author  of  Beat- 
tie's  'Minstrel'  He  is  a  Scotchman,  and  I 
^liiUl  call  him  over." 

"  Come  here,  Sandy,  speak  to  this  gentle- 
man." 

Sandy,  without  i-aising  liis  lack-lustre  eye, 
came  over  and  replied,  "  Aw — ay^ — 'Am  the 
author  o'  Betty's  Mensti-el ; "  and  having  ut- 
tered tliis  piece  of  intelligence,  he  shuiiled 
/icross  the  room,  dragging  one  foot  after  the 
other,  at  about  a  quarter  of  a  minute  per 
step.  Never  was  poor  Beattie  so  libellously 
represented. 

"Do  you  see  that  round-faced,  good-hu- 
mored looking  man,  with  a  decent  fiieze 
coat  on  ?  "  said  their  conductor.  "  He's  a 
wealthy  and  respectable  farmer  from  the 
county  of  Kilkenny,  who  imagines  that  he  is 
Christ     His  name  is  Body  Bafferty." 

"Come  here.  Body." 

Body  came  over,  and  looking  at  the  stran- 
ger, said,  "Ai-ra,  now,  do  you  know  M'ho  I 
am?    Troth,  I  go  bail  you  don't." 

"No,"  replied  the  stranger,  "I  do  not; 
but  I  hoj^e  yo'!  wiU  teU  me." 

"I'm  Christ,"  replied  Bod}';  "and,  upon 
my  word,  if  you  don't  get  out  o'  this,  I'll 
work  a  miracle  on  you." 

"Why,"  asked  the  stranger,  "what  w'ill 
you  do  ?  " 

"Troth,  I'll  turn  you  into  ablackin'  brush, 
and  polish  my  shoes  md  you.  You  were  at 
Barney's  death,  too." 

The  poor  man  had  gone  deranged,  it 
seemed,  by  the  violent  death  of  his  only 
child — a  son. 

"  There's  another  man,"  said  the  conduc- 
tor ;  "  tliat  little  fellow  with  the  angry  face. 
He  is  a  shoemaker,  who  went  mad  on  the 
score  of  humanity.  He  took  a  strong  feehng 
of  resentment  against  all  who  had  flat  feet, 
and  refused  to  make  shoes  for  them." 

"How  was  that?"  inquired  the  stran- 
ger. 

"Why,  sir,"  said  the  other,  smiling,  "he 
said  that  they  nuxrdered  the  clocks  (beetles), 
and  he  looked  upon  every  man  with  flat  feet 
'IS  an  inhuman  villain,  who  desei-ves,  he 
says,  to  have  his  feet  chopped  oft',  and  to  be 
c'ompelled  to  dance  a  hornpipe  three  times  a 
day  on  his  stumps." 

"AVlio  is  that  broad-shouldered  man," 
asked  the  stranger,  "  dressed  in  laisty  black, 
with  the  red  head  ?  " 

"He  went  mad,"  repUed  the  conductor, 
"  on  a  princijile  of  religious  charity.  He  is 
a  priest  from  the  county  of  Wexford,  who 
had  been  called  in  to  baptize  the  child  of  a 
Protestant  mother,  which,  having  done,  he 
seized  a  tul),  and  placing  it  on  the  (child's 
neck,  killed  it  ;  exclaiming,  '  I  am  now  sure 
of  having  sent  one  soul  to  heaven.'  " 


"You   iU'e   not    without    poets    here,   oi 

course  ?  "  said  the  stranger. 

"We  have,  unforttmately,"  replied  the 
other,  "  more  individuals  of  tliat  class  than 
we  can  well  manage.  They  ought  to  have 
an  asylum  for  themselves.  There's  a  feUow, 
now,  he  in  the  tattered  jacket  and  nightcap, 
who  has  written  a  heroic  poem,  of  eighty-six 
thousand  verses,  which  he  entitles  '  Balaam's 
Ass,  or  the  Great  Unsaddled.'  Shall  I  call 
him  over  ?  " 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,  no,"  rephed  the 
stranger  ;  "  keep  me  from  the  poets." 

"There  is  one  of  the  other  species,"  re- 
23hed  the  gentleman,  "the  thin,  red-eyed 
fellow,  Avho  grinds  his  teeth.  He  fancies 
himself  a  wit  and  a  satirist,  and  is  the  author 
of  an  impublished  poem,  called  '  The  Smok- 
ing DunghiU,  or  Parnassus  in  a  Fume.'  He 
published  several  things,  which  were  justly 
attacked  on  account  of  their  dulness,  and  he 
is  now  in  an  awful  fury  against  all  the  poets 
of  the  clay,  to  every  one  of  whom  he  has 
given  an  aj^propriate  position  on  the  sublime 
pedestal,  which  he  has,  as  it  were,  with  his 
own  hands,  erected  for  them.  He  certainly 
ought  to  be  the  best  constructor  of  a  dung- 
hiU  in  the  world,  for  he  deals  in  nothing  but 
dirt.  He  refuses  to  wash  his  hands,  because, 
he  says,  it  would  disqiialify  him  from  giv- 
ing the  last  touch  to  his  poem  and  his  char- 
acters." 

"  Have  you  philosophers  as  well  as  poets 
here  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

"Oh  dear,  yes,  sir.  We  have  poetical 
philosophers,  and  philosophical  j3oets  ;  but, 
I  protest  to  heaven,  the  wisdom  of  Solomon, 
or  of  an  archangel,  could  not  decide  the  dif- 
ference between  their  folly.  There's  a  man 
now,  with  the  old  stocking  in  his  hand — it 
is  one  of  his  own,  for  you  may  obsei-ve  that 
he  has  one  leg  bare — who  is  pacing  up  and 
down  in  a  deep  thinking  mood.  That  man, 
sir,  was  set  mad  by  a  definition  of  his  own 
making." 

"  Well,  let  us  hear  it,"  said  the  stran- 
ger. 

"  AVhy,  sii-,  he  imagines  that  he  has  dis- 
covered a  definition  for  'nothing.'  The  defi- 
nition, however,  will  make  you  smile." 

"And  what,  pray,  is  it?"' 

"  Nothing,  he  sa^^s,  is — a  footless  stocking 
WITHOUT  A  LEG  ;  and  maintains  that  he  ought 
to  hold  the  first  rank  as  a  philosoijher  for 
haAdng  invented  the  definition,  and  deserves 
a  pension  from  the  crown." 

"  Who  are  these  two  men  dressed  in  black, 
walking  arm  in  arm  ?  "  asked  the  stranger, 
"They  appear  to  be  clergymen." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  his  conductor,  "  so  they 
are  ;  two  celebrated  polemical  controversial- 
ists, whoj  when  the}'  were  at  large,  created 


TTTE  BLACK  BAUONET. 


by  theit-  Jittacks,  eacli  upon  tlie  i-eligion  of 
tlie  other,  uiore  ill-will,  rancor  and  religious 
"ininiosity,  than  either  of  their  religions,  with 
all  their  virtues,  could  remove.  It  is  iiu- 
[)ossible  to  describe  the  evil  they  did.  Ever 
since  they  caine  here,  however,  they  are  like 
brothers.  They  were  placed  in  the  same 
room,  each  in  a  strong  strait-waistcoat,  for 
the  spa(U'  of  three  months  ;  but  on  being  al- 
lowed to  walk  about,  they  became  sworn 
friends,  and  now  amuse  themselves  more 
than  any  other  two  in  the  establishment. 
They  indulge  in  immoderate  fits  of  laughter, 
look  each  other  knowingly  in  the  fa(;e,  ^vink, 
and  run  the  forefinger  up  the  nose,  after 
which  their  mirth  bursts  out  afresh,  and 
they  laugh  until  the  tears  come  down  their 
cheeks." 

The  stranger,  who  during  all  this  time  was 
on  the  lookout  for  poor  Fenton,  as  was  old 
Corbet,  could  observe  nobody  who  resembled 
him  in  the  least. 

"  Have  you  females  in  your  establish- 
ment ?  "  he  asked. 

'"No,  sir,"  replied  the  gentleman;  "but 
we  are  about  to  open  an  asylum  for  them  in 
a  detached  building,  which  is  in  the  course 
of  being  erected.  Would  you  wish  to  hear 
any  further  details  of  these  unhappy  beings," 
he  asked. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  stranger,  "You 
are  very  kind  and  obliging,  but  I  have  heard 
enough  for  the  present.  Have  you  a  j^er- 
Bon  nam;-.d  Fenton  in  your  establishment  ?  " 

"  Not,  sir,  that  I  know  of ;  he  may  be 
'hero,  though  ;  but  you  had  better  inquire 
•from  the  proprietor  himself,  who  (mark  me, 
sir— I  say — harkee — you  have  humanity  in 
your  face) — will  probably  refuse  to  tell  you 
•whether  he  is  here  or  not,  or  deny  him 
altogether.  Harkee,  again,  sir — the  fellow 
>is  a  villain — that  is,entre  nous,  but  mum's 
'the  word  between  us." 

"I  am  sorry,"  replied  the  stranger,  "to 
i^iear  such  a  chai'acter  of  him  from  you,  who 
should  know  him." 

"  Well,  sir,"  replied  the  other,  "  let  that 
limss — verhmn  sap.  And  now  tell  me,  when 
ihave  you  been  at  the  theater  ?  " 

"  Not  for  some  months,"  returned  the 
tother. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  Catalani  shake?" 

^*  Yes,"  replied  the  stranger.  "  I  have  had 
that  pleasure." 

"  Well,  sir,  I'm  delighted  that  you  have 
heard  her,  for  there  is  but  one  man  living 
who  can  riv;d  her  in  the  shake  ;  and,  sir,  you 
have  the  honor  of  addressing  that  man." 

Tliis  was  said  so  mildly,  calmly,  rationally, 
and  \\'ith  that  gentlemanlike  air  of  undoubt- 
ed respectability,  which  gives  to  an  assertion 
such  ;ii'  iii>})vcss  of  truth,  tluit  the  stranger. 


j  confused  as  he  was  by  what  he  had  seen,  fel> 
'  it  rather  difKcult  to  draw  the  line  at  the  mo- 
I  ment,  especially  in  such  society,  between  ^ 
I  sane  man  and  an  insane  one. 

"  Would  you  wish,  sir,"  said  the  guide, 
"  to  hear  a  si^ecimen  of  my  powers?  " 

'•If  you  please,"  replied  the  stranger. 
"  provided  you  will  cc^nfinc  yourself  to  tht 
shake." 

The  other  then  connnenced  a  squall,  sc 
tuneless,  wild,  jarring,  and  unnuisical,  tha' 
the  stranger  could  not  avoid  smiling  at  the 
monomaniac,  for  such  he  at  once  perceivecil 
liim  to  be. 

"You  seem  to  like  that,"  observed  the 
other,  apparently  mudi  gi-atified  ;  "but  1 
thought  as  much,  sir — you  are  a  man  oi 
taste." 

"I  am  decidedly  of  opinion,"  said  the 
stranger,  "  that  Catalani,  in  her  best  days, 
could  not  give  such  a  t'i)ecimen  of  the  shake 
as  that." 

"  Thank  you  sir,"  replied  the  singer,   tak- 
ing ofl'  his  hat  and  bowing.     "  We  shall  have 
another  shake   in   honor   of  your  excellent 
judgment,   but  it   will  be   a   shake   of  the 
hand.     Sir,  you  are  a  polished  and  most  ac- 
complished gentleman." 
'      As  they  sauntered  up  and  do^\ni  the  room, 
1  other  symptoms  reached  them  Ijesides  those 
I  that  were  then  subjected  to  their  sight.  As  q 
door  opened,  a  peal  of  wild  laughter  might 
be  heard — -sometimes  groaning — and  occa- 
sionally the  most  awful  blasphemies.     Ambi- 
tion contributed  a  large  number  to  its  dreary 
cells.     Li  fact,  one  would  imagine  that  the 
house  had  been  converted  into  a  temple  ot 
justice,  and  contained  within  its  walls  most  oi 
the  crowned  heads  and  generals  of  Euroj)e, 
both  living  and  dead,  together  with  a  fair 
samjile  of  tlie  saints.  The  Emperor  of  Russia 
j  was  strapped  down  to  a  chair  that  had  been 
j  screwed  into  the  floor,  with  the  additional 
security  of  a  strait-waistcoat  to  keep  his  ma- 
jesty quiet.     The  Pope  challenged  Hein-y  the 
I  Eighth  to  box,  and  St.  Peter,  as  the  cell  door 
I  opened,  asked  Anthony  Corbet  for  a  glass  ol 
t  whiskey.     Napoleon  Bonai)arte,  in  tlie  per- 
son of  a  heroic  tailor,  was  singing  "  Bob  and 
Joan  ; "  and  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin   said 
he  would  i)ledge  his  mitre  for  a  good  cig.-ii 
!  and  a  pot  of  porter.     Sometimes  a  frightful 
;  yell  would  reach  their  ears  ;  then  a  furious 
I  set  of  howlings,   followiMl  again  by  jieals  of 
maniac  laughter,  as  before.     Altogether,  the 
,  stranger  Avas  glad  to  withdraw,  which  he  did, 
;  in  order  to  prosecute  his  searches  for  Fen- 
ton, 

"Well,  sir,"  said  tlie  doctor,  whom  he 
found  again  in  the  parlor,  "*  you  have  seen 
that  melancholy  sight  ?  " 

"  I  >».ivp,  sir,  ^id  a  melancholy  one  indeed 


5S0 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


it  is  ;  but  :is  I  came  on  a  matter  of  business, 
doctor,  I  think  we  bad  better  come  to  the 
point  at  once.  You  have  a  young  man  named 
Fenton  in  your  establishment  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  we  have  no  person  of  that  name 
here." 

"  A  wrong  name  may  have  been  jmrposely 
given  you,  sir  ;  but  the  jjerson  I  speak  of  is- 
here.  "  And  you  had  better  understand  me 
at  once,"  he*^  continued.  "  I  am  furnished 
■with  such  authority  as  will  force  you  to  pro- 
duce him." 

"  If  he  is  not  here,  sir,  no  authority  on 
earth  can  force  me  to  produce  him." 

"We  shall  see  that  presently.  Corbet, 
bring  in  the  officers.  Here,  sir,  is  a  warrant, 
by  which  I  am  empowered  to  search  for  his 
body  ;  and,  when  found,  to  secure  him,  in 
order  that  he  may  be  restored  to  his  just 
rights,  fi-om  which  he  has  been  debarred  by 
a  course  of  \aLlany  worthy  of  being  concoct- 
ed in  hell  itself." 

"  Family  reasons,  sir,  frequently  render  it 
necessary  that  patients  should  enter  this  es- 
tablishment under  fictitious  names.  But 
these  ai'e  matters  with  which  I  have  nothing 
to  do.  ]My  object  is  to  comply  wdth  the 
wishes  of  their  relatives." 

"  Your  object,  sir,  should  be  to  cure,  rather 
than  to  keep  them  ;  to  conduct  your  estab- 
Kshment  as  a  house  of  recovery,  not  as  a  pri- 
son— of  course,  I  mean  where  the  patient  is 
curable.  I  demand,  sii',  that  you  wdll  find 
this  young  man,  and  produce  him  to  me." 

"  But  provided  I  cannot  do  so,"  replied  the 
doctor,  doggedly,  "  what  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  m  that  case,  we  are  in  posses- 
sion of  a  warrant  for  your  own  arrest,  under 
the  proclamation  which  was  originally  pub- 
lished in  the  '  Hue  and  Cry,'  for  his  deten- 
tion. Sir,  3'ou  are  now  aware  of  the  alterna- 
tive. You  produce  the  person  we  require, 
or  you  accompany  us  yourself.  It  has  been 
swoiTi  that  he  is  in  your  keeping." 

"  I  cannot  do  what  is  impossible.  I  wiU, 
however,  conduct  you  through  all  the  private 
rooms  of  the  establishment,  and  if  you  can 
find  or  identify  the  person  you  want,  I  am 
satisfied.  It  is  quite  possible  he  ma}'  be  with 
me  ;  but  I  don't  know,  nor  have  I  ever  known 
him  by  the  name  of  Fenton.  It's  a  name 
I've  never  heard  in  my  establishment.  Come, 
sir,  I  am  ready  to  show  you  every  room  in 
my  house." 

Jiy  this  time  the  officers,  accompanied  by 
Corljct,  entered,  and  all  followed  the  doctor 
in  a  body  to  aid  in  tlie  search.  The  search, 
however,  was  fruitless.  Every  room,  cell, 
and  cranny  that  was  visible  in  the  establish- 
ment underwent  a  strict  examination,  as  did 
their  unhappy  occupants.  All,  however,  in 
vain  ;  and  the  do  ctor  now  was  about  to  as- 


sume a  tone  of  insolence  and  triumph,  when 
Corbet  said  : 

"Doctor,  all  seems  jjlain  here.  You  have 
done  your  dutij." 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "I  always  do  so.  No 
man  in  the  kingdom  has  given  greater  satis- 
faction, nor  stands  higher  in  that  painful  de- 
jDai'tment  of  our  profession  to  which  I  have 
devoted  myself." 

"  Yes,  doctor,"  repeated  Corbet,  with  one 
of  his  bitterest  grins  ;  "  yoii  have  done  your 
duty ;  and  for  that  reason  I  ask  you  to  folly 
me." 

"Where  to,  my  good  fellow?"  asked  the 
other,  somewhat  crestfallen.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  spake  plainly  enough.  I  say, 
folly  me.  I  think,  too,  I  know  something 
abovit  the  outs  and  ins,  the  ups  and  downs 
of  this  house  still.  Come,  sir,  w-e'U  show 
you  how  you've  done  your  duty  ;  but  hsten 
to  me,  before  w^e  go  one  foot  further—  if  he's 
dead  before  my  time  has  come,  I'U  have 
your  hfe,  if  I  was  to  swing  on  a  thousand 
gallowses." 

One  of  the  officers  here  tapped  the  doctor 
authoritatively  on  the  shoulder,  and  said, 
"Proceed,  sir,  we  are  losing  time." 

The  doctor  saw  at  once  that  further  resis- 
tance was  useless. 

"By  the  by,"  said  he,  "there  is  one  pa- 
tient in  the  house  that  I  completely  forgot. 
He  is  so  desperate  and  outrageous,  however, 
that  we  were  compelled,  within  the  last  week 
or  so,  to  try  the  severest  discipline  with  him. 
He,  however,  cannot  be  the  person  you 
want,  for  his  name  is  Moore  ;  at  least,  that 
is  the  name  under  which  he  was  sent  here." 

Down  in  a  naiTOw,  dark  dungeon,  where 
the  damp  and  stench  were  intolerable,  and 
nothing  could  be  seen  until  a  light  Avas 
procured,  they  found  something  lying  on 
filthy  straw  that  had  human  shape.  The 
hair  and  beard  were  long  and  overgrown  ; 
the  feattrres,  begrimed  with  filth,  were  such 
as  the  sharjDest  eye  coiild  not  recognize  ; 
and  the  whole  body  was  so  worn  and  emaci- 
ated, so  ragged  and  tattered  in  appearance, 
that  it  was  evident  at  a  glance  that  foul 
practices  must  have  been  resorted  to  in 
order  to  tamper  with  life." 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  addressing 
the  stranger,  "I  will  leave  you  and  your 
friends  to  examine  the  patient,  as  perhaps 
you  might  feel  my  presence  a  restraint  upon 
you." 

The  stranger,  after  a  glance  or  two  at 
Fenton,  turned  around,  and  said,  sternly, 
"  Peace  officer,  arrest  that  man,  and  remove 
him  to  the  parlor  as  your  prisoner.  But 
hold,"  he  added,  "let  us  first  ascertain 
whether  tliis  is  Mr.  Fenton  or  not." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


581 


"I  will  soon  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Corbet, 
approacliing  the  object  before  them,  and 
feeling  the  left  side  of  his  neck. 

"It  is  him,  sir,"  he  said;  "here  he  is, 
siu-e  enough,  at  last." 

"  AVell,  then,"  repeated  the  stranger,  "  ar- 
rest that  man,  as  I  said,  and  let  two  of  you 
accompany  him  to  the  jjarlor,  and  detiiin 
him  there  until  we  join  you." 

On  raising  tlie  wretched  young  man,  they 
found  that  life  was  bai'ely  in  him  ;  he  had 
been  asleep,  and  being  roused  up,  he 
screamed  aloud. 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  "I  am  not  able  to  bear  it 
— don't  scourge  me,  I  am  dying  ;  I  am  doing 
all  I  can  to  die.  AVliy  did  you  disturb  me  ? 
I  dreamt  that  I  was  on  my  mother's  knee, 
and  iliat  she  was  kissing  me.  What  is  this? 
Wliat  l)rings  so  many  of  you  now?  I  wish  I 
liad  told  the  strange  gentleman  in  the  inn 
everything  ;  but  I  feared  he  was  my  enemy, 
and  perhaps  he  was.     I  am  very  hungiy." 

"  Merciful  God  !  "  exclaimed  the  stran- 
ger ;  "  ai'e  such  things  done  in  a  free  and 
Christian  country?  Bring  him  up  to  the 
parlor,"  he  added,  "and  let  him  be  shaved 
and  cleansed  ;  but  be  careful  of  him,  for  his 
lamp  of  life  is  neai-ly  exhausted.  I  thank 
you,  Corbet,  for  the  suggestion  of  the  linen 
and  clothes.  "NMiat  could  we  have  done 
\Wthout  them?  It  would  have  been  im- 
possible to  fetch  him  in  this  trim." 

We  must  pass  over  these  disagreeable  de- 
tails. It  is  enough  to  say  that  poor  Fenton 
W!i8  put  into  clean  linen  and  decent  clothes, 
and  that  in  a  couple  of  hours  they  were  once 
more  on  their  way  with  him,  to  the  metro- 
polis, the  doctor  accompanying  them,  as 
their  prisoner. 

The  conduct  of  Corbet  was  on  this  occa- 
sion very  singular.  He  complained  that  the 
stench  of  tlie  dungeon  in  which  they  found 
Fenton  liad  sickened  him ;  but,  not^^■ith- 
stiuiding  this,  something  like  ease  of  mind 
might  be  read  in  his  countenance  whenever 
he  looked  upon  Fenton  ;  something  that,  to 
the  stranger  at  least,  who  obsen'ed  him 
closely,  seemed  to  say,  "  I  am  at  last  satis- 
lied  :  the  widow's  hetu't  wiU  be  set  at  rest, 
and  the  plans  of  this  black  villain  broken  to 
pieces."  His  eye  occasionally  gleamed  wild- 
ly, and  again  his  countenance  gi'ew  pale  and 
haggard,  tuid  he  complained  of  headache  and 
pains  about  his  loins,  and  in  the  small  of  his 
back. 

On  arriving  in  Dublin,  the  stranger 
brought  Fenton  to  his  hotel,  where  he  was 
desirous  to  keep  him  for  a  day  or  two,  until 
he  should  regain  a  little  strength,  that  he 
might,  without  risk,  be  able  to  sustain  the 
interview  that  was  before  him.  Aware  of 
the  capricious   nature  of  the  young  man's 


I  feelings,  and  his  feeble  state  of  health,  he 
i  himself  kept  aloof  from  him,  lest  his  pres- 
}  ence  might  occasion  such  a  shock  as  would 
'  induce  anything  like  a  fit  of  insanity — a 
circumstance  which  must  mar  the  pleasure 
and  gratitication  of  his  unexpected  reajjpear- 
ance.  That  medical  advice  ought  instantly 
to  be  i^rocured  was  evident  from  his  extreme 
weakness,  and  the  state  of  apathy  into  which 
he  had  sunk  immediately  after  his  removal 
from  the  cell.  This  was  at  once  i)rovided  ; 
but  unfortunately  it  seemed  that  aU  human 
skill  was  likely  to  prove  unavailable,  as  the 
physician,  on  seeing  and  examining  him,  ex- 
pres.sed  himself  with  strong  doubts  as  to  the 
possibility  of  his  recovery.  In  fact,  he 
feared  that  his  unhappy  patient  had  not 
many  days  to  live.  He  ordered  him  ^vine, 
tonics,  and  hght  but  nutritious  food  to  be 
taken  sparingly,  and  desired  that  he  should 
be  brought  into  the  open  air  as  often  as  the 
debihty  of  his  constitution  could  be.'u-  it. 
His  complaint,  he  said,  was  altogether  a 
nervous  one,  and  resiilted  fi'om  the  effects  of 
cruelty,  teiTor,  want  of  sufficient  nourish- 
ment, bad  air,  and  close  confinement. 

In  the  meantime,  the  doctor  was  commit- 
ted to  prison,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  being 
sent,  under  a  safe  escort,  to  the  jail  of  the 
county  that  had  been  so  largely  benefited  by 
his  humane  establishment. 

As  we  are  upon  this  j^ainful  subject,  we 
ma}'  as  well  state  here  that  he  was  prosecu- 
ted, convicted,  and  sentenced  to  two  jeai's' 
imprisonment,  with  hard  labor. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Ludy  Oourlay  sees  her  Son. 

Having  done  aU  that  was  possible  for  poor 
Fenton,  the  stranger  lost  no  time  in  waiting 
upon  Lady  Gourlay,  that  he  might,  with  as 
miich  piiidence  as  the  uncertain  state  of  the 
young  man's  health  would  permit,  nuxke 
known  the  long  wished  for  communication, 
that  they  had  at  length  got  him  in  their  pos- 
session. His  ta.sk  was  one  of  great  difficulty, 
for  he  ajiprehended  that  an  excess  of  joy  on 
the  part  of  that  affectionate  woman  might  be 
dangerous,  when  suddenh'  checked  by  the 
melancholy  probability  that  he  liad  been 
restored  to  her  only  to  be  almost  immedi- 
ately removed  by  death.  He  resolved,  then, 
to  temper  his  intelligence  in  such  a  way  as 
to  cause  her  own  admirable  sense  and  high 
Christian  feeling  to  exercise  their  usual  in- 
fluence over  her  heart.  As  he  had  promised 
Corbet,  however,  to  take  no  future  step  in 
connection  with  these  matters  without  ecu- 


o82 


WILLIAM  CAELETOy'S   WORKS. 


suiting  him,  lie  resolved,  before  seeing  Lady 
Gonrlay,  to  pay  him  a  \-isit.  He  was  induced 
the  more  to  do  this  in  consequence  of  the 
old  mjui's  singular  conduct  on  the  discovery 
of  Fentou.  From  the  very  tirst  interview 
that  he  ever  had  with  Corbet  untd  that  event, 
he  could  not  avoid  obsen'ing  that  there  was 
a  mystery  in  everything  he  did  and  said — 
something  enigmatical — unfathomable,  and 
that  his  looks,  and  the  disagreeable  exj^res- 
siou  which  thej"^  occasionally  assumed,  were 
frequently  so  much  at  vjmauce  with  his 
words,  that  it  was  an  utter  imijossibility  to 
draw  anytliing  like  a  certain  inference  from 
them.  On  the  discovery  of  Fenton,  the  old 
man's  face  went  through  a  variety  of  contra- 
dictory expressions.  Sometimes  he  seemed 
elated — triumphant,  sometimes  depressed 
and  anxious,  and  occasionally  angry,  or  ex- 
cited by  a  feehng  that  was  altogether  unin- 
telhgible.  He  often  turned  his  eye  upon 
Fenton,  as  if  he  had  discovered  some  jirecious 
treasure,  then  his  countenance  became  over- 
cast, and  he  writhed  in  an  agony  which  no 
mortal  penetration  could  determine  as  any- 
thing but  the  result  of  remorse.  Taking  all 
tliis  into  consideration,  the  stranger  made 
up  his  mind  to  see  him  before  he  should  wait 
upon  Lady  Gourlay. 

Although  a  day  had  elapsed,  he  found  the 
old  man  still  complaining  of  ilhiess,  which, 
he  said,  would  have  been  more  serious  had 
he  not  taken  medicine. 

"jNIy  mind,  however,"  said  he,  "is  what's 
troubhn'  me.  There's  a  battle  goin'  on 
within  me.  At  one  time  I'm  dehghted,  but 
tlie  delight  doesn't  give  me  pleasure  long, 
for  then,  again,  I  feel  a  weight  over  me  that's 
worse  than  death.  However,  I  can't  nor 
won't  give  it  up.  I  hope  I'll  have  time  to  re- 
pent yet ;  who  knows  but  it  is  God  that  has 
put  it  into  my  heart  and  kept  it  there  for  so 
many  years  ?  " 

"  Kept  what  there  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

The  old  man's  face  Hterally  blackened  as 
he  replied,  almost  with  a  scream,  "Ven- 
geance ! " 

"This  language,"  replied  the  other,  "is 
absolutely  shocking.  Consider  your  ad- 
vanced state  of  Ufe — consider  your  present 
iUness,  which  may  probably  be  your  last,  and 
reflect  that  if  you  yourself  expect  pardon 
form  God,  you  must  forgive  your  enemies." 

"  So  I  wiU,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  not  till  I've 
punished  them  ;  then  I'll  tell  them  how  I 
made  my  imjipets  of  them,  and  when  I  give 
their  heart  one  last  ciiish — one  grind  " — and 
*  the  old  wretch  ground  his  teeth  in  the  con- 
templation of  this  diabolical  vision — "  ay," 
he  repeated — "  one  last  gi^ind,  then  I'll  tell 
them  I've  done  vdVh.  them,  and  forgive  them; 
then^theu — ay,  but  not  ////  then  !  " 


"  God  forgive  you,  Corbet,  and  change 
your  heart !  "  replied  the  stranger.  "I  called 
to  say  that  I  am  about  to  inform  Lady  Gour- 
lay that  we  have  her  son  safe  at  last,  and  I 
wish  to  know  if  you  ai-e  in  possession  of  any 
facts  tliat  she  ought  to  be  acquainted  with  in 
connection  with  his  removal — in  fact,  to  hear 
anything  you  may  wish  to  disclose  to  me  on 
the  subject." 

"  I  could,  then,  disclose  to  you  something 
on  the  subject  that  would  make  you  won- 
dher  ;  but  although  the  time's  at  hand,  it's 
not  come  j'et.  Here  I  am,  an  ould  man — 
helpless — or,  at  aU  events,  helpless-lookin' — 
and  you  Avould  hardly  believe  that  I'm  makin' 
this  black  villain  do  everything  accordin'  as 
I  wish  it." 

"  That  dark  spirit  of  vengeance,"  rephed 
the  stranger,  "  is  turning  your  brain,  I  think, 
or  you  would  not  say  so.  AVhatever  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  may  be,  he  is  not  the  man 
to  act  as  the  puppet  of  any  person." 

"  So  you  think  ;  but  I  tell  you  he's  acting 
as  mine,  for  all  that." 

"  Well,  well,  Corbet,  that  is  your  own  af- 
fair-. Have  you  anything  of  importance  to 
communicate  to  me,  before  I  see  Lady  Gour- 
lay? I  ask  you  for  the  last  time." 

"  I  have.  The  black  villain  and  she  have 
sj)oken  at  last.  He  yielded  to  his  daughter 
so  far  as  to  call  upon  her,  and  asked  her  to 
be  present  at  the  weddin'." 

"  The  wedding  !  "  exclaimed  the  stranger, 
looking  aghast.  "God  of  heaven,  old  man, 
do  you  mean  to  saj'  that  they  are  about  to  be 
married  so  soon  ? — about  to  be  married  at 
aU  ?  But  I  "ndll  leave  you,"  he  added;  "  there 
is  no  possibility  of  wringing  anything  out  of 
you." 

"  Wait  a  Httle,"  continued  Corbet.  "  What 
I'm  goin'  to  tell  you  won't  do  you  any  harm, 
at  any  rate." 

"  Be  quick,  then.  Gracious  heaven  ! — 
married  !— Curses  seize  you,  old  man,  be 
quick." 

"  On  the  moniin'  afther  to-morrow  the 
marriage  is  to  take  place  in  Sir  Thomas's 
own  house.  Lord  Dunroe's  sisther  is  to  be 
bridesmaid,  and  a  young  feUow  named  Rob- 
erts  " 

"I  know — I  have  met  him." 

"  AVeU,  and  did  j-ou  ever  see  any  one  that 
he  resembled,  or  that  resembled  him  ?  I 
hope  in  the  Almighty,"  he  added,  uttering 
the  ejaculation  evidently  in  connection  with 
some  private  thought  or  purpose  of  his  own, 
"  I  liojie  in  the  Almighty  that  tliis  sickness 
will  keep  off  o'  me  for  a  couple  o'  days  at  any 
rate.  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  that  resem- 
bled him  ?  '• 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  stranger,  starting,  for 
the    thought   had    flashed    upon    him  ;  "  he 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


583 


is  the  liviuf]^  image  of  ^Miss  Gourlay !  WTiy 
'lo  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Bekaise,  merely  for  a  raison  I  have  ;  but 
if  you  have  patience,  you'll  iiud  that  the 
lonpfer  you  live,  the  more  you'll  kuow  ;  only 
at  this  time  you'll  know  no  more  from  me, 
l)arrin'  that  this  same  younjjj  officer  is  to  be 
his  lords) ii]>'s  gi'oom's-man.  Dr.  Sombre, 
the  cler}^fyman  of  the  parish,  is  to  marry 
them  ill  the  l)aronet's  house.  A  Mrs.  Main- 
waring,  too,  is  to  be  there  ;  ]Miss  Gourlay 
begged  that  she  would  be  allowed  to  come, 
and  he  says  she  may.  You  see  now  how 
well  I  know  everything  that  happens  there, 
don't  you  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  grin  of  triumph. 
"But  I  tell  you  there  will  be  more  at  the 
same  weddin'  than  he  thinks.  80  now — ah, 
this  pain  I — there's  another  string  of  it — I 
feel  it  go  through  me  like  an  aiTow — so  now 
you  may  go  and  see  Lady  Gourlay,  and 
break  the  glad  tidin's  to  her." 

With  feelings  akin  to  awe  and  of  repug- 
nance, but  not  at  till  of  contempt — for  old 
Corbet  was  a  man  whom  no  one  could  de- 
spise— the  stranger  took  his  depai-tiu-e,  and 
proceeded  to  Lady  Gourlays,  \rith  a  vague 
impression  that  the  remarkable  likeness 
between  Lucy  and  young  Roberts  was  not 
merely  accidenttd. 

He  found  her  at  home,  placid  as  usual, 
but  with  eridences  of  a  resignation  that  was 
at  once  melancholy  and  distressing  to  wit- 
ness. The  sti'uggle  of  tliis  admirable  wo- 
man's heart,  though  sustjiined  by  high 
Christian  feeling,  was,  nevertheless,  wearing 
her  away  by  slow  and  painftd  degrees.  The 
stranger  saw  tliis,  and  scarcely  knew  in  what 
terms  to  shape  the  communication  he  had  to 
niiUvC,  full  as  it  was  of  ecstasy  to  the  mother's 
loving  spirit,  yet  dashed  with  such  doubt 
and  sorrow. 

"  Can  you  bear  good  tidings.  Lady  Goui'- 
lay,"  said  he,  "  though  mingled  with  some 
cause  of  apprehension  ?  " 

"  I  am  in  the  hands  of  God,"  she  replied, 
"  and  feel  that  I  ought  to  receive  every  com- 
munication with  obedience.     Speak  on." 

"  Your  sou  is  found  I " 

"  What,  my  child  restored  to  me  ?  " 

She  had  been  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  but 
on  hearing  these  words  she  started  up,  and 
said  again,  as  she  placed  her  hands  upon  the 
table  at  which  he  sat,  that  she  might  sustain 
herself,  "  What,  Charles,  my  diuling  restored 
to  me  !  Is  he  safe  ?  Can  I  see  him  ?  Re- 
stored I  restored  at  last !  " 

"Moderate  your  joy,  my  dear  madam  ;  he 
is  safe — he  is  in  my  hotel." 

"But  why  not  here?  Safe  !  oh,  at  last — 
at  last !  liut  God  is  a  God  of  mei-cy,  espe- 
cially to  the  i>atient  and  long-sulVering.  But 
come— oh,  come!     Think  of  me, — j)ity  n)C,  I 


and  do  not  defraud  me  one  moment  of  his 
sight.     Biing  me  to  liim  ! " 

"  Hear  me  a  moment,  Lady  Gourlay." 

"  No,  no,"  she  repUed,  in  a  passion  of  joy- 
ful tears,  "  I  can  hear  you  again.  I  must  see 
my  son — my  son— my  darling  child— where 
is  my  .son  ?  Here — but  no,  I  will  ring  my 
self.  A\Tiy  not  have  brought  him  here  at 
once,  sir  ?     Am  not  I  his  mother  ?  " 

"  My  dear  madam,"  said  the  stranger, 
calmly,  l)ut  with  a  seriousness  of  manner  that 
checked  the  exuberance  of  her  delight,  and 
placing  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  "hear 
me  a  moment.  Your  son  is  foimd  ;  but  he 
is  ill,  and  I  fear  in  some  danger." 

"  But  to  see  him,  then,"  she  repHed,  look- 
ing with  entreaty  in  his  face,  "  only  to  see 
him.  After  this  long  and  dreary  absence,  to 
let  my  eyes  rest  on  my  son.  He  is  ill,  you 
say  ;  and  what  hand  should  be  near  him  and 
about  him  but  his  mother's?  "Wlio  can 
with  such  love  and  tenderness  cherish,  and 
soothe,  and  comfort  him,  as  the  mother  who 
would  die  for  him  ?  Oh,  I  have  a  thousand 
thoughts  iTJshing  to  my  heart — a  thousand 
aflfectionate  anxieties  to  gratify  ;  but  tii'st  to 
look  upon  him — to  press  him  to  that  heart 
— to  pour  a  mother's  raptiu*es  over  her  long- 
lost  child  !  Come  with  me — oh,  come.  If 
he  is  ill,  ought  I  not,  as  I  said,  to  see  him 
the  sooner  on  that  account?  Come,  dear 
Charles,  let  the  carriage  be  ordered  ;  but 
that  will  take  some  time.  A  hackney-coach 
■win  do — a  car — anything  that  will  biing  us 
there  with  least  delay." 

"But,  an  interview,  my  lady,  maybe  at 
this  moment  as  much  as  his  life  is  worth  ; 
he  is  not  out  of  danger." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  not  ask  an  interview. 
Only  let  me  see  him — let  liis  mother's  eyes 
I'est  upon  him.  Let  me  steal  a  look — a  look  ; 
let  me  steal  but  one  look,  and  I  am  sure, 
dear  Charles,  you  will  not  gainsay  this  little 
theft  of  the  mother's  heart.  But,  ah,"  she 
suddenly  exclaimed,  "what  am  I  doin^? 
Ungi-ateful  and  selfish  that  I  am,  to  foi-get 
my  first  duty  !  Pardon  me  a  few  moments  ; 
I  will  return  soon." 

She  passed  into  the  back  drawing-room, 
where,  although  the  doors  were  folded,  he 
could  hear  this  tmly  pious  woman  pouiing 
forth  with  tears  her  gi-atitude  to  God.  In  a 
few  minutes  she  reappeared  ;  and  such  were 
the  arguments  she  used,  that  he  felt  it  im- 
possible to  prevent  her  from  gi-atif)ing 
this  nattu-al  and  absorbing  impulse  of  the 
heart. 

On  reaching  the  hotel,  thej-  found,  aftei 
inquiring,  that  he  was  asleej),  a  cii'cumstauce 
which  greatly  ])leased  the  stranger,  as  h© 
doubted  very  much  whether  Fenton  would 
have  been  strong  enough,  either  in  mind  or 


j84 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORLvS. 


body,  to  bear  such  au  iuterview  as  must  have 
taken  place  between  them. 

Tlie  unhappy  young  man  was,  as  we  have 
said,  sound  asleep.  His  face  was  pale  and 
wan,  but  a  febrile  hue  had  tinged  his  coun- 
tenance with  a  color  which,  although  it  con- 
cealed his  danger,  was  not  sufficient  to  re- 
move fi-om  it  the  mournful  expression  of  all 
he  had  suffered.  Yet  the  stranger  thought 
that  he  never  had  seen  him  look  so  well. 
His  face  was  indeed  a  fair  but  melancholy 
page  of  human  hfe.  The  brows  were  sHghtly 
knit,  as  if  indicative  of  suffering  ;  and  there 
passed  over  his  featui-es,  as  he  lay,  such  vaiy- 
ing  expressions  as  we  may  presume  corre- 
sponded with  some  painful  dream,  by  which, 
as  fai'  as  one  could  judge,  he  seemed  to  be 
influenced.  Sometimes  he  looked  like  one 
that  endured  paui,  sometimes  as  if  he  felt 
teri'or  ;  and  occasionally  a  gleam  of  pleasure 
or  joy  would  faintly  Hght  up  his  handsome 
but  wasted  countenance. 

Lady  Gouiiay,  whilst  she  looked  upon 
him,  was  obliged  to  be  supported  by  the 
stranger,  who  had  much  difficulty  in  re- 
straining her  giief  within  due  bounds.  As 
for  the  tears,  they  fell  fi-om  her  eyes  in 
showers. 

"I  must  really  remove  you,  my  lady," 
he  said,  in  a  whisper  ;  "  his  recovery,  his  very 
life,  may  depend  ujDon  the  soundness  of  this 
sleep.  You  see  youi'self,  now,  the  state  he 
is  in  ;  and  who  hving  has  such  an  interest  in 
his  restoration  to  health  as  you  have  ?  " 

"I  know  it,"  she  whispered  in  reply.  "I 
will  be  quiet." 

As  they  spoke,  a  faint  smile  seemed  to 
light  up  his  face,  which,  however,  was  soon 
changed  to  an  expression  of  terror. 

"  Don't  scourge  me,"  said  he,  "  don't  and 
I  will  tell  you.  It  was  my  mother.  I 
thought  she  kissed  me,  as  she  used  to  do 
long  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  never 
thought  I'd  be  here."  He  then  uttered  a 
few  faint  sobs,  but  relapsed  into  a  calm  ex- 
pression almost  immediately. 

Tlie  violent  beatings  of  Lady  Gourlay's 
heart  were  distinctly  felt  by  the  stranger,  as 
he  supported  her  ;  and  in  order  to  prevent 
the  sobs  which  he  knew,  by  the  heavings  of 
her  breast,  were  about  to  burst  forth,  fi-oni 
awakenmg  the  sleeper,  he  felt  it  best  to  lead 
her  out  of  \\\e  room  ;  which  he  had  no 
80(mer  done,  than  she  gave  way  to  a  long 
tit  of  uncontrollable  weeping. 

"  Oh,  my  child  ! — my  child  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed, "  I  fear  they  have  murdered  him  ! 
Alas  !  is  he  only  to  be  restored  to  me  for  a 
moment,  and  am  I  then  to  be  childless  in- 
deed V  But  I  will  strive  to  become  calm. 
\Miy  should  I  not?  For  even  this  is  a 
blessing — to  have  seen  him,  and  to  have  the 


melancholy  consolation  of  knowing  that  if 
he  is  to  die,  he  will  die  in  my  ovn\  arms." 

"  AVell,  but  I  trust,  madam,  he  won't  die. 
The  workings  of  Pro"vidence  are  never  in- 
effectual, or  without  a  iDui-jDose.  Have  cour- 
age, have  patience,  and  all  will,  I  tiiist,  end 
happily." 

"  Well,  but  I  have  a  request  to  make. 
AHow  me  to  kiss  him  ;  I  shall  not  disturb 
him  ;  and  if  he  should  recover,  as  I  trust  in 
the  Almight}''s  mercy  he  will — oh,  how  I 
should  like  to  tell  him  that  the  dream  about 
liis  mother  was  not  altogether  a  dream — 
that  I  did  kiss  him.  Trust  me,  I  will  not 
awaken  him — the  fall  of  the  thistledown  will 
will  not  be  Ughter  than  the  kiss  I  shall  give 
my  child." 

"Well,  be  it  so,  my  lady;  and  get  your- 
seK  calm,  for  you  know  not  his  danger,  if  he 
should  awaken  and  become  agitated." 

They  then  reentered  the  apai'tment,  and 
Lady  Gourlay,  after  contemjDlating  him  for 
a  moment  or  two,  stooped  down  and  gently 
kissed  his  lips — once — twice — and  a  third 
time — and  a  single  tear  fell  upon  his  cheek. 
At  this  moment,  and  the  coincidence  was 
beautiful  and  affecting,  his  face  became  once 
more  irradiated  by  a  smile  that  was  singu- 
laiiy  serene  and  sweet,  as  if  his  very  spirit 
within  him  had  recognized  and  felt  the 
affection  and  tenderness  of  this  timid  but 
loving  embrace. 

The  stranger  then  led  her  out  again,  and 
a  burden  seemed  to  have  been  taken  off  her 
heart.  She  dried  her  tears,  and  in  grate- 
ful and  fervid  terms  expressed  the  deep  ob- 
ligations she  owed  him  for  his  generous  and 
persevering  exertions  in  seeking  out  and  re- 
storing her  son. 

This  sleep  was  a  long  one,  and  proved 
very  beneficial,  by  somewhat  recruiting  the 
httle  strength  that  had  been  left  him.  The 
stranger  had  every  measure  taken  that 
could  contribute  to  his  comfort  and  recovery. 
Two  nurse  tenders  were  procured,  to  whose 
care  he  was  committed,  under  the  general 
superintendence  of  Dandy  Dulcimer,  whom 
he  at  once  recognized,  and  by  whose  perfonn- 
ance  upon  that  instrument  the  poor  3'oimg 
man  seemed  not  only  much  pleased,  but 
improved  in  confidence  and  the  general 
powers  of  his  intellect.  The  physician  saAv 
him  twice  a  day,  so  that  at  the  jjeriod  of 
Lady  Gourlay's  visit,  she  fovand  that  every 
care  and  attention,  wiiich  consideration  and 
kindness,  and  anxiety  for  his  re(!0very  could 
bestow  upon  him,  had  been  j^aid  ;  a  fact 
that  eased  and  satisfied  her  mind  very  much. 

One  rather  gi'atifying  symjjtom  appeared 
in  him  after  he  awoke  on  that  occasion.  Ha 
looked  about  the  room,  and  inquired  foj 
Dulcimer,  who  soon  made  his  apjjearance. 


THE  BLACK  BAROXET. 


585 


"  Damly. "  saiil  lie,  for  lie  had  known  him 
very  well  in  Ballytrain,  "  ^^ill  you  be  angrj' 
with  me  if  I  ask  you  a  question  ?  Dandy,  I 
am  a  gentleman,  and  vou  will  not  treat  me 
ill." 

"I  would  be  glad  to  see  the  villain  that 
'ud  dare  to  do  it,  ^Ix.  Fenton,"  rephed  Dan- 
dy, a  good  deal  moved,  "  much  less  to  do  it 
myself." 

"Ah,"  he  rephed  in  a  tone  of  voice  that 
was  enough  to  draw  teai's  from  any  eye, 
'•  but,  then,  I  can  depend  on  no  one  ;  and  if 

they  should  bring  me  back  there "     His 

eyes  became  wild  and  full  of  hoiTor,  as  he 
spoke,  and  he  was  about  to  betray  symp- 
toms of  strong  agitation,  when  Dandy  judi- 
ciously brought  him  back  to  the  point. 

"  They  won't,  ^Ii-.  Fenton  ;  don't  be  afeai-ed 
of  that ;  you  ai*e  among  friends  now ;  but 
what  was  the  question  you  were  goin'  to 
ask  me  ?  "  • 

"  A  question  ! — was  I  ?  "  said  he,  pausing, 
as  if  stx'iviug  to  recover  the  train  of  thought 
he  had  lost.  "Oh,  yes,"  he  proceeded, 
"yes;  there  was  a  pound  note  taken  fi'om 
me.  I  got  it  fi'om  the  strange  gentleman  in 
the  inn,  and  I  wish  I  had  it." 

"Well,  sir,"  rephed  Dandy,  "if  it  can  be 
got  at  all,  you  must  have  it.  I'll  inquire  for 
it." 

" Do,"  he  said  ;  "I  wish  to  have  it." 

Dandy,  in  reply  to  the  stranger's  fi'equent 
and  anxious  inquii-ies  about  him,  mentioned 
this  little  dialogue,  and  the  latter  at  once 
recollected  that  he  had  the  note  in  his  pos- 
session. 

"It  may  be  good  to  gi'atify  him,"  he  re- 
plied ;  "and  as  the  note 'can  be  of  Httle  use 
now,  we  had  better  let  him  have  it." 

He  accordingly  sent  it  to  him  by  Dandy, 
who  could  obsene  that  the  possession  of  it 
seemed  to  give  him  peculiar  satisfaction. 

Had  not  the  stranger  been  a  man  capable  of 
maintaining  gi'eat  restraint  over  the  exercise 
of  very  strong  feehngs,  he  could  never  have 
conducted  himself  with  so  much  calmness 
and  self-control  in  his  interview  Avith  Lady 
fxom-lay  and  poor  Fenton.  His  own  heart 
during  all  the  time  was  in  a  tumidt  of  per- 
fect distraction,  but  this  was  occasioned  by 
causes  that  bore  no  analogy  to  those  that 
passed  before  him.  From  the  moment  he 
heard  that  Lucy's  raai-riage  had  been  fixed 
for  the  next  day  but  one,  he  felt  as  if  his 
hold  upon  hope  and  life,  and  all  that  they 
promised  him,  was  lost,  and  his  happiness 
annihilated  forever  ;  he  felt  as  if  reason  were 
about  to  abandon  him,  as  if  all  existence  had 
become  dark,  and  the  sun  himself  ha<.l  been 
struck  out  of  the  system  of  the  universe. 
He  could  not  rest,  and  only  \d\\i  dirticulty 
think  at  all  as  a  sane  man  ou'rht.     At  lentrth  , 


he  resolved  to  see  the  baronet,  at  the  risk 
of  life  or  tleath — in  spite  of  every  obstacle — 
in  despite  of  all  opposition  ; — perish  social 
forms  and  usages — perish  the  insolence  of 
wealth,  and  the  jealous  restrictions  of  paren- 
tal tyrann}'.  Yes,  perish  one  and  all,  sooner 
than  he,  a  man,  with  an  unshrinking  heart, 
and  a  strong  arm.  should  tamely  suffer  that 
noble  girl  to  be  sficriticed,  ay,  miu'dered,  at 
the  shrine  of  a  black  and  guilty  ambition. 
Agitated,  urged,  maddened,  by  these  con- 
siderations, he  went  to  the  baronet's  house 
with  a  hope  of  seeing  him,  but  that  hope 
was  frustrated.     Sir  Thomas  was  out. 

"  Was  ^liss  Gourlay  at  home  ?  " 

"  No  ;  she  too  had  gone  out  with  her  fath' 
er,"  replied  Gibson,  who  happened  to  open 
the  door. 

"  Would  you  be  kind  enough,  sir,  to  dehv^ 
er  a  note  to  ]\Iiss  Goiu-lay  ?  " 

"  I  could  not,  sir  ;  I  diu'e  not." 

"I  will  give  you  five  pounds,  if  you  do." 

"It  is  impossible,  sir  ;  I  should  lose  my 
situation  instantly  if  I  attempted  to  dehver  it. 
]VIiss  Goui'lay,  sir,  will  receive  no  letters  un- 
less through  her  father's  hands,  and  besides, 
sir,  we  have  repeated!}'  had  the  most  positive 
orders  not  to  receive  any  fi-om  you,  above  all 
men  hring." 

"  I  wdl  give  you  ten  pounds." 

Gibson  shook  his  head,  but  at  the  same 
time  the  expression  of  his  countenance  be- 
gan manifestly'  to  relax,  and  he  licked  hia 
lips  as  he  rej)lied,  "  I — really — could — not — 
sir." 

"Twenty." 

The  fellow  paused  and  looked  stealthily  in 
eveiy  direction,  when,  just  at  the  moment  he 
was  about  to  entex-tain  the  subject,  Thomas 
Corbet,  the  house-steward,  came  fonvard 
fi'om  the  fi'ont  parlor  where  he  evidently  had 
been  listening,  and  asked  Gibson  what  was 
the  matter.  , 

"  This  gentleman,"  said  Gibson,  "  ahem — 
is  anxious  to  have  a — ahem — he  was  inijuir- 
ing  for  Sir  Thomas." 

"  Gibson,  go  do^^-n  stairs,"  said  Corbet. 
"You  had  better  do  so.  I  have  ears,  Gil)son. 
Go  down  at  once,  and  leave  the  gentleman  to 
me." 

Gibson  again  licked  his  lips,  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  with  a  risage  rather  blank  and 
disappointed,  slunk  away  as  he  had  been  de- 
sired.    "NMien  he  had  gone, 

"  Y'ou  wish,  sir,"  said  Corbet,  "  to  have  a 
note  dehvered  to  ^liss  Gourlay  ?  " 

"  I  do,  and  will  give  you  twenty  pounds  if 
you  deliver  it." 

"  Hand  me  the  money  quietly,"  replied 
Corbet,  "  an<l  the  note  also.  I  shall  then 
give  you  a  friend's  advice." 

The    stranger    immediately  placed   both 


586 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


the  money  and  the  note  in  his  hands  ;  when 
Corbet,  having  put  them  in  his  pocket,  said, 
"I  will  deliver  the  note,  sir  ;  but  go  to  my 
father,  and  ask  /u/h  to  prevent  this  marriage  ; 
and,  above  all  things,  to  dii-eet  you  how  to 
act.  If  any  man  can  serve  you  in  the  busi- 
ness, he  can." 

"  Could  you  not  let  me  see  Miss  Gomiay 
herself  ?  "  said  the  stranger. 

"  No,  sir  ;  she  has  promised  her  father 
neither  to  see  you,  nor  to  write  to  you,  nor 
to  receive  any  letters  fi'om  you." 

"  But  I  mu>^t  see  Sir  Thomas  himself,"  said 
the  stranger  determinedly. 

"  You  seem  a  good  deal  excited,  sir,"  re- 
phed  Corbet ;  "pray,  be  calm,  and  hsten  to 
me.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  put  this  letter 
under  a  blank  cover,  which  I  will  address  in 
a  feigned  hand,  in  order  that  she  may  even 
receive  it.  As  for  her  father,  he  would  not 
see  you,  nor  enter  into  any  explanation  what- 
soever with  you.  In  fact,  he  is  almost  out 
of  his  mind  with  dehght  and  teiTor  ;  with 
dehght,  that  the  marriage  is  at  length 
about  to  take  place,  and  with  teiTor,  lest 
something  might  occur  to  prevent  it.  One 
word,  sir.  I  see  Gibson  peeping  iip.  Go  and 
see  my  father  ;  you  have  seen  him  more  than 
once  before." 

On  the  part  of  Corbet,  the  stranger  re- 
mai'ked  that  there  was  something  sneaking, 
shghtly  derisive,  and  intimating,  moreover, 
a  want  of  sincerity  in  this  short  dialogxie,  an 
impression  that  was  strengthened  on  hearing 
the  relation  which  he  bore  to  the  obstinate 
old  sphinx  on  Constitution  Hill. 

"  But  pardon  me,  my  fiiend,"  said  he,  as 
Corbet  was  about  to  go  away ;  "if  Miss 
Goiu'lay  will  not  receive  or  open  my  letter, 
why  did  you  accept  such  a  sum  of  money 
for  it  ? "  He  paused,  not  knowing  exactly 
how  to  proceed,  yet  with  a  tolerably  strong 
suspicion  that  Corbet  was  cheating  him. 

"  ObseiTe,  sii-,"  replied  the  other,  "  that  I 
said  I  would  deliver  the  letter  only — I  didn't 
undertake  to  make  her  read  it.  But  I 
dare  say  you  are  right — I  don't  think  she 
will  even  open  it  at  all,  much  less  read  it. 
Here,  sir,  I  return  both  money  and  letter  ; 
and  I  wish  you  to  know,  besides,  that  I  am 
not  a  man  in  the  habit  of  being  suspected 
of  improper  motives.  My  advice  that  you 
should  see  my  father  is  a  proof  that  I  am 
your  friend." 

The  other,  who  was  completely  outma- 
'  nopuvred  l)y  Corbet,  at  once  decUned  to  re- 
ceive back  either  the  letter  or  notes,  and  after 
again  pressing  the  worthy  steward  to  befi-iend 
him  in  the  matter  of  the  note  as  far  as  he 
could,  he  once  more  paid  a  visit  to  old  An- 
thony. This  occurred  on  the  day  before  that 
appointed  for  the  marriage. 


"Corbet,"  said  he,  addressing  him  as  he 
lay  upon  jm  old  crazy  sofa,  the  tarnished  cov- 
er of  which  shone  with  dirt,  "  I  am  distract- 
ed, and  have  come  to  ask  your  advice  and 
assistance." 

"Is  it  a  heljiless  ould  creature  like  niR 
you'd  come  to  ? "  replied  Corbet,  hitching 
himself  upon  the  sofa,  as  if  to  get  ease.  "  Bui 
what  is  wrong  now  ?  " 

"  If  this  marriage  between  Miss  Goui-lay 
and  Lord  Dunroe  takes  place,  I  shall  lose  my 
senses." 

"Well,  in  troth,"  repKed  Anthony,  in  hia 
own  peculiar  manner,  "  if  you  don't  get 
more  than  you  appear  to  be  gifted  with  at 
present,  you  won't  have  much  to  lose,  and 
that  will  be  one  comfort.  But  how  can  you 
expect  me  to  assist  you  ?  " 

"Did  you  not  tell  me  that  the  baronet  is 
your  puppet  ?  " 

"I  did  ;  but  that  was  for  my  enfls,  not  for 
yours." 

"Well,  but  could  you  not  prevent  this 
accursed,  sacrilegious,  blasphemous  union  ?  " 

"For  God's  sake,  spake  aisy,  and  keep 
yourself  quiet,"  said  Anthony  ;  "I  am  ill, 
and  not  able  to  bear  noise  and  capering  like 
this.     I'm  a  weak,  feeble  ould  man." 

"Listen  to  me,  Corbet,"  continued  the 
other,  with  vehemence,  "  command  mj-  purse, 
my  means  to  any  extent,  if  you  do  what  I 
wish." 

"I  did  like  money,"  rf plied  Corbet,  "  but 
of  late  my  whole  heart  is  filled  with  but  one 
thought ;  and  rather  than  not  carry  that 
out,  I  would  sacrifice  every  child  I  have.  1 
love  IMiss  Gourlay,  for  I  know  she  is  a  livin' 
angel,  but " 

"  "SMiat  ?  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you 
w^ould  saciifice  her  ?  " 

"If  I  would  sacrifice  my  owTi,  do  you 
think  I'd  be  apt  to  spare  her  ?  "  he  asked  with 
a  gi-oan,  for  in  fact  his  illness  had  rather  in- 
creased. 

"  Are  you  not  better  ?  "  inquired  the  stran- 
ger, moved  by  a  feeling  of  humanity  which 
nothing  could  eradicate  out  of  his  noble  and 
generous  nature.  "Allow^  me  to  send  a 
doctor  to  you  ?  I  shall  do  so  at  my  own  ex- 
pense." 

Anthony  looked  upon  him  with  more  com- 
placency, but  replied. 

"  The  blackguard  knaves,  no  ;  they  only 
rob  you  first  and  kill  you  afterwards.  A 
highway-robber's  before  them  ;  for  he  kills 
you  first,  and  afther  that  you  can't  feel  the 
pain  of  being  robbed.  Well,  I  can't  talk 
much  to  you  now.  IVIy  head's  beginnin*  to 
get  troublesome  ;  but  I'll  teU  you  what  you'll 
do.  I'll  call  for  that  young  man,  Fenton, 
and  you  must  let  him  come  with  me  to  the 
wedding  to-morrow  mornin'.     Indeed,  I  in* 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


587 


tended  to  take  a  car,  and  drive  over  to  ask  it 
as. a  favor  from  you." 

*'  To  Avliat  purpose  should  he  go,  even  if 
he  were  able  ?  but  he  is  too  iU." 

"  Hasn't  he  been  out  in  a  chaise  ?  " 

"  He  has  ;  but  as  he  is  incapable  of  bear- 
ing any  agitation  or  excitement,  his  presence 
there  might  cause  his  death." 
'  "  Xo,  sii',  it  will  not ;  I  knew  him  to  be 
worse,  and  he  recovered  ;  he  AviU  be  better,  I 
tell  you  :  besides,  if  you  wish  me  to  sarve 
you  in  one  way,  you  must  sarve  me  in 
this." 

"  But  can  you  prevent  the  mai'riage  ?  " 

"  "\Miat  I  can  do,  or  what  I  cannot  do,  a 
team  of  liorses  won't  drag  out  o'  me,  imtil 
the  time — the  hour — comes — then  !  Will 
you  allow  the  young  man  to  come,  sii'  ?  " 

"  But  liis  mother,  you  say,  a\t11  be  there, 
and  a  scene  between  them  would  be  not  only 
distressing  to  all  parties,  and  out  of  place, 
but  might  be  dangerous  to  him." 

"It's  becavise  his  mother's  to  be  there, 
maybe,  that  I  Avant  him  to  be  there.  Don't 
I  tell  you  that  I  want  to — but  no,  I'll  keep 
my  o\w\  mind  to  myself — only  sink  or  swim 
without  me,  unless  you  allow  liim  to 
come." 

"Well,  then,  if  he  be  sufficiently  strong  to 
go,  I  s'liall  not  prevent  him,  upon  the  condi- 
tion that  3'ou  will  exercise  the  mysterious 
iniluence  which  j'ou  seem  in  possession  of 
for  the  purpose  of  breaking  up  the  mai'- 
riage. "  ' 

"I  won't  promise  to  do  any  such  thing," 
replied  Anthony.  "You  must  only  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  bargain,  by  lavin'  every- 
thing to  myself.  Go  away  now,  sir,  if  you 
plaise  ;  mj'  head's  not  right,  and  I  want  to 
keep  it  clear  for  to-morrow." 

The  stranger  saw  that  he  was  as  inscruta- 
ble as  ever,  and  consequently  left  him,  half 
in  indignation,  and  half  ijnpressed  by  a  lurk- 
ing hope  that,  notwithstanding  the  curtness 
of  his  manner,  he  was  determined  to  befriend 
him. 

This,  however,  was  far  from  the  heart  of 
old  Corbet,  whose  pertinacity  of  puii^ose 
nothing  short  of  death  itself  could  either 
moderate  or  change. 

"  Prevent  the  marriage,  indeed !  Oh,  ay  ! 
Catch  me  at  it.  No.  no  ;  that  must  take 
place,  or  I'm  balked  of  half  my  revenge.  It's 
when  he  finds  that  he  has,  liy  his  own  bad 
and  bhnd  passions,  married  her  to  the  pro- 
tligate  wifhoiit  (he  title  that  he'll  shiver.  And 
that  scamp,  too,  the  bastard — but,  no  mat- 
ther — I  must  tiy  and  keep  my  head  clear,  as 
I  said,  for  to-morrow  will  be  a  great  day, 
either  for  good  or  evil,  to  some  of  them. 
Yes,  and  when  all  is  ovei\  tlien  my  mind  Avill 
be  at  aise  ;  this  black  thiny:  that's  inside  o' 


me  for  years — drivin'  me  on,  on,  on — will  go 
about  his  business  ;  and  then,  plaise  good- 
ness, I  can  repent  comfortably  and  like  a 
Christian.     Oh,  dear  me  ! — my  head  ! " 


CHAPTER   XU. 


Denouement. 


At  length  the  important  morning,  fraught 
with  a  series  of  such  varied  and  many-col- 
ored events,  arrived.  Sir  Thomas  Goiu-lay, 
always  an  early  riser,  was  up  betimes,  and 
paced  his  room  to  and  fro  in  a  train  of  pro- 
found reflection.  It  was  evident,  however, 
from  his  elated  yet  turbid  eye,  that  although 
dehght  and  exultation  were  prevalent  in  his 
breast,  he  was  by  no  means  free  from  visita- 
tions of  a  dark  and  jiainful  character.  These 
he  endeavored  to  fling  off,  and  in  order  to 
do  so  more  effectually,  he  gave  a  loose  rein 
to  the  contemplation  of  his  oaati  successful 
ambition.  Yet  he  occasionally  appeared 
anxious  and  uneasy,  and  felt  disturbed  and 
gloomy  fits  that  irritated  him  even  for  en- 
teriaining  them.  He  was  more  than  usually 
neiTOus ;  his  hand  shook,  and  his  stem, 
strong  voice  had  in  its  tones,  when  he  spoke, 
the  audible  evidences  of  agitation.  These, 
we  say,  threw  their  deep  shadows  over  his 
mind  occasionally,  whereas  a  sense  of  tri- 
umph and  gi'atified  pride  constituted  its 
general  tone  and  temper. 

"Well,"  said  he,  ".so  far  so  well :  Lucy 
will  soon  become  reconciled  to  this  step,  and 
all  my  projects  for  her  advancement  will  be 
— nay,  already  are,  realized.  After  all,  my 
theory  of  Hfe  is  the  correct  one,  no  matter 
v>'hat  canting  priests  and  ignorant  pliiloso- 
phers  may  say  to  the  contrary.  Every  man 
is  his  oAATi  proridence,  and  ought  to  be  his 
own  priest,  as  I  have  been.  As  for  a  moral 
plan  in  the  incidents  and  vicissitudes  of  hfe, 
I  could  never  see  nor  recognize  such  a  thing. 
Or  if  there  be  a  Providence  that  foresees  and 
directs,  then  we  only  fulfil  his  purposes  by 
whatever  we  do,  whether  the  act  be  a  crime 
or  a  rirtue.  So  that  on  either  side  I  am  safe. 
There,  to  be  sure,  is  my  brother's  son, 
against  whom  I  have  committed  a  crime  ;  ay, 
but  what,  after  all,  ?n  a  crime  ? — An  injury  to  a 
fellow-creature.  What  is  a  virtue  ? — A  bene- 
fit to  the  same.  Well,  he  has  sustained  an  in- 
jury at  my  hands — be  it  so — that  is  a  crime  ; 
but  I  and  my  son  have  derived  a  benefit  from 
the  act,  and  this  turns  it  into  a  virtue  ;  for  as 
to  who  gains  or  who  loses,  that  is  not  a  matter 
for  the  world,  wlio  have  no  distinct  nile 
wherein'  to  determine  its  complexion  or  its 
character,  unless  by  the  usages  and  necessi- 


668 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


ties  of  life,  which  are  varied  by  climate  and 
education  to  such  an  extent,  that  what  is 
looked  upon  as  a  crime  in  one  coimtrj-  or 
one  creed  is  fi-equently  considered  a  vii-tue 
in  another.  As  for  futui-ity,  that  is  a  sealed 
book  which  no  man  hitherto  has  been  able 
to  open.  "We  all  know — and  a  dark  and 
gloomy  fact  it  is — that  we  must  die.  Be-  I 
youd  that,  the  searches  of  human  intellect 
cannot  go,  although  the  imagination  may 
project  itself  into  a  futurity  of  its  own 
creation.  Such  airy  visions  are  not  subjects 
sufficiently  solid  for  behef.  As  for  me,  if  I 
beheve  nothing,  the  fault  is  not  mine,  for  I 
can  find  nothing  to  believe — nothing  that  can 
satisfy  my  reason.  The  contingencies  of 
life,  as  they  cross  and  jostle  each  other,  con- 
stitute by  their  accidental  results  the  only 
proridential  wisdom  which  I  can  discern,  the 
proj)er  name  of  which  is  Chance.  "WTio  have  I, 
for  instance,  to  thank  but  myself — my  own 
energ}-  of  chai-acter,  m}'  o^m  perseverance  of 
purpose,  my  own  determined  ■nill — for  ac- 
comphshing  my  own  projects  ?  I  can  j)er- 
ceive  no  other  agent,  either  Aisible  or  in%isi- 
ble.  It  is,  however,  a  hai'd  creed — a  painful 
creed,  and  one  which  requu-es  gi-eat  strength 
of  mind  to  entertain.  Yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  when  I  reflect  that  it  may  be  only  the 
result  of  a  reaction  in  principle,  proceeding 
from  a  latent  conviction  that  all  is  not  right 
within,  and  that  we  reject  the  tribunal  be- 
cause we  are  conscious  that  it  must  condemn 
us — abjure  the  authority  of  the  court  because 
we  have  violated  its  jurisdiction  ;  yes,  when 
I  reflect  upon  this,  it  is  then  that  these 
visitations  of  gloom  and  A\Tetchedn.ess  some- 
times agonize  my  mind  until  it  becomes  dark 
and  heated,  like  heU,  and  I  curse  both  my- 
self and  my  creed.  Now,  however,  when 
this  maniage  shall  have  taken  place,  the 
great  object  of  my  life  will  be  gained — the 
great  struggle  will  be  over,  and  I  can 
relax  and  fall  back  into  a  life  of  comfort,  en- 
joyment, and  fi-eedom  from  anxiety  and  care. 
But,  then,  is  there  no  risk  of  sacrificing  my 
daughter's  liappiness  forever?  I  certainly 
would  not  do  that.  I  know,  however,  what 
influence  the  possession  of  rank,  position, 
title,  will  have  on  her,  when  she  comes  to 
know  tlieir  value  by  seeing — ay,  and  by  feel- 
ing, how  they  are  appreciated.  There  is  not 
a  husband-hunting  dowager  in  the  Avorld  of 
fashion,  nor  a  female  projector  or  manceu\Ter 
in  aristoci-atic  life,  who  will  not  enable  her 
to  understand  and  enjoy  her  good  fortune. 
Every  sagacious  cast  for  a  title  will  be  to 
her  a  homily  on  content.  But,  above  all,  she 
will  1)0  able  to  see  and  despise  their  jealousy, 
to  laugh  at  their  envy,  and  to  exercise  at  their 
expense  that  supeiiority  of  intellect  and  eleva- 
tion of  rank  Avhich  slie  will  possess  ;  for  this 


I  will  teach  her  to  do.  Yes,  I  am  satisfied 
All  will  then  go  on  smoothly,  and  I  shall 
trouble  myself  no  more  about  creeds  or 
covenants,  whether  secrdar  or  spiritual." 

He  then  went  to  dress  and  shave  after  this 
complacent  resolution,  but  was  still  a  good 
deal  sui-prised  to  find  that  his  hand  shook  so 
disagreeably,  and  that  his  powerful  system 
was  in  a  state  of  such  general  and  unaccount- 
able agitation. 

After  he  had  dressed,  and  was  about  to 
go  down  stall's,  Thomas  Corbet  came  to  ask 
a  favor,  as  he  said. 

"Well,  Corbet,"  repHedhis  master,  "what 
is  it?" 

"My  father,  sir,"  proceeded  the  other, 
"  wishes  to  know  if  you  would  have  any  ob- 
jection to  his  being  present  at  ]\Iiss  Gour- 
lay's  marriage,  and  if  you  would  also  allow 
him  to  bring  a  few  friends,  who,  he  says,  are 
anxious  to  see  the  bride." 

"No  objection,  Corbet  —  none  in-  the 
world  ;,  and  least  of  all  to  your  father.  I 
have  found  your  family  faithful  and  attached 
to  my  interests  for  many  a  long  year,  and  it 
would  be  too  bad  to  refuse  him  such  a 
paltry  request  as  that.  Tell  him  to  bring  his 
friends  too,  and  they  may  be  present  at 
the  ceremony,  if  they  wish.  It  was  never 
my  intention  that  my  daughter's  maiTiage 
should  be  a  private  one,  nor  would  it  now, 
were  it  not  for  her  state  of  health.  Let  your 
father's  fi-iends  and  yours  come,  then,  Cor- 
bet, and  see  that  you  entertain  them  prop- 
erly." 

Corbet  then  thanked  him,  and  was  about 
to  go,  when  the  other  said,  "  Corbet!  "  after 
which  he  paused  for  some  time. 

"  Sir  !  "  said  Corbet. 

"  I  wish  to  ask  your  opinior^"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "as  to  allowing  my  son  to  be  pres- 
ent. He  himself  washes  it,  and  asked  my 
consent ;  but  as  his  sister  entertains  such  an 
unaccountable  prejudice  against  him,  I  had 
doubts  as  to  whether  he  ought  to  appear  at 
all.  There  are,  also,  as  you  know,  other 
reasons." 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason,  sir,  that  ought 
to  exclude  him  the  moment  the  marriage 
words  are  pronounced.  I  think,  sir,  with  hu 
mility,  that  it  is  not  only  his  right,  but  his 
duty,  to  be  present,  and  that  it  is  a  veiy  pro- 
per occasion  for  you  to  acknowledge  him 
openly." 

"  It  would  be  a  devilish  good  hit  at  Dun- 
roe,  for,  between  j  ou  and  me,  Corbet,  I  fear 
that  his  heart  is  fixed  more  upon  the  Gour- 
lay  estates  and  her  lai'ge  fortune  than  upon 
the  girl  herself." 

If  I  might  advise,  sir,  I  think  he  ought  t«i 
be  pi-eseut." 
1      "  And  the  moment  the  ceremony  is  over. 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


5S9 


be  introdiicetl  to  his  brother-in-law.  A  good 
hit.  I  shall  do  it.  Send  word  to  him,  then, 
Corbet.  As  it  must  be  done  some  time,  it 
may  as  well  be  done  now.  Duni'oe  will 
of  coiu'se  be  too  much  elated,  as  he  ought 
to  be,  to  feel  the  blow — or  to  appear  to  feel 
it,  at  all  events — for  decency's  sake,  you 
know,  he  must  keep  up  appearances  ;  and  if 
it  were  only  on  that  account,  we  will  avail 
ourselves  of  the  occasion  which  pi-esents  it- 
self. This  is  another  point  gained.  I  tliink 
I  may  so  '  Bravo  ! '  Corbet :  I  have  managed 
everj'thing  admu'ably,  and  accomplished  all 
my  purposes  single-handed." 

Thomas  Corbet  himseK,  deep  and  cunning 
as  he  was,  yet  knew  not  how  much  he  had 
been  kept  in  the  dark  as  to  the  events  of 
this  fateful  day.  He  had  seen  his  father  the 
day  before,  as  had  his  sister,  and  they  both 
felt  siui^rised  at  the  equivoc;d  singularity  of 
liis  manner,  well  and  thoroughly  as  they 
imagined  they  had  known  him.  It  was,  in 
fact,  at  his  suggestion  that  the  baronet's  son 
had  been  induced  to  ask  permission  to  be 
present  at  the  wedding,  and  also  to  be  then 
and  there  acknowledged  ;  a  fact  which  the 
baronet  either  forgot  or  omitted  to  mention 
t-j)  Corbet.  Anthony  also  insisted  that  his 
daughter  should  make  one  of  the  spectators,  i 
under  pain  of  disclosing  to  Sir  Thomas  the  ' 
imposition  that  had  been  practised  on  him 
in  the  person  of  her  son.  Singular  as  it  may 
appear,  this  extraordinaiy  old  man.  in  the 
instance  before  us,  moved,  by  his  peculiar 
knowledge  and  sagacit}',  as  if  he  had  them  on 
wires,  almost  every  pei"son  Avith  whom  he 
came  in  contact,  or  whose  presence  he  con- 
sidered necess;u-y  on  the  occa.sion. 

"  "What  can  he  mean  ?  "  said  Tliomas  to 
his  sister.  "  Svu-ely  he  wovdd  not  be  mad 
enough  to  make  Sir  Thomas's  house  the 
place  in  which  to  produce  Lady  Govu-lay's 
son,  the  verv'  individual  who  is  to  strip  him 
of  his  title,  and  your  son  of  all  his  pros- 
pects ? "  I 

"Oh  no,"  rephed  Ginty,  "certainly  not; 
otherwise,  why  have  lent  himseK  to  the  | 
can7,-ing  out  of  oui-  speculation  with  respect 
to  that  boy.  Such  a  step  would  iniin  him — 
ruin  us  all — but  then  it  would  ruin  the  man 
he  hates,  and  that  would  gratify  him,  I 
know.  He  is  full  of  mysters^,  certainly  ;  but 
as  he  will  disclose  nothing  as  to  his  move- 
ments, we  must  just  let  him  have  his  own 
way,  as  that  is  the  only  chance  of  managing  i 
him."  j 

Poor  Lucy  could  not  be  said  to  have  I 
awoke  to  a  morning  of  despair  and  anguish,  : 
because  she  had  not  slept  at  all  the  night 
before.  Having  got  up  and  dres.sed  herself,  \ 
by  the  aid  of  Alice,  she  leaned  on  her  as  fai*  i 
as  the  boudoir  to  which  allusion  has  alreadv  ! 


been  made.  On  arriving  there  she  sat  dov\-n, 
and  when  her  maid  looked  upon  her  coim« 
tenance  she  became  so  much  alarmed  and 
distressed  that  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  What,  my  darling  mistress,  is  come  over 
you  ?  "  she  exckiimed.  "  You  have  always 
spoken  to  me  until  this  vmhappy  momin' 
Oh,  you  are  fairly  in  despair  now  ;  .and  in- 
deed is  it  any  wonder  ?  I  always  thought, 
and  hoped,  and  prayed  that  something 
might  turn  up  to  prevent  tliis  cui-sed  mar- 
riage.    I  see,  I  read,  despair  in  your  face." 

Lucy  raised  her  large,  languid  eyes,  and 
looked  upon  her,  but  did  not  speak.  She 
gave  a  ghastly  smile,  but  that  was  all. 

"  Speak  to  me,  dear  !Miss  Gourlay,"  ex- 
claimed the  poor  girl,  with  a  flood  of  tears. 
"  Oh,  only  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear 
your  voice ! " 

Lucy  beckoned  her  to  sit  beside  her,  and 
said,  vvith  difficulty,  that  she  wished  to  wet 
her  hps.  The  girl  knew  by  the  few  words 
she  uttered  that  her  voice  was  gone  ;  and 
on  looking  more  closely  she  saw  that  her 
lips  were  diy  and  parched.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments she  got  her  a  glass  of  water,  a  portion 
of  which  Lucy  drank. 

"Now,"  said  Alice,  "that  will  reheve  and 
refresh  you  ;  but  oh,  for  God's  sake,  spake 
to  me,  and  tell  me  how  you  feel !  Miss 
Gouiiay,  darlin',  you  are  in  despair  !  " 

Lucy  took  her  maid's  hand  in  hers,  and  af- 
ter looking  upon  her  with  a  smile  resembling 
the  fu'st,  repHed,  "  No,  AHce,  I  will  not  de- 
spair, but  I  feel  that  I  will  die.  No,  I  will 
not  despoil',  Ahce.  Short  as  the  time  is, 
God  may  inteipose  between  me  and  misery 
— between  me  and  desj^air.  But  if  I  am 
manied  to  tliis  man,  Ahce,  my  faith  in  vir- 
tue, in  a  good  conscience,  in  truth,  purity, 
and  honor,  my  faith  in  Providence  itself  will 
be  shaken  ;  and  fhen  1  will  despair  and  die." 

"  Oh,  what  do  you  mean,  my  darhn'  ]\Iiss 
Gouiiay  ? "  exclaimed  her  weeping  maid. 
"  Siu'ely  you  couldn't  think  of  having  a  hand 
in  your  own  death  ?  Oh,  merciful  Father, 
see  what  they  have  brought  you  to  !  " 

"  Ahce,"  said  she,  "  I  have  spoken  wrong- 
ly :  the  moment  in  which  I  uttered  the  last 
expression  was  a  weak  one.  No,  I  will 
never  doubt  or  distinist  Providence  ;  and  I 
may  die,  Ahce,  but  I  will  never  despair." 

"But  why  talk  about  death,  miss,  so 
much  ?  " 

"  Because  I  feel  it  lurking  in  my  heart. 
My  physical  strength  will  break  down  under 
this  woful  calamity.  I  am  as  weak  as  an  in- 
fant, and  all  before  me  is  dark — in  this 
world  I  mean — but  not.  thank  God,  in  the 
next.  Now  I  cannot  speak  much  more, 
Alice.  Leave  me  to  my  silence  and  to  mjr 
sorrow." 


590 


WILLIAM   CARLETOX'S   WORKS. 


The  afleotionate  gii-1,  utterly  overcome, 
laid  her  head  \\\)in\  her  bosom  and  wept, 
until  Lucy  was  forced  to  soothe  and  comfort 
her  as  well  as  she  could.  They  then  sat 
silent  for  a  time,  the  maid,  however,  sobbing 
and  sighing  bitterly,  whilst  Lucy  only  ut- 
tered one  word  in  an  undertone,  and  as  if 
altogether  to  herself,  "  Misery  !    misery  !  " 

At  this  moment  her  father  tapped  at  the 
door,  and  on  being  admitted,  ordered  Alice 
to  leave  the  room  ;  he  wished  to  have  some 
private  conversation,  he  said,  with  her  mis- 
tress. 

'•  Don't  make  it  long,  if  you  please,  sir," 
said  she,  "  for  my  mistress  won't  be  aquil  to 
it.  It's  more  at  the  point  of  death  than 
the  point  of  marriage  she  is." 

One  stern  look  fi'om  the  bai'onet,  how- 
ever, silenced  her  in  a  moment,  and  after  a 
glance  of  most  alfectionate  interest  at  her 
mistress  she  left  the  room. 

"  Lucy,"  said  her  father,  after  contem- 
plating that  aspec^i  of  misery  which  could 
not  be  concealed,  "  I  am  not  at  all  pleased 
with  this  girlish  and  whining  appearance. 
I  have  done  all  that  man  could  do  to  meet 
your  wishes  and  to  make  you  hapj^y.  I 
have  become  reconciled  to  your  aunt  for 
your  sake.  I  have  allowed  her  and  IVIrs. 
Norton — Mainwaring  I  mean — to  be  present 
at  your  wedding,  that  they  might  support 
and  give  you  confidence.  You  are  about  to 
be  married  to  a  handsome  young  fellow, 
only  a  little  wild,  but  who  will  soon  make 
you  a  countess.  Now,  in  God's  name,  what 
more  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  1  think."  she  replied,  "  that  I  ought  not 
to  marry  this  man.  I  believe  that  I  stand 
justified  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man  in  re- 
fusing to  seal  my  own  misery'.  The  promise 
I  made  you,  sir,  was  given  under  peculiar 
circumstances — under  terror  of  your  death. 
These  circumstances  are  now  removed,  and  it 
is  cruel  to  call  on  me  to  make  a  sacrifice  that 
is  a  thousand  times  worse  than  death.  No, 
papa,  I  will  not  mari*y  this  depraved  man — 
this  common  seducer.  I  shall  never  unite 
myself  to  him,  let  the  consequences  be  what 
they  may.     There  is  a  line  beyond  which 

Earental  authority  ought  not  to  go — you 
ave  crossed  it." 
"  Be  it  so,  madam  ;  I  shall  see  you  again 
in  a  few  minutes,"  he  repHed,  and  immedi- 
ately left  the  room,  his  face  almost  black 
with  rage  and  disappointment.  Lucy  grew 
alarmed  at  the  temble  abruptness  and  sig- 
nificance of  his  manner,  and  began  to  trem- 
ble, although  she  knew  not  why. 

"  Can  I  violate  my  promise,"  said  she  to 
herself,  "  after  having  made  it  so  solemnly  ? 
And  ought  I  to  many  this  man  in  obedience 
to  my  father  ?    Alas  !  I  know  not ;  but  may 


heaven  direct  mc  for  the  best !  If  I  thought  it 
would  make  papa  happy — but  his  is  a  rest- 
less and  ambitious  spirit,  and  how  can  I  be 
certain  of  that  ?  May  heaven  direct  me  and 
guide  me  ! " 

Li  a  few  minutes  afterwards  her  father  re- 
turned, and  taking  out  of  his  pockets  a  pair 
of  pistols,  laid  them  on  the  table. 

"Now,  Lucy,"  said  he  solemnly,  and  with 
a  vehemence  of  manner  almost  frantic,  "  we 
will  see  if  you  cannot  yet  save  your  father's 
hfe,  or  whether  you  will  prefer  to  have  his 
blood  on  your  soul." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  papa,"  said  his  daugh- 
ter, running  to  him,  and  throwing  or  at- 
temjjting  to  throw  her  arms  about  him,  part- 
ly, m  the  moment  of  excitement,  to  embrace, 
and  partly  to  restrain  him. 

"  Hold  off,  madam,"  he  replied  ;  "  hold  off; 
you  have  made  me  desi^ei-ate — you  have 
driven  me  mad.  Now,  mark  me.  I  wiU  not  ask 
you  to  marry  this  man  ;  but  I  swear  by  all 
that  is  sacred,  that  if  you  disgrace  me — if 
you  insult  Lord  Dunroe  by  refusing  to  be 
united  to  him  this  day — I  shall  piit  the  con- 
tents of  one  or  both  of  these  pistols  through 
my  brains  ;  and  you  may  comfort  yourself 
over  the  corpse  of  a  suicide  father,  and  turn 
to  your  brother  for  protection." 

Either  alternative  was  sufficiently  dreadful 
for  the  poor  worn  and  wearied  out  girl. 

"  Oh,  paj^a,"  she  exclaimed,  again  attempt- 
ing to  throw  her  arms  around  him  ;  "jjut 
these  fearful  weaj^ons  aside.  I  will  obej'  you 
—I  will  marry  him." 

"  This  day  ?  " 

"  This  day,  papa,  as  soon  as  my  aunt  and 
Mi's.  Mainwaring  come,  and  I  can  get  myself 
dressed." 

"  Do  so,  then  ;  or,  if  not  I  shall  not  sur- 
vive your  refusal  five  minutes." 

"  I  wiU,  papa,"  she  replied,  laying  her  head 
upon  his  breast  and  sobbing  ;  "  I  mil  marry 
him  ;  but  put  those  vile  and  dangerous  wea- 
pons away,  and  never  talk  so  again." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
Alice,  who  had  been  listening,  entered  the 
room  in  a  liigh  and  towering  passion.  Her 
eyes  sparkled  :  her  complexion  was  scarlet 
with  rage  ;  her  little  hands  were  most  hero- 
ically clenched  ;  and,  altogether,  the  very  ex- 
citement in  which  she  presented  herself, 
joined  to  a  good  face  and  fine  figure,  made  her 
look  exceedingl}'  interesting  and  handsome. 

"How,  madam,"  exclaimed  the  baronet, 
"  what  brings  you  here  ?  Withdraw  instant- 

"  How,  yourself,  sir,"  she  replied,  walking 
up  and  looking  him  fearlessly  in  the  face  ; 
"none  of  your  'how,  madams,'  to  me  any 
more  ;  as  there's  neither  man  nor  woman  to 
interfere  here,  I  must  only  do  it  myself." 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


591 


•'  Lieave  the  room,  you  bnizeu  jade  ! " 
shouted  the  barouet  ;  "  leave  the  room,  or 
it'll  be  worse  for  you." 

"  Deuce  a  one  toe  I'll  lave  it.  It  wasn't 
for  that  I  came  here,  but  to  tell  jou  that  you 
are  a  tyrant  and  a  miu'dherer,  a  mane  old 
schemer,  that  would  many  your  daughter  to 
a  common  swindler  and  reprobate,  because 
he's  a  lord.  But  here  I  stand,  the  woman 
tliat  will  prevent  this  mairiage,  if  there 
wasn't  another  faymale  from  here  to  Bally- 
shanny." 

"  ^yice  !  "  exclaimed  Lucy,  "  for  heaven's 
sake,  what  do  you  mean  ? — what  awful  lang- 
uage is  this  ?     You  forget  3'ourself." 

"  That  may  be,  miss,  but,  by  the  life  in 
my  body,  I  won't  forget  you.  A  ring  won't 
go  on  you  to  that  titled  scamp  so  long  as  I 
liave  a  droj)  of  manly  blood  in  n^y  veins — 
deuce  a  ring  !  " 

Amazement  almost  superseded  indignation 
on  the  part  of  the  baronet,  who  unconscious- 
ly exclaimed,  "A  ring  !  " 

"  No — pursuin'  to  the  ring  ! "  she  replied, 
accompanying  the  words  with  what  was  in- 
tended to  be  a  fearful  blow  of  her  little 
clenched  hand  ujjon  the  table. 

"  Let  me  go,  Lucy,"  said  her  father,  "  till 
I  i)ut  tlie  termagant  out  of  the  room." 

"  Yes,  let  him  go,  miss,"  replied  Alley  ; 
"  let  us  see  what  he'll  do.  Here  I  stand 
now,"  she  proceeded,  approaching  him  ; 
"  and  if  you  oft'er  to  lift  a  hand  to  me,  I'll 
lave  ten  of  as  good  marks  in  your  face  as 
ever  a  woman  left  since  the  creation.  Come, 
now — ^am  I  afeard  of  you  ?  "  and  as  she  spoke 
she  ai)proached  him  still  more  nearly,  with 
both  her  hands  close  to  his  face,  her  lingers 
spread  out  and  half-clenched,  reminding  one 
of  a  hawk's  talons. 

"^^ice,"  said  Lucy,  "this  is  shocking;  if 
you  love  me,  leave  the  room." 

"  Love  you  !  miss,"  replied  the  indignant 
but  faithful  girl,  bursting  into  bitter  tears  ; 
"  love  you  ! — merciful  heaven,  wouldn't  I 
give  my  life  for  you '? — who  that  knows  you 
doesn't  love  you?  and  it's  for  that  reason 
that  I  don't  wish  to  see  you  nmrdhered — nor 
won't.  Come,  sir,  you  must  let  her  out  of 
this  man-iage.  It'll  be  no  go,  I  tell  you. 
I  won't  suffer  it,  so  long  as  I've  strength 
^iiid  life.  I'U  dash  mysell:  between  them. 
1 11  make  the  ole  clergyman  skip  if  he  at- 
tempts it ;  ay,  and  what's  more,  I'll  see 
Dandy  Dulcimer,  and  we'll  collect  a  fac- 
tion." 

"Do  not  hold  me,  Lucy,"  said  her  father  ; 
"  I  must  certainly  put  her  out  of  the  room." 

"  Don't,  papa,"  repUed  Lucy,  restraining 
liim  from  lajing  hands  upon  lier,  "  don't, 
for  the  sake  of  honor  and  manhood.  Alice, 
tor  lieavtn's  sake  !    if  you  love  me,  aa  I  said. 


and  I  now  atld,  if  you  respect  me,  leave  the 
room.  You  will  provoke  papa  past  en- 
durance." 

"  Not  a  single  toe,  miss,  till  he  promises 
to  let  you  cut  o'  this  match.  Oh,  my  gootl 
man,"  she  said,  addressing  the  sti-uggling 
baronet,  "  if  you're  for  fighting,  here  I  am 
for  you  ;  or  wait,"  she  added,  whipping  up 
one  of  the  pistols,  "  Come,  now,  if  you're  a 
man  ;  take  your  gi'ound  there.  Now  I  can 
meet  you  on  equal  terms  ;  get  to  the  corner 
there,  the  distance  is  short  enough ;  but  no 
matther,  you're  a  good  mark.  Come,  now, 
don't  think  I'm  the  bit  of  goods  to  be  afeard 
o'  you — it's  not  the  first  jewel  I've  seen  in  my 
time,  and  remember  that  my  name  is  Mahon" 
— and  she  posted  herself  in  the  comer,  as  if 
to  take  her  ground.  "  Come,  now,"  she  re- 
peated, "you  called  me  a  'brazen  jade' 
awhile  ago,  and  I  demand  satisfaction." 

"  Alice,"  said  Lucy,  "  you  will  injure  your- 
self or  others,  if  you  do  not  lay  that  danger- 
ous weapon  dowai.  For  God's  sake,  Alice, 
lay  it  aside — ^it  is  loaded." 

"  Deuce  a  bit  o'  danger,  miss,"  rejilied  the 
indignant  heroine.  "  I  know  more  about 
tire-arms  than  you  think  ;  my  brothers  used 
to  have  them  to  protect  the  house.  I'll  soon 
see,  at  any  rate,  whether  it's  loaded- or  not." 

"While  speaking  she  whipped  out  the  ram- 
rod, and,  making  the  experiment  found,  that 
it  was  empty. 

"  Ah,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  desateful  old 
tyrant :  and  so  you  came  down  blusterin' 
and  bullyin',  and  frightenin'  your  child  into 
compliance,  with  a  pair  of  empty  pistols ! 
By  the  life  in  my  body,  if  I  had  you  in  Bally- 
train,  I'd  ^jo.N'^  you-" 

"  Papa,"  said  Lucy,  "  you  must  excuse 
this — -it  is  the  excess  of  her  affection  for  me. 
Dear  Alice,"  she  said,  addressing  her,  and 
for  a  moment  forgetting  her  weakness, 
"  come  with  me  ;  I  cannot,  and  wiU  not  bear 
this  ;  come  with  me  out  of  the  room." 

"  Very  AveU  ;  I'll  go  to  plaise  you,  miss, 
but  I've  made  up  my  mind  that  this  marriage 
mustn't  take  place.  Just  think  of  it,"  she 
added,  turning  to  her  master  ;  "  if  you  force 
her  to  many  this  scamp  of  a  lord,  the  girl 
has  sense,  and  sj^irit,  and  common  decency, 
and  of  course  she'U  mn  away  from  him  ; 
after  that,  it  won't  be  hard  to  guess  who 
she'll  run  to — then  there'D  be  a  con.  crim. 
about  it,  and  it'll  go  to  the  lawyers,  and  from 
the  lawyers  it'll  go  to  the  deuce,  and  that 
wiU  be  the  end  of  it  ;  and  all  because  you're 
a  coarse-minded  t^Tant,  unworthy  of  iiaviug 
such  a  daughter.  Oh,  you  needn't  shake  your 
hand  at  me.  You  refused  to  give  me  satis, 
faction,  and  I'd  now  scorn  to  notice  you. 
Rememl)er  I  cowed  you,  and  for  that  reason 
never  ];rotend  to  be  a  gentleman  afther  this." 


592 


WILLIAM  CARLETOX'S    WORKS. 


Lucj  then  led  her  out  of  the  room,  which 
she  left,  after  turning  upon  her  master  a 
look  of  the  proudest  and  fiercest  defiance, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  most  sovereign 
contempt. 

"Lucy,"  said  her  father,  "is  not  this  a 
fine  specimen  of  a  maid  to  have  in  personal 
attendance  upon  you  ?  " 

"I  do  not  defend  her  conduct  now,  sir," 
she  rephed  ;  "  but  I  cannot  overlook  her  af- 
fection, her  truth,  her  attachment  to  me,  nor 
the  many  other  m'tues  which  I  know  she  pos- 
sesses. She  is  somewhat  singular,  I  grant, 
and  a  bit  of  a  character,  and  I  could  wdsh  that 
her  manners  were  somewhat  less  plain;  but, on 
the  other  hand,  she  does  not  pretend  to  be  a 
fine  lady  ■nith  her  mistress,  although  she  is  not 
without  some  harmless  vanity;  neither  is  she 
fiivolous,  giddy,  nor  deceitful ;  and  whatever 
faults  there  may  be,  papa,  in  her  head,  there 
are  none  in  her  heai*t.  It  is  affectionate, 
faithful,  and  disinterested.  Indeed,  whilst  I 
live  I  shall  look  upon  her  as  my  fi-iend." 

"I  am  determined,  however,  she  shall  not 
be  long  imder  my  roof,  nor  in  yoiu*  senice  ; 
her  conduct  just  now  has  settled  that  point ; 
but,  putting  her  out  of  the  question,  I  tnist 
we  understand  each  other,  and  that  you  ai-e 
prepai-ed  to  make  youi*  father's  heart  hajjpy. 
No  more  objections." 

"No,  sir  ;  I  have  said  so." 

"  You  "v\-ill  go  thi'ough  the  ceremony  with 
a  good  gi-ace  ?  ' 

"  I  cannot  promise  that,  sii* ;  but  I  shall  go 
through  the  ceremony." 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  do  it  without  offence 
to  Dunroe,  and  \\ith  as  little  appearance  of 
reluctance  as  possible." 

"I  have  no  desire  to  di'aw  a  painful  atten- 
tion to  myself,  papa  ;  but  you  -noil  please  to 
recoUect  that  I  have  all  my  horror,  all  my 
detestation  of  this  match  to  contend  with  ; 
and,  I  may  add,  my  physical  weakness,  and 
the  natural  timidity  of  woman.  I  shall,  how- 
ever, go  through  the  ceremony,  j^rovided 
nature  and  reason  do  not  fail  me." 

""Well,  Lucy,  of  course  you  will  do  tlie 
best  you  can.  I  must  go  now,  for  I've  many 
things  to  think  of.  Y'our  dresses  are  admir- 
able, and  your  trou.^i<enii,  considering  tlie 
short  time  Dunroe  had,  is  reall}'  superb. 
Shake  hands,  my  dear  Lucy;  you  know  I 
will  soon  lose  you." 

Lucy,  whose  heart  was  affection  itself, 
threw  herself  into  his  arms,  and  exclaimed, 
in  a  burst  of  giief : 

"  Yes,  papa,  I  feel  that  you  •\^iU  ;  and,  per- 
haps, when  I  am  gone,  you  will  say,  with  sor- 
row, that  it  would  have  been  better  to  have 
allowed  Lucy  to  be  happy  her  own  way." 

"Come,  now,  you  foolish,  naughty  girl," 
he  exclaimed  affectionately,   "  be  good — be 


good."  And  as  he  spoke,  he  kissed  hei; 
pressed  her  hand  tenderly,  and  then  left  the 
room. 

"Alas!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  still  in  tears, 
"  how  happy  might  we  have  been,  had  this 
ambition  for  my  exaltation  not  existed  in  my 
father's  heart ! " 

If  Lucy  rose  \vith  a  depressed  spirit  on 
that  morning  of  soiTOw,  so  did  not  Lord 
Dunroe.  Tins  young  nobleman,  false  and 
insincere  in  evei-j-thing,  had  succeeded  in  in- 
ducing his  sister  to  act  as  brides-maid,  Sii* 
Thomas  having  asked  her  consent  as  a  per- 
sonal compliment  to  himself  and  his  daugh- 
ter. She  was  told  by  her  brother  that  young 
Roberts  would  act  in  an  analogous  capacity' 
to  him  ;  and  this  he  held  out  as  an  induce- 
ment to  her,  having  obsen^ed  something 
like  an  attachment  between  her  and  the 
young  ensign.  Not  that  he  at  all  aj^proved 
of  this  growing  predilection,  for  though 
strongly  imbued  A^dth  all  the  senseless  and 
absurd  prejudices  against  humble  birth 
which  disgrace  aristocratic  life  and  feehng, 
he  was  base  enough  to  overrule  his  own 
oiDinions  on  the  subject,  and  endeavor,  by 
this  unworthy  play  upon  his  sister's  feelings, 
to  prevail  upon  her  to  do  an  act  that  would 
thi'ow  her  into  his  society,  and  which,  undei 
any  other  circumstances,  he  would  have  op- 
posed. He  desired  her,  at  the  same  time, 
not  to  mention  the  fact  to  theLr  father,  who, 
he  said,  entertained  a  strong  prejudice 
against  upstaris,  and  was  besides,  indisposed 
to  the  marriage,  in  consequence  of  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay's  doubtful  reputation,  as 
regarding  the  disapiDeai'ance  of  his  brother's 
heir.  In  consequence  of  these  represen- 
tations, Lady  Emily  not  only  consented  to 
act  as  bride 's-maid;  but  also  to  keep  her 
knowledge  of  the  forthcoming  marriage  a 
secret  from  her  father. 

At  breakfast  that  morning  Dunroe  was 
uncommonly  cheerful.  Norton,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  rather  depressed,  and  could  not 
be  prevailed  u^ion  to  partake  of  the  gay  and 
exuberant  S2:)irit  of  mirth  and  buoj'ancy 
which  animated  Dunroe. 

"  "WTiat  the  deuce  is  the  matter  -nith  you, 
Norton?"  said  his  lordship.  "You  seem 
rather  annoyed  that  I  am  going  to  marry  a 
very  lovely  girl  with  an  immense  fortune  ? 
With  both,  you  know  very  well  that  I  can 
manage  without  eith^v  the  CuUamore  title  or 
property.  The  Goui-lay  property  is  as  good 
if  not  better.  Come,  then,  cheer  up  ;  if  the 
agency  of  the  Cullamoi-e  property  is  gone, 
we  shall  have  that  on  the  Gourlay  side  to 
look  to." 

"  Dunroe,  my  dear  fellow,"  replied  Nor- 
ton, "I  am  thinking  of  nothing  so  selfish. 
That  which  distresses  me  is,  tliat  I  will  lose 


THE  BLACK  BARON'ET. 


593 


jiiv  friend.  This  ^liss  Clourlaj'  is,  tLey  say, 
so  confoundedly  virtuous  that  I  dare  say  she 
will  allow  no  honest  fellow,  who  doesn't 
cai'ry  a  Bible  and  a  Prayer-book  in  his 
pocket,  and  quote  Scripture  in  conversation, 
to  associate  with  you." 

"  Nonsense,  man,"  replied  Dunroe,  "  I 
liave  satisfied  you  on  that  point  before.  But 
I  say,  Norton,  is  not  this  a  great  bite  on  the 
baronet,  especially  as  he  considers  himself  a 
knowing  one  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  gi-ant  you,  a  great  bite,  no  doubt ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  I  rather  guess  you 
may  thank  me  for  the  possession  of  ^liss 
Gourlay,  and  the  property  which  will  go 
idong  with  her." 

"  As  how,  Norton  ?  " 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  the  anony- 
mous note  which  I  wrote  to  the  baronet, 
when  I  was  over  in  Dublin  to  get  the  horse 
changed  ?  He  was  then  at  'Red  Hall.  I  am 
certain  that  were  it  not  for  that  hint,  there 
would  have  been  an  elopement.  You  know 
it  was  the  fellow  who  shot  you,  that  was 
tlien  in  her  neighborhood,  and  he  is  at  jjres- 
ent  in  town.  I  opened  the  baronet's  eyes  at 
all  events." 

"  Faith,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Norton, 
although  I  know  you  do  me  in  money  mat- 
ters now  and  then,  still  I  believe  you  to  be  a 
i";tithfiil  feUow.  In  fact,  you  owe  me  more 
than  you  are  aware  of.  You  know  not  how  I 
have  resisted  the  resi^ectable  old  nobleman's 
wishes  to  send  you  adrift  as  an  impostor  and 
cheat.  I  held  firm,  however,  and  told  him  I 
could  never  -n-ith  honor  abandon  my  fi-iend." 

"  ^lany  thanks,  Dunroe  ;  but  I  really 
must  say  that  I  am  neither  an  impostor  nor 
a  cheat ;  and  that  if  ever  a  man  was  true 
friend  and  faithful  to  man,  I  am  that  friend 
to  your  lordsliip  ;  not,  God  knows,  because 
you  are  a  lord,  but  because  you  are  a  fai' 
better  thing — a  regular  tnimp.  A  cheat !  j 
curse  it,"  clapping  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  to  i 
conceal  his  emotion,  "isn't  my  name  Nor- 
ton ?  and  am  I  not  your  fiiend  ?  " 

At  tliis  moment  a  serviint  came  in,  and 
handed  Lord  Dunroe  a  note,  which  he  was 
about  to  throw  to  Noi'ton,  who  generally 
acted  as  a  kind  of  secretaiy  to  him ;  but 
observing  the  depth  and  sincerity  and  also 
the  modesty  of  his  feeHngs,  he  thought  it 
indelicate  to  trouble  him  with  it  just  then. 
Breakf  ist  was  now  ove^^and  Dunroe,  throw- 
ing himself  back  in  Sx  arm-chair,  opened 
the  letter — read  it — then  another  that  was 
contained  in  it ;  after  which  he  rose  up,  and 
traversed  the  room  \\'ith  a  good  deal  of  ex- 
citement. He  then  approached  Norton,  and 
said,  in  a  voice  that  might  be  said  to  have 
been  m.ule  up  of  heat  and  cold,  "  What  dis-  ' 
turbi;  you  ?  "  i 


Norton  winked  l)ot]i  eyes,  did  tlie  jia- 
thetic  a  bit,  then  pulled  out  his  pocket  hand- 
kerchief, and  blew  his  nose  up  to  a  point 
little  short  of  distress  itself.  In  the  mean- 
time, Dunroe  suddenly  left  the  room  without 
Norton's  knowledge,  who  replied,  however, 
to  the  last  question,  under  the  impression 
that  his  lordship  was  present, 

"Ah,  my  dear  Dunroe,  the  loss  of  a  true 
friend  is  a  serious  thing  in  a  world  hke  this, 
where  so  many  cheats  and  impostors  are 
going." 

To  this,  however,  he  received  no  reply ; 
and  on  looking  round  and  finding  that  his 
dupe  had  gone  out,  he  said  : 

"  Curse  the  fellow — he  has  cut  me  .short. 
I  was  acting  fiiendship  to  the  hfe,  and  now 
he  has  disappeared.  However,  I  will  re- 
sume it  when  I  hear  his  foot  on  the  return. 
His  hat  is  there,  and  I  know  he  ^\-ill  come 
back  for  it." 

Nearly  ten  minutes  had  elapsed,  during 
which  he  was  making  the  ham  and  chicken 
disappear,  when,  on  hearing  a  foot  which  ho 
took  for  granted  must  be  that  of  his  lord- 
ship, he  once  more  threw  himself  into  hia 
former  attitude,  and  putting  the  handker- 
chief again  to  his  eyes,  exclaimed  : 

"  No,  my  lord.  A  cheat !  Ciu-se  it,  isn't  my 
name  Norton  ?  and  am  I  not  your  friend  ?  " 

"Why,  upon  my  soul,  Barne}',  you  used 
of  ould  to  bring  out  only  one  lie  at  a  time 
but  now  you  give  them  in  pau*s.  '  Isn't  my 
name  Norton  ? '  says  you.  I  kept  the  saicret 
bekaise  you  never  meddled  Avith  Lord  Cul- 
lamore  or  Lady  Emily,  or  attempted  youi 
tricks  on  them,  and  for  that  raison  you 
ought  to  thank  me.  Here's  a  note  fi'om  Lord 
Dunroe,  who  looks  as  black  as  midnight." 

"  AMiat !  a  note  fiom  Dimroe  !  "  exclaimed 
Norton.  "  ^^^ly  he  only  left  me  this  min- 
ute !     What  the  deuce  can  this  mean  ?  " 

He  opened  the  note,  and  read,  to  his  dis- 
may and  astonishment  as  follows  : 

"Intimous  and  treacherous  scoundrel, — 
I  have  this  moment  received  your  letter  to 
Mr.  Birney,  enclosed  by  that  gentleman  to 
me,  in  which  you  offer,  for  a  certain  sum,  to 
betray  me,  by  placing  m  the  hiuids  of  my 
enemies  the  veiy  documents  you  jJi'etended 
to  have  destroyed.  I  now  know  the  viper  J 
have  cherished — begone.  You  are  a  cheat, 
an  impostor,  and  a  rillain,  whose  name  is  noi 
Norton,  but  Bryan,  once  a  horse-jockey  on 
the  Curragh,  juid  obhged  to  fly  the  country 
for  swindling  and  dishonesty.  Remove 
youi'  things  ini^tantly  ;  but  that  shall  not 
prevent  me  fi-om  tracing  you  and  hand- 
ing you  over  to  justice  for  ^our  knaveiy  and 
fi*aud. 

"  Dl:nuo)!1  " 


;594 


WILLIAM  CAllLETON'S   WORKS. 


"All  ri^lit !  Morty-  all  riglit!"  exdaimed 
Nortou  ;  "upou  my  soul,  Dunroe  is  too  gen- 
erous. You  know  be  is  going  to  be  mar- 
ried to-day.  Was  tbat  Roberts  wbo  went  up 
stairs  ?  " 

'*  It  was  the  young  officer,  if  that's  his 
name,"  replied  Morty. 

"  All  right !  IMorty  ;  he's  to  be  groom's- 
man — that  will  do  ;  this  requires  no  answer. 
Tlie  generous  fellow  has  made  me  a  present 
on  his  wedding-day.  That  will  do,  Morty  ; 
you  may  go." 

"All's  discovered,"  he  exclaimed,  when 
Moiiy  was  gone  ;  "  however,  it's  not  too  late  : 
I  shall  give  him  a  Roland  for  his  Oliver  be- 
fore we  pai't.  It  will  l)e  no  harm  lo  give  the 
the  respectable  old  nobleman  a  hint  of  what's 
going  on,  at  any  rate.  This  discoveiy,  how- 
ever, won't  signify,  for  I  know  Dunroe.  The 
poor  fool  has  no  self-reliance  ;  but  if  left  to 
himself  would  die.  He  possesses  no  manly 
spirit  of  independent  wtII,  no  firmness,  no 
fixed  principle — he  is,  in  fact,  a  noun  adjec- 
tive, and  cannot  stand  alone.  Depraved  in 
his  appetites  and  habits  of  hfe,  he  cannot 
Uve  without  some  hanger-on  to  enjoy  his 
fi-eaks  of  silly  and  senseless  profligacy,  who 
can  praise  and  laugh  at  him,  and  who  will 
act  at  once  as  his  butt,  his  bully,  his  pan- 
der, and  his  fi-iend  ;  four  capacities  in  wliich 
I  have  served  him — at  his  owti  expense,  be  it 
said.  No  ;  my  ascendancy  over  him  has 
been  too  long  estabUshed,  and  I  know  that, 
like  a  prime  minister  who  has  been  hastily 
dismissed,  I  shall  be  ultimately  recalled. 
And  yet  he  is  not  wdthout  gleams  of  sense, 
is  occasionally  sprightly,  and  has  perceptions 
of  principle  that  might  have  made  him  a 
rujm — an  indiridual  being :  but  now,  having 
neither  firmness,  resolution  to  carry  out  a 
good  puipose,  nor  self-respect,  he  is  a  mis- 
erable and  wretched  cipher,  whose  whole 
value  depends  on  the  figure  that  is  next  him. 
Yes,  I  know — I  feel — he  will  recall  me  to  his 
councils."* 

At  length  the  hour  of  half-past  eleven  ar- 
rived, and  in  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  drawing- 
room  were  assembled  all  those  Avho  had  been 
asked  to  be  present,  or  to  take  the  usual 
part  in  the  marriage  ceremony.  Dr.  Som- 
l)re,  the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  had  just 
arrived,  and,  having  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  luiule  a  bow  that  would  not  have  dis- 
gi-aced  a  bishop.  He  was  pretty  well  ad- 
vanced in  years,  excessively  stupid,  and 
possessed  so  vile  a  memory  for  faces,  that  he 
was  seldoni  aljleto  recognize  his  own  p^ests, 
if  he  liappeped  to  meet  them  in  the  streets 
on  the  following  day.  He  was  an  expectant 
for  ])rt'tVrment  in  the  church,  and  if  the  gift 
...of  a  good  ai)])etite  were  a  successful  recom- 
•j^endation   for  a  mitre,   as  that  of  a  strf)ug 


head  has  been  before  now,  no  man  was  bel 
ter  entitled  to  wear  it.  Be  this  as  it  may 
the  good  man,  who  expected  to  pai-take  oj 
an  excellent  dfjedner,  felt  that  it  was  a  por- 
tion of  his  duty  to  give  a  word  or  two  of  ad- 
vice to  the  young  couple  upon  the  solemn 
and  important  duties  into  the  discharge  of 
which  they  were  about  to  enter.  According- 
ly, looking  round  the  room,  he  saw  IVIr. 
Roberts  and  Lady  Emily  engaged,  at  a  vdn- 
dow,  in  what  appeai'ed  to  him  to  be  such  a 
conversation  as  might  naturally  take  place 
between  parties  about  to  be  united.  Lucy 
had  not  yet  made  her  apj^earance,  but  Dun- 
roe was  present,  and  on  seeing  the  Rev. 
Doctor  join  them,  was  not  at  all  soriy  at  the 
interruption.  This  word  of  advice,  by  the 
w^ay,  was  a  stereot}*|3ed  commodity  with  the 
Doctor,  who  had  not  married  a  couple  for 
the  last  thirty  years,  without  palming  it  on 
them  as  an  extempore  piece  of  admonition 
arising  fi-om  that  particular  occasion.  The 
worthy  man  was,  indeed,  the  better  qualified 
to  give  it,  haAang  never  been  married  him- 
self, and  might,  therefore,  be  considered  as 
perfectly  fi'ee  fi-om  prejudices  afiecting  either 
party  upon  the  subject. 
,  "  You,  my  dear  children,  are  the  parties 
about  to  be  imited?"  said  he,  addressing 
Roberts  and  Lady  Emily,  with  a  bow  that 
had  in  it  a  strong  professional  innuendo,  but 
of  what  nature  was  yet  to  be  learned. 

"Y^es,  sir-,"  replied  Roberts,  who  at  once 
perceived  the  good  man's  mistake,  and  was 
determined  to  carry  out  whatever  jest  might 
arise  fi'om  it. 

"  Oh  no,  sii-,"  replied  Lady  Emily,  blush- 
'  iug  deeply  ;  "  we  are  not  the  jjarties." 

"Because,"  proceeded  the  Doctor,  "I 
think  I  could  not  do  better  than  give  you, 
1  while  together,  a  few  words — ^just  a  little 
]  homily,  as  it  were — upon  the  nature  of  the 
j  duties  into  which  you  ai"e  about  to  enter.* 
I  "Oh,  but  I  have  told  you,"  replied  Lady 
Emily,  again,  "  that  we  are  not  the  parties, 
I  Dr.  Sombre." 

"Never  mind  her,  Doctor,"  said  Roberts, 
I  assuming,  with  becoming  gravity,  the  cha^- 
i  acter  of  the  intended  husband :  "  the  Doc- 
!  tor,    my   dear,    knows    human    nature    too 
]  well  not  to  make  allowances  for  the  timidity 
peculiar  to  your  situation.     Come,  my,  love 
i  be  firm,  and  let  us  hear  Avhat  he  has  to  say." 
"Yes,"  rejilied  tl^  Do(  Isn-.  "I  can  under- 
stand that ;  I  knew  1  was  right :  and  all  you 
1  want  now  is  the  ceremony  to  make  you  man 
I  and  wife." 

"Indisputable,  Doctor;  nothing  can  be 
more  ti*ue.  These  words  might  almost  appear 
as  an  ap])endix  to  the  Gosjjel." 

"  Well,  my  children,"  proceeded  the  Doc- 
tor, "  listi'u  —marriage  mav  be  divided * 


THE  BLACK    liAROXET. 


691 


"  1  thought  it  was  rather  a  uniou,  Doc- 
tor. " 

"  So  it  is,  child,"  repHed  the  Doctor,  in  the 
most  mattfr-of-f;K't  spirit ;  "  but  you  know 
that  even  Uuions  can  he  divided.  WTien  I 
was  induced  to  the  Union  of  Ballycomeasy 
and  ]5allyconishari3  I " 

"  But,  Doctor,"  said  Kolierts,  "I  beg  your 
pardon,  I  have  interrujjted  you.  Will  you 
have  tlie  kindness  to  proceed  ?  my  fair  part- 
ner, here,  is  very  anxious  to  hear  yoiu*  little 
homily — are  you  not,  my  love  ?  " 

Lady  Emily  was  cei'tainly  pressed  rather 
severely  to  maintain  her  graAity— in  fact,  so 
much  so,  that  she  was  unable  to  rejily,  Kob- 
ert's  composure  being  admirable. 

"Well,"  resumed  the  Doctor,  "as  I  was 
saying — Marriage  may  be  di^•ided  into  thi'ee 
heads " 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  make  it  only  two,  if 
jiossible,  my  dear  Doctor,"  said  Roberts : 
"  the  appearance  of  a  third  head  is  leather 
uncomfortable,  I  think." 

— "Into  three  heads — first,  its  duties; 
next,  its  rights  ;  and  lastly,  its  tribulations." 

The  Doctor,  we  may  observe,  was  in  gen- 
eral very  imlucky,  in  the  reception  which  fell 
to  the  share  of  his  httle  homily — the  fact 
being  with  it  as  %\'itli  its  subject  in  actual 
life,  that  his  audience,  however  they  might 
feel  upon  its  rights  and  duties,  were  very 
anxious  to  avoid  its  tribulations  in  any  sense, 
and  the  consequence  was,  that  in  nineteen 
cases  out  of  twenty  the  reverend  bachelor 
himself  was  left  in  the  midst  of  them.  Such 
was  his  fate  here  ;  for  at  this  moment  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  entered  the  dra^\'ing-room, 
and  approaching  Lady  Emily,  Siiid,  "I  have 
to  apologize  to  you,  Lady  EmOy,  inasmuch 
as  it  is  I  who  am  to  blame  for  Miss  Gour- 
lay's  not  having  seen  you  sooner.  On  a  sub- 
ject of  su(Ji  importance,  it  is  natural  that  a 
father  shonld  have  some  private  conversation 
with  her,  and  indeed  this  was  the  case  ;  al- 
low me  now  to  conduct  you  to  her." 

"Tliere  is  no  ajDologv-  whatsoever  neces- 
sary, Sir  Thomas,"  repHed  her  ladyship, 
taking  his  arm,  and  casting  a  rapid  but  pre- 
cious glance  at  Roberts.  As  they  went  up 
stairs,  the  baronet  said,  in  a  voice  of  gi'eat 
anxiety, 

"You  will  oblige  me.  Lady  Emily,  by 
keeping  her  fi'om  the  looking-glass  as  much 
as  possible.  I  have  got  her  maid — who,  ixl- 
though  rather  plain  in  her  manners,  has  ex- 
cellent taste  in  all  matters  connected  with 
the  toilette — I  have  got  her  to  say,  while 
dressing  her,  that  it  is  not  con.sidered  lucky 
for  a  bride  to  see  herseK  in  a  looking-glass 
on  the  day  of  her  marriage." 

"But  why  should  she  not,  Sir  Thomas?" 
«isked  the  innocent  and  lovely  girl :  "  if  ever 


a  lady  should  consult  her  glass,  it  is  surely; 
upon  such  an  occasion  as  this." 

"I  grant  it,"  he  replied;  "but  then  hef 
paleness — is — is — her  looks  altogether  are 
so — in  fact,  you  may  imderstand  me.  Lady 
Emily — she  is,  in  consequence  of  her  verj 
delicate  health — in  consequence  of  that, 
say,  she  is  more  like  a  corpse  than  a  living 
being — in  comple.xion  I  meim.  And  now, 
my  dear  Lady  Emily,  will  you  hurr\'  her  ? 
I  am  anxious— that  is  to  say,  uv  all  are — tO' 
have  the  ceremony  over  as  soon  as  it  possibly 
can.     She  will  then  feel  better,  of  course." 

Dr.  Sombre,  seeing  that  one  of  the  neces- 
saiy  audience  to  liis  httle  homily  had  dis- 
api^eared,  seemed  rather  disapi^ointed,  but 
addressed  himself  to  Roberts  upon  a  very 
different  subject. 

"I  dai-e  say,"  said  he,  "we  shall  have  a 
very  cajHtal  dtjeuivr  to-day." 

Roberts  was  startled  at  the  rapid  and 
carnal  natiu-e  of  the  transition  in  such  a 
reverend-looking  old  gentleman  ;  but  as  the 
poor  Doctor  had  sustained  a  disappointment 
on  the  sul)ject  of  the  homily,  he  was  deter- 
mined to  afford  him  some  comfort  on  this. 

" I  miderstand, "  said  he,  "from  the  best 
authority,  that  uotliing  like  it  has  been  seen 
for  yeai's  in  the  city.  Several  of  the  nobility 
and  gentry  have  privately  solicited  Sir 
Tliomas  for  copies  of  the  bill  of  fare." 

"That  is  aU  right,"  rejilied  the  Doctor, 
"that  is  all  excellent,  my  good  young  fiiend. 
^\Tio  is  that  large  gentleman  who  has  just 
come  in  ?  " 

"  AMiy,  sir,"  replied  Roberts,  astonished, 
"  that  is  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  himself." 

"  Bless  me,  and  so  it  is,"  replied  the  Doc- 
tor ;  "he  is  getting  vei-y  fat — eh?  Ay,  all 
right,  and  will  make  excellent  eating  if  the 
cooking  be  good." 

Roberts  saw  at  once  what  the  worthy  > 
Doctor  was  thinking  of,  and  resolved  to 
suggest  some  other  topic,  if  it  were  only  to 
punish  him  for  bestowing  such  attention 
upon  a  sid>ject  so  much  at  variance  with 
thoughts  that  ought  to  occupy  the  mind  oi 
a  minister  of  God. 

"I  have  heard,  Doctoi-,  that  you  are  a 
bachelor,"  said  he.  "  How  did  it  happen, 
pray,  that  you  kept  aloof  from  marriage  ?  " 

The  Doctor,  who  had  been  contemplating 
his  own  exploits  at  the  d^jihier,  now  that 
Roberts  had  mentioned  marriage,  took  it  foi 
gi-anted  that  he  wanted  him  to  proceed  with 
liis  homilv,  and  tried  to  remember  where  he 
had  left  off. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  he,  "  about  maniage  ;  1 
stopped  at  its  tribulations.  I  think  I  had 
got  over  its  rights  and  duties,  but  T  stopped 
at  its  tribulations —yes,  its  tribulations. 
Very  well,   my  dear  friend,"  ^e  proceeded, 


o96 


WILLIAM   CARLKTON'8  WORKS. 


takiiij:i;  liim  by  the  hand,  and  leading  him 
over  to  a  comer,  "  accompany  me,  and  you 
shall  enter  them  now.  Where  is  the  young 
la^iy?" 

"  She  will  be  here  by  ^Jid  by,"  replied 
Roberts  ;  "I  think  you  had  better  wait  till 
she  comes." 

The  Doctor  paused  for  some  time,  and 
following  up  the  idea  of  the  deju)^er,  said, 
"I  am  fond  of  wild  fowl  now." 

"  Oh,  fie.  Doctor,"  replied  the  Ensign  ;  "  I 
did  not  imagine  that  so  gi-ave  a  personage  as 
you  are  could  be  fond  of  anything  wild." 

"Oh,  yes,"repHed  the  Doctor,  "ever  while 
you  Hve  prefer  the  wild  to  the  tame  ;  every 
one,  sii',"  he  added,  taking  the  other  by  the 
button,  "  that  knows  what's  what,  in  that  re- 
spect, does  it.  Well,  but  about  the  tribula- 
tions." 

As  usual  the  Doctor  was  doomed  to  be 
left  in  them,  for  just  as  he  spoke  the  doors 
were  thrown  more  widely  open,  and  Lucy, 
leaning  upon,  or  rather  supjDorted  by,  her 
aunt  and  Lady  Emily,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Mainwaring,  entered  the  room.  Her  father 
had  been  in  close  conversation  "uith  Dunroe  ; 
but  not  all  his  efforts  at  self-possession  and 
calmness  could  prevent  his  agitation  and 
anxiety  from  being  visible.  His  eye  was  un- 
settled and  blood-shot  ;  his  manner  uneasy, 
and  his  whole  bearing  indicative  of  hope, 
ecstasy,  apprehension,  and  doubt,  all  flitting 
across  each  other  like  clouds  in  a  sky 
ti'oubled  by  adverse  currents,  but  each  and 
all  telling  a  tale  of  the  tumult  which  was 
going  on  A\-ithLin  him. 

Yes,  Lucy  was  there,  but,  alas  the  day ! 
what  a  woful  sight  did  she  present  to  the 
spectators.  The  moment  she  had  come 
dowTi,  the  servants,  and  all  those  who  had 
obtained  permission  to  be  j^resent  at  the 
ceremony,  now  entered  the  large  drawing- 
room  to  %\dtness  it.  Tom  Goiu-lay  entered  a 
little  after  his  sister,  followed  in  a  few  min- 
utes by  old  Anthony,  accompanied  by  Fen- 
ton,  who  leant  upon  him,  and  was  provided 
with  an  arm-chau-  in  a  remote  corner  of  the 
room.  After  them  came  Thomas  Corbet  and 
his  sister,  Ginty  Cooper,  together  with  old 
Sam  Roberts,  and  the  man  named  Skipton, 
with  whom  the  reader  has  already  been  made 
acquainted. 

But  how  shall  we  describe  the  bride — the 
wretched,  heart-bioken  victim  of  an  ambition 
that  was  as  senseless  as  it  was  inhuman  ?  It 
was  impossible  for  one  moment  to  glance  at 
her  without  perceiving  that  the  stamp  of 
death,  misery,  and  despair,  was  upon  her ; 
and  yet,  despite  of  all  this,  she  carried  with 
lier  and  around  her  a  strange  charm,  an  at- 
mosphere of  grace,  elegance,  and  beauty,  of 
majestic  virtue,  of  innate  greatness  of  mind. 


of  wonderful  truth,  and  such  transparent 
pvu-ity  of  heart  and  thought,  that  when  she 
entered  the  room  all  the  noise  and  chat  and 
laughter  were  instantly  hushed,  and  a  sense 
of  solemn  awe,  as  if  there  were  more  than  a 
maniage  here,  came  over  all  present.  Nay, 
more.  We  shall  not  pretend  to  trace  the 
cause  and  origin  of  this  extraordinary  sensa- 
tion. Originate  as  it  may,  it  told  a  power- 
ful and  startling  tale  to  her  father's  heart ; 
but  in  truth  she  had  not  been  half  a  minute 
in  the  room  when,  such  was  the  dignified 
but  silent  majesty  of  her  sorrow,  that  there 
were  few  eyes  there  that  were  not  moist 
with  tears.  The  melancholy  impressiveness 
of  her  character,  her  gentleness,  her  mourn- 
ful resignation,  the  patience  with  which  she 
suffered,  coidd  not  for  one  moment  be  mis- 
understood, and  the  contagion  of  sympathy, 
and  of  common  humanity,  in  the  fate  of  a 
creature  apparently  more  di^dne  than  human, 
whose  sorrow  was  read  as  if  by  intuition, 
spread  through  them  Arith  a  feeling  of 
strong  comjDassion  that  melted  almost  ever}' 
heart,  and  sent  the  tears  to  every  eye. 

Her  father  approached  her,  and  Avhispered 
to  her,  and  caressed  her.  and  seemed  playful 
and  even  hght-hearted,  as  if  the  da}'  were  a 
day  of  joy ;  but  out  strongly  against  his 
mirth  stood  the  solemn  spirit  of  her  sorrow  ; 
and  when  he  went  to  bring  over  Dunroe,  and 
when  he  took  her  passive  hand,  in  order  to 
place  it  in  his — the  agony,  the  horror,  with 
which  she  submitted  to  the  act,  were  ex- 
pressed in  a  manner  that  made  her  appear, 
as  that  which  she  actually  was,  the  lovely 
but  pitiable  victim  of  ambition.  Alley 
Mahon's  grief  was  loud ;  Lady  Gourlay, 
Mi's.  Mainwaring,  Lady  Emily,  all  were  in 
tears. 

"I  am  jDroud  to  see  this,"  said  Sir  Tliom- 
as,  bowing,  as  if  he  were  bouni  to  thank 
them,  and  attempting,  with  his  u^al  tact,  to 
turn  their  veiy  sympathy  into  a  hollow  and 
untruthful  compliment ;  "I  am  proud  to  see 
this  manifestation  of  sti-ong  attachment  to 
my  daughter  ;  it  is  a  proof  of  how  she  is 
loved." 

Luc}^  had  not  once  ojDened  her  lips.  She 
had  not  strength  to  do  so  ;  her  \evy  voice 
had  abandoned  her. 

Two  or  three  persons  besides  the  baronet 
and  the  bridegroom  felt  a  deep  interest  in 
what  was  going  forward,  or  about  to  go  for> 
ward.  Thomas  Gourlay  now  absolutely 
hated  her  ;  so  did  his  mother  ;  so  did  his 
imcle,  Thomas  Corbet.  Each  and  all  of 
them  felt  anxious  to  have  her  married,  in 
order  that  she  might  be  out  of  Tom's  way, 
and  that  he  might  enjoy  a  wider  sphere  of 
action.  Old  Anthony  Corbet  stood  looking 
on,  with  his  thin  lips  compressed  closely  to- 


THE  BLACK  BAnoXKT. 


50< 


»etljcr,  his  keen  eyes  riveted  on  the  baronet, 
md  an  expression  legible  on  every  trace  of 
his  countenance,  such  as  nu<^ht  well  have 
constituted  him  some  fearful  incarnation  of 
hatred  and  vengeance.  Lady  Gourlay  was 
so  completely  engrossed  by  Lucy  that  she 
did  not  notice  I'enton,  and  the  latter,  from 
liis  position,  could  see  nothing  of  either  the 
biide  or  the  baronet,  but  their  backs. 

Ijord  Dinu-oe  felt  that  his  best  course  was 
to  follow  tlie  advice  of  Sir  Thomas,  whifli 
was,  not  to  avail  himself  of  liis  position  with 
Lucy,  but  to  observe  a  respectful  manner, 
and  to  avoid  entering  into  any  conver.sation 
what.soever  witli  her,  at  least  until  after  the 
ceremony  slioul  1  be  p.  rformed.  He  conse- 
quently kept  his  distance,  with  the  exception 
of  receiving  her  passive  hand,  as  we  have 
shown,  and  maintained  a  low  and  subdued 
conversation  with  Mr.  Roberts.  The  only 
person  likely  to  inteniipt  the  solemn  feel- 
ing which  prevailed  was  old  Sam,  who  had 
his  handkercliief  several  times  alteniately  to 
liis  nose  and  eyes,  and  Avho  looked  about 
him  with  an  indignant  expression,  that 
seemed  to  say,  "  There's  something  wrong 
here— some  one  ought  to  speak  ;  I  wish  my 
boy  would  step  forward.  This,  surely,  is  not 
the  heiirt  of  man." 

At  length  the  baronet  approached  Lucy, 
an  1  seemed,  by  his  action,  as  well  as  his 
words,  to  ask  her  consent  to  something. 
Luv^y  lo')ked  at  him,  but  neither  by  her  word 
nor  gesture  appeared  to  accede  to  or  refuse 
his  i-equest ;  and  her  father,  after  complac- 
ently bo\^'ing,  as  if  to  thank  her  for  her  ac- 
quiescence, said, 

"  I  think,  Dr.  Sombre,  we  require  your  ser- 
vices ;  the  i)arties  are  assembled  and  wQhng, 
and  the  ceremony  had  better  take  place." 

Thomas  Corbet  had  been  standing  at  a 
front  wind^)w,  and  Alley  Mahon,  on  hearing 
the  baronet's  words,  instantly  changed  her 
position  to  the  front  of  Luc}-,  as  if  she  in- 
tended to  make  a  spring  between  her  and 
Dunroe,  as  soon  as  the  matter  should  come 
to  a  crisis. 

In  the  meantime  Dr.  Sombre  advanced 
xN'ith  his  bo  'k,  and  Lord  Dunroe  was  led  over 
by  Roberts  to  take  his  position  opposite  the 
bride,  when  a  noise  of  carriage- wheels  was 
he  rd  coming  rapidly  along,  and  stopping  as 
rapidly  at  the  hall  door.  In  an  instant  a 
knock  that  almost  shook  the  liouse,  and  cer- 
tainly startled  some  of  the  females,  among 
whom  was  the  unhappy  bride  herself,  was 
hetird  at  the  hall  door,  and  the  next  moment 
Thomas  Corbet  hurried  out  of  the  room,  as 
if  to  see  who  had  amved,  instantly  followed 
by  Gibson. 

Dr.  Sombre,  wlio  now  stood  with  his  lin- 
ger between  the  leaves  of  his  book,  where  its 


frequent  pressure  ha^l  nearly  o})literated  the 
word  "  obedience "  in  the  marriage  cere- 
mony,  said, 

"  My  dear  children,  it  is  a  custom  of  mine 
— and  it  is  so  because  I  conceive  it  a  duty — 
to  give  you  a  few  preliminary  words  of  ad- 
vice, a  little  homily,  as  it  were,  upon  the 
nature  of  the  duties  into  which  you  are 
about  to  enter." 

This  intimation  was  received  ^snth  solemn 
silence,  if  we  except  the  word  "  Attention  !  " 
which  proceeded  in  a  respectful  and  earnest, 
but  subdued  tone  from  old  Sam.  Tlie  Doc- 
tor looked  about  him  a  little  startled,  but 
again  proceeded, 

"  Marriage,  my  children,  may  be  divided 
into  three  heads  :  first,  its  duties  ;  next,  its 
rights ;  and  lastly,  its  tribulations.  I  place 
tribulations  last,  my  children,  because,  if  it 
were  not  for  its  tribulations " 

"  My  good  friend,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  with 
impatience,  "  we  will  spare  you  the  little 
homih'  you  sjieak  of,  until  after  the  ceremo- 
ny. I  dare  say  it  is  designed  for  mamed 
life  and  married  people  ;  but  as  those  for 
whose  especial  advantage  you  are  now  about 
to  give  it  are  not  man  and  wife  yet,  I  think 
you  had  better  reseiwe  it  until  you  make 
them  so.  Proceed,  Doctor,  if  you  please, 
with  the  ceremony." 

"I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you, 
sir,"  replied  the  Doctor  ;  "I  shall  be  guided 
here  only  by  Sir  Thomas  Gourky  himself, 
as  father  of  the  bride." 

"  "\Miy,  Doctor,  what  the  deuce  is  the 
matter  Avith  you  ?  Am  not  I  Sir  Tliomas 
Gourlay  ?  " 

The  Doctor  put  up  his  spectacles  on  his 
forehead,  and  looking  at  him  more  closely, 
exclaimed, 

"  Upon  my  word,  and  so  you  are.  I  beg 
your  pardon.  Sir  Thomas,  but  Avith  respect 
to  this  di'jptlixer — homily,  I  would  say — its 
enunciation  here  is  exceedingly  appropriate, 
and  it  is  but  short,  and  will  not  occupy 
more  than  about  half-aii-l.our,  or  three- 
quarters,  which  is  onl^'  a  1  >rief  space  when 
the  hajDpiness  of  a  whole  Hfe  is  concerned. 
AVell,  my  children,  I  was  speaking  about 
this  (h'jedner"  he  proceeded  ;  "  the  time,  aa 
I  said,  wiU  not  occupy  more  than  lialf-fin- 
hour,  or  probably  three-tpiarters  :  and,  in 
deed,  if  our  whole  Hfe  were  as  agreeably 
spent — I  refer  now  especially  to  manied  life 
— its  tribulations  would  iaot " 

Here  he  was  left  once  more  in  his  tribii- 
latious,  for  as  he  uttered  the  last  word.  Gib- 
son returned,  pronouncing  in  a  ilistinct  but 
resi^ectful  voice,  "  The  Earl  of  CuUamore  ;  " 
and  that  nobleman,  leaiiing  upon  the  arm  of 
his  confidential  servant,  Morty  O'Flaherty, 
immediatel}'  entered  the  room. 


598 


wnj.iAyr  carletox's  works. 


His  vcncnible  look,  his  feeble  state  of 
health,  V)ut,  above  Jill  his  amiable  character, 
well  kuo\m  as  it  wiis  for  everything  that 
was  honoral)le  and  benevolent,  produced  the 
effect  which  might  be  expected.  All  who 
were  not  standing,  immediately  rose  up  to 
do  him  reverence  and  honor.  He  inclined 
his  head  in  token  of  acknowledgment,  but 
even  before  the  baronet  had  time  to  addi'ess 
him,  he  said, 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  has  this  marriage 
yet  taken  place  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lord,"  replied  Sir  Thomas,  "  and 
I  am  glad  it  has  not.  Your  lordship's  pres- 
ence is  a  sanction  and  an  honor  which,  con- 
sidering your  state  of  ill-health,  is  such  as 
Ave  must  idl  duly  apjireciate.  I  am  delighted 
to  see  you  here,  my  lord  ;  allow  me  to  help 
your  lordshij)  to  a  seat." 

"  I  thank  you,  Sir  Thomas,"  replied  his 
lordship  ;  "  but  before  I  take  a  seat,  or  be- 
fore yovi  proceed  further  in  this  business,  I 
beg  to  have  some  pi-ivate  conversation  mth 
you." 

"  With  infinite  pleasure,  my  lord,"  rej^lied 
the  baronet.  '  Dr.  Sombre,  whilst  his  lord- 
ship and  I  are  sjieaking,  you  may  as  well  go 
on  with  the  cei'emony.  When  it  is  neces- 
sary, call  me,  and  I  shall  give  the  bride 
away." 

"Dr.  Sombre,"  said  his  lordship,  "  do  not 
proceed  A\ith  the  ceremony,  until  I  shall 
have  spoken  to  ]Miss  Gourlay  s  father.  If  it 
be  necessaiy  that  I  should  sjDeak  more  plain- 
ly, I  say,  I  forbid  the  banns.  You  will  not 
have  to  wait  long.  Doctor  ;  but  by  no  means 
proceed  with  the  ceremony  imtil  you  shall 
have  permission  from  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay." 

In  general,  any  circumstance  that  tends  to 
prevent  a  max-riage,  where  all  the  i:)arties 
are  assembled  to  witness  it,  and  to  enjoy 
the  festivities  that  attend  it,  is  looked  upon 
with  a  strong  feeling  of  dissatisfaction.  Here, 
however,  the  case  was  different.  Scarcely 
an  individual  among  them,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  those  who  were  interested  in  the 
event,  that  did  not  feel  a  sense  of  reUef  at 
what  had  occiu'red  in  consequence  of  the 
appearance  of  Lord  Cullamore.  Dunroe's 
face  from  that  moment  was  literally  a  sen- 
tence of  guilt  against  himself.  It  became 
blank,  haggard,  and  of  a  ghastly  white ; 
while  his  hope  of  securing  the  rich  and  love- 
ly heiress  died  away  within  him.  He  re- 
solved, however,  to  make  a  last  etlbrt. 

"Roberts,"  said  he,  " go  to  Sombre,  and 
whisper  to  him  to  proceed  with  the  cere- 
mony. Get  him  to  perform  it,  and  you  are 
sure  of  a  certain  sister  of  mine,  who  I  rather 
susjiect  is  not  indifferent  to  you." 

"  I  must  decline  to  do  so,  my  lord,"  re- 
plied   Koberts.     "After  what  has  just  oc- 


curred, I  feel  that  it  woidd  not  be  honorabU 
in  me,  neither  would  it  be  respectful  to  j'oui 
father.  However  I  may  esteem  your  sister, 
my  lord,  and  appreciate  her  virtues,  yei  ] 
am  but  a  poor  ensign,  as  you  know,  and 
not  in  a  capacity  to  entertain  any  preten- 
sions  " 

"  W^eU,  then,"  replied  Dunroe,  intcriiipt- 
ing  him,  "  bring  that  old  dog  Sombre  here, 
will  you?  I  trust  you  will  so  far  oblige 
me." 

Roberts  compHed  AA-ith  this  ;  but  the  Doc- 
tor was  equally  finn. 

"  Doctor,"  said  his  lordship,  after  urging 
several  arguments,  "j-ou  will  obhge  Sir 
Thomas  Gourlay  very  much,  by  ha^ong  us 
married  when  they  come  in.  It's  only  a 
jDaltry  matter  of  property,  that  Sir  Thomas 
acceded  to  this  morning.  Pray,  proceed 
with  the  ceremony,  Doctor,  and  make  two 
lovers  happy." 

"  The  word  of  your  honorable  father," 
replied  the  Doctor,  "  shall  ever  be  a  law  to 
me.  He  was  always  a  most  hospitable  man  ; 
and,  unless  my  bishop,  or  the  chief  secretaiy, 
or,  what  is  better  still,  the  viceroy  himself,  I 
do  not  know  a  nobleman  more  worthy  of 
respect.  No,  my  lord,  there  is  not  in  the 
peerage  a  nobleman  who — gave  better  din- 
ners." 

WTiat  with  this  effort  on  the  part  of  Dun- 
roe,  and  a  variety  of  chat  that  took  place  up- 
on the  subject  of  the  interiniption,  at  least 
five-and-twenty  minutes  had  elapsed,  and  the 
company  began  to  feel  somewhat  anxious 
and  impatient,  when  Sir  Thomas  Gourlaj' 
entered  ;  and,  gracious  heaven,  what  a  fright- 
ful change  had  taken  place  in  him  !  Dismay, 
despair,  wi'etchedness,  misery,  distraction, 
frenzy,  were  all  stiiiggliug  for  expression  in 
his  countenance.  He  was  followed  by  Lord 
Cullamore,  who,  when  about  to  i)rocecd 
home,  had  changed  his  mind,  and  returned 
for  Lady  Emily.  He  advanced,  still  sup- 
ported by  Morty,  and  approaching  Lucy, 
took  her  hand,  and  said, 

"  j\Iiss  Gourlay,  you  are  saved  ;  and  I  thank 
God  that  I  was  made  the  instrument  of  res- 
cuing you  from  wi-etchedness  and  despair, 
for  I  read  both  in  your  face.  And  now," 
he  proceeded,  addressing  the  sjiectators,  "  I 
beg  it  to  be  understood,  that  in  the  breaking 
oft"  of  this  maniage,  there  is  no  earthly 
blame,  not  a  shadow  of  imputation  to  be  at- 
tributed to  Miss  Gourlay,  Avho  is  all  honor, 
and  delicac}',  and  truth.  Her  father,  if  left 
to  himself,  would  not  now  permit  her  to  be- 
come the  wife  of  my  son  ;  who,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  is  utterly  unworthy  of  her."  "  Atten- 
tion ! "  once  more  was  heard  fi'om  the  quar- 
ter in  wliich  old  Sam  stood,  as  if  beai-ing 
testimony  to  the  truth  of  his  lordship's  a* 


TJIK  BLACK  BARONET. 


59ft 


sertiou.  "-Jolin,"  said  the  latter,  "yon  mny 
thank  your  friend,  ]\Ir.  Norton,  for  enabling' 
lue,  ^^'itllin  the  last  hour,  to  save  this  admi- 
rable ^rirl  from  the  ruin  which  her  union  with 
you  would  have  entailed  ui)on  her.  You 
will  noAv  know  how  to  ajipreeiate  so  faithful 
and  honorable  a  friend." 

All  tliat  Dunro  must  have  felt,  may  be 
easily  conceived  by  the  reader.  The  baro- 
net, however,  becomes  the  foremost  figure 
in  the  group.  The  strong,  the  cunning,  the 
vehement,  the  overbearing,  the  plausible, 
the  unbeHeviug,  the  philosophical,  and  the 
cruel — these  were  the  di^'ided  streams,  as  it 
were,  of  his  character,  wliich  all,  however, 
united  to  make  up  the  dark  and  terrible  cur- 
rent of  his  great  ambition  ;  gi'eat,  however, 
only  as  a  passion  and  a  moral  impulse  of 
action,  but  puny,  vile,  and  base  in  its  true 
character  and  elements.  Here,  then,  stood 
the  victim  of  his  own  creed,  the  baffled  an- 
tigonist  of  God's  providence,  who  despised 
religion,  and  trampled  upon  its  obligations  ; 
the  man  who  strove  to  m:ike  himself  his  own 
deity,  his  own  priest,  and  who  administered 
to  his  guilty  passions  on  the  altar  of  a  har- 
dened and  corrupted  heart — here  he  stood, 
now,  struck,  stunned,  prostrated ;  whilst 
the  veil  which  had  hitlierto  concealed  the 
hideousness  of  his  principles,  was  raised  up, 
as  if  by  an  awful  hand,  that  he  might  know 
<\'hat  it  is  for  man  to  dash  himself  against 
the  bosses  of  tlie  Almighty's  buckler.  His 
heart  beat,  and  his  brain  throbbed  ;  all  pre- 
sence of  mind,  almost  all  consciousness, 
ab^mdoned  him,  and  he  only  felt  that  the 
gi'eat  object  of  his  hfe  was  lost — the  great 
plan,  to  the  completion  of  which  he  had  de- 
voted all  his  energies,  was  annihilated.  He 
imagined  that  the  apartment  was  filled  with 
gloom  and  fire,  and  that  the  faces  he  saw 
about  him  were  mocking  at  him,  and  dis- 
closing to  each  other  in  whispers  the  dread- 
ful extent,  the  unutterable  depth  of  his  des- 
pair and  misery.  He  also  felt  a  sickness  of 
heart,  that  was  in  itself  difficult  to  contend 
with,  and  a  weakness  about  the  knees  that 
rendered  it  nearly  impossible  for  him  to 
stand.  His  head,  too,  became  hght  and 
giddy,  and  his  brain  reeled  so  much  that  he 
tottered,  and  was  obliged  to  sit,  in  order  to 
prevent  himself  from  falling.  All,  however,  j 
was  not  to  end  hei-e.  This  was  but  the  fir.st  ; 
blow. 

Lord   Cullamore   was   now  about  to  de- 
part ;  for  he,  too,  had  become  exceedingly  | 
weak  and  exhausted,  by  the  unusual  exert-ise 
and  agitation  to  which  he  had  ex])osed  liim- 
self.  ! 

Old  Anthony  Corbet  then  stepped  forward,  ! 
and  said,  i 

"  Don't   go,    my   lord.      There's   strange  ' 


things  to  come  to  light  this  day  and  thia 
hour,  for  this  is  the  day  and  this  is  the  hour 
of  my  vengeance." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  replied  his 
lordship  ;  "  I  was  scarcely  equal  to  the  ef- 
fort of  coming  here,  and  I  feel  myself  veiy 
feeble." 

"Get  his  lordship  some  wine,"  said  the 
old  man,  addressing  his  son.  "  You  will  be 
good  enough  to  stojD,  my  lo»d,"  he  proceed- 
ed, ."  for  a  shoi-t  time.  You  ai-e  a  magistrate, 
and  your  presence  here  may  be  necessary." 

"  Ha  !"  exclaimed  his  lordship,  sui-j)rised 
at  such  language  :  "  this  ma}'  be  seiioua 
Proceed,  my  friend  :  what  disclosui-es  have 
you  to  make  ?" 

Old  Corbet  did  not  answer  him,  but  turn- 
ing round  to  the  baronet,  who  was  not  then 
in  a  cajDacity  to  hear  or  observe  anything 
apart  from  the  temble  convulsions  of  agony 
he  was  suffering,  he  looked  upon  him,  his 
keen  old  eyes  in  a  blaze,  his  lips  open  and 
their  expression  sharpened  by  the  derisive 
and  Satanic  triumph  that  was  legible  in  the 
demon  sneer  which  kept  them  apart. 

"  Thomas  Gourlay  !"  he  exclaimed  in  a 
shai-jD,  piercing  voice  of  authority  and  con- 
scious power,  "Thomas  Gourlay,  rise  up  and 
stand  forward,  your  day  of  doom  is  come." 

"  ^^^lo  is  it  that  has  the  insolence  to  call 
my  father  Thomas  Gourlay  under  this  roof?" 
asked  his  son  Thomas,  alias  ^li*.  Ambrose 
Gray.     "  Begone,  old  man,  you  are  mad." 

"  Bastard  and  imi^ostor  I"  replied  An- 
thony, you  appear  before  your  time,  lliomas 
Gourlay,  did  30U  heai-  me  ?" 

By  an  eflfori — almost  a  sujDerhuman  eilbrt. 
— the  baronet  succeeded  in  turning  his  at^ 
tention  to  what  was  going  forward. 

"  AMiat  is  this  ?"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  is  this  a 
tumult  ?  ^^^lo  dares  to  stir  up  a  tumult  in 
such  a  scene  as  this  ?  Begone !"  said  he, 
addressing  several  strangers,  who  appeared 
to  take  a  deep  interest  in  what  was  likely  tc 
ensue.  The  house  was  his  own,  and,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  every  one  left  the  room 
^\•ith  the  excejjtion  of  those  immediately  con- 
nected with  both  famihes,  and  with  the  in- 
cidents of  our  story. 

"  Let  no  one  go,"  said  Anthony,  "  that  I 
appointed  to  come  here." 

"AMiat!"  sjiid  Dunroe,  after  the  stnxnger.s 
had  gone,  and  ^\-ith  a  look  that  indicated  his 
sense  of  the  baronet's  duplicity,  "  is  this 
gentleman  your  son  V" 

"  My  acknowledged  son,  sir,"  replied  the 
other. 

"  iVnd,  pray,  were  you  aware  of  that  thii 
moniing  ?" 

"  As  clearly  and  distinctly  as  you  wei-e 
tliat  you  had  no  earthly  claim  to  the  title 
whidi  you  bear,  nor  to  the  j)ropert \  of  \oui 


ffOO 


WILLIAM  CARLhJTON'S  WORKS. 


father,"  repliG<l  the  baronet,  with  a  look  that  j 
matched  that    of   the  other.      There    they  I 
stood,  face  to  face,  each  detected  in  his  dis-  ; 
honor  and  iniquity,  and  on  that  account  dis- 
qualitied   to   recriminate  upon   each  other, 
for  their  mutual  perfidy. 

"Corbet,"  said  the  baronet,  now  recover-  , 
ing  himself,  "what  is  this?  Respect  my  , 
house  and  family — respect  my  guests.  Go  ' 
home  ;  I  pardon  you  this  folly,  because  I  I 
see  that  you  have  been  too  Hberal  in  your 
potations  this  morning."  [ 

"  You  mistake  me,  sii',"  repHed  the  adroit  j 
eld  man  ;  "I  am  going  to  do  you  a  service.  | 
Call  forwai-d  Thomas  Goiuiay." 

Tliis  considerably  reUeved  the  baronet, 
who  took  it  for  gi'anted  that  it  was  his  son 
whom  he  had  called  in  the  first  instance. 

"  "\Miat !  "  exclaimed  Lord  Cullamore,  "  is 
it  possible.  Sir-  Thomas,  that  you  have  re- 
covered 3'oui"  lost  son  ?  " 

"  It  is,  my  lord,"  replied  the  other.  "Thom- 
as, come  over  till  I  present  you  to  my  dear 
friend  Lord  Cullamore." 

Yovmg  Goiu'lay  advanced,  and  the  eaii 
was  in  the  act  of  extending  his  hand  to  him, 
when  old  Anthony  interposed,  by  drawing 
it  back. 

"  Stop,  my  lord,"  said  he  ;  "  that  hand  is 
the  hand  of  a  man  of  honor,  but  you  must 
not  son  it  by  touchin'  that  of  a  bastard  and 
impostor." 

"That  is  my  son,  my  lord,"  replied  Sir 
Thomas,  "and  I  acknowledge  him  as  such." 

"  So  you  may,  sir,"  replied  Corbet,  "  and  so 
you  ought ;  but  I  say  that  if  he  is  your  son, 
he  is  also  my  gi-andson." 

"Corbet,"  said  his  lordshijD,  "you  had 
better  explain  yourself.  This,  Sir  Thomas, 
is  a  matter  very  disagreeable  to  me,  and 
which  I  should  not  wish  even  to  hear  ;  but 
as  it  is  possible  that  the  interests  of  my  dear 
friend  here.  Lady  Gourlay,  may  be  involved 
in  it,  I  think  it  my  duty  hot  to  go." 

"  Her  ladyship's  interests  oxe  involved  in 
it,  my  lord,"  re^jlied  Corbet  ;  "  and  you  are 
right  to  stay,  if  it  Avas  only  for  her  sake. 
Now,  my  lady,"  he  added,  addressing  her, 
"  I  see  how  you  are  sulferin',  but  I  ask  it  as 
a  favor  that  you  will  keep  yourself  quiet,  and 
let  me  go  on." 

"Proceed,  then,"  said  Lord  Cullamore; 
"  and  do  you,  Lady  Gourlay,  restrain  your 
emotion,  if  you  can." 

"Thomas  Gourlay — I  epake  now  to  the 
father,  my  lord,"  said  Corbet. 

"  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay,  sir !  "  said  the  bar- 
onet, haughtily  and  indignantly,  "Sir  Thom- 
as Gourlay  !  " 

"  Tlionias  Gourlay,"  persisted  Corbet,  "  it 
is  now  nineteen  years,  or  tliereabouts,  since 
you  engaged  me,  myself — I  am  tlie  man — to 


take  away  the  son  of  your  brotlier,  and  you 
know  the  ordhers  you  gave  me.  I  did  so  : 
I  got  a  mask,  and  took  him  away  with  me 
on  the  pretence  of  bringin'  him  to  see  a  pup- 
pet-show. Well,  he  disappeared,  and  youi 
mind,  I  sujDjDose,  was  aisy.  I  tould  you  all 
was  right,  and  every  year  fi-oni  that  to  this 
you  have  paid  me  a  pension  of  fifty  pounds.'* 

"The  man  is  mad,  my  lord,"  said  Sii* 
Thomas  ;  "  and,  under  all  cu'cumstances,  he 
makes  himself  out  a  villain." 

"  I  can  perceive  no  evidence  of  madness, 
so  far,"  rejjUed  his  lordship  ;  "  proceed." 

"  None  but  a  villam  would  have  served 
your  purjjoses  ;  but  if  I  was  a  villain,  it 
wasn't  to  bear  out  youi-  wishes,  but  to  sat- 
isfy my  ovvTi  revenge." 

"  But  what  cause  for  revenge  could  you 
have  had  against  him  ? "  asked  his  lord- 
ship. 

"What  cause  ?"  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
whUst  his  countenance  grew  dark  as  night, 
"  what  cause  against  the  villain  that  seduced 
my  daughter — that  brought  disgrace  and 
shame  uj^on  my  family — that  broke  through 
the  ties  of  nature,  which  are  always  held  sa- 
cred in  our  country,  for  she  was  his  own 
foster-sister,  my  lord,  suckled  at  the  same 
breasts,  nursed  in  the  same  arms,  and  fed 
and  clothed  and  nourished  by  the  same 
hand  ; — ^-es,  my  lord,  that  brought  shame 
and  disgrace  and  madness,  my  lord — ay, 
madness  upon  my  child,  that  he  deceived 
and  corrupted,  under  a  solemn  oath  of 
marriage.  Do  you  begin  to  undherstand 
me  now,  my  lord  ?  " 

His  lordship  made  no  reply,  but  kept  his 
eyes  intently  fixed  upon  him. 

"  Well,  my  lord,  soon  after  the  disappear- 
ance of  Lady  Gourlay's  child,  his  own  went 
in  the  same  way  ;  and  no  search,  no  hunt,  no 
attempt  to  get  him  ever  succeeded.  He,  any 
more  than  the  other,  could  not  be  got.  My 
lord,  it  was  I  removed  him.  I  saw  far  before 
me,  and  it  was  I  removed  him  ;  yes,  Thomas 
Gourlay,  it  was  I  left  you  childless — at  least 
of  a  son." 

"  You  must  yourself  see,  my  lord,"  said 
the  baronet,  "  that — that — when  is  this  mar- 
riage to  take  place  ? — what  is  this  ? — I  am 
quite  confused  ;  let  me  see,  let  me  see — yes, 
he  is  such  a  villain,  my  lord,  that  you  must 
perceive  he  is  entitled  to  no  credit — to  none 
whatsoever." 

"Well,  my  lord,"  proceeded  Corbet. 

"I  think,  my  lord,"  said  Thomas  Corbet, 
stepping  forward,  "  that  I  ought  to  acquaint 
youi*  lordship  with  my  father's  infirmity. 
Of  late,  my  lord,  he  has  been  occasionally 
unsettled  in  his  senses.  I  can  prove  this  on 
oath." 

"And  if  what  he  states  be  tnie," replied 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


601 


his  lordship,  "  I  am  not  surprised  at  it.  It 
is  only  right  we  should  hear  him,  however. 
As  I  have  already  said,  I  can  perceive  no 
traces  of  insanity  aliout  him." 

"Ah,  my  lord,"  rejilied  the  old  man,  "it 
would  be  well  for  him  if  he  could  prove  me 
mad,  for  then  his  nephew,  the  bastard,  might 
have  a  chance  of  succeeding  to  the  Gourlay 
title,  and  the  estates.  But  I  must  go  on. 
Well,  my  lord,  after  ten  years  or  so,  I  came 
one  day  to  Mr.  Gourlay — he  was  then  called 
Sir  Thomas— and  I  tould  him  that  I  had  re- 
lented, and  couldn't  do  with  his  brother's 
son  as  I  had  promised,  and  as  he  wished  me. 
'  He  is  h\'ing,'  said  I,  '  and  I  wish  you  would 
take  him  undher  your  own  care.'  I  won't 
wait  to  tell  you  the  abuse  I  got  from  him  for 
not  fialfiUin'  his  wishes  ;  but  he  felt  he  was 
in  my  power,  and  was  forced  to  continue 
my  pension  and  keep  himself  quiet.  Well, 
my  lord,  I  brought  him  the  boy  one  night, 
undher  the  clouds  of  darkness,  and  we  con- 
veyed him  to  a  lunatic  asylum." 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  something  be- 
tween a  gi'oan  and  a  scream  from  Lady  Gour- 
lay, who,  however,  endeavored  immediately 
to  restrain  her  feelings. 

"From  that  day  to  this,  my  lord,  the 
cruelty  he  received,  sometimes  in  one  mad- 
house and  sometimes  in  another,  sometimes 
in  England  and  sometimes  in  Ii'eland,  it 
would  be  terrible  to  know.  Everything  that 
could  wear  away  life  was  attempted,  and  the 
instniments  in  that  black  \illain's  hands 
were  well  paid  for  their  cruelty.  At  length, 
my  lord,  he  escajjed,  and  M'andhered  about 
till  he  settled  down  in  the  town  of  Ball}'- 
train.  Thomas  Gourlay — then  Sir  Thomas 
— had  been  away  with  his  family  for  two  or 
three  years  in  foreign  pai-ts,  but  when  he 
went  to  his  seat,  lied  Hall,  near  that  town, 
he  wasn't  long  there  till  he  found  out  that 
the  young  man  named  Fenton — something 
unsettled,  they  said,  in  his  mind — was  his 
brother's  son,  for  the  baronet  had  been  in- 
formed of  his  escape.  Well,  he  got  him 
once  more  into  his  clutches,  and  in  the  dead 
hour  of  night,  himself — you  there,  Thomas 
Gourlay — one  of  your  villain  servants,  by 
name  Gillespie,  and  my  own  son — you  that 
stand  there,  Thomas  Corbet— afther  making 
the  poor  boy  dead  drunk,  brought  him  off  to 
one  of  the  mad-housps  tliat  he  had  been  in 
before.  He,  Mr.  Gourlay,  then — or  Sii* 
Thomas,  if  you  like — went  with  them  a  pai-t 
of  the  way.  Providence,  my  lord,  is  never 
asleep,  however.  The  keej^er  of  the  last 
mad-house  was  more  of  a  devil  than  a  man. 
The  letter  of  the  baronet  was  Avritten  to  the 
man  that  had  been  there  before  him,  but  he 
was  dead,  and  this  villain  took  the  boy  and 
the  monev  that  liad  been  sent  with  him,  and 


there  he  suffered  what  I  am  afraid  he  will 
never  get  the  betther  of." 

"  But  what  became  of  Sir  Tliomas  Gour- 
lay's  son  ?  "  asked  his  lordsliip  ;  "  and  where 
now  is  Lady  Gourlay 's  ?  " 

"  They  ai-e  both  in  this  room,  mj  lord. 
Now,  Thomas  Gourlay,  I  will  restore  your 
son  to  you.  Advance,  Black  Baronet,"  said 
the  old  man,  walking  over  to  Fenton,  ^\•ith  a 
condensed  tone  of  vengeance  and  triumph  in 
his  voice  and  features,  that  tilled  all  present 
with  awe.  "Come,  now,  and  look  upon  your 
own  work — think,  if  it  will  comfort  you,  up- 
on what  you  made  yovu*  own  flesh  and  blood 
suffer.  There  he  is,  Black  Baronet ;  there  is 
your  son — dead  !  " 

A  sudden  murmur  and  agitation  took 
place  as  he  pointed  to  Fenton ;  but  there 
was  now  something  of  command,  nay,  abso- 
lutely of  grandeur,  in  his  revenge,  as  well  tis 
in  his  whole  manner. 

"  Keej)  quiet,  all  of  you,"  he  exclaimed, 
raising  his  arm  with  a  spii-it  of  authority  and 
l^ower  ;  "  keej)  quiet,  I  say,  and  don't  disturb 
the  dead.     I  am  not  done." 

"  I  must  inten-upt  you  a  moment,"  said 
Lord  Dum-oe.  "I  thought  the  person — the 
unfortunate  young  man  here — was  the  son  of 
Sir  Thomas's  brother?  " 

"  And  so  did  he,"  replied  Corbet ;  "but  I 
will  make  the  whole  thing  simple  at  wanst. 
WTien  he  was  big  enough  to  be  grown  out  of 
his  father's  recollection,  I  brought  back  his 
own  son  to  him  as  the  son  of  his  brother. 
And  while  the  black  villain  was  huggin' him- 
self with  delight  that  all  the  sufferings,  and 
tortures,  and  hellish  scourgings,  and  chains, 
and  cells,  and  darkness,  and  damp,  and 
cruelty  of  all  shapes,  were  breakin'  do^vn  the 
son  of  his  brother  to  death — the  heir  that 
stood  between  himself  and  his  imlawful 
title,  and  his  unlawful  property — instead  of 
that,  they  were  all  inflicted  upon  his  oami 
lawfully  begotten  son,  who  now  lies  there — 
dead  !  " 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Sir  Thomas 
Gourlay  ? "  said  his  lordship  ;  "  what  is 
wi-ong  ?  " 

Sir  Thomas's  conduct,  whilst  old  Corbet 
was  proceeding  to  detail  these  frightful  and 
harrowing  developments,  gave  once  or  twice 
strong  symptoms  of  incolierency,  more,  in- 
deed, by  his  action  than  his  language.  He 
seized,  for  instance,  the  i)er.son  next  him,  un- 
fortunate Dr.  Sombre,  and  after  squeezing 
his  arm  until  it  became  too  painful  to  bear, 
he  ground  his  teeth,  looked  into  his  face, 
and  asked,  "  Do  you  think — would  you  swear 
— that — that — ay — that  there  ?,s-  a  God  ?  " 
Then,  looking  at  Corbet,  and  trying  to  re- 
collect himself,  he  exclaimed,  "Villain,  de- 
))ion,  devil ; "  and  he  then  struck  or  rather 


602 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'^    WORKS. 


throttled  the  Doctor,  as  he  sat  beside  hiiu. 
They  succeeded,  however,  in  composin,!^  him, 
but  his  eyes  were  expressive  of  such  wilduess 
and  horror  aud  blood-shot  fx-enzy,  that  one 
or  two  of  theui  sat  close  to  him,  for  the 
purpose  of  restraining  his  tendency  to  ^^o- 
lence. 

Lady  Goiu-lay,  on  hearing  that  Fentou  was 
not  her  son,  wept  bitterly,  exclaiming, 
"Alas!  I  am  tAvice  made  childless."  But 
Lucy,  who  had  awakened  out  of  the  death- 
like stupor  of  misery  which  had  oppressed 
her  all  the  morning,  now  became  conscious 
of  the  teii-ible  disclosures  which  old  Corbet 
was  making  ;  and  on  heai'ing  that  Fenton 
was,  or  rather  had  been,  her  brother,  she 
flew  to  him,  and  on  looking  at  his  pale, 
handsome,  but  lifeless  features,  she  threw 
her  arms  ai-ound  him,  kissed  his  Ups  in  an 
agony  of  sorrow,  and  exclaimed,  "And  is  it 
thus  we  meet,  my  brother  !  No  word  to  re- 
cognize your  sister  ?  No  glance  of  that  eye, 
that  is  closed  forever,  to  welcome  me  to  your 
heart  ?  Oh !  miserable  fate,  my  brother ! 
We  meet  in  death.  You  are  now  with  our 
mother  ;  and  Lucy,  your  sister,  whom  you 
never  saw,  "^all  soon  join  you.  You  are 
gone  !  Your  wearied  and  broken  sj)irit  fled 
from  disgrace  and  sorrow.  Yes ;  I  shall 
soon  meet  you,  where  your  lips  will  not  be 
passive  to  the  embraces  of  a  sister,  and  where 
your  eyes  wdll  not  be  closed  against  those 
looks  of  affection  and  tenderness  which  she 
was  prepared  to  give  you,  but  wliich  you 
could  not  receive.  Ah,  here  there  is  no  re- 
pugnance of  the  heart,  as  there  was  in  the 
other  instance.  Here  are  my  blessed  moth- 
er's features  ;  and  natm-e  tells  me  that  you 
are — oh,  distressing  sight ! — that  you  were 
my  brother." 

"Keep  silence,"  exclaimed  Corbet,  "you 
must  hear  me  out.  Thomas  Gourlay,  there 
lies  your  son  ;  I  don't  know  Avhat  you  ma}^ 
feel  now  that  you  know  he's  3'our  o\\Xi — and 
well  you  kno^v  it ; — but  I  know  his  sufferings 
gave  you  veiy  little  trouble  so  long  as  you 
thought  that  lie  was  the  child  of  the  widow  of 
your  brother  that  was  dead.  AN' ell  now,  my 
lord,"  he  proceeded,  "  you  might  think  I've 
had  very  good  revenge  upon  Thomas  Gour- 
lay ;  but  there's  more  to  come." 

"  Attention  !  "  from  old  Sam,  in  a  voice 
that  startled  almost  every  one  present. 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  I  nuist  fulfil  my  work. 
Stand  forward.  Sir  Edward  Gourlay.  Stand 
forward,  and  go  to  your  afiectionate  mother's 
arms." 

"  I  fear  the  old  man  is  unsettled,  certain- 
ly," said  his  lordship.  "  Sir  Edward  Gour- 
lay ! — there  is  no  Sir  Edward  Ciourlay  here." 

"Attention,  Ned!"  exclHiined  old  Saiu, 
again  taking  the  head  of  his  cane  out  of  his 


mouth,  where  it  had  got  a  merciless  munib« 
ling  for  some  time  past.  "  Attention,  Ned ! 
you're  called,  my  boj-." 

Old  Corbet  went  over  to  Ensign  Roberts, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand,  led  him  to 
Lady  Gourlay,  exclainiiiig,  "  There,  my  lady, 
is  your  son,  and  proud  you  may  be  out  of 
him.  There  is  the  real  heir  of  the  Gourlay 
name  and  the  Gourlay  proj^erty.  Look  at 
him  and  his  cousin,  yoiu-  niece,  and  see  how 
they  resemble  one  another.  Look  at  his 
father's  features  in  his  face  ;  but  I  have  plenty 
of  proof,  full  satisfaction  to  give  you  be- 
sides." 

Lady  Gourlay  became  pale  as  death. 
"  Mysterious  and  just  Providence,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "can  this  be  true?  But  it  is — it 
must^— there  are  the  features  of  his  departed 
father — his  figure — his  every*  look.  He  is 
mine ! — he  is  mine  !  My  heart  recognizes 
him.  Oh,  my  son  ! — my  child  ! — are  you  at 
length  restored  to  me  ?  " 

Young  Eoberts  was  all  amazement.  "NMiilst 
Lady  Gourlay  s2:)oke,  he  looked  over  at  old 
Sam,  whose  son  he  actually  believed  himself 
to  be  (for  the  fine  old  fellow  had  benevolent- 
ly imposed  on  him),  and  seemed  anxious  to 
know  what  this  new  parentage,  now  ascribed 
to  him,  could  mean. 

"  All  right,  Ned  !  Corbet  is  good  authority; 
but  although  I  knew  you  were  not  mine,  I 
could  never  squeeze  the  tiaitli  out  of  him  as 
to  who  your  father  was.  It's  true,  in  spite  of 
all  he  said,  I  had  suspicions  ;  but  what  could 
I  do  ? — /  could  prove  nothing." 

We  will  not  describe  this  restoration  of  the 
widow's  son.  Our  readers  can  easily  con- 
ceive it,  and,  accordingly,  to  theii*  imagina- 
tion we  will  leave  it. 

It  was  attended,  however,  by  an  incident 
which  w'e  cannot  pass  over  without  some 
notice.  Lady  Emily,  on  witnessing  the  ex- 
traordinary turn  which  had  so  providentially 
taken  jolace  in  the  fate  and  fortune  of  her 
lover,  was  observed  b}^  Mrs.  Mainwaring  to 
gi'ow  very  pale.  A  consciousness  of  injur}-, 
which  our  readers  will  presently  understand, 
prevented  her  from  ofl'ering  assistance,  but 
ininning  over  to  Lucy,  she  said,  "I  fear, 
IVIiss  Gourlay,  that  Lady  Emily  is  ill." 

Luc}^,  who  was  all  tenderness,  left  her 
brother,  over  whom  she  had  been  Aveeping, 
and  flew  to  her  assistance  just  in  time  to 
prevent  her  from  falling  oft'  her  chair.  She 
had  swooned.  Watei",  however,  and  essences, 
and  other  appliances,  soon  restored  her  ;  and 
on  recovering  she  cast  her  eyes  about  the 
room  as  if  to  search  for  some  one.  Lady 
Gourlay  had  her  arm  round  her,  and  was 
dialing  her  temples  at  the  time.  Q'hoso 
lovely  fawn-like  eyes  of  hers  had  not  far  to 
searek     lioberts,  now  yoimg  Sir  J^^dward 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


€09 


(luurlay,  b;ul  been  sbindiiig  near,  coutem- 
platiug  her  beautiful  features,  aud  deeply 
alaraied  by  her  illness,  when  their  eyes  met ; 
aud,  to  the  surprise  of  Lucy  Goui'lay,  a 
l)lush  so  modest,  so  beautiful,  so  exquisite, 
liut  yet  so  legible  in  its  expression,  took 
place  of  the  paleness  which  had  been  there 
before.  She  looked  up,  saw  the  direction  of 
her  son's  eyes,  then  looked  significantly  at 
Lu(;y,  and  smiled.  The  tell-tale  blush,  in 
fact,  discovered  the  state  of  their  hearts,  and 
never  was  a  histor}'  of  pui-e  and  innocent  love 
more  appropiiately  or  beautifully  told. 

This  significant  httle  episode  did  not  last 
long  ;  and  when  Lady  Emily  found  herself 
recovered,  Thomas  Corbet  advanced,  and 
said  :  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  father, 
by  sa;^*ing  tliat  the  young  man  who  has 
just  died  was  Sir  Thomas  Gourlay's  son. 
You  know  in  your  heart  tliat  this  " — point- 
ing to  his  nephew — "  is  his  true  and  legiti- 
mate heu".  You  know,  too,  that  his  illegiti- 
mate son  has  been  dea»l  for  years,  and  that  I 
myself  saw  him  buried." 

"  My  lord,  pay  attention  to  what  I'll  speak," 
said  his  father.  "  If  the  bastaixl  died,  and  if 
my  sou  was  at  his  burial,  and  saw  him  lai<l 
in  the  grave,  he  can  tell  us  where  that  gi-ave 
is  to  be  found,  at  least.  His  father,  however, 
will  remember  the  tattouiiiti" 

The  unexpected  nature  of  the  question, 
and  its  direct  bearing  upon  the  circumstance 
before  them,  baftied  Thomas  Corbet,  who 
left  the  room,  affecting  to  be  too  indignant 
to  reply. 

"  Now,"  pi'oceeded  his  father,  "  he  knows 
he  has  stated  a  falsehood.  I  have  proof  for 
every  word  I  s;iid,  and  for  every  cii'cumstance. 
There's  a  pajier,"  he  added,  "  a  pound  note, 
that  will  prove  one  link  in  the  chain,  for  the 
veiy  person's  name  that  is  wi-itten  on  it  by 
the  poor  young  man  himself,  I  have  here. 
He  can  prove  the  mark  on  his  neck,  when  in 
outher  despau',  the  poor  creature  made  an 
attempt  on  his  o\mi  life  with  a  piece  of  glass. 
And  what  is  more,  I  have  the  very  clothes 
they  both  wore  when  I  took  them  away.  In 
short,  I  liave  everything  full  and  clear  ;  but 
1  did  not  let  either  my  son  or  daughter 
know  of  my  exchangin'  the  childi'e',  and 
palmin'  Thomas  Gourlay's  own  son  on  him 
as  the  son  of  his  brother.  That  saicret  I 
kept  to  myself,  knowui'  that  I  couldn't  trust 
them.  And  now,  Thomas  Gourlay,"  he  said, 
"  my  revenge  is  complete.  Tliere  you  stand, 
a  guilty  and  a  disgraced  man  ;  and  with  all 
your  Nrisdom,  and  wealth,  and  power,  what 
were  yon  but  a  mere  tool  and  pujipet  in  my 
hands  up  to  this  hour?  There  you  stand, 
without  a  house  that  you  can  call  your  ovn\ 
— stripped  of  yovu*  false  title — of  your  false 
property   -but  not  altogether  of  your  false 


cluuiicter,   for  the  world  knew  pretty  well 
what  that  was  " 

Corbet's  daughter  then  came  forward,  aud 
laying  her  hand  on  the  baronet's  shoidder, 
said,  "  Do  you  know  me,  Thomas  Gourlay  V  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  other,  looking  at  her 
with  fui-y  ;  '"you  ai-e  a  sj^ectre  ;  I  have  seen 
you  before  ;  you  ajjpeared  to  me  once,  and 
yovu'  words  were  false.  Begone,  you  are  a 
spectre — a  spu-it  of  eril." 

"I  am  the  spirit  of  death  to  you,"  she  re- 
phed;  "but  my  prophetic  announcement  was 
true.  I  called  you  Thomas  Gourlay  then, 
and  I  call  you  Thomas  Gourlay  now — for 
such  is  3'oui-  name  ;  aud  your  false  title  is 
gone.  That  young  man  there,  nauxed  after 
you,  is  my  son,  and  you  are  his  father — for 
I  am  Jacinta  Corbet :  so  far  my  father's 
words  are  true  ;  and  if  it  were  not  for  /as 
revenge,  my  son  would  have  inherited  your 
name,  title,  and  property.  Here  now  I  stand 
the  victim  of  your  treachery  and  falsehood, 
which  for  ye;u"s  have  driven  me  mad.  But 
now  the  spirit  of  the  future  is  upon  me  ; 
and  I  tell  30U,  that  I  read  fi-enzy,  madness, 
and  death  in  yoiu'  face.  You  have  been 
guilty  of  gi-eat  crimes,  but  you  will  be  guilt- 
ier of  a  gi-eater  and  a  darker  still.  I  read  that 
in  your  cowai-d  sjiirit,  for  I  know  you  well. 
I  also  am  revenged,  but  I  have  been  i)unish-  , 
ed  ;  and  my  o\<n  sufferings  have  taught  me 
to  feel  that  I  am  still  a  woman.  I  loved  you 
once  -  I  hated  you  long  ;  but  now  I  pity  you. 
Y'es,  Thomas  Gourlay,  she  whom  you  drove 
to  madness,  and  imposture,  and  misery,  for 
long  years,  can  now  look  down  upon  you 
with  pity  !  " 

Having  thus  spoken,  she  left  the  room. 

"We  may  atld  here,  in  a  few  brief  words, 
that  the  proof  of  the  identity  of  each  of  the 
two  indiriduals  in  question  was  cle»xrly,  le- 
gally, and  most  satisfactorily  established  ; 
in  addition  to  which,  if  farther  certainty  had 
been  wanting.  Lady  Gourlay  at  once  knew  her 
son  by  a  very  peculiar  mole  on  his  neck,  of  a 
three-coniered  shape,  resembling  a  triangle. 

The  important  events  of  the  day,  so  deeply 
affecting  Sir  Tliomas  Gourlay  and  his  family, 
had  been  now  brought  to  a  close  ;  idl  the 
strangers  ^Nithdrew,  and  Fenton's  body  Avas 
brought  up  stairs  and  laid  out.  Lady  Emily 
and  her  father  went  home  together  ;  so  did 
Roberts,  now  Sir  Edward  Gourlay,  and  his 
deHghted  and  thankful  mother.  Her  confi- 
dence in  the  j)ro\T^ence  of  God  was  at  length 
amply  rewarded,  and  the  Aridow's  heart  at 
last  was  indeed  made  to  sing  for  joy. 

"Well.  Ned,  my  boy,"  said  old  Sam,  turn- 
ing to  Sir  Edward,  after  having  been  inti*o- 
duced  to  his  mother,  "  I  hope  I  haven't  lost 
a  son  to-tlay,  although  your  mother  gainetl 
one  ?  " 


tf04 


WILLIAM  CARLETON^'S  WORKS. 


"I  would  l)t;  unworthy  of  mj  good  for- 
tune, if  you  did,"  replied  Sii'  Edward. 
""Wloilst  I  have  life  and  sense  and  memory  I 
shall  ever  look  upon  you  as  my  father,  and 
my  best  friend." 

"Right,"  replied  the  old  soldier  ;  "but  I 
knew  it  was  before  you.  He  was  no  every- 
day plant,  my  lady,  and  so  I  told  my  Beck. 
Your  ladyshij)  must  see  my  Beck,"  he  added  ; 
"  she's  the  queen  of  wives,  and  I  knew  it 
fi-om  the  fii'st  day  I  married  her  ;  my  heart 
told  me  so,  and  it  was  all  right — all  the  heart 
of  man." 

The  unfortunate  old  Doctor  was  to  be 
pitied.  He  walked  about  with  his  finger  in 
his  book,  scarcely  knowing  whether  what  he 
had  seen  and  heard  was  a  di'eam,  or  a  reaUty. 
Seeing  Lord  Dunroe  about  to  take  his 
departure,  he  aj)proached  him,  and  said, 
"  Pray,  sir,  ai'e  we  to  have  no  dejedner  after 
all  ?  Ai-e  not  you  the  young  gentleman  who 
was  this  day  found  out — discovered  ? 

Dunroe  was  either  so  completely  absorbed 
in  the  contemplation  of  his  ill  fortune,  that 
he  did  not  hear  him,  or  he  would  not  deign 
him  an  answer. 

"  This  is  really  too  bad,"  continued  the 
Doctor;  "neither  a  marriage  fee  nor  a 
dejeuner  !  Too  bad,  indeed  !  Here  are  the 
j;ribulations,  but  not  the  marriage  ;  under 
which  melancholy  circumstances  I  may  as 
well  go  on  my  way,  although  I  cannot  do  it 
as  I  expected  to  have  done — rejoicing. 
Good  mornmg,  IMr.  Stoker." 

Our  readers  ought  to  be  sufficiently  ac- 
quainted, we  i^resume,  with  the  state  of 
Lucy's  feehngs  after  the  events  of  the  day 
and  the  disclosures  that  had  been  made. 
Sir  Thomas  Gourlay — we  may  as  well  call 
liim  so  for  the  short  time  he  -noil  be  on  the 
stage  —  stunned — cnished — wrecked — ruin- 
ed, was  instantl}^  obliged  to  go  to  bed.  The 
shock  sustained  by  his  system,  both  physi- 
cally and  mentally,  was  terrific  in  its  character, 
and  fearftil  in  its  results.  His  incoherency 
almost  amounted  to  frenzy.  He  raved — he 
stormed — he  cursed — he  blasphemed  ;  but 
amidst  this  dark  tumult  of  thought  and 
passion,  there  might  ever  be  obsem^ed  the 
prevalence  of  the  monster  evil — the  failm-e  of 
his  ambition  for  his  daughter's  elevation  to 
the  rank  of  a  countess.  Never,  indeed,  was 
tliere  such  a  tempest  of  human  passion  at 
work  in  a  brain  as  raged  in  his. 

"  It's  a  falsehood,  I  d^ln't  murder  ray 
son,"  he  raved  ;  "  or  if  I  did,  what  care  I 
about  that?  I  am  a  man  of  steel.  My 
daughter — my  daughter  was  my  thought. 
Well,  Dunroe,  all  is  right  at  last — eh  ?  ha — 
ha — ha !  I  managed  it ;  but  I  knew  my 
system  was  the  right  one.  Lady  Dunroe  ! — 
very  good,  veiy  good  to   begin  with  ;  but 


not  what  I  wish  to  see,  to  hear,  to  feel  liefor* 
I  die.  Curse  me,  now,  if  I  died  without 
seeing  her  Countess  of  Cullamore,  but  I'd 
break  my  heart.  'Make  way,  there — way 
for  the  Countess  of  Cullamore  ! ' — ha  !  does 
not  that  sound  weU?  But  then,  the  old 
Eai-1 !  Curse  him,  what  keeps  him  on  the 
stage  so  long  ?  Away  with  the  old  carrion  ! 
— away  with  him  !  But  what  was  that  that 
hai^pened  to-day,  or  yesterday?  IVIiserj', 
torture,  perdition  !  —  disgraced,  undone, 
ruined  !  Is  it  true,  though  ?  Is  this  joy  ?  I 
expected — I  feared  something  like  this.  Will 
no  one  tell  me  what  has  happened  ?  Here, 
Lucy — Countess  of  Cullamore  ! — where  ai'e 
you  ?  Now,  Lucy,  now — put  your  heel  on 
them — grind  them,  my  girl — remember  the 
cold  and  distrustful  looks  your  father  got 
from  the  world — esj)ecially  fi'om  those  of 
your  o^vn  sex — remember  it  all,  now,  Lucy — 
Countess  of  Cullamore,  I  mean — remember 
it,  I  say,  my  lady,  for  your  father's  sake. 
Now,  my  girl,  for « pride ;  noAv  for  the 
haughty  sneer ;  now  for  the  aiistoci'atic  air 
of  disdain  ;  now  for  the  day  of  triuinph  over 
the  mob  of  the  gi-eat  \adgar.  And  that 
fellow — that  reverend  old  shark  who  would 
eat  any  one  of  his  Christian  brethren,  if  they 
were  only  sent  up  to  him  disgniised  as  a 
turbot — the  divine  old  lobster,  for  his  thin 
red  nose  is  a  perfect  claw — the  divine  old 
lobster  couldn't  tell  me  whether  there  was  a 
God  or  not.  Curse  him,  not  he  ;  but  hold, 
I  must  not  be  too  severe  upon  him  :  his  god 
is  his  belly,  and  mine  was  my  ambition.  Oh, 
oh  !  what  is  this — what  does  it  all  mean  ? 
What  has  happened  to  me  ?  Oh,  I  am  ill,  I 
fear  :  perhaps  I  am  mad.  Is  the  Countess 
there — the  Coimtess  of  Cullamore,  I  mean  ?  " 

Many  of  his  subsequent  incoherencies  were 
stiU  more  violent  and  appalling,  and  some- 
times he  would  have  got  up  and  committed 
acts  of  outrage,  if  he  had  not  been  closely 
watched  and  restrained  by  force.  AMiether 
his  comj)laint  was  insanity  or  brain  fever,  or 
the  one  as  symj^tomatic  of  the  other,  even  his 
medical  attendants  could  scarcely  determine. 
At  aU  events,  whatever  medical  skill  and 
domestic  attention  could  do  for  him  was 
done,  but  with  very  little  hojjes  of  success. 

The  effect  of  the  scene  which  the  worn 
and  invaHd  Earl  had  witnessed  at  Sir  Thom- 
as Gourlay's  were  so  exliausting  to  his  weak 
frame  that  they  left  very  little  strength  be- 
hind them.  Yet  lie  complained  of  no  par- 
ticular illness ;  all  he  felt  was,  an  easy  but 
general  and  certain  decay  of  his  physical 
powers,  leaving  the  mind  and  intellect  strong 
and  clear.  On  the  day  following  the  scene 
in  the  baronet's  house,  we  must  present  him 
to  the  reader  seated,  as  usual — for  he  could 
not  be  2>rpvailpd  upon  to  keep  his  bed — in 


TilK  BLACK  BARONET. 


605 


his  arm-chair,  wiih  the  jxipers  of  tlie  day  be- 
fore him.  Near  hiin,  on  another  seat,  was 
Sir  Edward  Gourlay. 

"  Well,  Sir  Edward,  the  i:)roofs,  you  say, 
have  been  all  satisfactory."' 

"  Pei-fectly  so,  my  lord,"  repHed  the  young 
baronet;  "we  did  not  allow  yesterday  to 
close  without  making  everything  clear.  We 
have  this  monimg  had  counsel's  opinion 
upon  it,  and  the  proof  is  considered  decis- 
ive. " 

"But  is  Laly  Emily  herself  awai'e  of  your 
attiU'hment  ?  " 

"Why,  my  lord,"  replied  Sir  Edward, 
blushing  a  little,  "  I  may  say  I  think  that — 
ahem  ! — she  has,  in  some  sort,  given — a — 
ahem  ! — a  kind  of  consent  that  I  should 
speak  to  your  lordship  on  the  subject. ' 

"  My  dear  young  fi-iend,"  said  his  lordship, 
whose  voice  became  tremulous,  and  whose 
fat;e  grew  like  the  whitest  ashes. 

"  Ha\e  you  got  iU,  my  lord  ?  "  asked  Sir 
Edward,  a  good  deal  alarmed  :  "shall  I  ring 
for  assistance  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  his  lordshij) ;  "no  ;  I  only 
wish  to  say  that  you  know  not  the  extent  of 
your  own  generosity  in  making  this  pro- 
i^osal." 

"  Generosity,  my  lord !  Your  lordship 
will  pardon  me.  In  this  case  I  have  all  the 
honor  to  receive,  and  nothing  to  confer  in 
exchange." 

"  Hear  me  for  a  few  minutes,"  replied  his 
lordship,  "and  after  you  shall  have  heard 
me,  you  will  then  be  able  at  least  to  under- 
stand whether  the  proposal  you  make  for 
my  daughter's  hand  is  a  generous  one  or 
not.  My  daughter,  Sir  Edward,  is  illegiti- 
mate." 

"  Illegitimate,  my  lord  !  "  replied  the  other, 
with  an  e-v-ident  shock  which  he  could  not 
conceal  "  Great  God !  my  lord,  your  T¥ords 
are  impossible." 

"  My  young  fi-iend,  they  are  both  possible 
and  true.     Listen  to  me  : 

"  In  early  life  I  loved  a  young  lady  of  a 
decayed  but  respectable  family.  I  commu- 
nicated our  attachment  to  my  friends,  who 
pronounced  me  a  fool,  and  did  not  hesitate 
to  attribute  my  affection  for  her  to  art  on 
the  p:irt  of  the  lady,  and  intrigue  on  that  of 
her  relatives.  I  was  at  the  time  deeply,  al- 
most irretrievably,  embarrassed.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  I  knew  that  the  imputations  against 
^laria,  for  such  was  her  name,  as  well  as 
against  her  relatives,  were  utterly  false  ;  and 
as  a  proof  I  did  so,  I  followed  her  to  Fr\nce, 
where,  indeed,  I  had  first  met  her.  Well, 
we  were  privately  married  there  ;  foi',  al- 
though young  at  the  time,  I  was  not  withc%i 
a  spirit  of  false  pride  and  ambition,  that 
tended  to  prevent  me  from  acknowledging 


my  marriage,  and  enrounk'i'ing  boldly,  as  ] 
ought  to  have  done,  the  resentment  of  my 
relations  and  the  sneers  of  the  world.  Ow- 
ing to  this  unmanly  spirit  on  my  part,  our 
marriage,  though  strictly  con-ect  and  legal  in 
every  respect,  was  nevertheless  a  private  one., 
as  I  have  said.  In  the  meantime  I  ha^l  en- 
tered parliament,  and  it  is  not  for  me  to 
dweU  upon  the  popularity  with  which  my 
efforts  there  were  attended.  I  consequently 
lived  a  good  deal  apart  fi'om  my  wife,  whom 
I  had  not  courage  to  present  as  such  to  the 
world.  Every  day  now  estabUshed  my  suc- 
cess in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  increased 
my  ambition.  The  constitution  of  my  wife 
had  been  natiu-ally  a  delicate  one,  and  I  un- 
derstood, subsequently  to  our  union,  that 
there  had  been  dechne  in  her  family  to  such 
an  extent,  that  neai-ly  one-half  of  them  hail 
died  of  it.  In  this  way  we  hved  for  four 
years,  having  no  issue.  About  the  com- 
mencement of  the  fifth  my  wife's  health  be- 
gan to  decline,  and  as  that  session  of  i)arUa- 
ment  was  a  verj'  busy  and  a  very  important 
one,  I  was  bvit  httle  with  her.  Ever  since 
the  period  of  our  marriage,  she  had  been  at- 
tended by  a  faithful  maid,  indeed,  rather  a 
companion,  well  educated  and  accomplished, 
named  Norton,  subsequently  married  to  a 
cousin  of  her  own  name.  After  a  short  visit 
to  my  wife,  in  whose  constitution  decline  had 
now  set  in,  and  whom  I  ought  not  to  have 
left,  I  returned  to  parhament,  more  than 
ever  ambitious  for  distinction.  I  must  do 
myself  the  justice  to  say  that  I  loved  her 
tenderly  ;  but  at  the  same  time  I  felt  disap- 
pointed at  not  having  a  family.  On  return- 
ing to  London  I  fovmd  that  my  brother,  who 
had  opposed  all  notion  of  my  marriage  with 
pecuHar  bitterness,  and  never  sjDoke  of  my 
wife  with  respect,  was  himself  about  to  be 
married  to  one  of  the  most  fascinating  crea- 
tures on  wiiom  my  eyes  ever  rested  ;  and, 
what  was  equally  agreeable,  she  had  an  im- 
mense fortune  in  her  own  right,  and  was, 
besides,  of  a  high  and  distinguished  family. 
"  S'le  was  beautiful,  she  was  rich — she 
was,  alas !  ambitious.  Well,  we  met,  we 
conversed,  we  compared  minds  with  each 
other  ;  we  sang  together,  we  danced  together, 
until  at  length  Ave  began  to  feel  that  the  ab- 
sence of  the  one  caused  an  unusual  depres- 
sion in  the  other.  I  was  said  to  be  one  ol 
the  most  eloquent  commoners  of  the  day — 
her  family  were  powerful — my  wife  was  in  a 
decline,  and  recovery  hopeless.  Here,  then, 
was  a  career  for  ambition  ;  but  that  was  not 
all.  I  was  poor — emban-assed  almost  beyond 
hope — on  the  very  verge  of  ruin.  Indeed, 
so  poor,  that  it  was  as  much  owing  to  the 
inability  of  maintaining  my  wife  in  her  prop- 
er  rank,  as  to  fear  of  mv  friends  and  tlu 


(506 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


world,  Iriat  I  did  not  publicly  acknowledge 
her.  But  why  dwell  ou  this?  I  loved  the 
T?oman  whose  heart  aud  thought  had  be- 
longed to  my  brother — loved  her  to  madness  ; 
and  soon  perceived  that  the  passion  was 
mutual.  I  had  not,  however,  breathed  a 
syllable  of  love,  nor  was  it  ever  my  intention 
to  do  so.  ^ly  brothei-,  however,  was  gradu- 
ally thrown  off,  treated  '^T.th  coldness,  and 
ultimately  with  disdain,  while  no  one  sus- 
pected the  cause.  It  is  painfid  to  dwell  uj)- 
on  subsequent  occurrences.  My  brother 
grew  jealous,  and,  being  a  high-spirited 
young  man,  released  Lady  Emily  from  her 
engagement.  I  was  mad  with  love  ;  and  this 
conduct,  honorable  and  manly  as  it  was  in 
him,  occasioned  an  explanation  between  me 
and  Lady  Emily,  m  which,  weak  and  vacillat- 
ing as  I  was,  in  the  fi-enzy  of  the  moment  I 
disclosed,  avowed  my  jiassion,  and — but  why 
proceed  ?  We  loved  each  other,  not '  wisety, 
but  too  well.'  JMy  brother  sought  and  ob- 
tained a  foreign  lucrative  api^ointment,  and 
left  the  countiy  m  a  state  of  mind  which  it 
is  very  difficult  to  describe.  He  refused  to 
see  me  on  his  departure,  and  I  have  never 
seen  him  since. 

"The  human  heai-t,  my  young  fi'iend,  is 
a  great  mystery.  I  now  attached  m^'self  to 
Lady  Emily,  and  was  abotit  to  disclose  my 
maniage  to  her  ;  but  as  the  state  of  my 
wife's  health  was  hopeless,  I  declined  to  do 
so,  in  the  expectation  that  a  little  time  might 
set  me  free.  My  wife  was  then  li\ing  in  a 
remote  httle  village  in  the  south  of  France  ; 
most  of  her  relatives  were  dead,  and  those 
who  sur\'ived  were  at  the  time  h^dng  in  a 
part  of  Connaught,  Galway,  to  which  any 
kind  of  intelligence,  much  less  foreign,  sel- 
dom ever  made  its  way.  Now,  I  do  not 
want  to  justify  myseK,  because  I  cannot  do 
so.  I  said  this  moment  that  the  human 
heart  is  a  gi-eat  mystery.  So  it  is.  Whilst 
my  passion  for  Lady  Emily  was  litei-ally  be- 
yond all  restraint,  I  nevertheless  felt  visita- 
tions of  remorse  that  were  terrible.  The  image 
of  my  gentle  Maria,  sweet,  contented,  affec- 
tionate, and  uncomplaining,  would  some- 
times come  before  me,  and — pardon  me,  my 
friend  ;  I  am  very  weak,  but  I  will  resume 
in  a  few  moments.  Well,  the  struggle  with- 
in me  was  gi-eat.  I  had  a  young  duke  as  -a 
rival ;  but  I  was  not  only  a  rising  man,  but 
actually  had  a  party  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. Her  family,  high  and  ambitious, 
were  anxious  to  procure  my  political  sup- 
port, aud  held  out  the  prospect  of  a  peerage. 
My  wife  was  ilvTag  ;  I  loved  Lady  Emily  ;  I 
was  without  offspring  ;  I  was  poor  ;  I  was 
ambitious.  She  was  beautiful,  of  high  family 
and  powerful  connections  ;  she  Avas  im- 
mensely ricli,  too,  hi;^iily  uccoiiiplished,  and 


enthusiastically  attached  to  me.    These  wera 
temptations. 

"■  At  this  period  it  so  fell  out  that  a  sister 
of  my  A^ife's  became  governess  in  Lad; 
Emily's  family  ;  but  the  latter  were  ignorant 
of  the  connection.  This  alarmed  me,  fright- 
ened me  ;  for  I  feared  she  would  disclose 
my  marriage.  I  lost  no  time  in  bringing 
about  a  private  inten'iew  with  her,  in  which 
I  entreated  her  to  keep  the  matter  secret, 
stating  that  a  short  time  would  enable  me 
to  bring  her  sister  with  idat  into  public  life. 
I  also  jjrevailed  ujDon  her  to  give  up  her 
situation,  and  furnished  her  wdth  mone}'  for 
Maiia,  to  whom  I  sent  her,  "v\ith  an  assur- 
ance that  my  house  should  ever  be  her 
home,  and  that  it  was  contrary  to  my  wishes 
ever  to  hear  my  wife's  sister  becoming  a 
governess  ;  and  this  indeed  was  true.  I  also 
wrote  to  my  wife,  to  the  effect  that  the 
pressure  of  my  parliamentary  duties  would 
prevent  me  fi'om  seeing  her  for  a  couple  of 
months. 

"  In  this  position  matters  were  for  about 
a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  when,  at  last,  a 
letter  reached  me  fi'om  my  sister-in-law, 
giving  a  detailed  accoiuit  of  my  wife's  death, 
and  stating  that  she  and  IMiss  Norton  were 
about  to  make  a  toiu'  to  Italy,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  acquiring  the  language.  This  letter 
was  a  diabolical  falsehood.  Sir  Edward  ;  but 
it  accomplished  its  purpose.  She  had 
gleaned  enough  of  intelligence  in  the  family, 
by  observation  and  other^rise,  to  believe 
that  my  wife's  death  alone  would  enable  me, 
in  a  short  time,  to  become  united  to  Lady 
Emily  ;  and  that  if  my  mairiage  with  her 
took  place  u  hilst  her  sister  lived,  I  believing 
her  to  be  dead,  she  would  punish  me  for 
what  she  considered  my  neglect  of  her,  and 
my  unjustifiable  attachment  to  another  wo- 
man during  Maria's  life.  All  communica- 
tion ceased  between  us.  My  wife  was  un- 
able to  write ;  but  fi'om  what  her  sister 
stated  to  her,  probably  with  exaggerations, 
her  pride  j)revented  her  fi'om  holding  any 
correspondence  with  a  husband  who  refused 
to  acknowledge  his  marriage  ■s\dtli  her,  and* 
whose  affections  had  been  transferred  to 
another.  At  aU  events,  the  bloAv  took  effect. 
Believing  her  dead,  and  deeming  myself  at 
hberty,  I  married  Lady  Emily,  after  a  lapse 
of  six  months,  exactly  as  many  weeks  before 
the  death  of  my  first  wife.  Of  course  you 
perceive  now,  my  fiiend,  that  \qs  last  mar- 
riage was  null  and  void  ;  and  that,  hurried 
on  by  the  eager  impulses  of  love  aud  ambi- 
tion, I  did,  without  knowing  it,  an  act  which 
has  made  lu}-  children  illegitimate.  It  is 
true,  my  union  with  Lady  Emily  was  pro- 
ductive to  me  of  great  results.  I  was  created 
an  Irish  ])oer,  in  consecjueuce  of  the  suppoii 


THE  BLACK  BARONET. 


607 


1  gave  to  my  wife's  connections.  Tlie  next 
st^p  was  an  earldom,  witli  an  English  peer- 
age, together  with  such  im  accession  of 
property  in  right  of  m}'  wife,  as  made  me 
rich  beyond  my  wislies.  80  far,  you  may 
say,  I  was  a  successful  man  ;  but  the  world 
cannot  judge  of  the  heart,  and  its  recoDec- 
tions.  My  second  wife  was  a  \irtuous 
woman,  high,  haughty,  and  correct ;  but 
notwithstanding  our  early  enthusiastic  afliec- 
tion,  the  exjieriences  of  domestic  Hfe  soon 
taught  us  to  feel,  that,  after  aU,  oui*  dispo- 
sitions and  tastes  were  unsuitable.  She  was 
fond  of  show,  of  equipage,  of  fashionable 
amusements,  and  that  empty  dissipation 
which  constitutes  the  substiince  of  aristo- 
cratic existence.  I,  on  the  contraiy,  when 
not  engaged  in  pubhc  hfe,  with  which  I  soon 
gi'ew  fatigued,  was  devoted  to  retirement, 
to  domestic  enjoyment,  and  to  the  duties 
which  devolved  upon  me  as  a  parent.  I 
loved  my  children  mth  the  greatest  tender- 
ness, and  applied  myself  to  the  cultivation 
of  their  principles,  and  the  progress  of 
their  education.  All,  however,  would  not 
do.  I  was  unhappy  ;  unhapj^y,  not  only  in 
my  present  wife,  but  in  the  recollection  of 
the  gentle  and  aflectionate  Maria.  I  now 
felt  the  full  enormity  of  my  crime  against 
that  patient  and  angelic  being.  Her  memo- 
ry began  to  haunt  me — her  ^•il•tues  were 
ever  in  my  thoughts ;  her  quiet,  uncom- 
plaining submission,  her  love,  devotion,  ten- 
derness, all  rose  up  in  fearful  aiTay  against 
me,  until  1  felt  that  the  abiding  principle  of 
my  existence  was  a  deep  remorse,  that  ate 
its  way  into  my  happiness  day  by  day,  and 
has  never  left  me  through  my  whole  subse- 
quent life.  This,  however,  was  attended 
with  some  good,  as  it  recalled  me,  in  an 
especial  manner,  to  the  nobler  duties  of 
humanity.  I  felt  now  that  truth,  and  a  high 
sense  of  honor,  could  alone  enable  me  to 
redeem  the  past,  and  atone  for  my  conduct 
with  respect  to  ^laria.  But,  above  all,  I 
felt  that  independence  of  mind,  self-restraint, 
and  firmness  of  chai*acter,  were  vii'tues,  jirin- 
ciples,  what  you  will,  without  which  man  is 
but  a  cipher,  a  tool  of  others,  or  the  sport 
of  circumstances. 

"  My  second  wife  died  of  a  cold,  caught 
by  going  rather  thinly  cb'essed  to  a  fashion- 
able party  too  soon  after  the  birth  of  Emily  ; 
and  my  son,  ha^-ing  become  the  pet  and 
spoiled  child  of  his  mother  and  her  relatives, 
soon  became  imbued  with  fashionable  foUies, 
which,  despite  of  all  my  care  and  rigilance, 
I  am  giieved  to  say,  have  degenerated  into 
worse  and  more  indefensible  principles. 
He  had  not  reached  the  period  of  manliood 
when  he  altogether  threw  oil'  all  regard  for 
ojy  control  over  him  as  a  father,  and  led  a 


life  since  of  which  tlie  less  that  is  said  thfe 
better. 

"The  facts  connected  with  my  second 
man-iage  have  been  so  clearly  e.stabhshed 
that  defence  is  hopeless.  The  registry  of 
our  marriage,  and  of  ni}'  first  wife's  death, 
have  been  hiid  before  me,  and  !Mrs.  !Main- 
waring,  herself,  was  ready  to  substantiate 
and  prove  them  by  her  personal  testimony. 
My  o^\-n  counsel,  able  and  eminent  men  as 
they  are,  have  dissuaded  me  fi-om  bringing 
the  matter  to  a  trial,  and  thus  making  public 
the  disgi-ace  which  must  attach  to  my  chil- 
dren. You  now  vmderstand,  Sir  Edward,  the 
full  extent  of  your  generosity  in  proposing 
for  my  daughter's  hand,  and  j'ou  also  under- 
stand the  nature  of  my  private  communica- 
tion yesterday  M-ith  your  uncle." 

"  But,  my  lord,  how  did  your  brother  be- 
come aware  of  the  cu'cumstances  you  have 
just  mentioned  ?  " 

"  Thi'ough  ]Mi's.  Main  waring,  who  thought 
it  unjust  that  a  profligate  should  inherit  so 
much  property,  with  so  bad  a  title  to  it, 
whilst  there  were  \irtuous  and  honorable 
men  to  claim  it  justly  ;  such  are  the  words 
of  a  note  on  the  subject  which  I  have  re- 
ceived from  her  this  very  morning.  Thus 
it  is  that  vice  often  punishes  itself.  Now, 
Sir  Edward,  I  am  ready  to  hear  you." 

"  My  lord,"  rephed  Su-  Edward,  "  thee 
case  is  so  pecuhar,  so  completely  out  of  the 
common  course,  that,  morally  speaking,  1 
cannot  look  upon  your  children  as  illegiti- 
mate. I  have  besides  great  doubts  whether: 
the  prejudice  of  the  world,  or  its  jjride,. 
which  risits  upon  the  head  of  the  innocent 
child  the  error,  or  crime  if  you  will,  of  the 
guilty  parent,  ought  to  be  admitted  as  a. 
principle  of  action  in  life." 

"  Yes,"  rephed  the  earl  ;  "  but  on  the  other' 
hand,  to  forbid  it  altogether  might  tend  to 
relax  some  of  the  best  principles  in  man  and 
woman.  Vice  must  fi-eqwently  be  followed 
up  for  pimishment  even  to  its  consequences 
as  well  as  its  immediate  acts,  othenvise 
virtue  were  httle  better  than  a  name.  For 
this,  however,  there  is  a  remedy — an  act  of 
parliament  must  be  procured  to  legitimatize 
my  children.  I  shall  take  care  of  that,  al- 
though I  may  not  live  to  see  it,"  * 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,  my  lord,  I  cannot  but 
think  that  in  the  eye  of  religion  and  morality 
your  children  are  certiiinly  legitimate ;  jili 
that  is  against  them  being  a  point  of  law. 
For  my  part,  I  earnestly  beg  to  renew  my 
proposal  for  the  hand  of  Lady  EmUy." 

"  Then,  Sii*  Edward,  you  do  not  feel  your- 
self deten-ed  by  anything  I  have  stated  ?  " 

*  This  was  dene,  aud  the  circumstance  is  still 
remembered  by  many  persons  in  the  Bortb  •! 
IreLoud. 


608 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"My  lord,  I  love  Lad}'  Emily  for  her  own 
Bake — and  for  her  own  sake  only." 

"Then,"  repUed  her  father,  "bring  her 
here.  I  feel  veiy  weak — I  am  getting 
heavy.  Yesterday's  disclosures  gave  me  a 
shock  which  I  fear  Avill — but  I  trust  I  am 
prepared — go — remember,  however,  that  my 
darling  child  knows  nothing  of  what  I  have 
mentioned  to  you — Duni'oe  does.  I  had 
not  courage  to  tell  her  that  she  has  been 
placed  by  her  father's  pride,  by  his  ambition, 
and  by  his  want  of  moral  restraint,  out  of 
the  pale  of  Ufe.     Go,  and  fetch  her  here." 

That  they  approached  him  with  exulting 
hearts — that  he  joined  theii-  hands,  and 
blessed  them — is  all  that  is  necessary  to 
be  mentioned  now. 

In  the  course  of  that  evening,  a  reverend 
dignitai-y  of  the  church.  Dean  Palmer,  whom 
we  have  mentioned  occasionally  in  this  nar- 
rative, and  a  very  different  man  indeed  from 
our  fi-eind  Dr.  Sombre,  called  at  Sir  Thomas 
Goui'lay's  to  inquire  after  his  health,  and  to 
see  ]\Iiss  Gourlay.  He  was  shown  uj)  to  the 
di'awiog  room,  where  Lucy,  veiy  weak,  but 
still  relieved  from  the  gi'eat  e'S'il  which  she 
had  di'eaded  so  much,  soon  joined  him. 

"IVIiss  Gourlay,"  said  he,  "I  trust  your 
father  is  better  ?  " 

"  He  is  better,  sir,  in  mere  bodUy  health. 
The  cupping,  and  bhstering,  and  loss  of 
blood  from  the  arms,  have  relieved  him,  and 
his  delirium  has  nearly  passed  away  ;  but, 
then,  he  is  silent  and  gloomy,  and  dejDressed, 
it  would  seem,  beyond  the  reach  of  hope  or 
consolation." 

"  Do  you  think  he  would  see  me  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  he  would  not,"  she  repKed. 
"  Two  or  three  clerg;)-men  have  called  for 
that  pui-pose  ;  but  the  very  mention  of  them 
threw  him  into  a  state  almost  bordering  on 
frenzy-." 

"Under  these  circumstances,"  replied  the 
good  Dean,  "it  would  be  wrong  to  press 
him.  WTien  he  has  somewhat  recovered,  I 
hope  he  may  be  j)revailed  on  to  raise  his , 
thoughts  to  a  better  Hfe  than  this.  And 
now,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  have  a  favor  to 
request  at  your  hands." 

"  At  mine,  .sir !  If  there  is  any  thing 
within  my  power " 

"This  is,  I  assure  you." 

"  Pray,  what  is  it,  sir  ?  " 

"Would  you  so  far  oblige  nie  as  to  re- 
ceive a  visit  from  Lord  Duuroe  ?  " 

"  In  any  other  thing  within  the  limits  of 
my  power,  sir — in  anj-thing  that  ought  to 
be  asked  of  me — I  would  feel  great  pleasure 
in  obliging  you  ;  but  in  this  you  must  ex- 
cuse me." 

"  i  saw  Lord  Chillaniore  in  the  eailv  part 
of  the  day,"  rejjlied  Dean  Pulmei-,  "  and  he 


told  me  to  say,  that  it  was  his  wish  you 
should  see  him  ;  he  added,  that  he  felt  it 
was  a  last  request." 

"  I  shall  see  him,"  replied  the  generous 
girl,  "instantly;  for  his  lordship's  sake  I 
shall  see  him,  although  I  cannot  conceive 
for  what  piu-pose  Lord  Dunroe  can  wish 
it." 

"  It  is  sufficient,  IVIiss  Gourlay,  that  you 
consent  to  see  him.  He  is  below  in  my 
carriage  ;  shall  I  bring  him  up  ?  " 

"Do  so,  sir.  I  am  going  to  prevail,  if  1 
can,  on  papa,  to  take  a  composing  draught, 
which  the  doctors  have  ordered  him.  I 
shall  retiuTi  again  in  a  few  minutes." 

Sir  Thomas  Gourlay  had  got  up  some 
hours  before,  and  was  seated  in  an  arm- 
chair as  she  entered. 

"  How  do  you  feel  now,  papa  ? "  she 
asked,  with  the  utmost  affection  and  ten- 
derness ;  "  oh,  do  not  be  depressed ;  through 
all  changes  of  Hfe  yoiu*  Lucy's  affections 
\ri]l  be  "^ith  you." 

"  Lucy,"  said  he,  "  come  and  kiss  me." 

In  a  moment  her  arms  were  about  his 
neck,  and  she  whisj)ered  encoiu-agingly, 
whilst  caressing  him,  "Papa,  now  that  I 
have  not  been  thmst  down  that  feariul  abyss, 
beheve  me,  we  shall  be  veiy  happy  yet." 

He  gave  her  a  long  look  ;  then  shook  his 
head,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  Endeavor  to  keep  up  your  spirits,  dear- 
est papa ;  you  seem  dejDressed,  but  that  ia 
natural  after  what  you  have  suffered.  Will 
you  take  the  composing  draught?  It  will 
reheve  you." 

"I  believe  it  wiU,  but  I  cannot  take  it 
from  your  hand  ;  and  he  kept  his  ej^es  fixed 
upon  her  vdih.  a  melancholy  gaze  as  he 
spoke. 

"  And  why  not  fi-om  mine,  papa  ?  Surely 
you  would  not  change  your  mind  now.  You 
have  taken  aU  your  medicine  from  me,  up 
to  this  moment." 

"I  Tiill  take  it  myseK,  presently,  Lucy." 

"  Will  you  promise  me,  papa  ?  "  she  said, 
endeavoring  to  smile. 

"Yes,  Lucy,  I  promise  3'ou." 

"  But,  papa,  I  had  forgotten  to  say  that 
Lord  Dunroe  has  called  to  ask  an  inteiwiew 
with  me.  He  and  Dean  Palmer  are  now  in 
the  dra-wing-room." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  "  asked  her  father. 

"Not  yet,  pajDa." 

"  Will  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Lord  Cullamore  sent  the  Dean  to  me  to 
say,  that  it  was  his  earnest  request  I  should 
— his  last." 

"  His  last !  Lucy.  Well,  then,  see  him — 
there  is  a  great  deal  due  to  a  lad  request." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  shall  see  him.  Well,  good- 
by,  papa.      Heiaejuber  now  that  you  take 


THE  BLACK  BARONET, 


609 


the  composing  draugbt ;  I  shall  return  to 
you  after  I  have  seen  Lord  Dunroe." 

She  was  closing  tlie  door,  when  he  re- 
called her.     "Lucy,"  said  he,  "  come  here." 

"  "Well,  papa  ;  well,  deju-est  papa  ?  " 

"Kiss  me  again,"  said  he. 

She  stooped  as  before,  and  putting  her 
arms  about  iiis  neck,  kissed  him  like  a  child. 
He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  looked  on  her 
with  the  same  long  earnest  look,  and  put- 
ting it  to  his  lips,  kissed  it  ;  and  as  he  did, 
Lucy  felt  a  tear  fall  upon  it.  "Lucy,"  said 
he,  "I  have  one  word  to  say  to  you." 

Lucy  was  already  in  tears  ;  that  one  little 
drop — the  symptom  of  an  emotion  she  had 
never  witnessed  before — and  she  trusted  the 
foreiimner  of  a  softened  and  repentant  heart, 
had  ixh'eady  melted  hers. 

"  Lucy,"  he  said,  "■  forrjive.  me." 

The  floodgates  of  her  heart  and  of  her  eyes 
wei'e  opened  at  once.  She  tlirew  herself  on 
his  bosom  ;  she  kissed  him,  and  wept  long 
and  loudly. 

He,  in  the  meantime,  had  regained  the 
dread  composure,  that  death-like  calmness, 
into  which  he  had  passed  from  his  fi*enzy. 

"  Forgive  you,  papa  ?  I  do — I  do,  a  thou- 
sand times  ;  but  I  have  nothing  to  forgive. 
Do  I  not  know  tliat  all  your  plans  and  pur- 
poses were  for  my  advancement,  and,  as  you 
hoped,  for  my  happiness  ?  " 

"Lucy,"  said  he,  "disgrace  is  hard  to 
bear ;  but  still  I  would  have  borne  it  had 
my  great  object  in  that  advancement  been 
accomplished  ;  but  now,  here  is  the  disgrjice, 
yet  the  object  lost  forever.  Then,  my  son, 
Lucy — I  am  his  murderer ;  but  I  knew  it 
not ;  and  even  that  I  could  get  over  ;  but 
you,  that  is  what  prostrates  me.  And,  again, 
to  have  been  the  puppet  of  that  old  villain  ! 
Even  that,  however,  I  could  bear  ;  yes,  everj'- 
fhing  but  tjoH  ! — that  was  the  great  cast  on 
whicji  my  whole  heart  was  set ;  but  now, 
mocked,  des^jised,  detested,  bixffled,  detect- 
ed, defeated.  However,  it  is  all  over,  like  a 
troubled  dream.  Dry  yoiu:  eyes  now,"  he 
added,  "  and  see  Dunroe." 

"  Wovdd  you  wish  to  see  Dean  Palmer, 
papa  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  Lucy  ;  not  at  all ;  he  could  do 
me  no  good.  Go,  now,  and  see  Dunroe,  and 
do  not  let  me  be  distui-bed  for  an  hour  or 
two.  You  know  I  have  seen  the  body  of  my 
son  to-day,  and  I  wish  I  had  not." 

"  I  am  sorrA'  you  did,  papa ;  it  has  de- 
pressed you  veiT  much." 

"  Go,  Lucy,  go.  In  a  couple  of  hours  I — 
Go,  deal* ;  don't  keep  his  lordship  waiting." 

Poor  Lucy's  heart  was  in  a  tumult  of  de- 
light as  she  went  down  stairs.     In  the  whole 
coui-se  of  her  life  she  had  never  ^vitnessed 
in   her  father  anything  of  tender  emotion 
20 


until  then,  and  the  tear  that  fell  upon  her 
hand  she  knew  was  the  only  one  she  ever 
saw  him  shed. 

"I  have  hope  for  j^apa  yet,"  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  was  about  to  enter  the  draw- 
ing-room ;  "I  never  thought  I  loved  him  so 
much  as  I  find  I  do  now." 

On  advancing  into  the  room,  for  an  in- 
stant's time  she  seemed  confused  ;  her  con- 
fusion, however,  soon  became  surpri.se — 
amjizement,  when  Dean  Pjdmer,  taking  our 
friend  the  stranger  by  the  hand,  led  him 
toward  her,  exclaiming,  "  Allow  me,  IMiss 
Gourlay,  to  have  the  honor  of  presenting  to 
you  Lord  Dunroe." 

"  Lord  Dunroe  ! "  exclaimed  Lucy,  in  her 
turn,  looking  agluist  with  astonishment. 
"  ^\Tiat  is  this,  sir — what  means  this,  gentle- 
men ?  This  house,  pray  recollect,  is  a  house 
of  death  and  of  suflering." 

"It  is  the  truth,  !Miss   Goiu'lay,"  repUed 
I  the  Dean.     "  Here  stands  the  veritiible  Lord 
j  Dunroe,  whose  father  is  now  the  earl  of  Cul- 
lamore." 
i       "But,  sii',  I  don't  understand  this." 
I      "It  is   very   easily  understood,  however, 
!Miss  Gourlay.     This  gentleman's  father  was 
the  late  Earl's  brother  ;  and  he  being  now 
dead,  his  son  here  inherits  the  title  of  Lord 
'  Dunroe." 
j      "  But  the  late  Earl's  son  ?  " 

"  Has  no  claim  to  the  title,  ^liss  Gourlay. 
His  lordship  here  v,i^  give  you  the  particu- 
lai's  at  leisui'e,  and  on  a  more  befitting 
occasion.  I  saw  the  late  Earl  to-day,  not 
long  before  his  death.  He  was  cahu,  re- 
signed, and  full  of  that  Christian  hope  which 
makes  the  death  of  the  righteous  so  beauti- 
ful. He  was  not,  indeed,  \\'ithout  sorrow  ; 
but  it  was  soothed  by  his  confidence  in  the 
mercy  of  God,  and  his  belief  in  the  necessity 
and  wisdom  of  soitow  and  affliction  to  puri- 
fy and  exLiIt  the  heart." 

"And  now,  Lucy,"  said  the  stranger — for 
so  we  shall  call  him  still — taking  her  hand 
I  in  his,   "I  tnist  that  all  obstacles  between 
[  oiU"  union  ai-e  removed  at  last.     Our  love 
j  has  been  strongly  tested,  and  you  especially 
I  have  suffered  much.     Yoiu*  trust  in  Provi- 
1  dence,  however,  Hke  that  of  Lfuly  Goui-lay, 
has   not   been  in  vain ;    and  as  for  me,   I 
learned  much,  and  I  hope  to  learn  more, 
I  from   your   great   and   noble    example.      I 
concealed  my  name  for  many  reasons  :  part- 
ly from  dehcacy  to  my  vmcle,  the  late  Earl, 
and  his  family  ;   and  I  was  partly  forced  to 
do  it,  in  consequence   of  an  apprehension 
that  I  had  killed  a  noblemjm  in  a  hasty  dueL 
He  was  not  killed,  however,  th.-mk  God  ;  nor 
was  his  wound  so  dangerous  as  it  looked  at 
first ;    neither  was  I  aware  until  aftei-wards 
that  the  individual  who  forced  me  into  it  wae 


610 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


my  own  cousin  Dunroe.  It  wovild  have  been 
vw-y  inconvenient  to  me  to  have  been  appre- 
hended and  probably  cast  into  prison  at  a 
time  Avhen  I  had  so  many  interests  to  look 
after  ;  and,  indeed,  not  the  least  of  my  mo- 
tives Avas  the  fear  of  precipitating  youi'  fa- 
ther's enmity  against  Lady  Gourlay's  son, 
jby  discovering  that  I,  who  am  her  nephew, 
should  have  been  seen  about  the  io\a\  of  Bal- 
lytraiu,  where,  when  a  boy,  I  had  spent  a 
good  deal  of  my  early  life.  Had  he  known 
my  name,  he  would  have  easily  suspected  my 
object.  Your  mother  was  aware  of  mj-  de- 
sign in  coming  to  Ii-eland  ;  but  as  I  knew 
the  risk  of  involving  my  uncle's  children, 
and  the  good  old  man's  reputation  besides, 
in  a  mesh  of  pubhc  scandal  at  a  time  when 
I  did  not  feel  certain  of  being  able  to  estab- 
lish my  claims,  or  rather  my  father's,  for  I 
myself  was  mdifierent  to  them,  I  resolved  to 
keep  as  quiet  as  possible,  and  not  to  disclose 
myself  even  to  you  until  necessity  shordd 
compel  me." 

Much  more  conversation  ensued  in  con- 
nection with  matters  in  which  our  lovers  felt 
more  or  less  interest.  At  length  the  gentle- 
men rose  to  go  away,  when  Gillespie  thinist  a 
face  of  horror  into  the  door,  and  exclaimed, 
bolting,  as  he  spoke,  behind  the  Dean,  "  O, 
jjfentlemen,  for  God's  sake,  save  me  !  I'll  con- 
fess  and  acknowledge  everj'thmg. 

"  "WTiat's  the  matter,  Sir  ?  "asked  the  Dean. 

"  The  dead  man,  sir  ;  he's  sitting  up  in 
the  bed ;  and  I  know  what  he's  come  back 
for.  You're  a  parson,  sir,  and,  for  heaven's 
sake,  stand  between  him  and  me." 

On  proceeding  to  the  room  where  the 
.  baronet's  son  had  been  laid  out,  they  found 
/'  him  sitting,  certainly,  on  the  bedside,  won- 
dering at  the  habiliments  of  death  which 
were  about  him.  That  which  all  had  sup- 
posed to  have  been  death,  was  onl}'  a  fit  of 
catalepsy,  brought  on  him  by  the  appearance 
of  his  father,  who  had,  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion, left  a  terrible  impress  of  liimseK 
upon  his  mind,  and  who,  he  had  been  in- 
formed some  years  before,  was  the  cause  of 
all  his  sufferings.  Even  at  the  sight  of  Lucy 
herself,  he  had  been  deejjly  agitated,  although 
he  could  not  tell  why.  He  was  immediately 
attended  to,  a  physician  sent  for,  and  poor 
Lucy  felt  an  elevation  of  heart  and  spirits 
which  she  had  not  experienced  for  many  a 
long  day. 

'•  Oh,  do  not  go,"  she  said  to  her  lover 
and  the  Dean,  "until  I  communicate  to 
papa  this  twofold  intelligence  of  delight ; 
your  strange  good  fortune,  and  the  resur- 
rection, I  may  term  it,  of  my  brother.  The 
very  object  -the  gi-eat  engiossing  object  of 
papa's  life  and  ambition  gained  in  so  won- 
dei-ful  a  way !   Do,  pray,  gentlemen,  remain 


for  a  few  minutes  until  I  see  him.     O,  what 
delight,  what  ecstasy  will  it  not  give  him  !" 

She  accordingly  went  up  stairs,  slowly  it 
is  true,  for  she  was  weak ;  and  nothing 
further  was  heard  except  one  wild  and  fear- 
ful scream,  Avhose  sharj)  tones  penetrated 
through  the  whole  house. 

"  Ha !  "  exclaimed  Lord  Dunroe,  "  here  is 
eAil.  Goodness  me  ! — it  is  Miss  Gourlay's 
voice  ;  I  know  it.  Let  us  go  up ;  I  fear 
something  is  wi'ong  with  her  father." 

They  accordingly  sought  the  baronet's 
apartment,  attended  by  the  sen-ants,  whom 
Lucy's  wild  scream  had  alarmed,  and  brought 
also  toward  the  same  direction.  On  enter- 
ing the  room,  the  body  of  Lucy  was  found 
Ijing  beside,  or  rather  across  that  of  hei 
father,  wdiom,  on  removing  her,  tBey  found 
to  be  dead.  Beside  him  lay  a  httle  phial, 
on  which  there  was  no  label,  but  the  small 
portion  of  liquid  that  was  found  in  it  was  clear 
and  colorless  as  water.  It  was  piiissic  acid. 
Lucy  was  immediately  removed,  and  com- 
mitted to  the  care  of  Alley  Mahon  and  some 
of  the  other  females,  and  the  body  of  the 
baronet  was  raised  and  placed  upon  his  owTi 
bed.  The  Dean  and  Lord  Dunroe  looked 
upon  his  Hfeless  but  stern  features  with  a 
feehng  of  awe. 

"  Alas  !  "  exclaimed  the  good  Dean,  "  and 

is  it  thus  he  has  gone  to  his  gi-eat  account  ? 

We  shall  not  follow  his   spirit  into   another 

life  ;  but  it  is  miserable  to   reflect   that   one 

hour's  patience  might  have  saved  him  to  the 

i  W' orld  and  to  God,  and  showed  him,  after  all, 

1  that  the  great  object  of  his  life  had  been  ac- 

comphshed.     Bliiid  and  impatient  reasoner  ! 

— what  has  he  done  ?  " 

j       "Y^es,"  replied  Dunroe,   looking  on   him 

with    a    feehng   of    profound    melancholy ; 

"there     he   hes— quiet    enough   now — the 

tumults  of  his  strong  sj^irit  are  over  forever. 

That  terrible  heart  is  still  at  last — that  fiery 

j  jDulse  will  beat  no  more  !  " 

We  have  now  very  little  to    state  which 
1  our  readers  may  not   anticipate.     Lucy   and 
Lady  Emily,  each  made  happy  in  the  gi-eat 
object  of  woman's  heart — love,  only  exchang- 
ed residences. 

Lucy's  hfe  was  a  long  and  bountiful  bless- 

'  ing  to  her   fellow-creatures.      Her  feehngs 

were   never  contracted   Arithin   the  narrow 

\  circle  of  her  own   class,  but  embraced  the 

I  gi-eat  one  of  general  humanity.     She   acted 

,  upon  the  noble  principle  of  receiving   from 

God  the  ample  gifts  of  wealth  and  position. 

not  for  the   purpose    of  wasting   them   in 

expensive   and   selfish   enjoyments,  but   for 

that  of  causing  them  to  ditixise  among  her 

fellow-creatures  the  greatest  possible  portion 

;  of  happiness.     This  she  considered  her  high 

I  destination,  and  well  and  nobly  she  fulfillew 


THE  BLACK  BAUOXKT. 


611 


it.  In  this,  tbe  f^eut  .and  true  purpose  of 
life,  lier  Imsband  and  she  went  heart-in- 
heai-t,  hand-in-hand  ;  nor  were  Sir  Etlward 
Gourlay,  and  his  kind  and  gentle  Emily,  far 
l)ehind  them  in  all  their  good-will  and  good 
works. 

Lord  Dunroe,  having  no  strength  of  char- 
acter to  check  his  profligate  impulses,  was, 
in  the  course  of  some  years,  thrown  oflf  by 
all  his  high  connections,  and  reduced  to 
great  indigence.  Norton's  notion  of  his 
character  was  correct.  Tlie  society  of  that 
treacherous  sharper  was  necessfuy  to  him, 
and  in  some  time  after  the}'  were  reconciled. 
Norton  ultimately  became  driver  of  a  cele- 
brated mail-coach  on  the  great  York  road, 
and  the  othei-,  its  guard  ;  thus  resolving,  as 
it  would  seem,  to  keep  the  whip-hand  of  the 
weak  and  fooUsh  nobleman  in  every  position 
of  life.  Several  of  our  Enghsh  readers  may 
remember  them,  for  they  were  both  remark- 
able characters,  and  great  favorites  with  the 
public. 

Dandy  Dulcimer  and  Alley  followed  the 
example  of  their  master  and  mistress,  and 
were  auiiily  prorided  for  by  their  friends, 
with  whcjui  they  lived  in  confidential  inti- 
macy for  the  greater  portion  of  their  lives. 

Thomas  Corbet,  his  sister,  and  her  son, 
disai)peared  ;  and  it  was  supposed  that  they 
went  to  America. 

^M'Bride,  in  a  short  time  after  the  close  of 
our  narrative,  took  a  relish  for  foreign  travel,  •] 
and  resolved  to  visit  a  certain  bay  of  botani- 
cal celebrity  not  far  from  the  antipodes.  That 
he  might  accomplish  this  point  -vrith  as  httle 
difficulty  as  jjossible,  he  asked  a  gentleman 
one  evening  for  the  loan  of  his  watch  and 
purse  ;  a  circumstance  which  so  much 
tickled  the  fancy  of  a  certain  facetious  judge 
of  witty  memoiy,  that,  on  hearing  a  full 
account  of  the  transaction,  he  so  far  and 
successfully  interfered  with  the  goverament 
as  to  get  his  exjDeuses  during  the  jouiaiey 
defrayed  by  his  Majesty  himself.  His  last 
place  of  residence  in  this  coimtry  was  a  veiy 


magnificent  one  near  Kilmainham,  where  he 
led  a  piivate  and  secluded  hfe,  occasionally 
devoting  himself  to  the  j)rogress  of  machinerv 
in  his  hours  of  recreation,  but  uniformly 
declining  to  take  country'  exercise. 

Poor  Trailcudgel  was  restored  to  his  farm  : 
and  Luc3''s  brother  lived  with  her  for  many 
yeai's,  won  back  by  her  affection  and  kind- 
ness to  the  i^erfect  use  of  his  reason  ;  and  it 
was  well  kno\\-u  that  her  children,  bo}S  and 
girls,  were  all  very  fond  of  Uncle  Thomas. 

Old  Corbet  took  to  devotion,  became  veiy 
rehgious,  and  lost  in  temper,  which  was 
never  good,  as  much  as  he  seemed  to  gain 
by  penitence.  He  died  suddenly  from  a  fit 
of  paralysis,  brought  on  by  the  loss  of  a 
thirtv  shilling  note,  which  was  stolen  from 
his  till  by  Mrs.  M-Bride. 

On  the  occasion  of  Lucy's  maiTiage  with 
her  lover.  Father  ^I'Mahon,  who  was  invited 
to  a  double  wedding — both  Sir*  Edward  ami 
Dunroe  being  maiiied  on  the  same  day — 
x'ode  all  the  wa}'  to  Dublin  upon  Freney  the 
Robber,  in  order  that  his  fiiend  might  see 
the  new  saddle  upon  Freney,  and  the  priest 
liimself  upon  the  new  saddle.  ]Mr.  Birney 
was  also  of  the  jmrty,  and  never  was  his 
round  rosy  face  and  comic  rolling  eye  moi-e 
replete  with  humor  and  enjoyment  ;  and  as 
a  reward  for  his  integrity,  as  well  as  for  the 
abihty  with  which  he  assisted  the  stranger, 
Ave  ma}'  as  well  mention  that  he  was  made 
Law  Agent  to  both  properties — a  recompense 
Avhich  he  well  desen'ed.  We  need  scarcely 
say  that  old  Sam  and  Beck  were  sxlso  there ; 
that  their  healths  were  di-unk,  and  that  old 
Sam  told  them  how  there  was  nothing  more 
plaui  thim  that  there  never  was  such  a  wife 
in  existence  as  his  Beck,  and  that  Proridcuce 
all  through  intended  Ned  to  be  restored  to  his 
own — lie,  old  Sam,  always  acting  in  this 
instance  as  Adjut^xnt  under  Proridence.  It 
was  cleai",  he  said — quite  erideut — eveiy- 
tliing  the  work  of  Providence  on  the  one 
hand,  and  on  the  other,  "  aV  the  heivi  o/ 
7nan  f  " 


The  Evil  Eye; 

OR,    THE    BLACK    SPECTRE. 


PREFACE. 

There  is  very  little  to  be  said  about  this 
book  in  the  shape  of  a  preface.  The  super- 
stition of  the  Evil  Eye  is,  and  has  been,  one 
of  the  most  general  that  ever  existed  among 
men.  It  may  puzzle  philosophers  to  ask 
why  it  prevails  wherever  mankind  exists. 
There  is  not  a  country  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  where  a  beUef  in  the  influence  of  the 
Evil  Eye  does  not  i^revail.  In  my  o\\-n  young 
days  it  was  a  settled  dogiua  of  behef.  I 
have  reason  to  know,  however,  that,  like 
other  superstitions,  it  is  fast  fading  out  of 
the  public  mind.  Education  and  knowledge 
will  soon  banish  those  idle  and  senseless 
superstitions  :  indeed,  it  is  a  veiy  difficult 
tiling  to  account  for  their  existence  at  aU.  I 
think  some  of  them  have  come  down  to  us 
fi'om  the  times  of  the  Druids, — a  class  of  men 
whom,  excepting  what  is  called  their  human 
sacrifices,  I  respect.  My  own  opinion  is, 
that  what  we  term  human  saci-ifices  was 
nothing  but  their  habitual  mode  of  executing 
criminals.  Toland  has  ^Ni'itten  on  the  siib- 
ject  and  left  us  veiT  little  the  wiser.  "WTio 
could,  after  all,  give  us  infonnation  upon  a 
suliject  which  to  us  is  only  hke  a  dream  ? 

What  first  suggested  tlie  stoiy  of  the  Evil 
Eye  to  me  was  this  :  A  man  named  Case, 
who  lives  within  a  distance  of  about  three  or 
four  hundred  yaixls  of  my  residence,  keeps  a 
large  dairy  ;  lie  is  the  possessor  of  five  or 
six  and  twenty  of  the  finest  cows  I  ever  saw, 
and  he  told  me  that  a  man  who  was  an 
enemy  of  liis  killed  three  of  them  by  his 
overlooking  them, — that  is  to  say,  by  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Eril  Eye. 

The  opinion  in  Ii-eland  of  the  Evil  Eye  is 
this  :  that  a  man  or  woman  possessing  it  may 
hold  it  harmless,  unless  there  is  some  selfish 
design  or  some  spirit  of  vengeance  to  call  it 
into  operation.  I  was  aware  of  this,  and  I 
accordingly  constructed  my  stoiy  upon  that 
principle.  I  have  nothing  further  to  add : 
the  story  itself  will  detail  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  L 

Short  and  Preliminary. 

In  a  certain  part  of  Ii'eland,  inside  the 
borders  of  the  county  of  Waterford,  hved 
two  respecttible  famihes,  named  Lindsaj  and 
GppdsiO,  the  foiTuer  being  of  Scotch  descent. 
Their  respective  residences  were  not  more 
than  three  miles  distant ;  and  the  intimacy 
that  subsisted  between  them  was  founded, 
for  many  years,  upon  mutual  good-will  and 
esteem,  with  two  excejjtions  onK  in  one  of 
the  famihes,  which  the  reader  will  vmder- 
stand  in  the  coui'se  of  our  narrative.  Each 
ranked  in  the  class  kno>A-n  as  that  of  the 
middle  gentry.  These  two  neighbors — dhe 
of  whom,  ]Mr.  Lindsay,  was  a  magisti-ate — 
were  contented  ^"ith  their  lot  in  life,  which 
was  sufficiently  respectable  and  independent 
to  secure  to  them  that  true  happiness  which 
is  most  fi-equently  annexed  to  the  middle 
station.  Lindsay  was  a  man  of  a  kind  and 
liberal  heart,  easy  and  passive  in  his  nature, 
but  with  a  good  deal  of  sarcastic  humor,  yet 
neither  severe  nor  prejudiced,  and,  conse- 
quently, a  popular  magistrate  as  well  as  a 
popular  man.  Goodwin  might  be  stud  to 
possess  a  similar  disposition  ;  but  he  was  of 
a  more  quiet  and  unobtrusive  character  than 
his  cheerfid  neighbor.  His  mood  of  mind 
was  placid  and  serene,  and  his  heart  as  ten- 
der ;md  affectionate  as  ever  beat  in  a  human 
bosom.  His  principal  enjovment  lay  in 
domestic  life — in  the  society,  in  fact,  of  hia 
wife  and  one  beautiful  daughter,  his  only 
child,  a  gii'l  of  nineteen  when  oiu*  tale  opens. 
Lindsay's  family  consisted  of  one  son  and 
two  daughters  ;  but  his  vrife,  who  was  a 
widow  when  he  maii-ied  her,  had  another 
son  by  her  first  husband,  who  had  been 
abroad  almost  since  his  childhood,  with  a 
grand-uncle,  whose  intention  was  to  provide 
for  him,  being  a  man  of  great  wealth  and  a 
bachelor. 

We  have  already  said  that  the  two  families 
were  upon  the  most  intimate  and  fiiendly 


614 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


terms  ;  but  to  this  there  was  oue  exception 
in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Lindsay,  whose  natural 
disposition  was  impetuous,  implacable,  and 
overbeaiing ;  equally  destitute  of  domestic 
tenderness  and  good  temper.  She  was,  in 
fact,  a  woman  whom  not  even  her  own 
c-hildren,  gifted  as  they  were  vriih.  the  best 
and  most  affectionate  dispositions,  could  love 
as  children  ought  to  love  a  parent.  Utterly 
devoid  of  chaiity,  she  was  never  known  to 
bestow  a  kind  act  upon  the  jDOor  or  dis- 
tressed, or  a  kind  word  upon  the  absent. 
Vituperation  and  calumny  were  her  constant 
weajions  ;  and  one  would  imagine,  by  the 
frequency  and  bitterness  Avith  which  she 
wielded  them,  that  she  was  in  a  state  of 
perjDetual  warfare  mth  society.  Such,  in- 
deed, was  the  case  ;  but  the  evils  which  re- 
sulted from  her  wanton  and  indefensible 
aggi'essions  upon  private  character  almost 
uniformly  recoiled  upon  her  owti  head  ;  for, 
as  far  as  her  name  was  known,  she  w^as  not 
only  unpopular,  but  odious.  Her  husband 
was  a  man  naturally  fond  of  peace  and 
quietness  in  his  own  house  and  family  ;  and, 
rather  than  occasion  anything  in  the  shape  of 
domestic  distiu'bauce,  he  continued  to  treat 
her  intemperate  authority  sometimes  with  in- 
difference, sometimes  with  some  sarcastic  ob- 
servation or  other,  and  occasionally  '^dtli  open 
and  midisguised  contempt.  In  some  instan- 
ces, however,  he  departed  from  this  apathetic 
line  of  condvict,  and  turned  upon  her  "u-ith 
a  degi'ee  of  asperity  and  violence  that  was  as 
imi^etuous  as  it  was  decisive.  His  reproaches 
were  then  general,  broad,  fearful ;  but  these 
were  seldom  resorted  to  unless  when  her 
temper  had  gone  beyond  all  reasonable 
limits  of  endurance,  or  in  defence  of  the 
absent  or  inoffensive.  It  mattered  not,  how- 
ever, what  the  reason  may  have  been,  they 
never  failed  to  gain  theii-  object  at  the  time  ; 
for  the  woman,  though  mischievous  and 
wicked,  ultimately  quailed,  yet  not  without 
resistance,  before  the  exasperated  resentment 
of  her  husband.  Those  occasional  victories, 
however,  which  he  gained  over  her  vri.i\\  re- 
luctance, never  prevented  her  from  treating 
him,  in  the  oi'dinary  business  of  life,  with  a 
systematic  exhibition  of  abuse  and  scorn. 
Much  of  this  he  bore,  as  we  have  said  ;  but 
whenever  he  chose  to  retorf  upon  her  with 
her  OA\-n  weapons  in  their  common  and  minor 
skirmishes,  she  foiuid  his  sarcasm  too  cool 
and  biting  for  a  temper  so  violent  as  hers, 
and  the  consequence  was,  that  nothing  en- 
I'aged  her  more  than  to  see  him  amuse  him- 
self at  her  expense. 

This  woman  had  a  brother,  who  also  Hved 
in  the  same  neighborhood,  and  who,  al- 
though so  closely  related  to  her  by  blood, 
was,   nevertheless,  as  different  fi'om  her  in 


I  both  character  and  temper  as  good  could  be 
from  evil.  He  was  wealthy  and  generous, 
fi-ee  from  everything  hke  a  worldly  spirit, 
and  a  warm  but  unostentatious  benefactor 

i  to  the  poor,  and  to  such  individuals  as  upon 
inquiry  he  found  to  be  entitled  to  his  benef- 
icence. His  wife  had,  some  years  before, 
died  of  decline,  which,  it  seems,  was  hered- 
itary in  her  family.  He  felt  her  death  as  a 
calamity  which  depressed  his  heart  to  the 
uttermost  depths  of  affliction,  and  from 
w^hich,  indeed,  he  never  recovered.  All  that 
remained  to  him  after  her  demise  was  a 
beautiful  httle  girl,  around  whom  his  affec- 
tions gathered  with  a  degree  of  tenderness 
that  was  rendered  almost  painful  by  the  ap- 
prehension of  her  loss.  Agnes,  from  her 
eighth  or  ninth  year,  began  to  manifest 
shght  symptoms  of  the  same  fatal  malady 
which  had  carried  away  her  mother.  These 
attacks  fiUed  his  heart  Avith  those  feai'ful 
forebodings,  which,  whilst  they  threw  him 
into  a  state  of  teiTor  and  alarm,  at  the  same 
time  rendered  the  love  he  bore  her  such  as 
may  be  imagined,  but  cannot  be  expressed. 
It  is  only  when  we  feel  the  jarobability  of 
losing  a  beloved  object  that  the  heart  awakens 
to  a  more  exquisite  percejDtion  of  its  affec- 

i  tions  for  it,  and  wonders,  when  the  painful 

;  symptoms  of  disease  ajDpear,  why  it  was 
heretofore  unconscious  of  the  full  extent  of 
its  love.     Such  was  the  nature  of  Mr.  Ham- 

I,  ilton's  feelLngs  for  his  daughter,  whenever 
the  short  cough  or  hectic  cheek  happened 
to  make  theii*  appearance  fi-om  time  to  time, 
and  foreshadow,  as  it  were,  the  certainty  of 
an  early  death  ;  and  then  he  should  be  child- 
less— a  lonely  man  in  the  world,  possess- 
ing a  heart  overfloAving  vdih  affection,  and 
yet  -vN-ithout  an  object  on  which  he  could 
lavish  it,  as  now,  with  happiness  and  delight. 
He  looked,  therefore,  upon  decKne  as  upon  an 
approaching  foe,  and  the  father's  heart  be- 
came sentinel  for  the  Avelfare  of  his  child, 
and  watched  every  symptom  of  the  dreaded 
disease  that  threatened  her,  Avith  a  vigilance 
that  never  slept.  Under  such  circumstances 
we  need  not  again  assui*e  our  readers  that 
his  jDarental  tenderness  for  this  beautiful 
girl— now  his  "  only  one,"  as  he  used  to  call 
her — was  such  as  is  rare  even  in  the  most 
affectionate  famihes  ;  but  in  tliis  case  the 
shght  and  doubtful  tenure  Avhich  his  appre- 
hensions told  him  he  had  of  her  existence 
raised  his  love  of  her  almost  to  idolati'y. 
Still  she  improved  in  person,  gi-ace,  and  in- 

I  tellect ;  and  although  an  occasional  shadow, 
as  transient  as  that  which  passes  over  and 

I  makes  dim  the  flowery  fields  of  May  or 
April,  darkened  her  father's  heart  for  a 
time,  yet  it  passed  aAvay,  and  she  danced  on 
in  the  light  of  youthful  hajipiness,  Avithout  a 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPJ£CTRE. 


615 


single  trtice  of  anxiety  or  care.  Her  father's 
affection  for  her  was  not,  however,  con  fined 
to  herself  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  passed  to  and 
embraced  every  object  that  was  dear  to  her 
— her  favorite  books,  her  favoi-ite  plaj-things, 
and  her  favorite  conij^anions.  Among  the 
latter,  without  a  single  rivid,  stood  her  young 
friend,  ^yice  Goodwin,  who  was  then  about 
her  ow^l  age.  Never  was  the  love  of  sisters 
greater  or  more  beautiful  than  that  which 
knit  the  innocent  hearts  of  those  two  girls 
together.  Their  affections,  in  short,  were 
so  dependent  upon  each  other  that  separa- 
tion and  absence  became  a  source  of  anxiety 
and  uneasiness  to  each.  Neither  of  them 
had  a  sister,  and  in  the  fen^or  of  their  at- 
tachment, they  entered  into  a  solemn  en- 
gagement that  each  of  them  should  consider 
herself  the  sister  of  the  other.  This  inno- 
cent experiment  of  the  heart — for  such  we 
must  consider  it  in  these  two  sisterless  girls 
— was  at  least  rewarded  by  complete  suc- 
cess. A  new  affinity  was  superadded  to 
fi'iendship,  and  the  force  of  imagination 
completed  what  the  heai't  begun. 

Next  to  A<j[nes  was  Alice_Goodwin  awarded 
a  place  in  ]NIr..  Haniilton's  heart.  'Tis  true 
he  had  nieces  ;  but  in  consequence  of  the 
bitter  and  exxasi^erating  temper  of  their 
nother,  who  was  neither  more  nor  less  than 
n  incendiary  among  her  relations,  he  had 
.ot  spoken  to  her  for  years  ;  and  this  fact 
ccasioued  a  compiU*ative  estrangement  be- 
ween  the  families.  Sometimes,  however, 
.er  nieces  and  she  visited,  and  wei-e  always 
apon  good  terms  ;  but  Agnes's  heart  had 
been  jjreoccupied  ;  and  even  if  it  had  not, 
the  heartless  prerlictions  of  her  aunt,  who 
entertained  her  with  the  cheering  and  con- 
sohng  information  that  "  she  had  death  in 
her  face,"  and  that  "  she  knew  fi'om  the  high 
color  of  her  cheek  that  she  would  soon  fol- 
low her  mother,"'  would  have  naturally  es- 
tranged the  families.  Now,  of  this  appre- 
hension, above  all  others,  it  was  the  father's 
wish  tliat  Agnes  should  remain  ignoi-ant ; 
and  when  she  repeated  to  him,  with  te;u-s  in 
her  eyes,  the  merciless  pui-port  of  her  aunt's 
observations,  he  repHed,  with  a  degi'ee  of 
calm  resentment  which  was  unusual  to 
him, 

"Agnes,  my  love,  let  not  anything  your 
aunt  may  sjiy  aliu-m  you  in  the  least ;  she  is 
no  prophetess,  my  deiu-  child.  Your  life,  as 
is  that  of  aU  liis  creatures,  is  in  the  hands  of 
God  who  gave  it.  I  know  her  avaricious 
and  acrimonious  disposition — her  love  of 
wealth,  and  her  anxiety  to  aggrandize  her 
family.  As  it  is,  she  \\'ill  live  to  regret  the 
day  she  ever  uttered  those  cruel  w(n"ds  to 
you,  my  child.  You  shall  visit  at  your 
ijiicle'B  no  more.     Whenever  the  other  mem- 


bers of  her  family  may  please  to  come  here, 
we  shall  receive  them  with  kindness  and  af. 
fection  ;  but  I  will  not  suffer  you  to  run  the 
risk  of  listening  to  such  unfeeling  prognos- 
tications in  future. " 

In  the  meantime  her  health  continued  in  a 
state  sufficiently  satisfactory'  to  her  father. 
It  is  true  an  occasionsd  alarm  was  felt  from 
time  to  time,  as  a  shght  cold,  accompanied 
with  its  hard  and  vmusual  cough,  happened 
to  supervene  ;  but  in  general  it  soon  disap- 
jDeared,  and  in  a  brief  space  she  became  per- 
fectly recovered,  and  fi-ee  fi'om  ever}'  symp- 
tom of  the  dreadful  malady. 

In  this  way  the  tenor  of  her  pure  and  in- 
nocent hfe  went  on,  until  she  reached  her 
sixteenth  yeai\  Never  did  a  hapj^ier  young 
creature  enjoy  existence — never  lived  a  being 
more  worthy  of  happiness.  Her  inseparable 
and  bosom  friend  Avas  Alice  GoodAA-in,  now 
her  sister  according  to  theii*  ai'tless  compact 
of  love.  They  sjient  weeks  and  months  al- 
ternately with  each  other  ;  but  her  father 
never  permitted  a  day  to  pass  ^Aithout  seeing 
her,  and  every  visit  tilled  his  hapjjy  sj^iiit 
with  more  hopeful  anticipations. 

At  this  period  it  occun-ed  to  him  to  have 
theii*  portraits  drawn,  and  on  hearing  him 
mention  this  intention,  their  young  hearts 
were  ecstatic  with  deUght. 

"But,  papa,"  said  Agnes,  "if  you  do  I 
have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you." 

"  Granted,  Agnes,  if  it  be  possible." 

"  O,  quite  j)ossible,  papa ;  it  is  to  get 
both  our  portraits  painted  in  the  same 
frame,  for,  do  you  know,  I  don't  think  I 
could  feel  hajjpy  if  AHce's  jjortrait  was  sep- 
arated from  mine." 

"  It  shall  be  done,  darling — it  shidl  be 
done." 

And  it  xom  done,  accordingly  ;  for  what 
father  covdd  refuse  a  request  founded  up- 
on an  affection  so  tender  and  beautiful  as 
theii-s? 

Agnes  has  now  entered  her  seventeenth 
year — but  how  is  this  ?  "VMiy  does  her 
cheek  begin  to  get  alternately  pale  and  red  ? 
And  why  does  the  hoi^izon  of  the  father's 
heart  begin  to  dai-ken  ?  Alas  !  it  is  so — the 
spoiler  is  upon  her  at  last.  Ai)petite  is  gone 
— her  spu'its  are  gone,  unless  in  these  occa- 
sional ebulhtions  of  vivacity  which  resemble 
the  hghtnings  wliich  tiash  fi'om  the  cloud 
that  is  gathering  over  her.  It  would  be 
painful  to  dwell  minutely  upon  the  history 
of  her  illness — upon  her  iingehc  patience  and 
submission  to  the  will  of  God,  and  ujxjn  the 
affection,  now  consecrated  by  ajJi^roaching 
death  into  something  sacred,  which  she  ex- 
hibited to  her  father  and  AUce.  The  latter 
was  never  fi-om  her  during  the  progiess  ol 
that  mournful  decline.     The  poor  dying  giiJ 


r.io 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


found  all  the  tenderest  offices  of  love  and 
friendship  anticipated.  Except  heaven  she 
had  scarcely  anything  to  wish  for.  But  who 
can  even  imagine  the  hopeless  agony  of  her 
father's  soul  ?  She  had  been  the  single  re- 
maining plank  which  bore  him  through  a 
troubled  ocean  to  a  calm  and  dehghiful  har- 
bor; but  now  she  is  going  down,  leaving 
him  to  struggle,  weak  and  exhausted  for  a 
little,  and  then  the  same  dark  waves  will 
cover  them  both. 

At  length  the  dreadful  hour  arrived — the 
last  shght  spasm  of  death  was  over,  and  her 
spotless  soul  passed  into  heaven  from  the 
bereaved  arms  of  her  hopeless  and  distracted 
father,  who  was  reduced  by  the  depth  and 
■uildness  of  despair  to  a  state  of  agony  which 
might  wring  compassion  from  a  demon. 

On  the  morning  of  her  intei-ment,  Alice, 
completely  prostrated  by  excess  of  grief  and 
watching,  was  assisted  to  bed,  being  unable 
to  accomplish  even  the  short  distance  to  her 
father's  house,  and  for  nearly  a  fortnight 
serious  doubts  were  entertained  of  her 
recoveiy.  Her  constitution,  however,  though 
not  naturally  strong,  enabled  her  to  rail}', 
and  in  three  weeks'  time  she  was  bai'ely 
able  to  go  home  to  her  family.  On  the  day 
following  ^Ii\  Hamilton  called  to  see  her — a 
task  to  which,  under  the  dreadful  weight  of 
his  sorrow,  he  was  scarcely  equal.  He  said 
he  considered  it,  however,  his  duty,  and  he 
accordingly  went.  His  visit,  too,  was  very 
short,  nor  had  he  much  to  say,  and  it  w^as 
well  he  had  not ;  for  he  could  by  no  exeriion 
have  summoned  sufficient  fortitude  for  a 
lengthened  conversation  on  a  subject  arising 
fi'om  the  loss  of  a  child  so  deei:)ly  beloved. 

"Alice,"  said  he,  "I  know  the  arrange- 
ment entered  into  between  you — and — 
and " 

Here  he  w'as  overcome,  and  could  not  for 
a  few  minutes  maintain  sufficient  calmness  to 
proceed,  and  poor  Alice  was  almost  as  deeply 
auected  as  himself.  At  last  he  strove  to 
go  on. 

"  You  know,"  he  resumed,  "  the  agree- 
ment I  allude  to.  You  were  to  be  sisters, 
and  you  xcere  sisters.  Well,  my  dear  Alice, 
for  )ier  sake,  as  well  as  for  yoiu'  o\\ti,  and  as 
.^7^e  looked  upon  you  in  that  affectionate 
Ught,  the  contract  between  you,  as  far  as  it 
now  can  be  done,  shall  be  maintained.  Hence- 
foi'th  you  are  my  daxirjlxler.  I  adopt  you. 
All  that  she  was  to  have  shall  be  youi-s, 
reverting,  however,  should  you  die  without 
issue,  to  my  nephew,  Henry  "Woodwai'd  ;  and 
should  he  die  childless,  to  his  brother,  Charles 
Lindsay  ;  and  should  he  die  without  off- 
spring, then  to  my  niece  Maria.  I  have 
an*anged  it  so,  and  have  to  say  that,  except 
[he  hope  of  meeting  my  child  in  death,  it  is 


now  the  onl}'  consolation  left  me.  €  am,  1 
know,  fuliilling  her  wishes  ;  and,  my  dear 
Alice,  you  moU  reheve  my  heai't — my  broken 
heart — by  accei^ting  it." 

•'  O,  would  to  God,"rephed  Ahce,  sobbing 
bitterly,  "  that  I  could  give  a  thousand  times 
as  much  to  have  our  beloved  Agnes  back 
again  !  I  have  now  no  sister !  Alas  !  alas  I 
I  have  now  no  sister  !  " 

"  Ah,  my  child,"  he  replied,  "  for  now  I 
will  call  you  so,  your  grief,  though  deep  and 
poignant,  will  pass  away  in  time,  but  mine 
will  abide  with  me  whilst  I  stay  here.  That 
period,  however,  will  not  be  long  ;  the  prop 
of  my  existence,  the  source  of  my  happiness, 
is  gone  ;  and  I  will  never  know  what  hapjDi- 
ness  is  until  I  rejoin  her  and  her  blesseci 
mother.  Good-by,  my  daughter ;  I  wil! 
have  neither  reply  nor  remonstrance,  nor 
will  I  be  moved  by  any  argument  from  this 
my  resolution." 

He  then  passed  out  of  the  house,  entered 
his  carriage  with  some  difficulty,  and  pro- 
ceeded home  with  a  heart  considerably 
relieved  by  what  he  had  done. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Alice  and  her  father 
did  subsequently  remonstrate  with  him  upon 
the  subject.  He  refused  to  hsten  to  them, 
and  said  his  determination  was  immovable. 

"  But,"  he  added,  "  if  it  be  any  satisfaction 
to  you  to  know  it,  I  have  not  forgotten  my 
relations,  to  whom  I  have  left  the  legacies 
originally  intended  for  them.  I  would  have 
left  it  dii'ectly  to  Henry  "Woodward,  were  it 
not  that  his  grasj^ing  mother  sent  him  to 
another  relation,  from  whom  she  calculated 
that  he  might  have  larger  expectations  ;  and 
I  hope  he  may  realize  them.  At  aU  events, 
my  relatives  will  find  themselves  in  exactly 
the  same  position  as  if  our  beloved  Agnes 
had  hved." 

Mr.  Hamilton,  then  advanced  in  years — for 
Agnes  might  be  termed  the  child  of  his  old 
age — did  not  sunive  her  death  twelve 
months.  That  afflicting  event  fairly  broke 
him  down.  Death,  however,  to  him  had  no 
terrors,  because  he  had  nothing  to  detain 
him  here.  On  the  contrary,  he  looked  to  it 
only  as  a  release  fr'om  sorrow  ;  an  event  that 
would  soon  wipe  away  all  tears  from  his 
eyes,  di'aw  the  stiug  of  affliction  fr-om  his 
heai't,  and  restore  him  once  more  to  his  be- 
loved Agnes  and  her  deai-  mother.  He 
looked  forward  only  to  close  his  eyes  against 
the  world  and  sleep  with  them — and  so  he 
did. 

'V^^len  his  will  was  opened,  the  astonish- 
ment and  dismay  of  liis  relations  may  be 
easily  imagined,  as  well  as  the  bitterness  of 
their  disappointment.  The  bequeathal  o\ 
the  bulk  of  his  property  to  a  stranger,  who 
could  urge  no  claim  of  consanguinity  upon 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OH,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


617 


him,  absolutely  astonished  them  ;  and  theii* 
resentment  at  his  caprice — or  rather  what 
they  tenned  his  dobij^e — was  not  only  deep, 
but  loud.  To  say  the  truth,  such  an  unex- 
pected demise  of  projjei-ty  was  strongly  cal- 
culated to  try  their  temper.  After  the  death 
of  Agnes — an  event  wliich  filled  the  unfeel- 
ing and  worldly  heart  of  her  aunt  with  dehght 
— they  made  many  a  domestic  calculation,  and 
held  many  a  family  council  as  to  the  mode 
in  which  their  uncle's  property  might  be 
distributed  among  them,  Jind  many  anticipa- 
tions were  the  result,  because  there  was  none 
in  the  usual  descent  of  property  to  inherit  it 
but  themselves.  Now,  in  all  this,  they  acted 
verj'  natui-aUy — just,  perhaps,  as  you  or  I, 
gentle  reader,  would  act  if  placed  in  similar 
cii'cumstances,  and  sustained  by  the  same 
expectations. 

In  the  meantime  matters  were  not  likely 
to  rest  in  quiet.  Murmurs  went  abroad, 
hints  were  given,  and  broader  assei'tions  ad- 
vanced, that  the  old  man  had  not  been  capa- 
ble of  making  a  will,  and  that  his  mind  had 
been  so  completely  disordered  and  prostra- 
ted by  excessive  gi-ief  for  the  loss  of  his 
daughter,  that  he  became  the  dujDe  and  vic- 
tim of  undue  influence  in  the  person  of  a 
selfish  and  artful  girl — that  ai'tful  gii'l  being 
no  other  than  ^\Iice  Good\\'in,  aided  and 
abetted  by  her  family.  Every  circumstance, 
no  matter  how  tririal,  that  could  be  raked 
up  and  collected,  was  now  brought  together, 
and  stamjjed  with  a  character  of  significance, 
in  order  to  estabhsh  hU  dotage  and  their 
fraud.  It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon 
this.  In  due  time  the  matter  came  to  a 
ti'ial,  for  the  will  had  been  disputed,  and, 
after  a  patient  hearing,  its  vaHdity  was  com- 
pletely estabhshed,  and  all  the  hopes  and 
expectations  of  the  Lindsays  bloNvn  into  air. 

In  the  meantime,  and  while  the  suit  was 
pending,  the  conduct  of  Alice  was  both  gen- 
erous and  disinterested.  She  pressed  her 
parents  to  allow  her,  under  the  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances of  the  case,  to  renounce  the  be- 
quest, inasmuch  as  she  thought  that  ^Ii-. 
Hamilton's  relatives  had  a  stronger  and  prior 
claim.  This,  however,  they  peremptorily 
refused  to  do. 

"Icai'enot  for  money,"  said  her  father, 
"  nor  have  I  much  to  spare  ;  but  you  must 
con.sider,  my  dear  Alice,  that  the  act  upon 
the  pai't  of  ^Ii\  Hamilton  was  a  spontaneous 
demise  of  his  o\\u  property,  as  a  reward  to 
you  on  behalf  of  his  daughter,  for  the  aflec- 
tion  which  you  bore  her,  and  which  sub- 
sisted between  you.  You  were  her  nurse, 
her  friend,  her  sister  ;  vou  tended  her  night 
and  day  during  her  long  illness,  even  to  the 
injury  of  your  health,  and  almost  at  the  risk 
of  your  veiy  life.  Supixjse,  for  instmce,  that 


]Mi'.  Hamilton  had  had  male  heirs  ;  in  that 
case,  the  Lindsays  would  have  been  just  as 
they  are,  perhaps  not  so  well ;  for  he  might 
not  have  left  them  even  a  legacy.  Then,  they 
unjustly  tax  us  with  fraud,  circumvention, 
and  the  practice  of  undue  influence  ;  and,  in- 
deed, have  endeavored  to  stamp  an  indelible 
stain  upon  your  chai-acter  and  honor.  Every 
man,  my  dear,  as  the  proverb  has  it,  is  at 
hberty  to  do  what  he  pleases  with  his  own, 
according  to  his  free  will,  and  a  reasonable 
disposition.  Let  me  hear  no  more  of  this, 
then,  but  enjoy  \vith  gratitude  that  which 
God  and  your  kind  fiiend  have  bestowed  up- 
on you." 

We  need  not  assure  our  readers  that  the 
Lindsays  henceforth  were  influenced  by  an 
unfriendly  feehug  towai'd  the  Goodwins,  and 
that  all  intei'course  between  the  families  ter- 
minated. On  the  part  of  !Mrs.  Lindsay,  this 
degenerated  into  a  spiiit  of  the  most  intense  ,, 
hatred  and  mahgnit^'.  To  this  enmity,  how- 
ever, there  were  exceptions  i;i  the  family, 
and  strong  ones,  too,  as  the  reader  will  per- 
ceive in  the  coiu-se  of  the  stoiy. 

Old  Lindsay  himself,  although  he  men- 
tioned the  Goodwins  with  moderation,  could 
not  help  feeling  strongly  and  bitterly  the  loss 
of  property  which  his  children  had  sustained, 
owing  to  this  unexpected  disposition  of  it  by 
their  uncle.  Here,  then,  were  two  famdiea 
who  had  lived  in  mutual  good-Avill  and  in- 
timacy, now  placed  fi-onting  each  other  in  a 
spii-it  of  hostility.  The  Goodwins  felt  indig- 
nant that  theii'  motives  shoidd  be  misintei'- 
preted  by  what  they  considered  dehberate 
falsehood  and  misrepresentation  ;  and  the 
Lindsays  could  not  look  in  silence  upon  the 
property  which  they  thought  ought  to  be 
theii's,  ti'ansferred  to  the  jDOssession  of  stran- 
gers, who  had  wheedled  a  dotard  to  make  a 
win  in  their  favor.  Such,  however,  in  thou- 
sands of  instances,  are  the  consequences  of 
the 

"  Opes  irritamenta  malorum." 

The  above  facts,  in  connection  'SN'ith  these 
two  families,  and  the  future  incidents  of  our 
uari'ative,  we  have  deemed  it  necessaiy,  for 
the  better  understanding  of  what  follows,  to 
place  in  a  preliminary  sketch  before  our 
readera. 


CHAPTEK  n. 

A  Murderefs  Vfake  and  the  Arrival  of  a  Stran- 
ger. 

It  is  the  month  of  June,  and  the  sun  has 
gone  do\\Ti  amidst  a  mass  of  those  red  and 
angi'v  clouds  which  prognosticate  a  night  of 
storm  and  tempest.     The  air  is  felt  to  be 


t;is 


WtLLIAM.    CARLETON'8   WORKS. 


oppressive  and  sultiy,  and  the  whole  sky  is 
overshadowed  with  gloom.  On  such  a  night 
the  spirit  sinks,  cheerfulness  abandons  the 
heart,  and  an  indefinable  anxiety  dejDresses 
it.  This  impression  is  not  peculiar  to  man, 
who,  on  such  occasions,  is  only  subject  to  the 
same  instinctive  apprehension  which  is 
known  to  influence  the  irrational  animals. 
The  clouds  are  gathering  in  black  masses  ; 
but  there  is,  nevertheless,  no  opening  be- 
tween them  through  which  the  sky  is  visible. 
The  gloom  is  imbroken,  and  so  is  the  silence  ; 
and  a  person  might  imagine  that  the  great 
operations  of  Nature  had  been  suspended 
and  stood  still.  The  outljdng  cattle  betake 
them  to  shelter,  and  the  very  dogs,  with  a 
subdued  and  timid  bark,  seek  the  heai'th, 
and,  with  ears  and  tail  hanging  in  teiTor,  laj' 
themselves  down  upon  it  as  if  to  ask  protec- 
tion fro2n  man.  On  such  a  night  as  this  we 
will  request  the  reader  to  follow  us  toward  a 
district  that  trenches  upon  the  foot  of  a  dark 
mountain,  fi-om  whose  precipitous  sides 
masses  of  gi-ay  rock,  apparently  embedded  in 
heath  and  fern,  jDroti-ude  themselves  in  un- 
couth and  gigantic  shapes.  'Tis  ti-ue  they 
were  not  then  visible  ;  but  we  wish  the 
reader  to  understand  the  character  of  the 
whole  scenery  through  which  we  pass.  We 
diverge  from  the  highway  into  a  mountain 
road,  which  resembles  the  body  of  a  serpent 
when  in  motion,  going  literally  up  one  ele- 
vation, and  down  another.  To  the  right, 
deep  glens,  guUies,  and  ravines  ;  but  the  dark- 
ness with  which  they  are  now  fiUed  is  thick 
and  impervious  to  the  eye,  and  nothing 
breaks  the  silence  about  us  but  the  nish  of 
the  mountain  torrent  over  some  jutting 
precipice  below  us.  To  the  left  all  is  gloom, 
as  it  would  be  even  were  there  light  to  guide 
the  sight,  because  on  that  side  spreads  a 
black,  interminable  moor.  As  it  is  we  can 
see  nothing  ;  yet  as  we  get  along  we  find 
that  we  are  not  alone.  Voices  reach  our 
eai's ;  but  they  are  not,  as  usual,  the  voices 
of  mirth  and  laughter.  These  which  we  hear 
— and  they  are  not  far  from  us — are  grave 
and  serious  ;  the  utterance  thick  and  low,  as 
if  those  from  whom  they  proceed  were  ex- 
pressing a  sense  of  sympathy  or  horror.  We 
have  now  advanced  up  this  nigged  path 
about  half  a  mile  from  the  highway  we  have 
mentioned,  and  discovered  a  hght  which  will 
guide  us  to  our  destination.  As  we  approach 
the  house  the  people  are  increasing  in  point 
of  numbers  ;  but  still  their  conversation  is 
marked  by  the  same  strange  and  pecrdiar 
character.  Perhaps  the  solemn  depth  of 
their  voices  gains  something  by  the  ominous 
aspect  of  the  sky  ;  but,  be  this  as  it  may, 
the  feeling  which  it  occasions  fills  one  with 
a  diifereut  and  distinct  sense  of  discomfort. 


We  ourselves  feel  it,  and  it  is  not  surpris- 
ing ;  for,  along  this  wild  and  rugged  path 
of  darkness,  w^e  are  conducting  the  reader  to 
the  wake  of  a  murderer.  We  have  now  ar- 
rived within  fifty  yards  of  the  house,  which, 
however,  we  cannot  see,  for  nothing  but  a 
solitary  light  is  visible.  But,  lo  !  a  flash  of 
lightning !  and  there  for  a  moment  is  the 
whole  i-ugged  and  savage  scenery  revealed. 
The  huge,  pointed  mountains,  the  dreary 
wastes,  the  wild,  stiU  glens,  the  naked  hills 
of  gTanite,  and  the  tremendous  piles  of 
rocks,  ready,  one  would  think,  to  crash  down 
fi'om  the  positions  where  they  seem  to  hang, 
if  only  assailed  by  a  strong  gale  of  wind — 
these  objects,  we  say,  were  feai-ful  and  start- 
ling in  themselves  ;  but  the  sensations  which 
they  produced  were  nothing  in  comparison 
with  the  sight  of  an  unpainted  deal  coffin 
which  stood  near  the  door,  against  the  side 
wall  of  the  house.  The  apj^earance  of  a 
coffin,  but  esjDecially  at  night,  is  one  that 
casts  a  deej)  shadow  over  the  Si:)irits,  because 
it  is  associated  with  death,  of  which  it  is  the 
melancholy  and  dejDressing  exponent ;  but 
to  look  upon  it  by  such  an  a^^^ul  though 
transient  light  as  that  which  proceeds  from 
the  angry  fires  of  heaven,  and  to  reflect  ujDon 
the  terrible  associations  of  blood  and  crime 
which  mingle  themselves  "with  that  of  a 
murderer,  is  a  dreadful  but  wholesome 
homily  to  the  heart.  We  now  enter  the 
house  of  death,  where  the  reader  mvist  sup- 
2)0se  himself  to  be  j)resent,  and  shall  go  on 
to  describe  4he  scene  which  presents  itself. 

On  entering,  we  found  the  house  nearly 
crowded ;  but  we  could  obsei-^e  that  there 
were  very  few  of  the  young  and  light-hearted 
present,  and  scarcely  any  females,  unless 
those  who  were  related  to  the  family  of  the 
deceased,  or  to  himself.  The  house  was  low 
and  long,  and  the  kitchen  in  which  they  had 
laid  him  out  was  spacious,  but  badly  fur- 
nished. Altogether  its  destitution  was  cal- 
culated to  deejoen  the  sense  of  awe  which 
imj)ressed  those  who  had  come  to  sjoend  the 
night  with  the  miserable  widow  and  waihng 
orphans  of  the  mui-derer. 

The  unfortunate  man  had  been  executed 
that  morning  after  having  acknowledged  his 
crime,  and,  as  the  laws  of  that  period  with 
respect  to  the  interment  of  the  convicted 
dead  were  not  so  strict  as  they  are  at  pre- 
sent, the  body  was  restored  to  his  friends,  in 
order  that  they  might  burj^  it  when  and 
where  they  wished.  The  crime  of  the  un- 
happy man  was  deep,  and  so  was  that  Avhich 
occasioned  it.  His  daughter,  a  young  and 
beautiful  girl,  had  been  seduced  by  a  gentle- 
man in  the  neighborhood  who  was  unmar- 
ried ;  and  that  act  of  guilt  and  weakness  on 
her  part  was  the  fii'st  act  that  ever  brought 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


Q\i 


eliaiue  upon  the  family.  All  the  terrible 
passions  of  the  father's  heart  leaped  into 
action  at  the  iiiin  of  his  child,  and  the  dis- 
ffca.ce  wliich  it  entjiiled  upon  his  name.  The 
furj'  of  domestic  affection  stimulated  his 
heai't,  and  blazed  in  his  brain  even  to  mad- 
ness. His  daughter  was  obliged  to  tiy  with 
her  infant  and  conceal  herself  from  his 
vengeance,  though  the  imhapj^y  gii*l,  until 
the  occurrence  of  that  woful  calamity,  had 
been  the  solace  and  the  sunshine  of  his  life. 
The  guilty  seducer,  however,  was  not  doomed 
to  escape  the  penalty  of  his  crime.  Morrissey 
— for  that  was  the  poor  man's  name — cared 
not  for  law  ;  whether  it  was  to  recompense 
him  for  the  degi'a<lation  of  his  daughter,  or 
to  punish  him  for  inflicting  the  vengeance  of 
outraged  natiu-e  upon  the  author  of  her  ruin. 
What  compensation  could  satisfy  his  heai't 
for  the  infamy  entailed  upon  her  and  him  ? 
what  paltry  damages  from  a  jur}'  could 
eftace  her  shame  or  restore  her  innocence  ? 
Then,  the  man  was  poor,  and  to  the  poor, 
under  such  circumstances,  there  exists  no 
law,  and,  consequently,  no  redi'ess.  He 
strove  to  picture  to  himself  his  beautiful  and 
innocent  child  ;  but  he  could  not  beai*  to 
bring  the  image  of  her  early  and  guiltless 
life  neai'  him.  The  injury  Avas  ii'reparable, 
and  could  only  be  atoned  for  by  the  blood  of 
the  destroyer.  He  could  have  seen  her  borne 
shameless  and  unpolluted  to  the  gi'ave,  with 
the  deep,  but  natural,  soitow  of  a  father  ;  he 
could  have  lived  -n-ith  her  in  destitution  and 
misery  ;  he  could  have  begged  with  her 
through  a  hard  and  harsh  world  ;  he  could 
have  seen  her  pine  in  ^vaut ;  moan  upon  the 
bed  of  sickness  ;  nay,  more,  he  could  have 
seen  her  spirit  pass,  as  it  were,  to  the  God 
who  gave  it,  so  long  as  that  spiiit  was  guilt- 
less, and  her  humble  name  \\-ithout  spot  or 
stain  ;  yes,  he  could  have  witnessed  and 
boiTie  all  this,  and  the  blessed  memory  of  her 
virtues  would  have  consoled  him  in  his 
bereavement  and  his  sorrow.  But  to  reflect 
that  she  was  trampled  down  into  guilt  and 
infamy  by  the  foot  of  the  licentious  hbertine, 
was  an.  event  that  cried  for  bloocl ;  and  blood 
he  had,  for  he  mui-dered  the  seducer,  and 
that  with  an  insatiable  rapacity  of  revenge 
that  was  terrible.  He  literally  battered  the 
head  of  his  victim  out  of  all  shape,  and  left 
him  a  dead  and  worthless  mass  of  inanimate 
matter.  The  crime,  though  desperate,  was 
openly  committed,  and  thei*e  were  sufficient 
witnesses  at  his  trial  to  make  it  a  short  one. 
On  that  morning,  neither  priest,  nor  fi'iai*, 
nor  chaphxin,  nor  jailer,  nor  sheriff  could 
wTing  fi'om  him  one  single  expression  of 
regi'et  or  repentance  for  what  he  had  done. 
The  only  re])lv  he  made  them  was  this — 
"Dwi't    trouble    me:    I    knew    what    mv 


fate  was  to  be,  and  will  die  with  satisfac- 
'  tion." 

After  cutting  him  down,  his  body,  as  we 
have  said,  was  dehvered  to  his  fiiends,  who, 
having  AVTapped  it  in  a  quilt,  conveyed  it  on 
a  common  car  to  his  o\va  house,  where  he 
received  the  usual  ablutions  and  offices  of 
death,  and  was  composed  upon  his  own  bed 
into  that  attitude  of  the  grave  which  will 
never  change. 

The  house  was  nearly  filled  with  grave  and 
aged  people,  whose  conversation  was  low, 
and  impressed  vdih  solemnity,  that  origina- 
ted from  the  painful  and  melancholy  spirit 
of  the  event  that  had  that  moi'ning  taken 
jDlace.  A  deal  table  was  set  lengtliArise  on 
the  floor  ;  on  this  were  candles,  pipes,  and 
plates  of  cut  tobacco.  In  the  usual  cases  of 
death  among  the  poor,  the  bed  on  which  the 
coi'pse  is  stretched  is  festooned  with  white 
sheets,  boiTowed  for  the  occasion  fiom  the 
wealthier  neighbors.  Here,  however,  there 
was  nothing  of  the  kind.  The  associations 
connected  \\\i\\  miu-der  were  too  appalling 
and  terrible  to  place  the  rites  required, 
either  for  the  Avake  or  funeral  of  the  mur- 
derer, within  the  ordinaiw  claims  of  humanity 
for  these  offices  of  civility  to  which  Ave  have 
alluded.  In  this  instance  none  of  the  neigh- 
bors would  lend  sheets  for  what  they  con- 
sidered an  unholy  puipose  ;  the  bed,  there- 
fore, on  which  the  body  lay  had  nothing  to 
ornament  it.  A  jDlain  drugget  quilt  was  his 
only  covering,  but  he  did  not  feel  the  want 
of  a  better. 

It  Avas  not  the  fir.st  time  I  had  eAer  seen  a 
coqDse,  but  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  eA'er 
seen  that  of  a  mui'derer.  I  looked  upon  it 
Arith  an  impression  Avhich  it  is  difficult,  if 
not  impossible,  to  describe.  I  felt  my  nerA'es 
tingle,  and  my  heai*t  palpitate.  To  a  young 
man,  fi-esh,  and  tilled  AA'ith  the  light-hearted 
humanity  of  youth,  approximation  to  such 
an  object  as  then  lay  before  me  is  a  singular 
trial  of  feeling,  and  a  painful  test  of  moral 
courage.  The  sight,  however,  and  the  reflec- 
tions connected  Avith  it,  rendered  a  long 
contemplation  of  it  impossible,  and,  besides, 
I  had  other  objects  to  engage  my  attention. 
I  noAv  began  to  observe  the  friends  and 
immediate  connections  of  the  deceased.  In 
all,  there  Avere  only  seven  or  eight  women, 
including  his  AAife.  There  Avere  four_boy3 
and  no  daughters  ;  for,  alas  !  I  forgot  to 
inform  the  reader  that  His  fallen  daughter 
Avas  his  only  one  ;  a  fact  Avhich,  notwith- 
standing his  guilt,  must  surely  stii-  up  the 
elements  of  our  humanity  in  mitigation  of 
liis  madness. 

This  house  of  iiiouniing  wa.s,  indeed,  a 
strange,  a  solenm,  and  a  peculiar  one.  The 
women  sat  uear  the  bed  upon  stools,  and 


620 


WILLIAM   OARLETOJ^'S  WORKS. 


such  other  seats  as  they  had  prepared.  The 
wife  and  his  two  sisters  were  rocking  them- 
selves to  and  fro,  as  is  the  custom  when 
manifesting  profound  sorrow  in  L-ish  wake- 
houses  ;  the  other  women  ttilked  to  each 
other  in  a  low  tone,  amounting  almost  to  a 
whisper.  Their  conduct  was  marked,  in 
fact,  by  a  grave  and  mysterious  monotony  ; 
but  after  a  httle  reflection,  it  soon  became 
painfully  inteUigible.  Here  was  shame,  as 
weU  as  guilt  and  sorrow — here  was  shame 
endeavoring  to  restrain  sorrow  ;  and  hence 
the  silence,  and  the  struggle  between  them 
which  it  occasioned.  The  wife  from  time  to 
time  tiu'ned  her  hear)^  eyes  upon  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  corpse  ;  and  after  the  first 
sensations  of  awe  had  departed  from  me,  I 
ventured  to  look  uj)on  it  with  a  purpose  of 
discovering  in  its  features  the  lineaments  of 
guilt.  Owing  to  the  natiore  of  his  death, 
that  collapse  which  causes  the  flesh  to  shrink 
almost  immediately  after  the  spirit  has  de- 
parted was  not  visible  here.  The  face  was 
rather  fuU  and  hvid,  but  the  expression  was 
not  such  as  penitence  or  a  conviction  of 
crime  could  be  supposed  to  have  left  behind 
it.  On  the  contrary,  the  whole  countenance 
had  somewhat  of  a  placid  look,  and  the  gen- 
eral contour  was  unquestionably  that  of  af- 
fection and  benevolence. 

It  was  easy,  however,  to  perceive  that  this 
agonizing  restraint  upon  the  feehngs  of  that 
loving  wife  could  not  last  long,  and  that  the 
task  which  the  poor  woman  was  endeavoring 
to  perform  in  deference  to  the  conventional 
opinions  of  society  was  beyond  her  strength. 
Hers,  indeed,  was  not  a  common  nor  an  un- 
divided sorrow  ;  for,  alas,  she  had  not  only 
the  loss  of  her  kind  husband  and  his  igno- 
minious death  to  distract  her,  but  the  shame 
and  degi-adation  of  their  only  daughter 
which  occasioned  it  ;  and  what  a  trial  was 
that  for  a  single  heart !  From  time  to  time 
a  deep  back-drawing  sob  would  proceed 
from  her  hps,  and  the  eye  was  again  fixed 
upon  the  still  and  unconscious  features  of 
her  husband.  At  length  the  chord  was 
touched,  and  the  heart  of  the  wife  and  moth- 
er could  restrain  itself  no  longer.  The  chil- 
dren had  been  for  some  time  whispering  to- 
gether, e\idently  endeavoring  to  keep  the 
youngest  of  them  stiU  ;  but  they  found  it  im- 
possible— he  must  go  to  awaken  his  daddy. 
This  was  too  much  for  them,  and  the  poor 
things  burst  out  into  an  uncontrollable  wail 
of  soiTow.  The  conversation  among  the 
spectators  was  immediately  hushed  ;  but  the 
mother  started  to  her  feet,  and  turning  to 
the  bed,  bent  over  it,  and  raised  a  cry  of 
agony  such  as  I  never  heard  nor  hope  ever 
to  hear  again.  She  clapped  her  hands,  and 
rocking  herself  up  and  down  over  him,  gave 


vent  to  her  accumukited  grief,  which  now 
rushed  like  a  torrent  that  had  been  dammed 
up  and  overcome  its  barriers,  from  her 
heart. 

"O  Harry."  said  she  in  Irish — but  we 
translate  it — "  O  Harry,  the  husband  of  the 
kind  heart,  the  loving  father,  and  the  good 
man  !  O  Harry,  HaiTy,  and  is  it  come  to 
this  with  you  and  me  and  our  cliildre  !  They 
may  say  what  they  will,  but  you're  not  a 
murderer.  It  was  your  love  for  our  unfor- 
tunate Nannie  that  made  you  do  what  you 
did.  O,  what  was  the  world  to  jou  without 
her  !  Wasn't  she  the  light  of  yoiu-  eyes,  and 
the  sweet  pulse  of  your  losing  heart !  And 
did  ever  a  girl  love  a  father  as  she  loved  you, 
till  the  destroyer  came  across  her — ay,  the 
destroyer  that  left  us  as  we  now  are,  sunk  in 
sorrow  and  misery  that  will  never  end  in 
this  world  more !  And  now,  what  is  she, 
and  what  has  the  destroyer  made  her  ?  O, 
when  I  think  of  how  you  sought  after  hei 
you  loved  as  3'ou  did,  to  take  her  hie,  and 
when  I  think  of  how  she  that  loved  you  as 
she  did  was  forced  to  fly  from  the  hand  that 
would  pluck  out  your  own  heart  sooner  than 
injure  a  hair  of  her  head — so  long  as  she 
was  innocent— -O,  when  I  think  of  all  this, 
and  look  upon  you  lying  there  now,  and  all 
for  the  love  you  bore  her,  how  can  my  heart 
bear  it,  and  how  can  I  live.  O,  the  des- 
troyer, the  villain  !  the  devil !  what  has  he 
wrought  ujjon  us  !  But,  thank  God,  he  is- 
punished — the  father's  love  punished  him. 
They  are  hars  !  you  are  no  miu'derer.  Tht 
mother's  heart  within  me  tells  me  that  you 
did  what  was  right — you  acted  like  a  man^ 
my  husband.  God  bless  you,  and  make 
your  soul  happy  for  its  love  to  Nannie.  I'll 
kiss  you,  Harry— I'll  kiss  you,  my  heart's 
treasure,  for  your  noble  deed — but  C>  Harry, 
you  don't  know  the  lips  of  son-ow  that  kiss 
you  now.  Sure  they  are  the  lipa  of  yoni 
own  Rose,  that  gave  her  young  heait  to  you- 
'ahd'was  happy  for  it.  Don't  feel  ashamed- 
Han-y  ;  it's  a  good  man's  case  to  die  tht> 
death  you  did,  and  be  at  rest,  as  I  hope  you 
are,  for  you  are  not  a  murderer  ;  and  if  you 
are,  it  is  only  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  and  it 
was  youi'  love  for  Nannie  that  did  it." 

This  woeful  dirge  of  the  mother's  heart, 
and  the  wife's  sorrow,  had  almost  evexy  eye 
in  tears  ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  imjjossible 
that  the  sympathy  for  her  should  not  be 
deep  and  general.  They  all  knew  the  ex- 
cellence and  mildness  of  her  husband's  char- 
acter, and  that  every  word  she  uttered  con- 
cerning him  was  truth. 

In  Irish  wakehouses,  it  is  to  be  obseiTcd, 
the  door  is  never  closed.  The  heat  of  the 
house,  and  the  crowding  of  the  neighbors  to 
it,    render   it  necessary  that  it  should  bo 


TBE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


621 


open  ;  but  independently  of  tliis,  we  believe 
it  a  general  custom,  as  it  is  also  to  keep  it  so 
duriiig  meals.  This  last  arises  from  the 
spirit  of  hospitality  j^^^juKar  to  the  Ii'ish 
people. 

When  his  wife  had  uttered  the  words 
"you  are  no  murderer,"  a  young  and  beauti- 
ful girl  entered  the  house  in  sufficient  time 
to  have  heard  them  distinctly.  She  was 
tall,  her  shape  was  of  the  iinest  symmetry, 
her  features,  in  spite  of  the  distraction 
which,  at  first  glance,  was  legible  in  them, 
were  absolutely  fascinating.  They  all  knew 
her  well ;  but  the  moment  she  made  her  ap- 
pearance, the  conversation,  and  those  ex- 
pressions of  sympathy  which  were  passing 
from  one  to  another,  were  instantly  checked  ; 
and  nothmg  now  was  felt  but  comj)assion 
for  the  terrible  ordeal  tliat  they  knew  was 
before  her  mother.  She  rushed  up  to 
where  her  another  had  sat  down,  her  eyes 
flashing,  and  her  long  brown  hair  floating 
about  her  white  shoulders,  which  were  but 
scantily  covered. 

"You  talk  of  a  murderer,  mother,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  You  talk  of  a  murderer,  do 
you  ?  But  if  miu'der  has  been  committed,  as 
it  has,  / — /  am  the  murderer.  Keep  back 
now,  let  me  look  upon  my  innocent  father 
— upon  that  father  that  /have  murdered." 

She  approached  the  bed  on  which  he  lay, 
her  eyes  still  flashing,  and  her  bosom  pant- 
ing, and  there  she  stood  gazing  upon  his 
features  for  about  two  minutes. 

The  silence  of  tlie  corpse  before  them  was 
not  deeper  than  that  which  her  unexpected 
presence  occasioned.  There  she  stood  gaz- 
ing on  the  dead  body  of  her  father,  evidently 
torn  by  the  pangs  of  agony  and  remorse,  her 
hands  clenching  and  opening  by  turns,  her 
wild  and  unwinking  eyes  riveted  upon  those 
moveless  features,  which  his  love  for  her  had 
so  often  Ht  ujj  with  happiness  and  pride. 
Her  mother,  who  was  alarmed,  shocked, 
stunned,  gazed  upon  her,  but  could  not 
speak.  At  length  she  herself  broke  the 
silence. 

"Mother,"  said  she,  "I  came  to  see  my 
father,  for  I  know  he  won't  strike  me  now, 
and  he  never  did.  O,  no,  because  I  ran 
away  from  him  and  from  all  of  you,  but  not 
till  after  I  had  deserved  it ;  before  that  I  was 
safe.  Mother,  didn't  my  father  love  me 
once  better  than  his  own  hfe  ?  I  think  he 
did.  O,  yes,  and  I  returned  it  by  mm*dering 
liim — by  sending  him — that  father  there 
that  loved  me  so  well — by — by  sending  him 
to  the  hangman — to  a  death  of  disgi-ace  and 
shame.  That's  what  /iis  own  Nannie,  as  he 
used  to  call  me,  did  for  him.  But  no  shame 
— no  guilt  to  you,  father  ;  the  shame  and 
the  guilt  are  j/oui^  (^uin  Mcuini^^i  and  that's 


the  only  comfort  I  have  ;  for  you're  happy, 
Avhat  I  will  never  be,  either  in  this  world  or 
the  next.  You  are  now  in  heaven  ;  but  you 
will  never  see  yoiu"  own  Nannie  there." 

The  recollections  caused  by  her  appear- 
ance, and  the  heart-rending  language  she 
used,  touched  her  mother's  heart,  now  soft- 
ened by  her  suffierings  into  pity  for  her 
affliction,  if  not  into  a  portion  of  the  former 
affection  which  she  bore  her. 

"  O  Nannie,  Nannie  !  "  said  she,  now  weep- 
ing bitterly  upon  a  fresh  sorrow,  "don't 
talk  that  way — don't,  don't ;  you  have  re- 
pentance to  turn  to  ;  and  for  what  you've 
done,  God  will  yet  forgive  you,  smd  so  will 
your  mother.  It  was  a  gi'eat  crime  in  you ; 
but  God  can  forgive  the  gi'eatest,  if  his  own 
creatures  will  turn  to  him  \\ith  sorrow  for 
what  they've  done." 

She  never  once  turned  her  eyes  upon  her 
mother,  nor  raised  them  for  a  moment  from 
her  father's  face.  In  fact,  she  did  not  seem 
to  have  heard  a  single  syllable  she  said,  and 
this  was  evident  from  the  wild  but  affecting 
abstractedness  of  her  manner. 

"  Mother !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  that  man 
they  say  is  a  miu'derer,  and  yet  I  am  not 
worthy  to  touch  him.  Ah  !  I'm  alone  now 
— altogether  alone,  and  he — he  that  loved 
me,  too,  was  taken  away  from  me  b}^  a  cruel 
death — ay,  a  cruel  death  ;  for  it  was  barbar- 
ous to  kni  him  as  if  he  Avas  a  wild  beast — 
ay,  and  mthout  oue  moment's  notice,  with 
all  his  sins  upon  his  head.  He  is  gone — he 
is  gone  ;  and  there  Hes  the  man  that  mur- 
dered him — there  he  lies,  the  sinner  ;  curse 
uijon  his  hand  of  blood  that  took  him  1 
loved  from  me  !  O,  my  heart's  breakin'  and 
my  brain  is  boilin' !  What  will  I  do  ?  "NMiere 
will  I  go  ?  Am  I  mad  ?  Father,  my  ciu"se 
upon  you  for  your  deed  of  blood  !  I  never 
thought  I'd  live  to  curse  you  ;  but  you  don't 
hear  me,  nor  know  what  I  suff'er.  Shame, 
disgrace — ay,  and  I'd  bear  it  all  for  hi<i  sake 
that  you  plunged,  like  a  murderei",  as  you 
were,  into  eternity.  How  does  any  of  you 
know  what  it  is  to  love  as  I  did  ?  or  what  it 
is  to  lose  the  man  you  love  by  a  death  so 
cruel  ?  And  this  hafr  that  Jte  praised  so 
much,  who  will  praise  it  or  admire  it  now, 
when  he  is  gone  ?  Let  it  go,  too,  then.  I'll 
not  keep  it  on  me — I'U  tear  it  oft' — off !  "       | 

Her  i^aroxysm  had  now  risen  to  a  degree 
of  fury  that  fell  httle,  if  anything,  short  of 
insanity — tempox"ai*y  insanity  it  certainly 
was.  She  tore  her  beautiful  hair  from  her 
head  in  handfuls,  and  would  have  proceeded 
to  still  greater  lengths,  when  she  was  seized 
by  some  of  those  present,  in  order  to  re 
strain  her  ^-iolence.  On  finding  that  she  was 
held  fast,  she  looked  at  them  with  blazing 
eyes,  and  struggled  to  set  herself  free  ;  but 


622 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


on  finding  lier  efforts  vain,  she  panted  deep- 
ly three  or  foui'  times,  threw  back  her  head, 
and  fell  into  a  fit  that,  from  its  violence, 
resembled  epilepsy.  After  a  lapse  of  ten 
minutes  or  so,  the  spasmodic  action,  hav- 
ing probably  wasted  her  physical  strength, 
ceased,  and  she  lay  in  a  quiet  trance  ;  so 
quiet,  indeed,  that  it  might  have  passed  for 
death,  were  it  not  for  the  deep  expression  of 
pain  and  suffering  which  lay  upon  her  face, 
and  betrayed  the  fury  of  the  moral  tem^Dest 
which  swejDt  through  her  heart  and  brain. 
All  the  mother's  gi-ief  now  was  hushed — all 
the  faculties  of  her  soul  were  now  concen- 
trated on  her  daughter,  and  absorbed  by 
the  intense  anxiety  she  felt  for  her  recovery. 
She  sat  behind  the  poor  girl,  and  drew  her 
body  back  so  that  her  head  rested  on  her 
bosom,  to  which  she  pressed  her,  kissing  her 
passive  lips  with  streaming  eyes. 

"  O,  darling  Nannie ! "  she  exclaimed, 
"  strive  and  rouse  yoiu'self  ;  it  is  your  loving 
mother  that  asks  you.  Waken  ujd,  poor 
misled  and  heart-broken  gu'l,  waken  up  ;  I 
forgive  you  all  your  errors.  O,  a\aLlish  ma- 
chree  (sweetness  of  my  heai*t),  don't  you  hear 
that  it  is  your  mother's  voice  that's  spakin' 
to  you  ! " 

She  Avas  still,  however,  insensible ;  and 
her  little  brothers  were  all  in  tears  about 
her. 

"  0  mother ! "  said  the  oldest,  sobbing, 
"  is  Nannie  dead  too  ?  When  she  went  away 
from  us  you  bid  us  not  to  cry,  that  she 
would  soon  come  back  ;  and  now  she  has 
onl}'  come  back  to  die.  Nannie,  I'm  your 
own  httle  Frank  ;  won't  you  hear  me!  Nan- 
nie, will  you  never  wash  my  face  of  a  Sunday 
morning  more  ?  will  you  never  comb  down 
my  hair,  put  the  pin  in  my  shirt  collar,  and 
kiss  me,  as  you  used  to  do  before  we  went 
to  Mass  together  ?  " 

The  poor  mother  was  so  much  overcome 
by  this  artless  allusion  to  her  innocent  life, 
invohdng,  as  it  did,  such  a  manifestation  of 
affection,  that  she  wept  until  fairly  exhaust- 
ed, after  which  she  turned  her  eyes  up  to 
heaven  and  exclaimed,  whilst  her  daughter's 
inanimate  body  still  lay  in  her  arms, 

"  0  Lord  of  mercy,  will  you  not  look  down 
with  pity  and  compassion  on  me  this  night !  " 

In  the  course  of  about  ten  minutes  after 
this  her  daughter's  eyes  began  to  fill  with 
those  involuntary  tears  which  betoken  in 
females  recovery  from  a  fit ;  they  streamed 
quietly,  but  in  torrents,  down  her  cheek. 
She  gave  a  deep  sigh,  opened  her  eyes, 
looked  around  her,  first  with  astonishment, 
and  then  toward  the  bed  with  a  start  of 
horror. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  said  she. 

"You  are  vith  me,  darliu',"  replied  tJbe 


mother,  kissing  her  lips,  and  whispering, 
"Nannie,  I  forgive  you — I  fox'give  you  ;  and 
whisper,  your  father  did  before  he  went  to 
death." 

She  smiled  faintly  and  sorrowfully  in  hei 
mother's  face,  and  said,  "Mother,  I  didn't 
know  that."  After  which  she  got  up,  and 
proceeding  to  the  bed,  she  fell  upon  hi." 
body,  kissed  his  Hps,  and  indulged  in  a 
wild  and  heart-breaking  wail  of  grief.  This 
evidently  afforded  her  relief,  for  she  now 
became  more  calm  and  collected. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  I  must  go." 

"  A\Tiy,  sure  you  won't  leave  us,  Nannie  ?* 
replied  the  other  with  affectionate  alarm. 

"  O,  I  must  go,"  she  rejjeated ;  "  biing  me 
the  children  till  I  see  them  once — Frank 
first." 

The  mother  accordingly  brought  them  to 
her,  one  by  one,  when  she  stooped  down  and 
kissed  them  in  turn,  not  without  bitter 
teai's,  whilst  they,  poor  things,  were  all  in 
an  uproar  of  sorrow.  She  then  approached 
her  mother,  threw  herself  in  her  arms,  and 
again  wejDt  wildly  for  a  time,  as  did  that  af- 
fhcted  mother  along  with  her. 

"  Mother,  farewell,"  said  she  at  length — 
"  farewell ;  think  of  me  when  I  am  far  away 
— think  of  your  unfortunate  Nannie,  and  let 
evei'y  one  that  heai'S  of  my  misfortune  think 
of  all  the  misery  and  all  the  crime  that  maj 
come  fi'om  one  false  and  imgiiarded  step." 

"  O,  Nannie  darling,"  replied  her  mother, 
"don't  desert  us  now;  sure  you  wouldn't 
desert  3'our  mother  now,  Nannie  ?  " 

"  If  my  life  could  make  you  easy  or  hapijy, 
mother,  I  could  give  it  for  youi'  sake,  worth- 
less now  and  unhapj^y  as  it  is  ;  but  I  am 
going  to  a  far  country,  where  my  shame  and 
the  misfortunes  I  have  caused  will  never  be 
known.  I  must  go,  for  if  I  lived  here,  my 
disgrace  would  always  be  before  you  and 
myself  ;  then  I  would  soon  die,  and  I  am 
not  yet  fit  for  death." 

With  these  words  the  unhappy  gii'l  passed 
out  of  the  house,  and  was  never  after  that 
night  seen  or  heard  of,  but  once,  in  that 
part  of  the  country. 

In  the  meantime  that  most  pitiable  mother, 
whose  afflicted  heart  could  only  alternate 
from  one  piercing  sorrow  to  another,  sat 
down  once  more,  and  poured  forth  a  tor- 
rent of  grief  for  her  unhappy  daughtei', 
whom  she  feared,  she  would  never  see 
again. 

Those  who  were  present,  now  that  the 
distressing  scene  which  we  have  attempted 
to  describe  was  over,  began  to  chat  together 
Avith  more  freedom. 

"Tom  Kenned}',"  said  one  of  them,  ac- 
costing a  good-natured  3"Oung  fellow,  with  a 
clear,  pleasant  eye,  "  how  are  all  your  family 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


G25 


•It  Beech  Grove  ?  Ould  Good.vin  and  his 
pretty  dauj^hter  ought  to  feel  themselves  in 
good  sjiiiits  after  gaining  the  lawsuit  in  the 
case  of  ^Ir.  Hamilton's  will.  They  bate  the 
Lindsays  all  to  sticks." 

"And  why  not,"  rephed  Kennedy  ;  "who 
hi  id  a  betther  right  to  dispose  of  his  proper- 
ty than  the  man  that  owned  it  ?  and,  indeed, 
if  any  one  liviu'  desarved  it  from  another, 
Miss  Ahce  did  from  him.  She  nearly 
brought  herself  to  death's  door,  in  attending 
upon  and  nursing  her  sister,  as  she  called 
poor  Miss  Agnes  ;  and,  as  for  her  giief  at 
her  death,  I  never  saw  an^-thing  like  it,  ex- 
cept " — he  added,  looking  at  the  unfortun- 
ate widow — "  where  thei'e  was  blood  relation- 
shij)." 

"  Well,  upon  my  sowl,"  obsen'ed  another, 
"  I  can't  blame  the  Lindsays  for  feeling  so 
bittherly  about  it  as  they  do.  3Iay  I  never 
see  yestherday,  if  a  brother  of  mine  had 
property,  and  left  it  to  a  stranger  instead  of 
to  his  own — that  is  to  say,  my  childre — I'd 
take  it  for  gi'anted  that  he  was  fizzeu  do\N-n 
stairs  for  the  same.  It  was  a  shame  for  the 
ould  sinner  to  scorn  his  own  relations  for  a 
stranger." 

"  Well,"  said  another,  "  one  thing  is  clear 
— that  since  he  did  blink  them  alDout  the 
proj^crty,  it  couldn't  get  into  betther  hands. 
Your  in  i>ter,  Tom,  is  the  crame  of  a  good 
landlord,  as  far  as  his  property  goes,  and 
much  good  may  it  do  him  and  his  !  I'll  go 
bail  that,  as  far  as  ^liss  Alice  herself  is  con- 
sarned,  many  a  hungry  mouth,  will  be  filled 
many  a  naked  back  covered,  and  many  a 
heavy  heart  made  light  through  the  manes 
of  it.'" 

"Faith,"  said  a  third  spokesman,  "and 
that  wouldn't  be  the  case  if  that  skinflint 
barge  of  Lindsay's  had  got  it  in  her  clutches. 
At  any  rate,  it's  a  shame  for  her  and  them  to 
abuse  the  Goodwins  as  they  do.  If  ould 
Hamilton  left  it  to  them  surely  it  wasn't  their 
fault." 

"Never  mind,"  said  another,  "111  lay  a 
wager  that  ]\Irs.  Lindsay's  son — I  mane  the 
stei^-son  that's  now  abroatl  with  the  uncle-  — 
will  be  sent  for,  and  a  marriage  will  follow 
between  him  and  Miss  Goodwin." 

"It  may  be  so,"  rephed  Tom,  "  but  it's  hot 
veiy  probable.  I  know  the  man  that's  likely 
to  widk  into  the  property,  and  Avell  worthy 
he  is  of  it." 

"  Come,  Tom,  let  us  hear-  who  is  the  lucky 
youth  ?  " 

"Family  saicrets,"  rephed  Tom,  "is  not  to 
be  revaled.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  he  is  a 
true  gentleman.  Give  me  another  blast  o' 
the  pipe,  for  I  must  go  home." 

Tom,  who  was  servant  to  ^Ir.  Goodwin, 
having  now  taken  his  "  blast,"  wished  them 


good-night ;  but  before  he  went  he  took  the 
'  soiTOwing  widow's  cold  and  passive  hand  in 
his,  and  said,  wiiilst  the  tears  stood  in  his 
'  eyes, 

i      "  May  God  in  heaven  pity  you  and  support 
;  your  heart,  for  you  are  the  sorely  tried  wo- 
man this  miserable  night !  " 

He  then  bent  his  steps  to  .Bgech  Grove, 
his  master's  residence,  the  hour  being  be- 
tween twelve  and  one  o'clock. 

The  night,  as  we  have  already  said,  had 
been  calm,  but  gloomy  and  oppressive.  Now, 
however,  the  wind  had  sprung  up,  and,  by 
the  time  Kennedy  commenced  his  journey 
home,  it  was  not  only  tempestuous  but  in- 
creasing in  strength  and  fury  everv  moment. 
This,  however,  was  not  all  ; — the  rain  came 
down  in  toiTents,  and  was  battered  again.st 
'  his  person  with  such  force  that  in  a  few  mo- 
ments he  was  drenched  to  the  skin.  So  far, 
:  it  was  wind  and  rain— di'eadful  and  tempes- 
tuous as  they  were.  The  storm,  however, 
was  only  half  opened.  Distant  flashes  of 
hghtning  and  sullen  gi'owis  of  thunder  pro- 
ceeded fi'om  the  cloud  masses  to  the  right, 
!  but  it  was  obvious  that  the  thvmderings 
j  above  them  were  only  commencing  their 
'  deep  and  terrible  jDeahugs.  In  a  short  time 
they  increased  in  violence  and  fury,  and  re- 
sembled, in  fact,  a  West  Indian  hunicane 
more  than  those  storms  which  are  peculiar 
to  oiu-  mildei"  climates.  The  tempest-voice 
of  the  wind  was  now  in  di'eadful  accordance 
with  its  power.  Poor  Kennedy,  who  fortu- 
nately knew  even-  step  of  the  rugged  road 
along  which  he  stiniggled  and  staggered,  was 
fi'equently  obliged  to  crouch  himself  and 
hold  by  the  projecting  crags  about  him,  lest 
the  strength  of  the  blast  might  hurl  him 
over  the  rocky  precipices  by  the  edges  of 
which  the  road  went.  With  gi-eat  difficulty, 
however,  and  not  less  danger,  he  succeeded 
in  getting  into  the  open  highway  below,  and 
into  a  thickly  inhabited  country-.  Here  a 
new  scene  of  terror  and  confusion  awaited 
him.  The  whole  neighborhood  around  him 
were  up  and  in  alann.  The  shoutings  of 
men,  the  .screams  of  women  and  cliildren,  all 
in  a  state  of  the  utmost  di-ead  and  constenia- 
tion,  pierced  his  ears,  even  through  the 
united  rage  and  roaring  of  the  wind  and 
thunder.  The  people  had  left  their  houses, 
as  they  usually  do  in  such  cases,  from  an 
apprehension  that  if  they  remained  in  them 
[  they  might  be  buried  in  then-  ruins.  Some 
I  had  got  ladders,  and  attempted,  at  the  risk 
of  their  lives,  to  secure  the  thatch  upon  the 
roofs  by  j)lacing  flat  stones,  sods,  and  such 
other  materials,  as  by  their  weight,  might 
j  keep  it  from  being  borae  off"  like  dust  upon 
the  wings  of  the  tempest.  Theu-  voices,  and 
i  screams,  and  Lamentations,  in  accordance,  as 


624 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


they  were,  with  the  uproar  of  the  elements, 
added  a  new  feature  of  terror  to  this  dread- 
ful tumult.  The  lightnings  now  became 
more  vi\'id  and  frequent,  and  the  pealing  of 
the  thunder  so  loud  and  near,  that  he  felt 
his  veiy  eai's  stunned  by  it.  Everj'  cloud,  as 
the  Hghtnings  flashed  from  it,  seemed  to 
open,  and  to  disclose,  as  it  were,  a  furnace 
of  blazing  fire  ^^•ithin  its  black  and  awful 
shi'oud.  The  whole  country  ai'ound,  with 
all  its  terrified  population  ninning  about  in 
confusion  and  dismay,  were  for  the  moment 
made  as  clear  and  distinct  to  the  eye  as  if  it 
were  noonday,  with  this  difference,  that  the 
scene  borrowed  fi-om  the  red  and  sheeted 
flashes  a  Tsdld  and  spectral  character  which 
the  Ught  of  day  never  gives.  In  fact,  the 
human  figures,  as  they  ran  hurriedly  to  and 
fro,  resembled  those  images  which  present 
themselves  to  the  imagination  in  some 
frightful  dream.  Nay,  the  very  cattle  in  the 
fields  could  be  seen,  in  those  flashing  gUmp- 
ses,  huddled  up  together  in  some  sheltered 
comer,  and  cowering  with  terror  at  this  aw- 
ful uproar  of  the  elements.  It  is  a  very 
strange,  but  still  a  well-known  fact,  that 
neither  man  nor  beast  wishes  to  be  alone 
during  a  thunder-storm.  Contiguity  to  one's 
fellow  creatures  seems,  by  some  unaccount- 
able instinct,  to  lessen  the  apprehension  of 
danger  to  one  individual  when  it  is  Hkely  to 
be  shared  bj'  many,  a  feeling  which  maJies 
the  coward  in  the  field  of  battle  fight  as 
coui-ageously  as  the  man  who  is  natiu'ally 
brave. 

The  tempest  had  not  yet  diminished  any 
of  its  power  ;  so  far  from  that,  it  seemed  as 
if  a  night-battle  of  ariilleiy  was  going  on, 
and  raging  still  vrith  more  \iolence  in  the 
clouds.  Thatch,  doors  of  houses,  glass,  and 
almost  everjiihing  hght  that  the  winds  coidd 
seize  upon,  were  filing  in  different  direc- 
tions through  the  aii- ;  and  as  Kennedy  now 
staggered  along  the  main  road,  he  had  to 
pass  through  a  grove  of  oaks,  beeches,  and 
immense  ash  trees  that  stretched  on  each 
side  for  a  considerable  distance.  The  noises 
nere  were  new  to  him,  and  on  that  account 
the  more  frightful.  The  gToanings  of  the 
huge  trees,  and  the  shiieking  of  their  huge 
branches  as  they  were  ciiished  against  each 
other,  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  supeniat- 
m-al  voices  of  demons,  exulting  at  their  par- 
ticipation in  the  terrors  of  the  storm.  His 
impression  now  was  that  some  guilty  sor- 
cerer had  raised  the  author  of  evil,  and  being 
unable  to  lay  him,  the  latter  was  careering 
in  vengeance  over  the  earth  until  he  should 
be  appeased  by  the  life  of  some  devoted  vic- 
tim— for  such,  when  a  storm  more  than 
usually  destnictive  and  powerful  arises,  is 
the  general  superstition  of  the  peop'e — at 


least  it  was  so  among  the  ignorant  in  ouj 
early  youth. 

In  all  thunder-storms  there  appears  to  be 
a  regular  gi-adation — a  beginning,  a  middle, 
and  an  end.  They  commence  first  with  a 
noise  resembling  the  crackling  of  a  file  of 
musketry  where  the  fii-e  runs  along  the  line, 
man  after  man  ;  then  they  increase,  and  go 
on  deej)ening  their  terrors  until  one  stun- 
ning  and  tremendous  burst  takes  place, 
which  is  the  acme  of  the  tempest.  After  this 
its  power  gi'adually  diminislies  in  the  same 
way  as  it  increased — the  peals  become  les8 
loud  and  less  fi'equent,  the  Hghtning  feebler 
and  less  brilliant,  until  at  length  it  seems  to 
take  another  course,  and  after  a  few  ex- 
hausted volleys  it  dies  away  with  a  hoarse 
grumble  in  the  distance.     . 

Still  it  thundered  and  thundered  terribly; 
nor  had  the  sweej)  of  the  wind-tempest  yet 
lost  any  of  its  fury.  At  this  moment  Ken- 
nedy discovered,  by  a  succession  of  those 
flashes  that  were  lighting  the  country  around 
him,  a  tall  young  female  without  cloak  or 
bonnet,  her  long  hair  sometimes  streaming 
in  the  wind,  and  sometimes  blown  up  in  con- 
fusion over  her  head.  She  was  proceeding  at 
a  tottering  but  eager  pace,  evidently  imder 
the  influence  of  wildness  and  distraction,  or 
rather  as  if  she  felt  there  was  something 
either  mortal  or  spectral  in  pursuit  of  her. 
He  hailed  her  by  her  name  as  she  passed 
him,  for  he  knew  her,  but  received  no  reply. 
To  Tom,  wiio  had,  as  the  reader  knows,  been 
a  witness  of  the  scene  we  have  described, 
this  feai-ful  gHmjDse  of  Nannie  IMorrissey's 
desolation  and  misery,  under  the  iDelting  of 
the  jDitiless  storm  and  the  angiy  roar  of  the 
elements,  was  distressing  in  the  highest 
degree,  and  filled  his  honest  heart  with  com- 
jjassion  for  her  sufl'erings. 

He  was  now  making  his  way  home  at  his 
utmost  speed,  when  he  heai'd  the  trampHng 
of  a  horse's  feet  coming  on  at  a  rapid  pace 
behind  him,  and  on  looking  back  he  saw  a 
horseman  making  his  way  in  the  same  di- 
rection with  himself.  As  he  advanced,  the 
repeated  flashes  made  them  distinctly  visible 
to  each  other. 

"I  say,"  shouted  the  horseman  at  the  top 
of  his  lungs,  "  can  you  direct  me  to  any  kind 
of  a  habitation,  where  I  may  take  shelter?" 

"  Speak  louder,"  shouted  Tom  ;  "  I  can't 
hear  you  for  the  wind." 

The  other,  in  a  voice  still  more  elevated, 
repeated  the  question,  "  I  want  to  get  under 
the  roof  of  some  human  habitation,  if  thei'e 
be  one  left  standing.  I  feel  that  I  have 
gone  astray,  and  this  is  no  night  to  be  out 
in." 

"Faith,  sir,"  again  shouted  Tom,  "it's 
pure  gospel  you're  spakin',  at  any  rate.     A 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


625 


habitation  I  Why,  upon  my  credibility, 
they'd  not  desene  a  habitation  that  'ud  re- 
fuse to  open  the  door  for  a  dog  on  such  a 
night  as  this,  much  less  to  a  human  creature 
with  a  sowl  to  be  saved.  A  habitation ! 
Well,  I  think  I  can,  and  one  where  you'll 
be  well  treated.  I  suppose,  sir,  you're  a 
gentleman  ?  " 

"  Speak  out,"  shouted  the  traveller  in  his 
turn  ;  "  I  can't  hear  you." 

Tom  shaded  his  mouth  with  his  hand,  and 
shouted  again,  "I  suppose,  sir,  you're  a  gen- 
tleman ?  " 

"Wliy,  I  suppose  I  am,"repUed  the  stran- 
ger, rather  haughtily. 

"  Becaise,"  shouted  Tom,  "devil  a  traneen 
it  'ud  signify  to  them  I'm  bringing  you  to 
whether  you  are  or  not.  The  poorest  man 
in  the  jjai-ish  would  be  sheltered  as  well  as 
you,  or  maybe  a  betther  man." 

"  Ai*e  we  near  the  house  ?  "  said  the  other. 

"  It's  just  at  hand,  sii-,"  replied  Tom,  "and 
thanks  be  to  God  for  it ;  for  if  ever  the  devil 
was  abroad  on  mischief,  he  is  this  night,  and 
may  the  Lord  save  us  !  It's  a  night  for  a 
man  to  teU  his  gi-audchildre  about,  and  he 
may  call  it  the  '  night  o'  the  big  storm.'  " 

A  lull  had  now  tsxken  place,  and  Tom 
heard  a  laugh  from  the  stranger  which  he 
did  not  much  rehsh  ;  it  was  contemptuous 
and  sarc:i„stic,  and  gave  him  no  very  good 
ojiinion  of  his  companion.  They  had  now 
anived  at  the  entrance-gate,  which  had  been 
blown  open  by  the  violence  of  the  tempest. 
On  proceeding  toward  the  house,  they  fovmd 
that  their  way  was  seiiously  obstinicted  by 
the  fall  of  several  trees  that  had  been  blown 
down  across  it.  With  some  difficulty,  how- 
ever, they  succeeded  in  reaching  the  house, 
where,  although  the  houi*  was  late,  they 
found  the  whole  family  up,  and  gi*eatly 
alarmed  by  the  violence  of  the  hunicane. 
Tom  went  in  and  found  ^Ir.  and  Mrs.  Good- 
win in  the  parlor,  to  both  of  whom  he  stated 
that  a  gentleman  on  horseback,  who  had  lost 
his  way,  requested  shelter  for  the  night. 

"Certainly,  Kennedy,  certainly  ;  why  did 
you  not  biing  the  gentleman  in  ?  Go  and 
desire  Tom  Stinton  to  take  his  horse  to  the 
stiible,  and  let  him  be  rubbed  down  and 
fed.  In  the  meantime,  biing  the  gentleman 
in." 

"  Sir,"  said  Tom,  going  to  the  bottom  of 
the  hall  door-steps,  "  will  you  have  the 
goodness  to  wixlk  in  ;  the  masther  and  mis- 
tliress  are  in  the  parlor ;  for  who  could  sleep 
on  such  a  night  as  this  ?  " 

On  enteiing  he  was  received  with  the 
warmest  and  most  cordial  hosi^itality. 

"  Sir,"  said  IMr.  Goodwin,  "  I  si)eak  in  the 
name  of  myself  and  my  wife  when  I  bid  you 
heartily  welcom*  to  whatevei'  mv  roof  cui  af- 


ford you,  especially  on  such  an  awful  night 
as  this.  Take  a  seat,  sir  ;  you  must  want  re 
freshments  before  you  put  off  those  wel 
clothes  and  betake  yourself  to  bed,  after  the 
dreadful  severity  of  such  a  tempest." 

"  I  have  to  apologize,  sir,  for  this  trouble,' 
rephed  the  stranger,  "  and  to  thank  yov; 
most  sincerely  for  the  kindness  of  the  re- 
ception you  and  your  lady  have  given  to  an 
utter  stranger." 

"  Do  not  mention  it,  sir,"  said  IVIr.  Good- 
win ;  "  come,  put  on  a  diy  coat  and  waist- 
coat, and,  in  the  meantime,  refi-eshments  will 
be  on  the  table  in  a  few  minutes.  The 
sen-ants  are  all  up  and  will  attend  at  once. 

The  stranger  refused,  however,  to  change 
his  clothes,  but  in  a  few  minutes  an  abundant 
cold  supper,  with  wine  and  spirits,  were 
placed  upon  the  table,  to  all  of  which  he  did 
such  amj^le  justice  that  it  would  seem  as  if 
he  had  not  dined  that  day.  The  table  hav- 
ing been  cleai'ed,  Mr.  Goodwin  joined  him 
in  a  glass  of  hot  brandy  and  water,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  jDressing  him  to  take  a  couple 
more,  whilst  his  wife,  he  said,  was  getting  a 
bed  and  room  prejmred  for  him.  Tlieir 
chat  for  the  next  half  hour  consisted  in  a 
discus.siou  of  the  storm,  which,  although 
much  abated,  was  not  yet  over.  At  length, 
after  an  intimation  that  his  room  was  ready 
for  him,  he  withdrew,  accompanied  by  a  ser- 
vant, got  into  an  admii'able  bed,  and  ii^  s 
few  minutes  was  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER  m.      y 

Breakfast  next  morning. —  Woodward,  on  his  waj 
Uovie,  meets  a  Stranger. — Thnr  Conversation. 

The  next  morning  he  joined  the  family  ii, 
the  breakfast  parlor,  where  he  was  received 
with  much  kindness  and  attention.  The 
stranger  was  a  young  man,  probably  about 
twenty-seven,  well  made,  and  with  features 
that  must  be  pronounced  good  ;  but,  from 
whatever  cause  it  proceeded,  they  were  felt 
to  be  by  no  means  agi-eeable.  It  was  im- 
possible to  quaiTel  with,  or  find  fault  with 
them  ;  tlieir  symmetry'  was  perfect ;  the  lij), 
well  defined,  but  hard  and  evidently  unfeel 
ing ;  his  brows,  which  joined  each  other 
were  black,  and,  what  was  very  pecuhar. 
were  heaviest  where  they  met — a  circum- 
stance which,  notwithstanding  the  regularity 
of  his  other  features,  gave  him,  unless  wheu 
he  smiled,  a  fi'owning  if  not  a  sinister  aspect 
Tliat,  however,  which  was  most  remarkable 
in  his  features  was  the  extraordinary  fact 
that  his  eyes  were  each  of  a  dili'erent  color, 
one  being  black  and  piercing  in  its  gleam 


.(J26 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


and  tlie  other  gray  ;  from  which  circum- 
stance he  was  known  from  his  childhood  by 
the  name  of  Harry  na  Suit  Gloir — Suil  Gloir 
being  an  epithet  always  bestowed  by  the 
Irish  upon  persons  who  possessed  eyes  ol 
that  unnattu-al  character.  This  circumstance, 
however,  was  not  observed  on  that  occasion 
by  any  of  the  family.  His  general  manners, 
though  courteous,  were  cold,  and  by  no 
means  such  as  were  calculated  either  to 
bestow  or  inspire  contidence.  His  language, 
too,  was  easy  enough  when  he  spoke,  but  a 
cold  habit  of  reserve  seemed  to  permeate  his 
whole  being,  and  to  throw  a  chill  upon  the 
feelings  of  those  to  whom  he  addressed  him- 
self. So  much  was  this  the  case  that  whenever 
he  assumed  an  air  of  familiai'ity  a  dark, 
strange,  and  undelinable  spirit,  which  was 
strongly  felt,  seemed  not  only  to  contradict 
his  apparent  urbanity,  but  to  impress  his 
axiditors  with  a  sense  of  uneasiness  some- 
times amounting  to  pain — an  imjDression, 
however,  for  which  they  could  not  at  all 
account. 

"Sir,"  said  Mr.  Goodwin,  "I  hope  you 
slept  well  after  what  you  suffered  under  the 
tempest  of  last  night  ?  " 

"I  assure  you,  sir,  I  never  enjoyed  a 
3omider  night's  sleep  in  my  hfe,"  replied 
their  guest ;  "  and  were  it  not  for  the  season- 
able shelter  of  yoiu'  hospitable  roof  I  know 
not  what  would  have  become  of  me.  I  am 
unacquainted  with  the  country,  and  having 
lost  my  way,  I  knew  not  where  to  seek  shel- 
ter, for  the  night  was  so  dreadfull}'  dark  that 
unless  by  the  flashes  of  the  hghtning  nothing 
could  be  seen." 

"  It  was  certainly  an  awful — a  terrible 
night,"  observed  his  host  ;  "  but  come,  its 
severity  is  now  past ;  let  me  see  you  do  jus- 
tice to  your  fare  ; — a  little  more  ham  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  the  other;  "if 
N'ou  please.  Indeed,  I  cannot  complain  of  my 
appetite,  wliich  is  at  all  times  excellent " — 
and  he  certainly  coiToborated  the  ti-uth  of 
his  statement  by  a  sharp  and  vigorous  attack 
upon  the  good  things  before  him. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Goodwin,"  we  feel  happy 
to  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  opening  our 
doors  to  you  last  night  ;  and  there  is  only 
one  other  cii'cumstance  which  could  complete 
our  gi'atification." 

"The  gi-atification,  madam,"  he  replied, 
"  as  well  as  the  gratitude,  ought  to  be  all  on 
my  side,  although  I  have  no  doubt,  and  can 
have  none,  that  the  consciousness  of  your 
kindness  and  hospitality  are  equally  gratify- 
ing on  yours.  But  may  I  ask  to  what  you 
allude,  madam  ?  " 

"You  are  evidently  a  gentleman,  sir,  and 
a  stranger,  and  we  would  feel  obliged  by 
knowiue:— " 


"  O,  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,**  he  re 
plied,  inteiTupting  her;  "I  presume  that 
you  are  good  enough  to  flatter  me  by  a  wish 
to  know  the  name  of  the  individual  whom 
your  kindness  and  hospitality  have  placed 
under  such  agreeable  obligations.  For  m\ 
part  I  have  reason  to  bless  the  tempest 
which,  I  may  say,  brought  me  under  your 
roof.  'It  is  an  iU  wind,'  says  the  proverb, 
'  that  blows  nobody  good  ; '  and  it  is  a  clear 
case,  my  very  kind  hostess,  that  at  this  mo- 
ment we  are  mutually  ignorant  of  each  other. 
I  assure  you,  then,  madam,  that  I  am  not  a 
I  knight-errant  travelling  in  disguise  and  in 
I  quest  of  adventiu-e,  but  a  plain  gentleman, 
j  by  name  "Woodward,  step-son  to  a  neighbor 
'  of  yours,  Mr.  Lindsay,  of  Rathfillan  House. 
I  need  scarcely  say  that  I  am  Mrs.  Lindsay's 
son  by  her  first  husband.  And  now,  madam, 
may  I  beg  to  know  the  name  of  the  family 
to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  so  much  kind- 
ness." 

Mrs.  Goodwin  and  her  husband  exchanged 
glances,  and  something  like  a  slight  cloud 
appeared  to  overshadow  for  a  moment  the 
expression  of  their  countenances.  At  length 
Ml*.  Goodwin  sjDoke. 

"My  name,  sir,"  he  pi'oceeded,  " is  Good- 
win ;  and  until  a  recent  melancholy  event, 
your  family  and  mine  were  upon  the  best 
and  most  cordial  terms  ;  but,  unfortunately, 
I  must  say  that  we  are  not  so  now — a  cir- 
cumstance which  I  and  mine  deeply  regi-et. 
You  must  not  imagine,  however,  that  the 
knowledge  of  your  name  and  connections 
could  make  the  slightest  ditference  in  our 
conduct  towai'd  you  on  that  account.  Your 
family,  Mr.  "Woodward,  threw  off  our  friend- 
ship and  disclaimed  all  intimacy  with  us  ; 
but  I  presume  you  are  not  ignorant  of  the 
cause  of  it." 

"  I  should  be  uncandid  if  I  were  to  say  so, 
sir.  I  am  entirely  aware  of  the  cause  of  it ; 
but  I  cannot  see  that  there  is  any  blame 
whatsoever  to  be  attached  to  either  you  or 
yours  for  the  act  of  my  j^oor  uncle.  I  as- 
sure you,  sir,  I  am  sorry  that  my  family 
failed  to  consider  it  in  its  proper  light ;  and 
you  will  permit  me  to  request  that  you  will 
not  identify  my  conduct  with  theirs.  So  far 
as  I  at  least  am  concerned,  my  uncle's  dis- 
position of  his  proj^erty  shall  make  no  breach 
nor  occasion  any  coolness  betM^een  us.  On 
the  contrary,  I  shall  feel  honored  by  being 
permitted  to  pay  my  respects  to  you  aU,  and 
to  make  myseK  worthy  of  your  good  opin- 
ions." 

"  That  is  generously  spoken,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward," repHed  the  old  man  ;  "  and  it  will  af- 
ford us  sincere  pleasiu-e  to  reciprocate  the 
sentiments  you  have  just  expressed." 

"You  make  me  quite  happy,  sir,"  replied 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  ELAcK  SPECTUE. 


627 


Woodwiircl,  bowing  very  courteously.  "  This, 
[  presume,  is  the  j'oung  lady  to  whom  my 
eousin  Agnes  was  so  much  attached  ?  " 

"  She  is,  six',"  replied  her  father. 

"  jNIight  I  hope  for  the  honor  of  being  pre- 
sented to  her,  Mr.  Goodwm  ? " 

"  With  pleasure,  sir.  Alice,  my  dear, 
although  you  already  know  who  this  gentle- 
man is,  yet  allow  me,  nevertheless,  to  pre- 
sent him  to  you." 

The  formal  introduction  accordingly  took 
place,  after  which  Woodward,  turning  to 
^Ii's.  Goodwin,  said, 

"  I  am  not  suri^rised,  madam,  at  the  pre- 
dilection which  my  cousin  entertained  for 
iVIiss  Goodwin,  even  fi-om  what  I  see  ;  but  I 
feel  that  I  am  restrained  by  her  presence 
from  exp:.essing  myself  at  further  length.  I 
have  only  to  say  that  I  wish  her  every  hap- 
piness, long  life,  and  health  to  enjoy  that  of 
which  she  seems,  and  I  am  certain  is,  so 
worthy." 

He  accompanied  those  words  \vith  a  low  bow 
and  ti  very  gracious  smile,  after  w'hich,  his 
horse  having  been  brought  to  the  door,  he 
took  his  leave  ^^ith  a  gi'eat  deal  of  pohteness, 
and  rode,  according  to  the  directions  re- 
ceived fi'om  Mr.  Goodwin,  toward  his  father's 
house. 

After  his  departure  the  family  began  to 
discuss  his  character  somewhat  to  the  follow- 
ing effect ; 

"  That  is  a  line  young  man,"  said  Mr. 
Goodwin,  "  hberal-minded  and  generous,  or 
I  am  much  mistaken.  What  do  yoa  think, 
Mai±lia,"_he  added,  addressing  his  wife. 

"Upon  my  word,"  rephed  that  lady,  "I 
am  much  of  your  opinion — yet  I  don't  know 
either  ;  although  pohte  and  courteous,  there 
is  somethjig  rather  disagreeable  about  him." 

"  Why,"  inquired  her  husband,  "what,  is 
there  disf  gi-eeable  about  him  ?  I  could  jier- 
ceive  nothing  of  the  sort  ;  and  when  we  con- 
sider that  his  uncle,  who  left  this  i:)roperty  to 
Alice,  was  his  mother's  brother,  and  that  he 
was  nephew  by  blood  as  well  as  by  law,  and 
that  it  was  the  old  man's  original  intention 
that  the  property  should  go  directly  to  him, 
or  in  default  of  issue,  to  his  brother — I  think 
when  we  consider  this,  Martha,  that  we 
cannot  but  entei*tain  a  favorable  impression 
of  him,  considering  what  he  has  lost  by  the 
imexpected  turn  given  to  his  prospects  in 
consequence  of  his  uncle's  will.  Alice,  my 
dear,  what  is  your  opinion  of  him  ?  " 

"Indeed,  papa,"  she  replied,  "I  have  had 
— as  we  all  have  had — but  a  very  slight  op- 
portunity to  form  any  opinion  of  liim.  As 
for  me,  I  can  judge  only  by  the  impressions 
which  his  conversation  and  person  have 
left  upon  me." 

'*  Well,  anything  favorable  o;-  otljerwjse  ?  ' 


"  Anything  at  all  hut  favorable,  i)apa — 
I  expeiienced  something  like  pain  during 
breakfast,  and  felt  a  strong  sense  of  reUeJ 
the  moment  he  left  the  room." 

"  Poor  child,  imi)re.s.sions  are  nothing. 
I  have  met  men  of  whom  first  impressions 
were  uniformly  unfavorable,  who,  notwith- 
standing their  rough  outsides,  were  persons 
of  sterling  worth  and  character." 

"  Yes,  papa,  and  men  of  great  plausibility 
and  ease  of  manner,  who,  on  the  contrary', 
were  deep,  hypociiticjil  and  selfish  when 
discovered  and  their  hearts  laid  open.  As 
regards  !Mr.  Woodward,  however,  heaven 
forbid  that  I  should  place  the  impressions 
of  an  ignorant  girl  like  myself  against  the 
knowledge  and  exjjerience  of  a  man  who 
has  had  such  ojjportunities  of  knowing  the 
world  as  you.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  whilst 
he  seemed  to  breathe  a  very  generovis  spirit, 
my  impressions  were  comjjletely  at  variance 
with  every  sentiment  he  uttered.  Perhaps, 
however,  I  do  him  injustice — and  I  should 
regret  that  very  much.  I  wiU  then,  in  de- 
ference to  your  oi)inion,  paj)a,  endeavor  to 
control  those  impressions  and  think  as  well 
of  him  as  I  can." 

"  You  are  right,  Alice,  and  I  thank  you. 
We  should  never,  if  possible,  suffer  ourselves 
to  be  j^rematurely  ungenerous  in  our  esti- 
niate  of  strangers,  especially  when  we  know 
that  this  world  is  tilled  A\ith  the  most  ab- 
surd and  ridiculous  prejudices.  How  do 
you  know,  my  dear  child,  that  yours  is  not 
one  of  them  ?  " 

"Alice,  love,"  said  her  mother,  "I  think, 
upon  reflection,  your  father  is  right,  as  he 
always  is  ;  let  us  not  be  less  generous  thiin 
this  young  man,  and  you  know  it  would  be 
ungenerous  to  prejudge  him ;  and  this 
comes  the  more  strange  from  you,  my  love, 
inasmuch  as  I  never  yet  he;u-d  you  express 
a  prejudice  almost  against  any  person." 

"  Because  I  don't  remember,  mamma,  that 
I  ever  felt  such  an  impression — prejudice — 
call  it  what  you  will — against  any  individuaj 
as  I  do  against  this  man.  I  absolutely  fear 
him  without  kno\riug  why." 

"  Precisely  so,  my  dear  Alice,"  repUed  her 
father,  "  pi-ecisely  so ;  and,  as  you  say,  tcith- 
out  kiiowiiuj  why.  In  that  one  phi-ase,  my 
child,  you  have  defined  pi-tjudice  to  the  let- 
ter. Fie,  Alice  ;  have  more  sense,  my  deai*  : 
have  more  sense.  Dismiss  this  foolish  pre- 
judice against  a  young  man,  who,  from  Avhat 
he  said  at  breakfast,  is  entitled  to  better 
feelings  at  your  hands." 

"  As  I  said,  papa,  I  shall  certainly  strive  tc 
do  so." 

Alice  Goodwin's  person  and  chai'acter 
must,  at  this  stage  of  our  narrative,  be  made 
jiuo>\'n  to  our  readers.     As  to  her  person,  it 


(J28 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


is  only  sufficient  to  say  that  ste  was  a  tall, 
beautiful  girl,  of  exceeding  grace  and  won- 
derful proportions.  There  was,  however,  a 
softness  about  her  appearance  of  constitu- 
tional deHcacy  that  seemed  to  be  incomjDatible 
with  a  strong  mind,  or  perhaps  we  should 
rather  say  that  was  identical  with  an  excess 
of  feeling.  This  was  exhibited  in  the  tender- 
ness of  her  attachment  to  Agnes  Hamilton, 
and  in  the  agonizing  grief  which  she  ex- 
perienced at  her  death — ^a  grief  Avhich  had 
weUnigh  become  fatal  to  a  gii'l  of  her  fragile 
organization.  The  predominant  trait,  how- 
ever, in  her  character  was  timidity  and  a 
ten'or  of  a  hundred  trifles,  which,  in  the 
generahty  of  her  sex,  would  occasion  only 
mdifterence  or  laughter.  On  that  very 
morning,  for  instance,  she  had  not  recovered 
from  her  painful  apprehensions  of  the 
thunder-storm  which  had  occurred  on  the 
preceding  night.  Of  thunder,  but  especially 
of  lightning,  she  was  afraid  even  to  pusillan- 
imity ;  indeed  so  much  so,  that  on  such  oc- 
currences she  would  bind  her  eyes,  fly  down 
stairs,  and  take  refuge  in  the  cellar  until  the 
hurly-burly  in  the  clouds  was  over.  This, 
however,  was  not  so  much  to  be  wondered 
at  by  those  who  live  in  our  j)resent  and  more 
enlightened  days  ;  as  our  readers  will  admit 
when  they  are  told  that  the  period  of  our 
naiTative  is  in  the  reign  of  that  truly  rehgious 
mnna.rrb^  P.barlps  the  Second,  who,  conscious 
of  his  inward  and  invisible  gi'ace,  was  known 
to  exhaust  himseK  so  liberally  of  his  virtue, 
when  touching  for  the  Evil,  that  there  was 
very  httle  of  it  left  to  regulate  that  of  his 
own  private  hfe.  In  those  days  L-eland  was 
a  mass  of  social  superstitions,  and  a  vast 
number  of  cures  iu  a  variety  of  diseases 
were  said  to  be  jDerformed  by  witches,  wiz- 
ards, fairy-men,  fairy-women,  and  a  thousand 
other  impostors,  who,  supported  by  the  gToss 
ignorance  of  the  people,  carried  that  which 
was  first  commenced  in  fraud  and  cunning 
into  a  self-delusion,  which,  in  process  of 
time,  led  them  to  become  dupes  to  their  own 
impostures.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
then,  that  Alice  Goodwin,  a  young  creature 
of  a  warm  imagination  and  extraordinary 
constitutional  timidity,  should  feel  the  full 
force  of  the  superstitions  which  swarmed 
around  her,  and  impregnated  her  fancy  so 
strongly  that  it  teemed  with  an  unhealthy 
creation,  which  frequently  rendered  her  ex- 
istence painful  by  a  morbid  apprehension  of 
wicked  and  supernatural  influences.  In 
other  respects  she  was  artlessness  itself, 
could  never  understand  what  falsehood 
meant,  and,  as  to  truth,  her  unspotted  mind 
was  ti-ansparent  as  a  sunbeam.  Our  readers 
fixe  not  to  understand,  however,  that  though 
apparently  flexible  and  ductile,  she  possessed 


no  power  of  moral  resistance.  So  very  fai 
from  that,  her  disposition,  wherever  sh« 
thought  herself  right,  was  not  only  firm  and 
unbending,  but  sometimes  rose  almost  to 
obstinacy.  This,  however,  never  appeared, 
unless  she  considered  herself  as  standing 
upon  the  basis  of  truth.  In  cases  where 
her  judgment  was  at  fault,  or  when  she 
could  not  see  her  way,  she  was  a  perfect 
child,  and,  like  a  child,  should  be  taken  by 
the  hand  and  supported.  It  was,  however, 
when  minghng  in  society  that  her  timidity 
and  bashfulness  were  most  observable  ;  these, 
however,  were  accompanied  with  so  much 
natural  grace,  and  unafiected  innocence  oJ 
manner,  that  the  general  charm  of  her  M'hol(^ 
character  was  fascinating  and  irresistible  • 
nay,  her  very  weaknesses  created  an  atmos- 
phere of  love  and  sympathy  arouad  her  that 
nobody  could  breathe  without  fee  ling  her  in- 
fluence. Her  fear  of  ghosts  and  fairies,  her 
di-ead  of  wizards  and  witches,  of  sdse  women 
and  strolling  conjurers,  with  the  superstitious 
accounts  of  whom  the  country  then  abound- 
ed, were,  in  the  eyes  of  her  more  strong- 
minded  friends,  only  a  source  of  that  caress- 
ing and  indulgent  affection  which  made  its 
artless  and  innocent  object  more  dear  to 
them.  Every  one  knows  with  what  natural 
affection  and  tenderness  we  love  the  object 
which  chngs  to  us  for  support  under  the 
apprehension  of  danger,  even  when  we  our- 
selves are  satisfied  that  the  apprehension  is 
groundless.  So  was  it  with  Alice  Goodwm, 
whose  harmless  foibles  and  weaknesses,  as- 
sociated as  they  were  with  so  much  truth  and 
purity,  rendered  her  the  darhng  of  all  who- 
knew  her. 

Woodward  had  not  proceeded  far  on  his 
way  when  he  was  overtaken  by  an  equestrian, 
who  came  up  to  him  at  a  smart  pace,  which, 
however,  he  checked  on  getting  beside  him. 

"A  fine  morning,  sir,  afte::  an  awfuJ 
night,"  observed  the  stranger. 

"It  is,  sir,"  replied  Woodward,  "and  a 
most  awful  night  it  assuredly  was.  Have 
you  heard  whether  there  has  been  destruc- 
tion to  hfe  or  proj)erty  to  any  extent  ?  " 

"  Not  so  much  to  Hfe,"  replied  his  compan- 
ion, "but  seriously,  I  understand,  to  j)ro- 
i^erty.  If  you  had  ridden  far  you  must  have 
observed  the  number  of  dweUing-houses  and 
out  offices  that  have  been  unroofed,  and  some 
of  them  altogether  blown  down." 

"I  have  not  ridden  fai-,"  said  Woodward  ; 
"  I  was  obhged  to  take  shelter  in  the  house 
of  a  country  gentleman  named  Goodwin,  who 
lives  over  in  the  trees." 

"You  were  fortunate  in  finding  sheltei 
anywhere,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  during 
such  a  tempest.  I  remember  nothing  like 
it." 


THE  EVIL  EYE;   OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


629 


As  they  proceeded  alonj]f,  indulging  in 
simihir  chat,  they  observed  that  five  or  six 
coiintrviuen,  who  had  been  wallving  at  a 
smart  pace,  about  a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
b'  fore  tlieni,  cauie  suddenly  to  a  stand-still, 
nnd,  after  appeu'ing  to  consult  together, 
they  darted  oft'  the  road  and  laid  themselves 
down,  as  if  with  a  view  of  concealment,  be- 
hind the  gras;s3'  ditch  which  ran  along  it. 

"  What  can  these  persons  mean  ?"  asked 
Woothvavd ;  "  they  seem  to  be  concealing 
themselves." 

"Unquestionably  they  do,"  replied  the 
stranger  ;  "  anci  yet  there  appeai-s  to  be  no 
pursuit  after  tliem.  I  certainly  can  give  no 
guess  as  to  their  object." 

^Vhile  attempting,  as  tlioy  went  along,  to 
accoiuit  for  the  conduct  of  the  peasants, 
they  were  i  let  by  a  female  with  a  head  of 
hair  that  \/as  nearly  blood-red,  and  whose 
features  were  hideously  ugly,  or  rather,  we 
should  say,  absolutely  revolting.  Her  brows, 
whicli  were  of  the  same  color  as  the  hair, 
were  knit  Lito  a  scowl,  such  as  is  occasioned 
by  an  intense  expression  of  hatred  and 
malignity,  yet  which  was  rendered  almost 
frightful  by  a  squint  that  would  have  dis- 
figiu'ed  the  features  of  a  demon.  Her  coarse 
liair  lay  matted  together  in  stitT,  wiry  waves 
on  each  side  of  her  head,  from  whence  it 
streamed  down  her  shoulders,  which  it 
covered  like  a  cape  of  scarlet.  As  they 
approached  each  other,  slie  glanced  at  them 
with  a  look  from  which  they  could  only  infer 
that  she  seemed  to  meditate  the  murder  of 
ea(;h,  and  yet  there  was  mingled  with  its 
malignity  a  bitter  but  derisive  expression 
that  was  perfectly  diabohcal. 

"  What  a  frightful  hag ! "  exclaimed 
Woodward,  addressing  his  companion  ;  "  I 
never  had  a  perfect  conception  of  the  face  of 
an  ogress  until  noAV  !  Did  you  observe  her 
walrus  tusks,  as  they  projected  over  her 
misshajDen  nether  hp  ?  The  hag  appears  to 
be  an  impersonation  of  all  that  is  evil." 

"  She  may  be  a  very  harmless  creatiu*e  for 
all  that,"  repHed  the  other;  "we  are  not 
to  judge  by  appearances.  I  know  a  man 
who  had  murder  depicted  in  his  counten- 
ance, if  ever  a  man  had,  and  yet  there  lived 
not  a  kinder,  more  humane,  or  benevolent 
creature  o)  i  earth.  He  was  as  simple,  too, 
as  a  child,  and  the  most  affectionate  father 
and  husbi  .nd  that  ever  breathed.  These, 
liowever,  ii  lay  be  exceptions  ;  for  most  cer- 
tainly I  aai  of  opinion  that  the  countenance 
may  be  co:  isidered,  in  general,  a  very  certain 
(ndex  to  the  character  and  disposition.  But 
what  is  this  ? — here  are  the  men  returning 
from  their  jovu*ney,  let  us  question  them." 

•*Pi-ay,"  said  Woodward,  addressing 
ihem,     "if  it  be  not  impertinent,  may  I  in- 


quire why  you  ran  in  such  a  hurry  off  the 
road  just  now,  and  hid  yourselves  behind  the 
ditch'?" 

"Certainly,  sir,  you  may,"  replied  one  of 
them  ;  "we  wor  on  our  way  to  the  fair  of 
Knockmore,  and  we  ditln't  wish  to  meet 
Pugshy  Roe  "  (Red  Pegg>')- 

"  But  why  shoidd  you  not  wish  to  meet 
her  ?  " 

"Bekaise,  sir,  she's  unlucky — unlucky  in 
the  three  ways — unlucky  to  man,  unlucky  to 
baste,  and  unlucky  to  business.  She  over- 
looks, sir  ;  she  has  the  Evil  Eye — the  Lord 
be  about  us  !  " 

"The  Evil  Eye,"  repeated  Woodward, 
diyly  ;  "and  pray,  Avhat  harm  could  her  evil 
eye  do  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  nothing  in  the  world,"  replied  the 
man,  naively,  "  barrin'  to  wither  us  off  o'  the 
earth — that's  all." 

"  Has  she  been  long  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 
asked  the  stranger. 

"  Too  long,  your  honor.  Sure  she  over- 
looked Biddy  Nelli^an's  child,  and  it  never 
did  good  afterwards." 

"  And  I,"  said  another,  "  am  indebted  to 
the  thief  o'  hell  for  the  loss  of  as  good  a  cow 
as  ever  filled  a  piggin." 

"W^ell,  sure,"  observed  a  third,  "Father 
Mullen  is  goin'  to  read  her  o\it  next  Sun- 
day fi'om  the  althar.  She  has  l)een  banished 
from  every  paiish  in  the  counthry.  Indeed, 
I  believe  he's  goin'  to  drown  the  candles 
agamst  her,  so  that,  plaise  {lie  Lord,  she'll 
have  to  tramp." 

"  How  does  she  live  and  maintain  her- 
self ?  "  asked  the  stranger  again. 

"Why,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "she  tuck 
possession  of  a  waste  cabin  and  a  bit  o'  gar- 
den belongin'  to  it ;  and  Larry  Sullivan,  that 
owns  it,  was  goin'  to  put  her  out,  when.  Lord 
save  us,  he  and  his  whole  family  wei'e  saized 
with  sickness,  and  then  he  sent  Avord  to  her 
that  if  she'd  take  it  off  o'  themjind  put  it  on 
some  one  else  he'd  let  her  stay." 

"  And  did  she  do  so  ?  " 

"  She  did,  sir  ;  every  one  o'  them  recov- 
ered, and  she  put  it  on  his  neighbor,  poor 
Harry  Commiskey  and  his  family,  that  use<l 
to  visit  them  every  day,  and  fi'oni  them  it 
went  over  the  country — and  bad  luck  to 
her !  Devil  a  man  of  us  would  have  had 
luck  or  grace  in  the  fair  to-day  if  we  had 
met  her.  That's  another  gift  she  has — 
to  bring  bad  luck  to  any  one  that  meets  her 
first  in  the  mormn' ;  for  if  they're  goin' 
upon  any  business  it's  sure  not  to  thrive 
with  them.  She's  worse  than  ^Irs.  Lindsay  ; 
for  Mrs.  Lindsay,  although  she's  unlucky  to 
meet,  and  unlucky  to  cattle,  too,  has  no 
power  over  any  one's  life  ;  but  they  say  it 
has  always  been  in  her  family,  too." 


630 


WILLI  AM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


The  equestriaBs  then  proceeded  at  a 
rather  brisk  i^ace  lautil  they  had  got  clear  of 
the  peasants,  when  they  pulled  up  a  little. 

"That  is  a  strange  superstition,  sii',"  said 
Woodward,  musingly. 

"  It  is  a  very  common  one  in  this  countr}', 
at  all  events,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  and  I  be- 
lieve pretty  general  in  others  as  well  as 
here." 

"Do  you  place  any  faith  in  it  ? "  asked  the 
other. 

The  stranger  paused,  as  if  investigating 
the  subject  in  question,  after  which  he  re- 
plied, 

"  To  a  certain  extent  I  do  ;  but  it  is  upon 
this  principle,  that  I  beUeve  the  force  of 
imagination  on  a  weak  mind  constitutes  the 
malady.     What  is  yoiu'  o^^Tl  opinion  ?  " 

"Why,  that  it  is  not  a  superstition  but  a 
fact  ;  a  fact,  too,  which  has  been  fi'equently 
proved  ;  and,  what  is  more,  it  is  kno^^^l,  as 
the  man  said,  to  be  hereditary  in  famihes." 

"I  don't  give  credence  to  that,"  said  the 
st)-«inger. 

"  Why  not,  su-  ?  "  replied  Woodward  ; 
"ai'e  not  the  moral  qualities  hereditary?  are 
not  the  tempers  and  dispositions  heredi- 
tary, as  well  as  decline,  insanity,  scrofula, 
and  other  physical  complaints  ?  " 

The  stranger  paused  again,  and  said, 
"  Perhaps  so.  There  is  certainly  much  mys- 
tery in  human  natui-e  ;  more,  probably, 
than  we  can  copceive  or  be  aware  of.  Time, 
however,  and  the  progress  of  science,  will 
develop  much.  But  who  w^as  this  jMi's. 
Lindsay  that  the  man  spoke  of  ?  " 

"That  lad}',  sir,"  rephed  the  other,  "is 
my  mother." 

The  stranger,  fi-om  a  feehng  of  delicacy, 
made  no  observation  upon  this,  but  j3ro- 
ceeded  to  take  another  view  of  the  same 
subject. 

"  Suppose,  then,"  he  added,  "  that  we  ad- 
mit the  fact  that  the  eye  of  a  certain  indi- 
vidual can  transfuse,  by  the  force  of  strong 
volition,  an  e\yil  influence  into  the  being  or 
bodily  system  of  another — why  should  it 
happen  that  an  eye  or  touch  charged  with 
beneficence,  instead  of  evil,  should  fail  to 
affect  with  a  sanative  contagion  those  who 
labor  under  many  diseases  ?  " 

"The  only  reply  I  can  make  to  your 
question,"  said  Woodward,  "  is  this  :  the  one 
has  been  long  and  generally  known  to  exist, 
whereas  the  latter  has  never  been  heard  of, 
which  most  assm-edly  would  not  have  been 
the  case  if  it  had  ecer  existed  ;  as  for  the 
cure  of  the  King's  Evil  it  is  a  royal  imposture." 

"I  believe  in  the  latter,"  observed  the  oth- 
er calmly. 

"  Upon  what  gi-ounds  ?  "  asked  his  com- 
panion. 


"  Simply  because  I  know  a  person  who 
possesses  the  sanative  power  I  speak  of." 

"And  I  believe  in  the  former,"  rej^lied 
Woodward,  "  and  upon  better  grounds  still, 
because  I  possess  it  myself." 

"  You  vnM  pardon  me,"  said  the  other  ; 
"  but  I  hesitate  to  believe  that." 

Woodward,  who  felt  this  imputation 
against  his  veracity  with  resentment,  sud- 
denly pvilled  up  his  horse,  and,  turning  him- 
self on  the  saddle,  looked  upon  his  compan- 
ion with  an  expression  that  was  as  extraordi- 
nary as  it  was  bhghting.  The  stranger,  on 
the  other  hand,  reining  in  /u'.s  horse,  and  tak- 
ing exactly  the  same  attitude  as  Woodward, 
bent  his  eye  on  him  in  return  ;  and  there 
they  sat  opposite  to  each  other,  where  we 
will  leave  them  until  we  describe  the  some- 
what extraordinary  man  who  had  become  the 
fellow-traveller  of  the  hero  of  the  breakfast 
table. 

He  was  moimted  upon  a  powerful  charge 
er  ;  for  indeed  it  was  e\ident  at  a  glance  that 
no  other  would  have  been  equal  to  his 
weight.  He  was  well-dressed — that  is  to 
say,  in  the  garb  of  a  country'  gentleman  of 
the  day.  He  wore  his  o^svn  hair,  however, 
which  fell  in  long  masses  over  his  shoulders, 
and  a  falling  collar,  which  came  down  over 
his  breast.  His  person  was  robust  and 
healthy  looking,  and,  what  is  not  very  usual 
in  large  men,  it  was  remarkable  for  the  most 
consummate  proj)ortion  and  symmetry.  He 
wore  boots  and  silver  spurs,  and  his  feet 
were  unusually  small,  considering  his  size, 
as  were  also  his  hands.  That,  however, 
which  struck  the  beholder  with  amazement, 
was  the  manly  beauty  of  his  featiu-es.  At  a 
first  glance  this  was  visible  ;  but  on  contem- 
plating them  more  closely  you  began  to  feel 
something  strange  and  wonderful  associated 
with  a  feehng  of  veneration  and  pleasui-e. 
Even  this,  however,  was  comparatively  little 
to  what  a  still  more  deliberate  perusal  of 
that  face  brought  to  light.  There  could  be 
read  that  extraordinary  union  of  humUity  and 
grandeur ;  but  above  all,  and  beyond  all 
other  ex2:)ressions,  there  proceeded  fi'om  his 
eyes,  and  radiated  like  a  halo  from  every 
part  of  his  countenance,  a  sense  of  power 
which  was  felt  to  be  iiTesistible.  His  ej-es, 
indeed,  were  almost  transparent  with  light 
— a  light  so  clear,  benignant,  a.id  strong, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  withstand  their 
glance,  radiant  with  benevolence  though  it 
was.  The  surrender  to  that  glajice,  how- 
ever, was  a  willing  and  a  pleasing  one.  The 
spectator  sidjmitted  to  it  as  an  individual 
would  t(j  the  eye  of  a  blessed  spirit  that  was 
known  to  communicate  nothing  but  good. 
There,  then,  they  sat  contemplating  one  an- 
other, each,  as  it  were,  in  the  exercise  ol 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


C31 


some  particular  power,  wliicli,  in  this  case, 
appeared  to  depend  altoj^'etlier  on  the  ex- 
•pressions  of  the  eye.  The  f^aze  was  long 
and  c-ombative  in  its  character,  and  consti- 
tuted a  tiial  of  that  moral  strength  which 
each,  )n  the  joeculiar  constitution  of  his  be- 
ing, Seemed  to  possess.  After  some  time, 
however,  AVoodward's  glance  seemed  to  lose 
its  concentrative  power,  and  gi'adually  to  be- 
come vague  and  blank.  In  a  little  time  he 
felt  liiiuself  rapidly  losing  ground,  and  could 
hai'dly  rivoid  thinking  that  the  eyes  of  his  op- 
ponent were  looking  into  his  veiy  soul :  his 
eyelids  (^[uivered,  his  eyes  assumed  a  dull 
and  listless  apjiearance,  and  ultimately  clos- 
ed for  >iome  moments — he  was  vanquished, 
and  he  felt  it. 

"  Wnat  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  said  his 
companion  at  length,  "  and  why  did  you 
look  at.  me  with  such  a  singiilar  gaze  ?  I 
hope  you  do  not  feel  resentment  at  what  I 
said.  I  hesitated  to  believe  you  only  be- 
cause I  thouglit  you  might  be  mistaken." 

"I  entertain  no  resentment  against  you," 
replied  Woodward  ;  "but  I  must  confess  I 
feel  astonished.  Pray,  allow  me  to  ask,  sii', 
are  you  a  medical  man  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  I  never 
received  a  medical  education,  and  j^et  I  per- 
form a  great  number  of  cures." 

"Then,  sir,"  said  Woodwju'd,  "  I  take  it, 
with  every  respect,  that  you  must  be  a 
quack." 

"Did  you  ever  know  a  quack  to  work  a 
cure  without  medicine  ?  "  replied  the  other  ; 
"  /  cure  withcaf  medicine,  and  that  is  more 
tliaji  the  qiiack  is  able  to  do  with  it  ;  I.  con- 
sequently, cannot  be  a  quack." 

"  Tlien,  in  the  devil's  name,  what  are 
you  ?  "  asked  Woodward,  who  felt  that  his 
extraordinary  fellow-traveller  was  amusing 
himself  at  his  expense. 

"  I  reply  to  no  interrogatory  urged  upon 
such  authority."  said  the  stranger  ;  "  but  let 
me  advise  you,  young  man,  not  to  allow 
that  mysterious  and  m:dignaut  power  which 
you  seem  to  possess  to  gi'atify  itself  by  in- 
jury to  your  fellow-creatui'es.  Let  it  be  the 
principal  purjxjse  of  your  life  to  serve  them 
by  every  means  within  3'our  reach,  other- 
wise you  will  neglect  to  your  cost  those 
great  duties  for  which  God  created  you. 
Farewell,  my  friend,  and  remember  my 
words  ;  for  they  are  uttered  in  a  spirit  of 
kindness  and  good  feeling." 

They  had  now  arrived  at  cross-roads  ;  the 
stranger  turned  to  the  right,  and  Woodward 
proceeded,  as  directed,  toward  EatMllaJL 
House,  the  residence  of  his  father 

The  building  was  a  tolerably  liu-ge  and 
comfortable  one,  without  any  pretence  to 
ai'chitectural  beaut}-.     Tt  had  a  plain  porch 


before  the  hall-door,  v.ith  a  neat  lawn, 
through  which  wound  a  jjretty  drive  up  to 
the  house.  On  each  side  of  the  lawni  was  a 
semicircle  of  fine  old  trees,  that  gave  an  an- 
cient appearance  to  the  whole  place. 

Now,  one  might  imagine  that  Woodward 
would  have  felt  his  heart  bound  with  affec- 
tion and  delight  on  his  return  to  all  that 
ought  to  have  been  dear  to  him  after  so 
long  an  absence.  So  far  from  that,  how- 
ever, he  retuiTied  in  disapjjointment  and  ill- 
temper,  for  he  calculated  that  vmless  there 
had  been  some  indefensible  neglect,  or  un- 
justifiable otl'ence  offered  to  his  uncle  Ham- 
ilton by  his  family,  that  gentleman,  who,  he 
knew,  had  the  character  of  being  both  affec- 
tionate and  good-natured,  would  never  have 
left  his  property  to  a  stranger.  The  aliena- 
tion of  this  projierty  from  himself  was,  in- 
deed, the  bitter  retiection  which  rankled  in 
liis  heart,  and  estabHshed  in  it  a  hatred 
against  the  Goodwins  which  he  resolved 
by  some  means  to  wreak  upon  them  in  a 
spirit  of  the  blackest  vengeance.  Indepen- 
dently of  this,  we  feel  it  necessary  to  say 
here,  that  he  was  utterly  devoid  of  domestic 
affection,  and  altogether  insensible  to  the 
natural  claims  and  feeUngs  of  consanguinity. 
His  uncle  abi'oad,  for  instance,  had  fi-equently 
urged  him  to  pay  a  ^-isit  to  his  relatives,  and, 
of  course,  to  supply  him  libei'ixlly  with  the 
necessary  funds  for  the  joui'ney.  To  every 
such  suggestion,  however,  he  gave  a  decided 
negative.  "  If  they  wish  to  see  me,"  he 
would  reply,  "let  them  come  and  see  me : 
as  for  me,  I  have  no  wish  to  see  them,  and 
I  shall  not  go." 

This  unnatural  indifference  to  the  claims 
of  blood  and  affection,  not  only  startled  his 
uncle,  but  shook  his  confidence  in  the  honor 
and  integiTity  of  his  favorite.  Some  further 
discoveries  of  his  dishonesty  ultimately  led 
to  his  expulsion  from  the  heart  of  that  kind 
relative,  as  well  as  from  the  hospitable  roof 
of  which  he  proved  himself  so  imworthy. 

With  such  a  natural  dispo.sition,  and  af- 
fected as  he  must  have  been  by  a  train  of 
circumstances  so  decidedly  adverse  to  his 
hopes  and  prospects,  our  readers  need  not 
feel  surprised  that  he  should  return  home  in 
an}-thing  but  an  agi-eeable  mood  of  mind. 


CHAPTER  I\^ 

Woodward  meets  a  Ouide — His  Hereption  at  Some 
— Prepa ratio f IS  for  a  Fete. 

Woodward  rode  slowly,  as  he  indulged  in 
those  disagreeable  reflections  to  which  we 
alluded,  until  he  reached  a  second  cross- 
rf>ads.  where  he  found  himself  somewhat  at 


tf32 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


d  loss  whether  to  turn  or  ride  straight  on- 
ward. ^^^lile  pausing  for  a  moment,  as  to 
which  way  he  should  take,  the  meUow 
whistle  of  some  person  behind  him  indulging 
in  a  hght-heai-ted  Irish  air,  caused  him  to 
look  back,  when  he  saw  a  well-made,  com- 
pact, good-looking  young  fellow  approach- 
ing, who,  finding  his  attention  evidently  di- 
rected to  him,  concluded  his  melody  and  re- 
spectfully touched  his  hat." 

"  Pray,  my  good  fi-iend,"  said  Woodward, 
"  can  you  direct  me  to  Eathfillan,  the  resi- 
dence of  IVIi-.  Lindsay,  the  magistrate  ?  " 

"  IVlisther  Lindsay's,  is  it  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  I  said  so." 

"WeU,  I  think  I  can,  su'." 

"  Yes  ;  but  are  you  sure  of  it?  " 

"Well,  I  think  I  am,  su-." 

"  You  think  !  why,  d — n  it,  sir,  do  you 
aot  know  whether  you  are  or  not  ?  " 

"  May  I  ax,  sir,"  inquired  the  other  in  his 
tiu'n,  "  if  you  are  a  religious  character  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  the  dexil  has  that  to  do  with 
the  matter  in  question  ?  "  said  Woodward, 
beginning  to  lose  his  temper.  "I  ask  you  to 
direct  me  to  the  residence  of  a  certain  gen- 
tleman, and  you  ask  me  whether  I  am  a  re- 
hgious  character  ?  "VMiat  do  you  mean  by 
that  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,"  rephed  the  man,  "  not  much, 
I'm  afeard — only  if  you  had  let  me  speak, 
which  you  didn't,  God  pardon  you,  I  was  go- 
ing to  say,  that  if  you  knew  the  way  to 
heaven  as  well  as  I  do  to  IMisther  Lindsay's 
you  might  call  yourself  a  happy  man,  and 
bom  to  luck." 

Woodward  looked  with  something  of  curi-. 
osity  at  his  new  companion,  and  was  a  good 
deal  struck  with  his  appearance.  His  age 
might  be  about  twenty-eight  or  fi'om  that  to 
thirty;  his  figure  stout  and  well-made  ;  his 
features  were  decidedly  Milesian,  but  then 
they  were  INIilesian  of  the  best  character  ; 
uis  mouth  was  firm,  but  his  lips  full,  red, 
and  handsome  ;  his  clear,  merry  eyes  would 
puzzle  one  to  determine  whether  they  were 
gray  or  blue,  so  equally  were  the  two  colors 
blended  in  them.  After  a  very  brief  conver- 
sation with  him,  no  one  could  doubt  that 
humor  formed  a  predominant  trait  in  his 
disposition.  In  fact,  the  spirit  of  the  forth- 
coming jest  was  visible  in  his  countenance 
before  the  jest  itself  came  forth;  but  although 
his  whole  features  bore  a  careless  and  buoy- 
ant expression,  yet  there  was  no  mistaking 
in  them  the  uncjuestionable  evidences  of 
gi-eat  shrewdness  and  good  sense.  He  also 
indulged  occasionally  in  an  ironical  and 
comic  sarcasm,  which,  however,  was  never  di- 
rected against  his  friends  ;  this  he  reserved 
for  certain  individuals  whose  character  en- 
titled them  to  it  at  liis  liands.  He  also  dreAV 


the  long-bow,  when  he  wished,  with  great 
skill  and  effect.  Woodward,  after  havinff 
scrutinized  his  countenance  for  some  timer 
was  about  to  make  some  inquiries,  as  a 
stranger,  concerning  his  family  and  the 
reputation  they  bore  in  the  neighborhood, 
when  he  found  himself,  considerably  to  hia 
surprise,  placed  in  the  witness-box  for  a 
rather  brisk  fire  of  cross-examination. 

"You  are  no  stranger  in  this  part  of  the 
country,  I  presume,"  said  he,  with  a  view  ol 
biinging  him  out  for  his  own  covert  and 
somewhat  ungenerous  puiposes. 

"  I  am  no  stranger,  sure  enough,  sir," 
replied  the  other,  "  so  far  as  a  good  sHce  ot 
the  counthry  side  goes  ;  but  if  I  am  not  you 
are,  sii",  or  I'm  out  in  it." 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  stranger  here." 

"  Never  mind,  sii*,  don't  let  that  disthresa 
you  ;  it's  a  good  man's  case,  sir.  Did  you 
thravel  far,  vrid  submission?  I  spake  in 
kindness,  sir." 

"  Why,  yes,  a — a — pretty  good  distance  ; 
but  about  ]\Ii".  Lindsay  and — " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  crossed  over,  sir,  I  suppose  ?  1 
mane  fx'om  the  other  side  f  "  , 

"  O  !  you  want  to  know  if  I  crossed  tht 
Channel?" 

"Had  you  a  pleasant* passage,  sir?" 

"Yes,  tolerable." 

"  Thank  God !  I  hope  you'll  make  a  long 
stay  with  us,  sir,  in  this  part  of  the  counthry. 
If  you  have  any  business  to  do  ^vith  Mr. 
Lindsay — as  of  coorse  you  have — why,  ] 
don't  think  you  and  he  Avill  quarrel ;  and  bj 
the  way,  sir,  I  know  him  and  the  family 
well,  and  if  I  only  got  a  glimpse,  I  could 
throw  in  a  word  or  two  to  guide  you  in  daliu 
wid  him — that  is,  if  I  knew  the  business." 

"As  to  that,"  rephed  Woodward,  "it  is 
not  Yerj  particular  ;  I  am  only  coming  on  a 
pretty  long  visit  to  him,  and  as  you  say  you 
know  the  family,  I  would  feel  glad  to  heal 
what  you  think  of  them." 

"  jVIisther  Lindsay,  or  rather  Misther 
Charles,  and  you  will  have  a  fine  time  of  it, 
sir.  There's  delightful  fishin'  here,  and  the 
best  of  shootin'  and  huntin'  in  harvest  and 
winter — that  is,  if  you  stop  so  long." 

"  Wliat  kind  of  a  man  is  'Mr.  Lindsay  ?  " 

"  A  fine,  clever  *  man,  sir  ;  six  feet  in  his 
stockin'  soles,  and  made  in  proportion." 

"But  I  want  to  know  nothing  about  hia 
figui-e  ;  is  the  man  reputed  good  or  bad  ?  " 

"  Why,  just  good  or  bad,  sir,  according  as 
he's  treated." 

"  Is  he  weU  hked,  then  ?  I  trust  you  un- 
derstand me  now." 

"  By  his  friends,  su*,  no  man  betther — b} 
them  that's  his  enemies,  not  so  weU." 

*  Portly,  large,  comely. 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


633 


"  You  mentioned  a  son  of  his,  Charles,  I 
think  ;  what  kind  of  a  younj:?  fellow  is  he  ?  " 

"  Ver}'  like  his  father,  sir." 

"J  see ;  well,  I  thank  you,  my  friend,  for 
the  liberality'  of  your  iufoi-matiou.  Has  he 
any  daughters  ?  " 

"Two,  sii- ;  but  veiy  unlike  their  mother." 

"WTiy,  what  kind  of  a  woman  w  their 
mother  ?  " 

"  She's  a  saint,  sir,  of  a  sartin  class — ever 
and  always  at  her  prayers,"  {xotto  voce,  "  such 
as  they  are — cursing  her  fellow-cratures 
from  mornin'  till  night.") 

"  Well,  at  all  events,  it  is  a  good  thing  to 
be  rehgious." 

"Devil  a  better,  sir  ;  but  she,  as  I  said,  is 
a  saint //'0??i — heaven  "  {i^otto  voce,  "  and  very 
far  from  it  too. )  But,  sir,  there's  a  lady  in 
this  neighborhood — I  won't  name  her — that 
has  a  tongue  as  sharp  and  poisonous  as  if 
she  lived  on  rattlesnakes ;  and  she  has  an 
eye  of  her  own  that  they  say  is  every  bit  as 
dangerous." 

"  And  who  is  she,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"Why,  a  very  intimate  fiiend  of  ]\Irs. 
Lindsay's,  and  seldom  out  of  her  company. 
Now,  sii',  do  you  see  that  house  wid  the  tall 
chimleys,  or  rather  do  you  see  the  tail  chim- 
leys — for  you  can't  see  the  house  itself? 
That's  where  the  family  we  spake  of  lives, 
and  there  you'U  see  IVJts.  Lindsay  and  the 
lady  I  mention." 

Woodward,  in  fact,  knew  not  what  to 
make  of  his  guide  ;  he  foimd  him  inscrut- 
able, and  deemed  it  useless  to  attempt  the 
extortion  of  any  fvu'ther  inteUigence  from 
him.  The  latter  was  ignorant  that  Mrs, 
Lindsay's  son  was  expected  home,  as  was 
ever}'  member  of  that  gentleman's  family. 
He  had,  in  fact,  given  them  no  information 
of  his  return.  The  dishonest  fi'aud  which 
he  had  practised  uj^on  his  uncle,  and  the 
apprehension  that  that  good  old  man  had 
transmitted  an  account  of  his  delinquency  to 
his  relatives,  prevented  him  from  writing, 
lest  he  might,  by  subsequent  falsehoods, 
contradict  his  uncle,  and  thereby  involve 
himself  in  deeper  disgrace.  His  imcle, 
however,  was  satisfied  with  having  got  rid  of 
him,  and  foi-bore  to  render  his  relations  un- 
happy by  any  complaint  of  his  conduct.  His 
hope  was,  that  Wootlward's  expulsion  from 
his  house,  and  the  withdrawal  of  liis  aftec- 
tions  from  him,  might,  upon  reflection, 
cause  him  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf — an  eft'ort 
which  would  have  been  difficult,  perliaps 
impracticable,  had  he  transmitted  to  them  a 
full  explanation  of  his  perfidy  and  ingrati- 
tude. 

A  thought  now  occurred  to  Woodward 
with  reference  to  himself.  He  saw  that  his 
guide,  after  having  pointed  out  his  father's 


house  to  him,  was  still  keeping  him  com- 
pany. 

"Perhaps  you  ai*e  coming  out  of  3'our 
way,"  said  he  ;  "yoii  have  been  good  enough 
to  show  me  ^Ix.  Lindsay's  residence,  and  1 
have  no  further  occasion  for  your  sen'ices. 
I  thank  you :  take  this  and  drink  my 
health ; "  and  as  he  sjjoke  he  offered  hini 
some  silver. 

"  Many  thanks,  sir,"  rephed  the  man,  in  a 
fai'  different  tone  of  voice,  "  many  thanks  ; 
but  I  never  resave  or  take  j^ayment  for  an 
act  of  civility,  especitilly  from  any  gentle 
man  on  his  way  to  the  family  of  ^Ir.  Lindsay. 
And  now,  sir,  I  will  tell  you  honestly  and 
openly  that  there  is  not  a  better  gentleman 
!  alive  this  day  than  he  is.  Himself,  his  son, 
and  daughter  *  are  loved  and  honored  by  all 
that  know  them  ;  and  woe  betide  the  man 
that  'ud  dare  to  cruck  (ci'ook)  his  finger  at 
one  of  them." 

"  You  seem  to  know  them  very  well." 

"  I  have  a  good  right,  sii-,  seein'  that  I  have 
been  in  the  family  ever  since  I  was  a  gorson.' 

"  And  is  !Mi-s.  Lindsay  as  popular  as  her 
husband  ?  " 

"  She  is  his  wife,  sir — the  mother  of  hi? 
children,  and  my  misthress  ;  afther  that  yov 
may  judge  for  yoru'self." 

"  Of  course,  then,  you  ai'e  aware  that  thej 
have  a  son  abroad."  ^ 

"  I  am,  sir,  and  a  fine  young  man  thev 
say  he  is.  Nothing  vexes  them  so  much  ai 
that  he  won't  come  to  see  them.  He's  nevei 
off  their  tongue  ;  and  if  he's  aquil  to  wha» 
they  say  of  him,  upon  my  credit  the  sur 
needn't  take  the  trouble  of  shinin'  on  him." 

"Have  they  any  expectation  of  a  visi/ 
fi'om  him,  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  hear,  sii-  ;  but  I  know  that 
nothing  would  rise  the  cockles  of  theii-  hearts 
aquil  to  seein'  him  among  tliem.  Poor  fel- 
low !  Mr.  Hamilton's  will  was  a  bad  busi- 
ness for  him,  as  it  was  thought  he'd  have 
danced  into  the  jn-operty.  But  then,  they 
say,  his  other  uncle  will  provide  for  him, 
especiaDy  as  he  took  him  from  the  family, 
by  all  accounts,  on  that  condition." 

This  information — if  information  it  coidd 
be  called — was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
wormwood  and  gaU  to  the  gentleman  on 
whose  ears  and  into  whose  he<u-t  it  fell.  Th« 
consciousness  of  his  present  position — dis- 
carded by  a  kind  uncle  for  dishonesty,  and 
deprived,  as  he  thought,  by  the  caprice  01 
mental  imbecility,  of  another  uncle,  of  a  pi-o- 
perty  amounting  to  upwai-ds  of  twelve  hun- 
dred per  annmn — sank  upon  his  heart  witt 
a  feeling  which  filled  it  with  a  deep  and  al- 

*  His  daughter  Jane  was  with  a  relation  In  Eng 
land,  and  does  not  appear  in  this  romance. 


<f34t 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


most  blasphemous  resentment  at  every  per- 
son concerned,  which  he  could  scarcely  re- 
press from  the  obsei-A'ation  of  his  guide. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  "  said  he  abruptly 
to  him  ;  and  as  he  asked  the  question  he 
fixed  a  glance  upon  him  that  startled  his 
companion. 

The  latter  looked  at  him,  and  felt  sur- 
prised at  the  fearful  expression  of  his  eye  ; 
in  the  meantime,  we  must  say,  that  he  had 
not  an  ounce  of  coward's  flesh  on  his  bones. 

"  "\Miat  is  my  name,  sir  ? "  he  replied. 
"  Faith,  afther  that  look,  if  you  don't  know 
my  name,  I  do  yours ;  there  was  your 
mother's  eye  fastened  on  me  to  the  life. 
However,  take  it  easy,  su'  ;  devil  a  bit  I'm 
afeared.  If  you're  not  her  son,  Misther 
Woodward,  why,  I'm  not  Barney  Casey, 
that's  all.  Don't  deny  it,  sir  ;  you're  wel- 
come home,  and  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  as  they 
all  will  be." 

"Harkee,  then,"  said  Woodward,  "you 
are  right ;  but,  mark  me,  keep  quiet,  and  al- 
low me  to  manage  matters  in  my  own  way  ; 
not  a  syllable  of  the  discovery  you  have 
made,  or  it  wiU  be  worse  for  you.  I  am  not 
a  person  to  be  trifled  with." 

"  Troth,  and  youre  right  there,  sir  ;  it's 
what  I  often  said,  often  sa}',  and  often  will  say 
of  myself.  Barney  Casey  is  not  the  boy 
to  be  trifled  wi(^." 

On  arriving  at  the  house,  Barney  took 
round  the  horse — a  hired  one,  by  the  way — 
to  the  stable,  and  Woodward  knocked.  On 
the  door  being  opened,  he  inquired  if  Mr. 
Lindsay  was  within,  and  was  answered  in  the 
affirmative. 

"  Will  you  let  him  know  a  gentleman 
wishes  to  see  him  for  a  few  minutes  ?  " 

"What  name,  sii",  shaU  I  say?" 

"  O,  it  doesn't  matter — say  a  gentleman." 

"  Step  into  the  parlor,  sir,  and  he  will  be 
with  you  immediately." 

He  did  so,  and  there  was  but  a  veiy  short 
time  when  his  step-father  entered.  Short, 
as  the  time  was,  however,  he  could  not  pre- 
vent himself  from  reverting  to  the  strange 
equestrian  he  had  met  on  his  way,  nor  to 
the  extraordinary  ascendancy  he  had  gained 
over  him.  Another  young  man  placed  in 
his  circumstances  would  have  felt  agitated 
and  excited  by  his  approaching  interview 
with  those  who  were  so  nearly  related  to 
him,  and  whom,  besides,  he  had  not  seen  for 
such  a  long  period  of  time.  To  every  such 
emotion,  however,  he  was  absolutely  insen- 
sible ;  there  was  no  beating  pulse,  no 
heaving  of  the  bosom,  not  a  nerve  disturbed 
by  the  tremulous  vibrations  of  awakened 
affection,  no  tumult  of  the  lieart,  no  starting 
tear — no  !  there  was  nothing  of  aU  this— 
but,   on  the  contrary,  a  calm,  cold,    imper- 


turbable spirit,  so  dead  and  ignorant  of  do~ 
mestic  attachment,  that  the  man  could 
neither  feel  nor  understand  what  it  meant. 

"Wlien  his  step-father  entered,  he  n^ur- 
aUy  bowed  to  the  stranger,  and  motioned 
him  to  a  seat,  which  the  other  accordingly 
took.  Lindsay  certainly  was,  as  Barney 
Casey  had  said,  a  very  fine-looking  man  for 
his  years.  He  was  taU,  erect,  and  portly, 
somewhat  incHned  to  coipulency,  of  a  hand- 
some, but  florid  countenance,  in  which 
might  be  read  a  large  exjoression  of  cheerful- 
ness and  good  humor,  together  with  that 
peculiar  tinge  which  results  fr'om  convivial- 
ity. Indeed,  there  could  scarcely  be  wit- 
nessed a  more  striking  contrast  than  that 
between  his  open,  kind-locking  features,  and 
the  shai*p,  disagreeable  symmetry  which 
marked  those  of  his  step-son  with  such  a 
dark  and  unpleasant  character. 

"  My  sei-A'ant  tells  me,"  said  Lindsay, 
coui-teously,  "  that  you  wished  to  see  me." 

"I  did,  sir,"  repHed  Woodward  ;  "in  that 
he  spoke  correctly  ;  I  wished  to  see  you,  and 
I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  rephed  the  other, 
bowmg  again;  "but^ahem" — in  the  mean- 
time, sir,  3'ou  have  the  advantage  of  me." 

"And  intend  to  keep  it,  sir,  for  a  httle," 
replied  Woodward  ^dth  one  of  his  cold  smiles. 
"I  came  to  speak  to  you,  sir,  concei*ning 
your  son  who  is  abroad,  and  to  ask  if  you 
have  recently  heard  from  himself  or  his 
uncle." 

"  O,  then,  I  presume,  sfr,"  rephed  Lind- 
say, "you  are  an  acquaintance  or  friend  of 
his  ;  if  so,  allow  me  to  bid  you  welcome  ; 
nothing,  I  assure  you,  could  afford  either 
myself  or  my  family  gi-eater  jDleasure  than 
to  meet  and  show  attention  to  any  friend  of 
his.  Unfortunately,  we  have  heard  nothing 
from  him  or  his  uncle  for  nearly  the  last 
year  and  a  half  ;  but,  you  will  be  doubly 
welcome,  sir,  if  you  can  assiu-e  us  that  they 
are  both  well.  His  uncle,  or  rather  I  should 
sa}'  his  grand-uncle,  for  in  that  relation  he 
stands  to  him,  adopted  him,  and  a  kinder 
man  does  not  live." 

"  I  believe  Mr.  Woodward  and  his  uncle 
are  both  well,  the  former,  I  think,  sir,  is  your 
step-son  only." 

"  Don't  say  onhj,  sir,  he  is  just  as  much 
the  son  of  my  affection  as  his  brother,  and 
now,  sir,  may  I  request  to  know  the  name  of 
the  gentleman  I  am  addressing  ?  " 

"  Should  you  wish  to  see  Henry  Wood- 
ward himself,  sir  ?  " 

"Dear  sir,  nothing  would  dehght  me 
more,  and  aU  of  us,  especially  his  mother; 
yet  the  ungrateful  boy  would  never  come 
near  us,  although  he  was  pressed  and  lU'ged 
to  do  so  a  hundred  times," 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


C35 


"  ^^'cll,  then,  sir,"  replied  that  gentleman,  j 
rising  up,  "  he  now  stands  before  yon  ;  I  am 
Henry  Woodward,  father."  \ 

A  hug  that  half  strangled  him  was  the  first  I 
acknowledgment  of  his  identity.     "  Zounds,  i 
my  dear  Harr}' — Harry,  my  dear  boy,  you're  ; 
welcome   a   thousand   times,    ten  thousand 
times.     Stiind  off  a  little  till  I  look  at  you  ; 
fine  young  fellow,  and  your  mother's  image.  ' 
Gadzooks,  I  was  stui^id  as  a  block  not  to 
know  yo\i  ;  but  who  would  have  dreamed  of  ■ 
it.     There,  I  .say — hallo,  Jenny  ! — come  here, 
all  of  you  ;  here  is  Hariy  at  last.     Ai'e  you  i 
all  deaf,  or  asleep  ?  "  I 

These  words  he  shouted  out  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  and  in  a  few  minutes  his  mother, 
Charles,  and  his  sister  Maria  entered  the 
room,  the  two  latter  in  a  state  of  transport. 

"  Here,  Jenny,  here  he  is  ;  you  have  the 
first  claim  ;  confound  it,  Charley,  Maria, 
don't  strangle  the  boy  ;  ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

Li  fact,  the  precaution,  so  far  as  the  affec-  ' 
tionate  brother  and  sister  were  concerned, 
was  anything  but  needless.  His  mother, 
seeing  their  eagerness  to  embrace  him,  Avhich 
they  did  with  tears  of  dehght,  stood  calmh' 
by  until  he  was  disentangled  from  their 
arms,  when  she  approached  him  and  im- 
printed two  kisses  upon  his  lips,  \\\i\\  an  in- 
ditference  of  manner  that,  to  a  stranger, 
would  have  been  extraordinary,  but  which, 
to  those  who  were  present,  excited  no  sur- 
prise ;  for  she  had  scarcely,  during  her  hfe, 
ever  kissed  one  of  her  own  children.  Nothing,  : 
indeed,  could  exceed  the  tumultuous  exulta- 
tion of  spirits  with  wliich  they  received  him, 
nor  was  hone.st  Lindsay  himseK  less  joyously 
alfected.  Yet  it  might  be  observed  that 
there  was  a  spai'kle  in  the  eye  of  his  mother, 
which  was  as  singular'  as  it  was  concentrated 
and  intense.  Such  an  expi-ession  might  be 
observed  in  a  menagerie  when  a  tigi'ess,  in- 
dolently daU^ing  with  one  of  her  cubs, 
exhibits,  even  in  repose,  those  fieiy  scintilla- 
tions in  the  eye  which  stiU'tle  the  beholders. 
The  hght  of  that  eye,  though  intense,  was 
cold,  calculating,  and  disagi'eeable  to  look 
upon.  The  frigidity  of  her  manner  and  re-  i 
caption  of  him  might,  to  a  certain  extent,  be 
accounted  for  from  the  fact  that  she  had 
gone  to  his  uncle's  several  times  for  the  pur- 
pose of  seeing  him,  and  watching  his  inter- 
ests. Let  us  not,  therefore,  impute  to  the 
coldness  of  her  habits  any  want  of  atfection 
for  him  ;  on  the  contraiy,  his  little  finger  : 
was  a  thousand  times  dearer  to  her  than  the 
bodies  and  souls  of  all  her  other  childi'en, 
adding  to  them  her  husband  himself,  put 
together.  Besides,  she  was  perfectly  unsus- 
ceptible of  emotions  of  tenderness,  and.  con- 
sequently, a  woman  of  powerful  will,  intlex-  j 
i}>le  determination,  and  the  most  inexorable 


resentments.  She  was  also  ambitious,  as  fsir 
as  she  had  scope  for  it,  within  her  sphere  of 
life,  and  would  have  been  painfully  penurious 
in  her  family,  were  it  not  thiit  the  fiery  reso- 
lution of  her  husband,  when  excited  by  long 
and  intolerable  provocation,  was  at  all  times 
able  to  subdue  her — a  superiority  over  her 
will  and  authority  wliich  she  never  forgave 
him.  Li  fact,  she  noitlier  loved  himself,  nor 
anything  in  common  with  him ;  and  the 
natural  affection  which  he  displayed  on  the 
return  of  her  son  was  one  reason  why  i^he 
received  him  with  such  apparent  indifit'erence. 
To  all  the  rest  of  the  family  she  had  a  heart 
of  stone.  Since  her  second  marriage  they 
had  lost  three  children  ;  but,  so  far  as  she 
was  concerned,  each  of  them  went  down  into 
a  tearless  grave.  She  had  once  been  hand- 
some ;  but  her  beauty,  like  her  son's,  was 
severe  and  disagreeable.  There  is,  however, 
such  a  class  of  beauty,  and  it  is  principally 
successful  with  men  who  have  a  peuchanl  for 
overcoming  difiiculties,  because  it  is  well 
kno^^•n  that  the  fact  of  conciliating  or  sub- 
duing it  is  justly  considered  no  ordiuaiT 
achievement.  A  great  number  of  oui-  old 
maids  may  trace  theii"  sohtude  and  theii* 
celibacy  to  the  very  questionable  gift  of  such 
beaut}',  and  the  dispositions  which  usually 
accompany  it.  She  was  tall,  and  had  now 
grown  thin,  and  her  features  had  become 
sharj3ened  by  ill-temper  into  those  of  a  fiesh- 
less,  angular-faced  vixen.  Altogether  she 
was  a  faithful  exponent  of  her  o^vn  evil  and 
intolerable  disi)osition  ;  and  it  was  said  that 
she  had  inherited  that  and  the  "unlucky 
eye  "  from  a  family  that  was  said  to  have 
been  desenedly  uni^opular,  and  equally  un- 
scruj)ulous  in  their  resentments. 

"  Well,  Hariy,"  said  she,  after  the  wann» 
hearted  ebullition  of  feeling  produced  by  his 
appearance  had  subsided,  "  so  you  have 
retui-ned  to  us  at  last ;  but  indeed  you 
return  now  to  a  blank  and  dismal  prospect. 
]Miss  Goodwin's  adder  tongue  has  charmed 
the  dotage  of  your  silly  old  uncle  to  some 
purpose  for  herself." 

"  Confound  it,  Jenny,"  said  her  husband, 
"  let  the  young  man  breathe,  at  least,  before 
you  bring  up  that  eternal  subject.  Is  not 
the  matter  over  and  decided  '?  and  where  is 
the  use  of  your  making  both  youi'self  and  us 
unhappy  by  discussing  it  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  decided,  but  it  is  not  over, 
Lindsay,"  she  rephed  ;  "don't  imagine  it :  I 
shall  pursue  the  Goodwins,  especially  that 
sorceress,  Alice,  with  a  vengeance  that  will 
annul  the  will,  and  circumvent  those  who 
wheedled  him  into  the  making  of  it.  My 
cui'se  upon  them  all,  as  it  will  be  !  " 

"  Hany,  when  you  become  better  ac- 
quainted with  your  mothor,"  said  his  step- 


636 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


father,  "  you  will  get  sick  of  this.  Have  you 
breakfasted  ;  for  that  is  more  to  the  point  ?  " 

"I  have,  sir," replied  the  other ;  "  and  you 
would  scarcely  guess  where  ; "  and  here  he 
smiled  and  glanced  significantly  at  his 
mother. 

"Whj',  1  suppose,"  said  Lindsay,  ."in 
whatever  inn  you  stopped  at." 

"  No,"  he  repHed  ;  "  I  was  obhged  to  seek 
shelter  from  the  storm  last  night,  and  where 
do  you  think  I  found  it  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows.     "WTiiere  ?  " 

"  Wliy,  with  your  friend  and  neighbor, 
Mr.  Goodwin." 

"  No  friend,  Hany,"  said  his  mother ; 
"  don't  say  that." 

"  I  slept  there  last  night,"  he  proceeded, 
"and  breakfasted  there  this  morning,  and 
nothing  could  exceed  the  cordiality  and 
kindness  of  my  reception." 

"  Did  they  know  who  j'^ou  were  ? "  asked 
his  mother,  with  evident  interest. 

"Not  till  this  morning,  at  breakfast." 

"Well,"  said  she  again,  "when  they 
heard  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  their  attention  and  kindness  even 
redoubled,"  rej^lied  her  son  ;  "  and  as  for 
Miss  Goodwin  herself,  she's  as  elegant,  as 
sweet,  and  as  lovely  a  girl  as  I  ever 
looked  on.  Mother,  I  beg  you  to  entertain 
no  implacable  or  inveterate  enmity  against 
her.  I  will  stake  my  existence  that  she 
never  stooj)ed  to  any  fraudulent  circumven- 
tion of  my  poor  uncle.  Take  my  word  for 
it,  the  intent  and  execution  of  the  will  must 
be  accounted  for  otherwise." 

"Well  and  ti-uly  said,  Harry,"  said  his 
step-father — "  well  and  generously  said  ; 
give  me  your  hand,  my  boy  ;  thank  you. 
Now,  madam,"  he  proceeded,  addressing  his 
tvife,  "  what  have  you  to  say  to  the  opinion 
of  a  man  who  has  lost  so  much  by  the  trans- 
iction,  when  you  hear  that  that  opinion  is 
jiven  in  her  favor  ?  " 

"Indeed,  my  dear  Harry,"  observed  his 
sister,  "  she  is  all  that  you  have  said  of  her, 
and  much  more,  if  you  knew  her  as  we  do  ; 
she  is  all  disinterestedness  and  truth,  and 
the  most  unselfish  girl  that  ever  breathed." 

Now,  there  were  two  persons  present  who 
paused  upon  heariog  this  intelligence  ;  one 
of  whom  listened  to  it  with  unexpected 
pleasure,  and"  the  other  with  mingled  emo- 
tions of  pleasure  and  pain.  The  first  of 
these  were  Mrs.  Lindsay,  and  the  other  her 
son  Charles.  Mrs.  Lindsay,  whose  eyes 
were  not  for  a  moment  off  her  son,  under- 
stood the  significant  glance  he  had  given  her 
when  he  launched  forth  so  heartily  in  the 
praise  of  Alice  Goodwin  ;  neither  did  the 
same  glance  escape  the  observation  of  his 
brother    Charles,    who    infen-ed,    naturally 


enough,  from  the  warmth  of  the  eulogiuru 
that  had  been  passed  upon  her,  that  she  had 
made,  perhaps,  too  favorable  an  impression 
upon  his  brother.  Of  this,  however,  the 
reader  shall  hear  more -in  due  time. 

"Well,"  said  the  mother  slowly,  and  in  a 
meditating  voice,  "  perhaps,  after  aU,  we 
may  have  done  her  injustice.  If  so,  no  per- 
son would  regi-et  it  more  than  myself ;  but 
we  shall  see.  You  parted  from  them,  Harrj^ 
on  friendly  terms  ?  " 

"  I  did,  indeed,  my  dear  mother,  and  am 
permitted,  almost  solicited,  to  make  their 
further  acquaintance,  and  cultivate  a  friendly 
intimacy  with  them,  which  I  am  determined 
to  do." 

"Bravo,  Hariy,  my  fine  fellow;  and  we 
will  be  on  fr-iendly  terms  with  them  once 
more.  Poor,  honest,  and  honorable  old 
Goodwin !  what  a  pity  that  either  disunion  or 
enmity  should  subsist  between  us.  No  ;  the 
families  must  be  once  more  cordial  and  affec- 
tionate, as  they  ought  to  be.  Bravo,  Harry  ! 
your  return  is  prophetic  of  peace  and  good 
feeling  ;  and,  confound  me,  but  you  shall 
have  a  bonfire  this  night  for  your  generosity 
that  will  shame  the  sun.  The  tar-barrels  shall 
blaze,  and  the  beer-barrels  shall  run  to  cele- 
brate yoirr  appearance  amongst  us.  Come, 
Charley,  let  us  go  to  Rathfillan,  and  get  the 
townsfolk  to  prejDare  for  the  fete :  we  must 
have  fiddlers  and  pipers,  and  plenty  of  dan- 
cing. Barney  Casey  must  go  among  the 
tenants,  too,  and  order  them  aU  into  the 
town.  Mat  Mulcahy,  the  inn-keeper,  must 
give  us  his  best  room ;  and,  my  life  to 
yours,  we  will  have  a  pleasant  night  of 
it." 

"  George,"  exclaimed  his  wife,  in  a  tone  of 
querulous  remonstrance,  "you  know  how 
expensive — " 

"  Confound  the  expense  and  your  penury 
both,"  exclaimed  her  husband ;  "is  it  to 
your  own  son,  on  his  return  to  us  after  such 
an  absence,  that  you'd  gz-udge  the  expense  of 
a  blazing  bonfire  ?  " 

"  Not  the  bonfire,"  replied  his  wife,  "but — " 

"Ay,  but  the  cost  of  drink  to  the  tenants. 
Wliy,  uj)on  my  soul,  Harry,  yoirr  mother  is 
anything  but  popular  here,  you  must  know  ; 
and  I  think  if  it  were  not  from  respect  to  me 
and  the  rest  of  the  family  she'd  be  indicted 
for  a  witch.  Gadzooks,  Jenny,  will  I  never 
get  sense  or  hberaHty  into  your  head  ?  Aj^ 
and  if  you  go  on  after  your  usual  fashion,  it 
is  not  unlikely  that  you  may  have  a  tar- bar- 
rel of  your  own  before  long.  Go,  you  and 
Harry,  and  tell  your  secrets  to  each  other 
while  we  prepare  for  the  jubilation.  In  the 
meantime,  we  must  get  up  an  extempore  din- 
ner to-day — the  set  dinner  will  come  in  due 
time,  and  be  a   different  affair  ;  but  at  all 


TEE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


637 


events  some  of  the  neighbors  we  must  have 
to  join  us  in  the  jovialities — hurroo  !  " 

"  Well,  George,"  said  she,  with  her  own 
pecuhar  smile,  "  I  see  you  are  in  one  of  your 
moods  to-day." 

"  Ay,  right  enough,  the  imperative  one,  my 
deal'." 

"  And,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  would 
not  ceiiainly  become  me  to  stand  in  the  way 
of  any  honor  bestowed  upon  my  son  Harry  ; 
BO  I  perceive  you  must  only  have  it  your  own 
way — /  coiisi'iit." 

"  I  don't  care  a  fig  whether  you  do  or  not. 
When  matters  come  to  a  push,  I  am  always 
master  of  my  own  house,  and  ever  Avill  be 
so — and  you  know  it.  Good-by,  Hariy,  we 
will  be  back  in  time  for  dinner,  with  as 
many  friends  as  we  can  pick  up  on  so  short 
notice — hurroo  !  " 

He  and  Charles  accordingly  went  forth  to 
make  the  necessfuy  preparations,  and  give 
due  notice  of  the  bonfii-e,  after  which  they 
succeeded  in  securing  the  attendance  of  about 
a  dozen  guests  to  partake  of  the  festivity. 

Barney,  in  the  meantime,  having  recei^^ed 
his  orders  for  collecting,  or,  as  it  was  then 
caUed,  tvarniug  in  the  tenantry  to  the  forth- 
coming bonfire,  proceeded  upon  his  message 
in  high  spirits,  not  on  account  of  the  honor 
it  was  designed  to  confer  on  Woodward, 
against  whom  he  had  Jih'eady  conceived  a 
strong  antipathy,  in  consequence  of  the  re- 
semblance he  bore  to  his  mothei*,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  fun  and  amusement  which  he 
purposed  to  enjoy  at  it  himself.  The  fii-st 
house  he  went  into  was  a  small  country 
cabin,  such  as  a  petty  farmer  of  five  or  six 
acres  at  that  time  occupied.  The  door  was 
not  of  wood,  but  of  wicker-work  woven  across 
long  wattles  and  plastered  over  with  clay 
mortar.  The  house  had  two  small  holes  in 
the  front  side-walls  to  admit  the  light ;  but 
during  severe  weather  these  were  filled  up 
'(vith  straw  or  rags  to  keep  out  the  storm. 
Oa  one  side  of  the  door  stood  a  large  cnrra, 
or,  "  ould  man,"  for  it  was  occasionally 
termed  both — composed  of  brambles  and 
wattles  tied  up  lengthwise  together — about 
the  height  of  a  man  and  as  thick  as  an 
ordinary  sack.  This  was  used,  as  they 
termed  it,  "  to  keep  the  \vind  fi-om  the  door." 
If  the  blast  came  from  the  right,  it  was 
placed  on  that  side,  and  if  from  the  left,  it 
was  changed  to  the  opjiosite.  Chimneys,  at 
that  period,  were  to  be  found  only  upon  the . 
houses  of  extensive  and  wealthy  farmers,  the 
only  substitute  for  them  being  a  simple  hole 
in  the  roof  over  the  fireplace.  The  small 
farmer  in  question  cultivated  his  acres  with 
a  spade  :  and  after  sowing  his  grain  he  liar- 
rowed  it  in  with  a  large  thorn  bush,  which 
he  himself,  or  one  of  his  sons,  dragged  over 


it  with  a  heavy  stone  on  the  top  to  keep  i< 
close  to  the  surface.  When  Barney  entered 
this  cabin  he  found  the  vanithee,  or  woman  ol 
the  house,  engaged  in  the  act  of  giindinj^ 
oats  into  meal  for  their  dinner  with  a  quern, 
consisting  of  two  diminutive  millstones 
turned  by  the  hand  ;  this  was  placed  upon  a 
2)ra.skeen,  or  coai'se  apron,  spread  imder  it 
on  the  floor  to  receive  the  meal.  An  old 
woman,  her  mother,  sat  spinning  flax  with 
the  distafl" — for  as  yet  flax  wheels  were  scarce- 
ly knowai — and  a  lubberly  young  fellow  aboul 
sixteen,  with  able,  well  shaped  limbs  and 
gi-eat  promise  of  bodily  strength,  sat  before 
the  fire  managing  a  double  task,  to  wit,  roast- 
ing, first,  a  lot  of  potatoes  in  the  yreeahaugh, 
which  consisted  of  hidf  embers  and  halt 
ashes,  glowing  hot ;  and,  secondly,  at  a 
little  distance  from  the  larger  lighted  tui-f, 
two  duck  eggs,  which,  as  well  as  the  potatoes, 
he  turned  from  time  to  time,  that  they 
might  be  equally  done.  All  this  he  conduct- 
ed by  the  aid  of  what  was  termed  a  m  uddha 
vrislJia,  or  i-ustic  tongs,  which  was  nothing 
more  than  a  wattle,  or  stick,  broken  in  the 
middle,  between  the  ends  of  which  he  held 
both  his  potatoes  and  his  eggs  while  turning 
them.  Two  good-looking,  fresh-colored  girls 
were  squatted  on  theii-  htdikerfi  (hams),  cut' 
ting  potatoes  for  seed — late  as  the  season 
was— <^with  two  case  knives,  which  had  been 
bori'owed  from  a  neighboring  farmer  of  some 
wealth.  The  dress  of  the  women  was  similar 
and  simple.  It  consisted  of  a  long-bodied 
gowTi  that  had  only  half  skirts  ;  that  is  to 
say,  instead  of  encompassing  the  whole  per- 
son, the  lower  part  of  it  came  forward  only 
as  far  as  the  hip  bones,  on  each  side,  learin^ 
the  fr'ont  of  the  petticoat  exjjosed.  Thi.s 
posterior  part  of  the  gown  would,  if  left  to 
fall  to  its  full  length,  have  formed  a  train 
behind  them  of  at  least  two  feet  in  length. 
It  was  pinned  up,  however,  to  a  convenient 
length,  and  was  not  at  all  an  ungraceful 
garment,  if  we  except  the  sleeves,  which  went 
no  farther  than  the  elbows — a  fashion  in 
dress  which  is  always  unbecoming,  especially 
when  the  arms  are  thin.  The  hafr  of  the 
elder  woman  was  douljled  back  in  front, 
fo'om  about  the  middle  of  the  forehead,  and 
the  rest  of  the  head  was  covered  by  a  dowd 
cap,  the  most  primitive  of  all  female  head- 
dresses, being  a  plain  shell,  or  skull-cap,  as 
it  were,  for  the  head,  pointed  behind,  and 
without  any  fr-inge  or  btnxler  whatsoever. 
This  turning  up  of  the  hair  was  peculiai 
only  to  married  life,  of  whic;h  condition  i\ 
was  univers;dly  a  badge.  The  young  females 
wore  theirs  fastened  behind  by  a  skewer, 
but  on  this  occasion  one  of  them,  the  young- 
est, allowed  it  to  fall  in  natural  ringlets 
about  her  cheeks  and  shoulders. 


(J38 


willtam  carleton's  works. 


"  God  save  all  here,"  said  Barney,  as  he 
entered  the  house. 

"  God  save  you  kindly,  Barney,"  was  the 
instant  reply  from  all. 

•'  Ah,  IVIrs.  Davoren,"  he  proceeded,  "  ever 
the  same  ;  by  this  and  by  that,  if  there's  a 
woman  li\diig  ignorant  of  one  thing,  and  you 
are  that  woman." 

"  Sorrow  oft"  you,  Barney !  well,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"Idleness,  achora.  Now,  let  me  see  if 
you  have  e'er  a  finger  at  all  to  show  ;  for  up- 
on my  honorable  word  they  ought  to  be 
worn  to  the  stumps  long  ago.  "Well,  and 
how  are  you  all?  But  sure  I  needn't  ax. 
Faith,  you're  cinishin'  the  blanther*  anyhow, 
and  that  looks  well." 

"  We  must  hve,  Barney  ;  'tis  a  poor  shift 
we'd  make  'idout  the  praties  and  the  broghan," 
(meal  porridge). 

"What  news  fi'om  the  big  house?" 

"  News,  is  it  ?  Come,  Corney,  come,  girls, 
bounce  ;  news  is  it  ?  O,  faitha',  thin  it's  I 
that  has  the  news  that  will  make  you  all 
shake  your  feet  to-night." 

"Blessed  saints,  Barney  what  is  it?" 

"  Bounce,  I  say,  and  off  wid  ye  to  gather 
briisna  (dried  and  rotten  brambles)  for  a  bon- 
fire in  the  gi-eat  town  of  Kathfillan." 

"  A  bonfire,  Barney  !  Ai-ra,  why,  man 
alive?" 

"  "Wliy  ?  Why,  bekaise  the  masther's. step- 
son and  the  mistlii'ess's  own  pet  has  come 
home  to  us  to  set  the  counthiy  into  a  state 
o'  conflagi'ation  wid  his  beaut}'.  There  won't 
be  a  whole  cap  in  the  barony  before  this  daj^ 
week.  They're  to  have  fiddlers,  and  pipers, 
and  dancin',  and  drinkin'  to  no  end  ;  and  the 
glory  of  it  is  tliat  the  masther,  God  bless 
him,  is  to  pay  for  all.     Now  ! '" 

The  younger  of  the  two  girls  sprang  to 
her  feet  with  the  elasticity'  and  agility  of  a 
deer. 

"  0,  heetha,  Barney,"  she  exclaimed,  "  but 
that  will  be  the  fun  !  And  the  misthress's 
son  is  home?  Arra,  what  is  he  like,  Bar- 
ney ?  Is  he  as  handsome  as  Masther 
Charles  ?  " 

"  I  hope  he's  as  good,"  ssid  her  mother. 

"As  good,  Bridget?  No,  but  Avorth  a 
shipload  of  him  ;  he  has  a  pair  of  eyes  in  his 
head,  Granua,"  {anglice,  Grace,)  addressing 
the  younger,  "  that  'ud  tui-n  Glendhis  (the 
dark  glen)  to  noonday  at  midniglit ;  divil  a 
lie  in  it ;  and  his  hand's  never  out  of  his 
pocket  Avid  generosity." 

"  O,  mother,"  said  Grace,  "  won't  we  all 
go?" 

"Don't  ax  your  mother  anything  about 


•  Blanter,  a  well-known  description  of  oats.  It 
w.as  so  oallecl  from  having  been  originally  imported 
from  Blantire  in  Scotland. 


it,"  ref)hed  Barney,  "  bekaise  mother,  and 
father,  and  sister,  and  brother,  daughter  and 
son,  is  all  to  come." 

"  Arra,  Barney,"  said  Bridget  Davoren, 
for  such  was  her  name,  "  is  this  gentleman 
hke  his  emld  of  a  mother  ?  " 

"  Hasn't  a  featui-e  of  her  pui'ty  face, "he  re- 
pHed,  "  and,  to  the  back  o'  that,  is  very  much 
given  to  religion.  Troth,  my  own  opinion  is, 
he'll  be  one  of  ourselves  yet ;  for  I  can  tell 
you  a  saicret  about  him>" 

"  A  saicret,  Barney,"  said  Grace  ;  "  maybe 
he's  married  ?  " 

"  MaiTied,  no  ;  he  tould  me  himself  this 
mornin'  that  it's  not  his  intention  ever  to 
marry  'till  he  meets  a  purty  girl  to  plaise 
him  ;  he'll  keep  a  loose  foot'  he  says,  and  an 
aisy  conscience  till  then,  he  says ;  but  the 
saicret  is  this,  he  never  aits  flesh  mate  of  a 
Friday — when  he  can't  get  it.  Indeed,  I'm 
afeared  he's  too  good  to  be  long  for  this 
world  ;  but  still,  if  the  Lord  was  to  take 
him,  wouldn't  it  be  a  proof  that  he  had  a 
great  regard  for  him  !  " 

Grace  Davoren  was  flushed  and  excited 
■udth  delight.  She  was  about  eighteen, 
rather  tall  for  her  age,  but  roundly  and  ex- 
quisitely moulded  ;  her  glossy  ringlets,  as 
the}'  danced  about  her  cheeks  and  shoulders, 
were  black  as  ebony  ;  but  she  was  no  bru- 
nette ;  for  her  skin  was  milk  white,  and  that 
poi-tion  of  her  bosom,  which  was  uncovered 
by  the  simple  nature  of  her  dress,  threw 
back  a  poHshed  light  like  ivory  ;  her  figure 
was  perfection,  and  her  white  legs  were  a 
finer  specimen  of  symmetry  than  ever  sup- 
ported the  body  of  the  Venus  de  Medicis. 
This  was  all  excellent ;  but  it  was  the  spark- 
ling lustre  of  her  eyes,  and  the  radiance  of 
her  whole  countenance,  that  attracted  the 
beholder.  If  there  was  anything  to  be  found 
fault  with,  it  was  in  the  spirit,  not  in  the 
physical  perfection,  of  her  beauty.  There 
was,  for  instance,  too  much  warmth  of  color- 
ing and  of  constitution  visible  in  her  whole 
exquisite  j^erson  ;  and  sometimes  her  glances 
would  puzzle  you  to  determine  whether  they 
were  those  of  innocence  or  of  challenge.  Be 
this  as  it  may,  she  was  a  rare  specimen  of 
rustic  beauty  and  buoyancy  of  spirit. 

"O,  Barney,"  said  she,  "that's  the  pleas- 
antest  news  I  heard  this  month  o'  Sundays 
■ — sich  dancin'  as  we'll  have !  and  maj'be  I 
won't  foot  it,  and  me  got  my  new  shoes  and 
drugget  gown  last  week  ; "  and  here  she  lilted 
a  gay  Ii-ish  air,  to  which  she  set  a-dancing 
with  a  lightness  of  foot  and  vivacity  of  man- 
ner that  threw  her  whole  countenance  into  a 
most  exquisite  glow  of  mirthful  beauty. 

"  Granua,"  said  her  mother,  reprovingly, 
"  think  of  3'ourself  and  Avhat  you  arc  about ; 
if  you  worn't  a  liglit-hearted,  and,  I'm  afeard. 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


639 


a  light-headed,  girl,  too,  you  wouldn't  go  on 
as  you  do,  especially  when  you  know  what  you 
know,  and  what  Barney  here,  too,  knows." 

"  Ah,"  said  Baniey,  liis  whole  manner  im- 
mediately changing,  "  have  you  heard  from 
him,  poor  fellow?" 

"  Torle3''s  gone  to  the  mountains,"  she  re- 
plied, "  and — but  here  he  is.  Well,  Torley, 
what  news,  asthoi'e  ?  " 

Her  husband  having  passed  a  friendly 
greeting  to  Barney,  sat  down,  and  having 
taken  off  his  hat,  lifted  the  skirt  of  his 
cothamore  (big  coat)  and  wiped  the  per- 
spiration off  his  large  and  manly  forehead, 
on  which,  however,  were  the  traces  of  deep 
care.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  time,  but 
at  length  said  : 

"  Bridget,  give  me  a  drink." 

His  wife  took  a  wooden  noggin,  which  she 
dipped  into  a  chui-n  and  handed  him.  Hav- 
ing finished  it  at  a  draught,  he  wiped  his 
mouth  with  his  gathered  palm,  breathed 
deeply,  but  was  still  silent. 

"  Torley,  did  you  hear  me  ?  "WTiat  news  of 
that  unfortunate  boy  ?  " 

"  No  news,  Bridget,  at  least  no  good 
news  ;  the  boy's  an  outlaw,  and  will  be  an 
outlaw — or  rather  he  won't  be  an  outlaw 
long  ;  they'll  get  him  soon." 

"  But  why  would  they  get  him  ?  hasn't  he 
sense  enough  to  keep  from  them  ?  " 

"  That's  just  what  he  has  not,  Bridget ;  he 
has  left  the  mountains  and  come  down  some- 
where to  the  Lifield  country  ;  but  where,  I 
cannot  make  out." 

"Well,  asthore,  hell  only  bi-ing  on  his 
own  punishment.  Troth,  I'm  not  a  bit  sony 
that  Gi'anua  missed  him.  I  never  was  to 
say, /br  the  match,  but  you  shovdd  have  your 
way,  and  force  the  gii-1  there  to  it,  over  and 
above.  Of  what  use  is  his  land  and  wealth 
to  him  now  ?  " 

"God's  will  be  done,"  replied  her  hus- 
band, sorrowfully.  "As  for  me,  I  can  do 
no  more  in  it,  nor  I  won't.  I  was  doing  the 
best  for  my  child.  He'll  be  guided  by  no 
one's  adWce  but  his  own." 

"That's  true,"  replied  his  wife,  "you  did. 
But  here's  Barney  Casey,  from  the  big  house, 
comin'  to  wara  the  tenantry  to  a  bonfire 
that's  to  be  made  to-night  in  Ratlifillan,  out 
of  rejoicin'  for  the  misthress's  son  that's  come 
home  to  them." 

Here  Baniey  once  more  repeated  the  mes- 
sage, with  which  the  reader  is  already  ac- 
quainted. 

"  You  are  all  to  come,"  he  proceeded, 
"  oiild  and  young  ;  and  to  bring  evers"  one  a 
backload  of  sticks  and  brumia  to  help  to 
make  the  bonfire." 

"Is  this  message  fi'om  the  mnsfhcr  or 
misthress,  Barney  ?  "  asked  Davoren. 


[  "  O,  straight  from  himself,"  he  replied. 
"I  have  it  from  his  own  lips.  Troth  he's 
I  ready  to  leap  out  of  his  skin  wid  dehght." 
'  "  Bekaise,"  added  Davoren,  "  if  it  came 
from  the  misthress,  the  soitow  foot  either  1 
or  any  one  of  mv  family  would  set  neai*  her  ; 
but  fr'om  himself,  that  s  a  horse  of  another 
color.  Tell  him,  Bai-ne}',  we'll  be  there, 
and  bring  what  we  can  to  help  the  bonfire." 

Until  this  moment  the  young  fellow  at  the 
fire  never  uttered  a  syllable,  nor  seemed  in 
the  slightest  degi-ee  conscious  that  there  was 
any  person  in  the  house  but  himself.  He 
was  now  engaged  in  masticating  the  potatoes 
and  eggs,  the  latter  of  which  he  ate  with  a 
thin  splinter  of  bog  deal,  which  sen'ed  as  a 
substitute  for  an  egg-spoon,  and  which  is  to 
this  day  used  among  the  poor  for  the  same 
pui-jjose  in  the  remoter  parts  of  Ireland.  At 
length  he  spoke  : 

"  This  won't  be  a  good  night  for  a  bonfire 
anj'how." 

"^\Tiy,  Andy,  abouchal?"  (my  boy.) 

"Bekaise,  mudher,  the  storm  loag  in  the 
fire*  last  night  when  I  was  rakin'  it." 

"  Then  we'll  have  rough  weather,"  said  his 
father  ;  "  no  doubt  of  that." 

"  Don't  be  afeard,"  said  Barney,  laughing  ; 
"  take  my  word  for  it,  if  there's  to  be  rough 
weather,  and  that  some  witch  or  wizju'd  has 
broken  bargain  -ndth  the  devil,  the  misthi-ess 
has  intherest  to  get  it  put  off  tiU  the  bonfire's 
over." 

He  then  bade  them  good-by,  and  took  his 
departure  to  fulfil  his  agreeable  and  welcome 
mission.  Indeed,  he  spent  the  gi-eater  i^or- 
tion  of  the  day  not  only  in  going  among  the 
tenants  in  person,  but  in  sending  the  pur- 
port of  the  said  mission  to  be  borne  upon 
the  four  winds  of  heaven  through  eveiy 
quarter  of  the  bai'ony  ;  after  which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  Uttle  market- town  of  Eathfil- 
lan,  where  he  seciu-ed  the  services  of  two 
fiddlers  and  two  j^ipers.  This  being  accom- 
phshed,  he  returned  home  to  his  master's, 
ripe  and  ready  for  both  dinner  and  supper  ; 
for,  as  he  had  missed  the  former  meal,  he 
deemed  it  most  judicious  to  kill,  as  he  said, 
the  two  birds  with  one  stone,  by  demohsh- 
ing  them  both  together. 

*  This  is  a  singular  phenomenon,  which,  so  fai 
as  I  am  aware,  has  never  j'et  been  noticed  by  any 
Irish  or  Scotch  writers  when  describing  the  habits 
and  usages  of  the  people  in  either  country.  When 
stirring  the  (jre^shtiiifih,  or  red-hot  ashes,  at  night 
at  the  settling,  or  mending,  or  raking  of  the  fire,  a 
blue,  phosphoric-looking  light  is  distinctly  visible 
in  the  embers,  and  the  more  visible  in  proportion 
to  the  feeblene.ss  of  the  light  emitted  by  the  fire. 
It  is  only  during  certain  states  of  the  atmosphere 
that  this  is  seen.  It  is  always  considered  as  ri 
prognostic  of  severe  weather,  and  Its  appearance  U 
termed  a.s  ahove. 


640 


WILLIAM  CARLETOIPS   WORKS. 


CHAPTEE  V. 

The  Bonfire — The  Prodigy. 

Andy  Davoren's  prognostic,  so  far  as  the 
^pearance  of  the  weather  went,  seemed,  at 
a  first  glance,  to  be  hterally  built  on  ashes. 
A  calm,  mild,  and  glorious  serenity  lay  upon 
the  earth ;  the  atmosphere  was  clear  and 
golden  ;  the  hght  of  the  sun  shot  in  broad, 
transparent  beams  across  the  wooded  valleys, 
and  poured  its  radiance  upon  the  forest  tops, 
which  seemed  empurpled  ■v^dth  its  rich  and 
glowing  tones.  All  the  usual  signs  of  change 
or  rough  weather  were  wanting.  Ever}i;hing 
was  quiet ;  and  a  general  stillness  was 
abroad,  which,  when  a  sound  did  occur, 
caused  it  to  be  heard  at  an  unusual  distance. 
Not  a  breath  of  air  sth-red  the  trees,  which 
stood  as  motionless  as  if  they  had  been 
carved  of  marble.  Notwithstanding  all  these 
auspicious  appeai'ances,  there  were  visible  to 
a  clear  observer  of  nature  some  significant 
symptoms  of  a  change.  The  surfaces  of 
pools  and  rivers  were  covered  with  large 
white  bubbles,  which  are  always  considered 
AS  indications  of  coming  rain.  The  dung 
heaps,  and  the  pools  generally  attached  to 
them,  emitted  a  fetid  and  oifensive  smell ; 
and  the  pigs  were  seen  to  cany  straw  into 
their  sties,  or  such  rude  covers  as  had  been 
constructed  for  them. 

In  the  meantime  the  dinner  party  in  Lind- 
say's were  enjoj'ing  themselves  in  a  spirit 
quite  as  genial  as  bis  hospitahty.  It  con- 
sisted of  two  or  three  countiy  sqviires,  a 
Captain  Dowd — seldom  sober — a  pair  of 
twin  brothers,  named  Gumming,  with  a 
couple  of  half  sirs — a  class  of  persons  who 
bore  the  same  relation  to  a  gentleman  that  a 
salmon-trout  does  to  a  salmon.  The  Protes- 
tant clerg}-man  of  the  parish  was  there — a 
jocund,  ratthng  fellow,  who  loved  his  glass, 
ins  dog,  his  gun,  and,  if  fame  did  not  belie 
him,  paid  more  devotion  to  his  own  enjoy- 
ments than  he  did  to  his  Bible.  He  dressed 
in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  and  was  a  regular 
dandy  parson  of  that  day.  There  also  was 
Father  Magauran,  the  parish  priest,  a  rosy- 
faced,  jorial  little  man,  vnih.  a  humorous 
twinkle  in  his  blue  eye,  and  an  anterior  ro- 
tundity of  person  that  betokened  a  moderate 
rehsh  for  the  conviviahties.  Altogether  it 
was  a  merry  meeting  ;  and  of  the  host  him- 
self it  might  be  said  that  he  held  as  con- 
spicuous a  place  in  the  mirth  as  he  did  in 
the  hospitality. 

"Come,  gentleman,"  said  he,  after  the 
ladies  had  retired  to  the  withdrawing-room, 
"  come,  gentlemen,  fill  high;  fill  your  glasses." 

"Troth,"  said  the  priest,  "we'd  put  a  heap 
»n  them,  if  we  could." 


"  Eight,  Father  Magauran  ;  do  put  a  Aeap 
on  them,  if  you  can  ;  but,  at  all  events,  let 
them  be  brimmers  ;  I'm  going  to  propose  a 
toast." 

"Let  it  be  a  lady,  Lindsay,  if  you  love 
me,"  said  the  parson,  filling  his  glass. 

"  SoiTa  hair  I  care  if  it  is,"  said  the 
priest,  "prorided  she's  dacent  and  attends 
her  duty  ;  go  on,  squire  ;  give  us  her  name 
at  once,  and  don't  keep  the  parson's  teeth 
wateiing." 

"  Be  quiet,  reverend  gentlemen,"  said 
Lindsay,  laughing ;  "  how  can  a  man  speak 
when  you  take  the  words  out  of  his  mouth  ?  " 

"The  Lord  forbid  we'd  swallow  theio, 
though,"  subjoined  the  j)arson  ;  "if  we  did, 
we'd  not  be  long  in  a  state  of  decent  so 
briety." 

"  Talk  about  something  you  understand 
my  worthy  fiiends,  and  allow  me  to  pro 
ceed,"  replied  the  host ;  "  don't  you  kno\» 
that  every  interrujDtion  keeps  you  fi'om  your 
glass  ?  Gentlemen,  I  have  great  pleasure  in 
j)roposing  the  health  of  my  excellent  amd 
worthy  step-son,  who  has,  after  a  long  ab- 
sence, made  me  and  all  my  family  happy  by 
his  return  amongst  us.  I  am  sure  you  will 
all  Hke  him  when  you  come  to  know  him,  and 
that  the  longer  you  know  him,  the  better 
you  will  like  him.  Come  now,  let  me  see 
the  bottom  of  eveiy  man's  glass  uppermost, 
I  do  not  address  myself  directly  to  the  par- 
son or  the  priest,  because  that,  I  know, 
would  be,  as  the  latter  must  admit,  a  want 
of  confidence  in  theu-  kindness. 

"Parson,"  said  the  priest,  in  a  whisper, 
"  that  last  obsei-vation  is  gi'atifying  from 
Lindsay." 

"  Lindsay  is  a  gentleman,"  rephed  the 
other,  in  the  same  voice  ;  "  and  the  most 
popular  magistrate  in  the  bai'ony.  Come, 
then." 

Here  the  worthy  gentleman's  health  was 
drank  -with  great  enthusiasm,  after  which  he 
thanked  them  in  very  grateful  and  courteous 
terms,  paying  at  the  same  time,  some  rather 
handsome  comphments  to  the  two  clergy- 
men with  respect  to  the  appropriate  gravity 
and  exquisite  poUsh  of  their  manners.  He 
saw  the  rapidity  with  which  they  had  gulped 
down  the  wine,  and  felt  their  rudeness  in 
inteiTupting  IVIi-.  Lindsay,  when  about  to 
proj^ose  his  health,  as  offensive,  and  he  re- 
torted it  upon  them  with  peculiar  irony, 
that  being  one  of  the  talents,  M'hich,  among 
others,  he  had  inherited  fi-om  his  mother. 

"I  cannot  but  feel  myself  hapiDy,"  said  he, 
"in  returning  to  the  roof  of  so  hospitable  a 
father  ;  but  sensible  to  the  influences  of  re- 
ligion, as  I  humbly  trust  I  am,  I  must  ex- 
press a  still  higher  gratification  in  having 
the  dehghtful  opportunity  of  making  the  ac- 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


«41 


quaintance  of  two  reverend  gentlemen,  whose 
proper  and  becoming  example  wiU,  I  am  ' 
Bure,  guide  my  steps — if  I  have  only  gi*ace 
to  follow  it — into  those  serious  and  primi- 
tive habits  which  characterize  themselves, 
and  are  so  decent  and  exemplar}'  in  the  min- 
isters of  religion.  They  may  talk  of  the 
light  of  the  gospel ;  but,  if  I  don't  mist:ike, 
the  hght  of  the  gospel  itself  might  pale  its 
ineffectual  fires  before  that  which  shines  in 
their  apostolic  countenances." 

The  mirth  occasioned  by  this  covert,  but  i 
comical,  rebuke,  fell  rather  humorously  upon  i 
the  two  worthy  gentlemen,  who,  being  cer- 
tainly   good-natured    and    excellent    men,  . 
laughed  heai-tily.  j 

"  That's  a  neat  speech,"  said  the  parson, 
"  but  not  exactly  appropriate.  Father  Tom 
and  I  are  quite  unworthy  of  the  compHment 
he  has  paid  us." 

"  Neat,"  said  Father  Tom  ;  "  I  don't  know 
whether  the  gentleman  has  a  profession  or 
not ;  but  from  the  tone  and  sjDirit  in  which 
he  spoke,  I  think  that  if  he  has  taken  up 
any  other  than  that  of  his  church,  he  has 
missed  his  vocation.  My  dear  parson,  he 
talks  of  the  Hght  of  our  countenances — a 
light  that  is  lit  by  hospitahty  on  the  one 
hand,  and  moderate  social  enjo^Tuent  on  the 
other.  It  is  a  Hght,  however,  that  neither 
of  us  would  exchange  for  a  pale  face  and  an 
eye  that  seems  to  have  something  mysterious 
at  the  back  of  it." 

"  Come,  come,  Harry,"  said  Lindsay, 
"  you  mustn't  be  bantering  these  two  gentle- 
men ;  as  I  said  of  yourself,  the  longer  you 
know  them  the  better  you  wiU  reHsh  them. 
They  have  both  too  much  sense  to  cany 
reHgion  about  with  them  like  a  pair  of 
hawkers,  crving  out '  wholl  buy,  who'U  buy  ;' 
neither  do  they  wear  long  faces,  nor  make 
themselves  disagreeable  by  dragging  reHgion 
into  ever}'  subject  that  becomes  the  topic  of 
conversation.  On  the  contrary-,  they  are 
cheerful,  moderately  social,  and  to  my  own 
knowledge,  with  all  their  pleasantry,  are 
active  exjjonents  of  much  practical  benevo- 
lence to  the  poor.  Come,  man,  take  your 
wine,  and  enjoy  good  company." 

"  Lindsay,"  said  one  of  the  guests,  a  ma- 
gistrate, "  how  are  we  to  get  the  country 
quiet?  Those  rapparees  and  outlaws  will 
play  the  devil  with  us  if  we  don't  put  them 
do\vn.  That  young  scoundrel,  Shaivn  na 
Middogue,  is  at  the  head  of  them  it  is  said, 
and,  it  would  seem,  possesses  the  'power  of 
making  himself  iurisible  ;  for  we  cannot 
possibly  come  at  him,  although  he  has  been 
often  seen  by  others." 

"  "\Miv,  what  has  been  Shawn's  last  ex- 
ploit?"' 

"  Nothing    that  I  have   heard   of    since 
21 


Bingham's  robbery  ;  but  there  is  none  of  us 
safe.  Have  you  your  house  and  premises 
seciu-ed  ?  " 

"Not  I,"  replied  Lindsay,  "unless  by 
good  bolts  and  bars,  together  with  plenty 
of  arms  and  ammunition." 

"  How  is  it  that  these  fellows  are  not 
taken  ?  "  asked  another. 

"  Because  the  people  protect  them,"  said 
a  third  ;  "  and  because  they  have  strength 
and  activity  ;  and  thirdly,  because  we  Imve 
no  adequate  force  to  put  them  down." 

"All  very  sound  reasons,"  repHed  the 
querist ;  but  as  to  Shaicn  na  Middogue,  the 
peoj)le  are  impressed  with  a  belief  that  he 
is  under  the  protection  of  the  fames,  and 
can't  be  taken  on  this  account.  Even  if 
they  were  willing  to  give  him  up,  which 
they  are  not,  they  dare  not  make  the  attempt, 
lest  the  vengeance  of  the  fairies  might  come 
down  on  themselves  and  their  cattle,  in  a 
thousand  shajjes." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  the  general  opinion 
upon  the  subject  is,"  repHed  the  other.  "  It 
seems  his  foster-mother  was  a  midwife,  and 
that  she  was  caUed  upon  once,  about  the 
hour  of  midnight,  to  discharge  the  duties 
of  her  profession  toward  a  faii-j-man's  wife, 
and  this  she  refused  to  do  unless  they  con- 
ferred some  gift  either  upon  herself  per- 
sonaHy,  or  upon  some  one  whom  she  should 
name.  Young  Shawn,  it  appeal's,  was  her 
favorite,  and  she  got  a  solemn  promise  from 
them  to  take  him  under  their  protection, 
and  to  preserve  him  from  danger.  This  is 
the  opinion  of  the  peojile  ;  but  whether  it 
is  true  or  not  I  won't  undertake  to  deter- 
mine." 

"  Come,  gentlemen,"  said  their  host,  "push 
the  bottle  ;  remember  we  must  attend  the 
bonfire." 

"So,"  said  the  magistrate,  "you  are  send- 
ing us  to  blazes,  ^Ii\  Lindsay." 

"  WeU,  at  aU  events,  my  friends,"  con- 
tinued !Mi'.  Lindsay,  "  we  must  make  haste, 
for  there's  Httle  time  to  spare.  Take  your 
Hquor,  for  we  must  soon  be  oft".  The  even- 
ing is  dehghtful.  If  you  ai'e  for  coftee,  let 
us  adjoui-n  to  the  ladies  ;  and  after  the  bon- 
fire we  will  return  and  make  a  night  of 
it." 

"  Well  said,  Lindsay,"  repHed  the  parson  ; 
"  and  so  we  wiU." 

"Here,  you  young  stranger,"  said  the 
priest,  addressing  Woodward,  "  I'U  drink 
your  health  once  more  in  this  bumper.  You 
touched  us  off  decently  enough,  but  a  Httle 
too  much  on  the  sharj),  as  you  would  admit 
if  you  knew  us.  Your  health  again,  sir,  and 
you  are  welcome  among  us  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  sii-,"  repHed  Woodward  ;  "  1 
am  glad  to  see  that  you  can  bear  a  jest  from 


642 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


me  or  my  father,  even  when  it  is  at  your  own 
expense — your  health." 

"Are  you  a  si^ortsman ? "  asked  the  par- 
son ;  "because,  if  you  ai-e  not,  just  put  youi-- 
self  mider  my  patronage,  and  I  will  teach 
you  something  worth  knowing.  I  -noU 
let  you  see  what  shooting  and  hunting 
mean." 

"  I  am  a  bit  of  one,"  rephed  Woodward, 
"  but  shall  be  very  happy  to  put  myself  into 
your  hand,  notwithstanding." 

"  If  I  don't  lengthen  youi'  face  I  shall  raise 
your  heart,"  proceeded  the  divine.  "If  I 
don't  make  a  sj^ortsman  of  you — " 

"Ay,"  added  the  priest,  "you  wiU  find 
yourself  in  excellent  hands,  ]\Ii\  Woodward." 

"If  I  don't  make  a  sportsman  of  you — 
confound  your  grinning.  Father  Tom,  what 
are  you  at? — I'U  make  a  far  better  thing  of 
you'  that  is,  a  good  fellow,  always,  of  course, 
provided  that  you  have  the  materials  in  you." 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,"  added  Father  Tom  ; 
"  you'll  jjoHsh  the  same  youth  until  he  shines 
like  j-oiu'self  or  his  worihy  father  here. 
He'll  give  you  a  complexion,  my  boy — a  com- 
modity that  you  sadly  want  at  present." 

The  evening  was  now  too  far  advanced  to 
think  of  haAing  coffee— a  beverage,  by  the 
way,  to  which  scarcely  a  single  soul  of  them 
was  addicted.  They  accordingly  got  to 
their  legs,  and  as  darkness  was  setting  in 
they  set  out  for  the  village  to  witness  the  re- 
joicings. Young  Woodwaixl,  however,  fol- 
lowed his  brother  to  the  drawing-room, 
whither  he  had  betaken  himself  at  an  eai'ly 
hour  after  dinner.  Under  theu-  escoi't,  their 
mother  and  sister  accompanied  them  to  the 
bonfire.  The  whole  towoi  was  hterally  alive 
with  animation  and  dehght.  The  news  of 
the  intended  bonfire  had  gone  rapidly 
abroad,  and  the  countr}'  people  crowded  into 
the  tow^l  in  hundreds.  Nothing  can  at  any 
time  exceed  the  enthusiasm  with  which  the 
Ii'ish  enter  into  and  enjoy  scenes  like  that  to 
which  they  now  flocked  with  such  exuberant 
spirits.  BeUs  were  ringmg,  drums  were 
beating,  fifes  were  playing  in  the  to-v\Ti,  and 
honis  sounding  in  every  direction,  both  in 
town  and  countiy.  The  people  were  appa- 
relled in  their  best  costume,  and  many  of 
them  in  that  equivocal  description  of  it  which 
could  scarcely  be  termed  costume  at  all. 
Bareheaded  and  bai'efooted  multitudes  of 
both  sexes  were  present,  regardless  of  ap- 
pearances, half  mad  with  dehght,  and  ex- 
hibiting many  a  froHc  and  gambol  consider- 
ably at  vai'iance  with  the  etiquette  of  fashion- 
able hfe,  iilthough  we  question  whether  the 
most  fashionable /ete  of  them  all  ever  pro- 
duced lialf  so  much  haj^piness.  Farmers 
had  come  from  a  distance  in  the  country, 
mounted  upon  lank  horses  ornamented  with 


'  incrusted  hips,  and  caparisoned  with  long 
straw  back-suggauns  that  reached  fi'om  the 
shoidders  to  the  tail,  under  which  ran  a 
,  crupper  of  the  same  material,  designed,  in 
!  addition  to  a  hay  gu'th,  to  keep  this  piimi- 
tive  riding  gear  tu-m  upon  the  animal's  back. 
1  Behind  the  fanner,  generally  sat  either  a 
I  wife  or  a  daughter,  remarkable  for  their 
,  scarlet  cloaks  and  blue  petticoats  ;  some- 
!  times  with  shoes  and  stockings,  and  very 
I  often  ■sx'ith  out  them.  Among  those  assembled, 
we  cannot  omit  to  mention  a  pretty  numer- 
ous sprinkling  of  that  class  of  strollers, 
vagabonds,  and  impostors  with  which  the 
country,  at  the  period  of  our  tale,  was  over- 
run. Fortune-tellers,  of  both  sexes,  quacks, 
cardcutters,  herbahsts,  cow-doctors,  whisjjer- 
ers,  with  a  long  hst  of  such  cheats,  were  at  the 
time  a  prevailing  nuisance  thi'oughout  the 
kingdom  ;  nor  was  there  a  fail'  proportion  of 
them  wantmg  here.  That,  however,  which 
filled  the  people  with  the  most  especial  ciui- 
osity,  awe,  and  interest,  was  the  general  re- 
port that  nothing  less  than  a  live  conjurer, 
who  had  come  to  town  on  that  very  evening, 
was  then  among  them.  The  town,  in  fact, 
was  crowded  as  if  it  had  been  for  an  illumi- 
nation ;  but  as  illuminations,  imless  they 
could  be  conducted  ^ith  rushhghts,  were 
pageants  altogether  uuknov\Ti  in  such  small 
remote  to'wns  as  BathfiUan,  the  notion  of  one 
had  never  entered  theu-  heads.  All  around 
the  coimtry,  however,  even  for  many  miles, 
the  bonfii-es  were  blazing,  and  shone  at  im- 
mense distances  fi'om  every  hill-top.  We 
have  said  before  that  Lindsay  was  both  a 
popular  landlord  and  a  popular  magistrate  ; 
and  on  this  account  alone  the  disposition  to 
do  honor  to  an}'  member  of  his  family  was 
recognized  by  the  people  as  an  act  of  grati- 
tude and  duty. 

The  town  of  BathfiUan  presented  a  scene 
of  which  we  who  hve  in  the  present  day  can 
form  but  a  faint  conception.  Yet,  sooth  to 
say,  we  ourselves  have,  about  forty  years  ago, 
witnessed  in  remote  glens  and  mountain  fast- 
nesses httle  clumps  of  cabins,  whose  inhabi- 
tants stood  still  in  the  midst  even  of  the 
snail's  jDrogi'ess  which  cirilization  had  made 
in  the  rustic  parts  of  Ii'eland  ;  and  who,  up- 
on examination,  presented  almost  the  same 
rude  personal  habits,  antiquated  social  usa- 
ges, agricultural  ignorance,  and  ineradicable 
superstition  as  their  ancestors  did  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Lindsay,  know- 
ing how  unpoi^ular  his  wife  M-as,  not  only 
among  their  omti  tenantiy,  but  throughout 
the  coimtry  at  large,  and  feeling,  besides, 
how  well  that  unpopularity  was  merited, 
veiy  properly  left  her  and  Maria  to  his  son 
Charles,  knowing  that  as  the  two  last  named 
shared  in  the  good-wiU   which   the  people 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


645 


bOi'e  liim,  their  mother  would  be  treated 
with  forbeai'conce  and  respect  so  long  as  she 
was  in  their  company.  He  \\-ished,  besides, 
that  HaiTV  shoidd  seem  to  partake  of  the 
honor  and  gratitude  which  their  enthusiasm 
would  prompt  them  to  pay  to  himself. 

The  whole  town  was  one  scene  of  life, 
bustle,  and  eujoj-ment.  It  was  studded  with 
bonfires,  which  were  surrounded  by  wild 
gi'oups  of  both  sexes,  some  tolerably  dressed, 
some  ragged  as  Lazjirus,  and  others  young 
urchins  witli  nothing  but  a  sUp  of  I'ag  tied 
about  their  loins  "to  make  them  look  jinteel 
and  daicent."  The  monster  bonfire,  however 
— that  which  was  piled  up  into  an  immense 
pyramid  in  honor  of  the  stranger — was  not 
ignited  until  the  amval  of  the  quahty.  The 
moment  the  latter  made  theii*  appearance  it 
was  set  in  a  flame,  and  in  a  few  minutes  a 
blaze  issued  up  fi-om  it  into  the  air  that  not 
only  dimmed  the  minor  exhibitions,  but  cast 
its  huge  glai*e  over  the  whole  town,  making 
everv'  house  and  hut  as  distinctly  visible  as 
if  it  were  broad  daylight.  Then  commenced 
the  huzzaing — the  bells  i-ang  out  with  double 
energy — the  drums  were  beaten  more  furi- 
ously-^the  large  bullocks'  horas  were  sound- 
ed until  those  who  blew  them  were  bkick  in 
the  face,  and  eveiy  manifestation  of  joy  that 
could  be  made  was  resorted  to.  Fiddles 
and  pipes  were  in  busy  requisition,  and 
"  the  Boys  of  Rathfillan,"  the  favorite  local 
air,  resounded  in  every  direction.  And  now 
that  the  master  and  the  quahty  had  made 
their  appeai'ance,  of  course  the  diink  should 
soon  foUow,  and  in  a  short  time  the  hints  to 
that  effect  began  to  thicken. 

"Thunder  and  tiu-f.  Jemmy,  but  this  is 
dry  work  ;  my  throat's  like  a  hme-biu-ner's 
wig  for  want  of  a  drop  o'  something  to  help 
me  for  the  cheerin'." 

"Hould  yoiu'  tongue,  Paddy;  do  you 
think  the  masther's  honor  would  allow  us  to 
lose  our  voices  in  his  behalf.  It's  himself 
that  hasn't  his  heart  in  a  tinJie,  God  bless 
him." 

"Ah,  thin,  your  honor,"  said  another  fel- 
low, in  tatters,  "isn't  this  dust  and  hate 
enough  to  choke  a  bishop  ?  O  Lord,  am  I 
able  to  spake  at  all  ?  Upon  my  sow],  sir,  I 
think  there's  a  bonfire  in  my  tkroath." 

Everything,  however,  had  been  prepared 
to  meet  these  demands  ;  and  in  about  a 
quai-ter  of  an  horn*  baiTcls  of  beer  and  kegs 
of  whiskey  were  placed  under  the  manage- 
ment of  persons  appointed  to  deal  out  their 
contents  to  the  thii'sty  crowds.  Then  com- 
menced the  dancing,  whilst  the  huzzaing, 
shouting,  jingling  of  bells,  squeaking  of  fifes, 
blowing  of  horns,  and  all  the  other  com- 
ponent i^arts  of  this  vrild  melody,  were  once 
more  resumed  with  still  greater  vigor.     The 


great  feat  of  the  night,  however,  so  far  as 
the  people  were  concerned,  was  now  to  take 
place.  This  was  to  ascei-tain,  by  supeiior 
acti\-ity,  who  among  the  young  men  could 
leap  over  the  bonlii-e,  when  burnt  dovtTi  to 
what  was  considered  such  a  state  as  might 
make  the  attempt  a  safe  one.  Tlie  circles 
about  the  diffei'ent  fires  were  consequently 
widened  to  leave  room  for  the  run,  and  then 
commenced  those  hazardous  but  comic  per- 
formances. As  may  be  supposed,  they  pro- 
ceeded with  various  success,  and  occasioned 
the  most  uproarious  mh-th  whenever  any 
unfortunate  devU  who  had  overtasked  his 
powei's  in  the  attempt,  haj^pened  to  fail,  and 
was  forced  to  scamper  out  of  the  subsiding 
flames  "svith  scorched  Hmbs  that  set  him  a 
dancing  Arithout  music.  In  fact,  those  pos- 
sessed of  activity  enough  to  clear  them  were 
loudly  cheered,  and  rewarded  with  a  glass  of 
whiskey,  a  temptation  which  had  mduced  so 
many  to  try,  and  so  many  to  fail.  When  these 
had  been  concluded  about  the  minor  fii-es, 
the  victors  and  spectators  repaired  to  the 
great  one,  to  try  theii-  fortune  upon  a  larger 
and  more  hazardous  scale.  It  was  now 
,  nearly  half  burned  down,  but  was  still  a 
large,  glowing  mass,  at  least  five  feet  high, 
and  not  less  than  eighteen  in  diameter  at 
the  base.  On  arriving  there  they  all  looked 
on  in  silence,  appalled  by  its  great  size,  and 
altogether  deterred  from  so  formidable  an 
attempt. 

It  would  be  death  to  try  it,  they  exclaimed  ; 
no  h^ing  man  could  do  it ;  an  opinion  which 
was  universally  acceded  to,  with  one  single 
exception.  A  thin  man,  rather  above  the 
middle  size,  dressed  in  a  long,  black  coat, 
black  breeches,  and  black  stockings,  consti- 
tuted that  exception.  There  was  something 
;  peculiar,  and  even  strikingly  mysterious,  in 
'  his  whole  appearance.  His  complexion  was 
pale  as  that  of  a  coi^Dse,  his  eyes  dead  and 
glassy,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face  seemed  as 
if  they  were  paralyzed  and  could  not  move. 
His  right  hand  was  thiaist  in  his  bosom,  and 
over  his  left  ai-m  he  bore  some  dark  gar- 
ment of  a  very  funereal  cast,  almost  remind- 
ing one  of  a  mortcloth. 

"There  is  one,"  sjxid  he,  in  a  hollow  and 
sepulchi'jd  voice,  "that  could  do  it." 

Father  ^lagaui-an,  who  was  present,  looked 
at  him  with  sui-prise  ;  as  indeed  did  every 
one  who  had  got  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
him. 

"  I  know  there  is,"  he  repHed,  "  a  sai-tin 
indiridual  who  could  do  it ;  ay,  in  troth,  and 
maybe  if  he  fell  into  the  flames,  too,  he'd 
only  fijid  himself  in  his  ow7i  element ;  and  if 
it  went  to  that  could  dance  a  hornpipe  in 
the  middle  of  it." 

This  repartee  of  the  priest's  elicited  loud 


644 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'8  WORKS. 


laughter  from  the  by-standers,  who,  on  tm-n- 
ing  rovmd  to  see  how  the  other  bore  it, 
found  that  he  had  disappeared.  This  occa- 
sioned considerable  amazement,  not  unmixed 
with  a  still  more  extraordinary  feeling.  No- 
body there  knew  him,  nor  had  ever  even 
seen  him  before  ;  and  in  a  short  time  the 
impression  began  to  gain  ground  that  he 
must  have  been  no  other  than  the  conjurer 
who  was  said  to  have  arrived  in  the  tovm 
that  day.  In  the  meantime,  while  this  point 
was  imder  discussion,  a  clear,  loud,  but  very 
mellow  voice  was  heard  about  twenty  yai'ds 
above  them,  saying,  "  Stand  aside,  and  make 
way — leave  me  room  for  a  mn." 

The  cvu'iosity  of  the  people  was  at  once 
excited  by  what  they  had  only  a  few  minutes 
before  pronounced  to  be  a  feat  that  was  im- 
possible to  be  accomplished.  They  accord- 
ingly opened  a  lane  for  the  daiing  individual, 
who,  they  imagined,  was  about  to  submit 
himself  to  a  scorching  that  might  cost  him 
his  life.  No  sooner  was  the  lane  made,  and 
the  by-standers  removed  back,  than  a  jDer- 
son  evidently  youthful,  tall,  elastic,  and 
muscular,  approached  the  burning  mass 
with  the  speed  and  Hghtness  of  a  deer,  and 
flew  over  it  as  if  he  had  wings.  A  tremen- 
dous shout  biu'st  forth,  which  lasted  for 
more  than  a  minute,  and  the  people  were 
about  to  bring  him  to  receive  his  reward  at 
the  whiskey  keg,  when  it  was  found  that  he 
also  had  disappeared.  This  puzzled  them 
once  more,  and  they  began  to  think  that 
there  were  more  present  at  these  bonfii-es 
than  had  ever  received  baptism ;  for  they 
could  scarcely  shake  themselves  free  of  the 
belief  that  the  mysterious  stranger  either 
was  something  supernatvirally  evil  himself, 
or  else  the  conjurer  as  aforesaid,  who,  by  all 
accounts,  was  not  many  steps  removed  from 
such  a  personage.  Of  the  young  person  who 
performed  this  unprecedented  and  tenible 
exploit  they  had  Httle  time  to  take  any  no- 
tice. Torley  Davoren,  however,  who  was  one 
of  the  spectators,  tm-ned  roimd  to  his  ^ife 
and  whispered, 

"Unfortunate  boy — madman  I  ought  to 
say — what  devil  tempted  him  to  come 
here  ?  " 

"  "Was  it  him  ?  "  asked  his  wife. 

"  WTiist,  whist,"  he  rephed  ;  "  let  us  say 
no  more  about  it." 

In  the  meantime,  although  the  youthful 
performer  of  this  daring  feat  may  be  said  to 
have  passed  among  them  like  an  arrow  from 
a  bow,  yet  it  so  happened  that  the  secret  of 
his  identity  did  not  rest  solely  viith  Torle}' 
Davoren.  In  a  few  minutes  whisperings  be- 
gan to  take  place,  which  spread  gradually 
through  the  crowd,  until  at  length  the  name 
of   Shawn   na   Middogue   was    openly    pro- 


nounced, and  the  secret — now  one  no  longer 
— was  instantly  sent  abroad  through  the 
people,  to  whom  his  fearful  leap  was  now  no 
miracle.  The  impression  so  long  entertain- 
ed of  his  connection  with  the  fairies  was  thus 
confirmed,  and  the  black  stranger  was  no 
other,  perhaps,  than  the  king  of  the  fairies 
himself. 

At  this  period  of  the  proceedings  Mrs. 
Lindsay,  in  consequence  of  some  significant 
whispers  which  were  dii'ectly  levelled  at  her 
character,  suggested  to  Maria  that  having 
seen  enough  of  these  wild  proceedings,  it 
would  be  more  ad^-isable  to  return  home — a 
suggestion  to  which  Maria,  whose  presence 
there  at  all  was  in  deference  to  her  father's 
wishes,  veiy  gladly  consented.  They  ac- 
cordingly j)laced  themselves  under  the  escort 
of  the  redoubtable  and  gallant  tvtins,  and 
reached  home  in  safety. 

It  was  now  expected  that  the  quality  woidd 
go  down  to  the  inn,  where  the  largest  room 
had  been  fitted  up  for  refr-eshments  and 
dancing,  and  into  which  none  but  the  more 
decent  and  respectable  classes  were  admitted. 
There  most  of  the  beauties  of  the  town  and 
the  adjoining  neighborhood  were  assembled, 
together  with  theii-  admii-ers,  all  of  whom 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  festivity  "uith 
gi'eat  rehsh.  "VMien  Lindsay  and  his  com- 
pany were  about  to  retii-e  fr'om  the  gi'eat 
bonfire,  the  conductors  of  the  pageant,  who 
also  acted  as  spokesmen  on  the  occasion, 
thus  addi-essed  them : 

"  It's  right,  youi'  honors,  that  you  should 
go  and  see  the  dancin'  in  the  inn,  and  no 
harm  if  you  shake  a  heel  yourselves,  besides 
taking  something  to  wash  the  dust  out  o' 
yoiu'  throats  ;  but  when  you  come  out  again, 
if  you  don't  find  a  fr'esh  and  high  blaze  be- 
fore you  still,  the  devil's  a  witch." 

As  they  proceeded  toward  the  inn,  the 
consequences  of  the  diink,  which  the  crowd 
had  so  abundantly  received,  began,  here  and 
there,  to  manifest  many  unequivocal  symp- 
toms. In  some  j^laces  high  words  were  go- 
ing on,  in  others  blows  ;  and  altogether  the 
aftair  seemed  likely  to  tei-minate  in  a  generdQ 
conflict. 

"  Father,"  said  his  son  Charles,  "  had  you 
not  better  try  and  settle  these  rising  dis- 
tiu-bances  ?  " 

"Not  I,"  replied  the  jovial  magistrate, 
"  let  them  thrash  one  another  till  morning  ; 
they  hke  it,  and  I  make  it  a  point  never  to 
go  between  the  poor  people  and  theu;  enjoy- 
ments. Gadzooks,  Chai'ley,  don't  you  know 
it  would  be  a  tame  and  discreditable  aflair 
without  a  row  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  now  that  they've  got  drimk, 
they're  cheering  you,  and  groaninyr  my 
mother." 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


645 


"Devil's  cure  to  her,"  replied  his  father  ; 
"  if  she  didn't  deserve  it  she'd  not  get  it. 
What  right  had  she  to  send  my  bailiffs  to 
drive  their  cattle  without  my  knowledge,  and 
to  take  duty  fowl  and  duty  work  from  them 
whenever  m}'^  back  is  turned,  and  contrary 
to  my  wishes  ?  Come  in  till  we  have  some 
punch ;  let  them  shout  and  fight  away  ; 
it  wouldn't  be  the  thing,  Charley,  without 
it." 

They  found  an  exceedingly  lively  scene 
in  the  large  parlor  of  the  inn  ;  but,  in  fact, 
every  availal:)le  room  in  the  house  was  crowd- 
ed. Then,  after  they  had  looked  on  for 
some  time,  every  eye  soon  singled  out  the 
pride  and  beauty  of  the  assembly  in  the 
person  of  (xrace  Davoren,  whose  features 
were  animate.l  into  gi'eater  loveliness,  and 
her  eyes  into  greater  brilliancy,  by  the  light- 
heai'ted  spirit  which  prevailed.  She  was 
dressed  in  her  new  drugget  gown,  had  on 
her  new  shoes  and  blue  stockings,  a  short 
striped  blue  and  red  petticoat,  which  dis- 
played as  much  of  her  exquisite  limbs  as  the 
pretty  Hberal  fashion  of  the  day  allowed  ; 
her  bust  was  perfection  ;  and,  as  her  black, 
natural  ringlets  fluttei'ed  about  her  milk- 
white  neck  and  glowing  countenance,  she 
not  only  appeared  inexpressibly  beautiful, 
but  seemed  to  feel  conscious  of  that  beauty, 
as  was  evident  by  a  dash  of  pride — very 
charming,  indeed — which  shot  from  her 
eye,  and  mantled  on  her  beautiful  cheek. 

"  Why,  Charles,"  exclaimed  Woodward, 
addressing  his  brother  in  a  whisper,  "  who 
is  that  lovely  peasant  girl  ?  " 

"Her  father  is  one  of  our  tenants,"  rephed 
Charles  ;  "  and  she  was  about  to  be  married 
some  time  ago,  but  it  was  discovered,  for- 
tunately in  time,  tliat  her  intended  husband 
was  head  and  leader  of  the  outlaws  that  in- 
fest the  country.  It  was  he,  I  believe,  that 
leaped  over  the  bonfire." 

"  Was  she  fond  of  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  is  not  easy  to  say  that ;  some 
say  she  was,  and  others  that  she  was  not. 
Barney  Casey  says  she  was  very  glad  to 
escape  him  when  he  became  an  outlaw." 

"  By  the  way,  where  is  Barney  ?  I  haven't 
seen  him  since  I  came  to  look  at  this  non- 
sense." 

"Just  turn  your  eye  to  the  farthest  cor- 
ner of  the  room,  and  you  may  see  him  in  his 
glory." 

On  looking  in  the  prescribed  direction, 
there,  sure  enough,  was  Bax-ney  discovered 
making  love  hard  and  fast  to  a  pretty  girl, 
whom  Woodward  remembered  to  have  seen 
that  moniing  in  Mr.  Goodwin's,  and  ^\^th 
whom  he  (Barney)  had  become  acquainted 
when  the  families  were  on  terms  of  inti- 
macy.    The  girl   sat   smiling  on  his  knee, 


whilst  Barney  who  had  a  glass  of  punch  in 
his  liand,  kept  applying  it  to  her  lips  from 
time  to  time,  and  pressing  her  so  loringly 
towai'd  him,  that  she  was  obliged  occasion- 
ally to  give  him  a  pat  upon  the  cheek,  or  to 
pull  his  whiskers.  Woodward's  attention, 
however,  was  transfeiTcd  once  more  to 
Grace  Davoren,  from  whom  he  could  not 
keep  his  eyes — a  fact  which  she  soon  discov- 
ered, as  was  evident  by  a  shght  hauteur  and 
affectation  of  manner  toward  many  of  those 
with  whom  she  had  been  previously  on  an 
equal  and  familiar  footing. 

"  Charles,"  said  he,  "  I  must  have  a  dance 
with  this  beautiful  giii  ;  do  you  think  she 
^vill  dance  with  me  ?  " 

"I  cannot  tell,"  rei)Hed  his  brother,  "  but 
you  can  ask  her." 

"  By  the  way,  where  are  my  father  and  the 
i-est?     They  have  left  the  room." 

"  The  landlord  has  got  them  a  small  apart- 
ment," replied  Charles,  "  where  they  ai-e  now 
enjoj'ing  themselves.  If  you  dance  with 
Grace  Davoren,  however,  be  on  your  good 
behavior,  for  if  you  take  any  unbecoming 
liberties  with  her,  you  may  rej^ent  it  ;  don't 
imagine  because  you  see  these  humble  girls 
allowing  their  sweethearts  to  kiss  them  in 
corners,  that  either  they  or  their  friends  will 
permit  you  to  do  so." 

"That's  as  it  may  be  managed,  perhaps," 
said  Woodward,  who  immediately  approach- 
ed Grace  in  imitation  of  what  he  had  seen, 
and  making  her  a  low  bow,  said, 

"  I  dance  to  you.  Miss  Davoren,  if  you  will 
favor  me." 

She  was  then  sitting,  but  immediately  rose 
up,  wdth  a  blushing  but  gi-atified  face,  and 
replied, 

"  I  will,  sir,  but  I'm  not  worthy  to  dance 
with  a  gentleman  like  you." 

"  You  ai-e  worth}'  to  dance  with  a  prince," 
he  rephed,  as  he  led  her  to  theu-  station, 
fronting  the  music. 

"  Well,  my  jwetty  girl,"  said  he,  "  what  do 
you  -sWsh  ?  " 

"  Your  AviU,  sir,  is  my  pleasui-e." 

"Veiy  well.  Piper,"  said  he,  "play  up 
*  Eass  my  lady  ; ' "  which  was  accordingly 
done,  and  the  dance  commenced.  Woodward 
thought  the  most  popular  thing  he  could  do 
was  to  affect  no  superiority  over  the  young 
feUows  present,  but,  on  the  contrary,  to 
imitate  their  style  and  manner  of  dancing  as 
well  as  he  could  ;  and  in  this  he  acted  witli 
gi-eat  judgment.  They  felt  flattered  and 
gratified  even  at  his  awkward  and  clumsy 
imitations  of  their  steps,  and  received  hi.s 
efforts  with  much  laughter  and  clieering  ; 
nor  was  Grace  herself  insensible  to  the  mirth 
he  occasioned.  On  he  went,  cutting  ;md 
capeiing,  until  he  had  them  in  convulsions ; 


t)46 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


and  when  the  dance  was  ended,  he  seized 
his  partner  in  his  arms,  swung  her  tlu-ee 
times  roimd,  and  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  her 
Ups  with  such  good  humor  that  he  Avas  highly 
applauded.  He  then  ordered  in  drink  to 
treat  her  and  her  Mends,  which  he  dis- 
tributed to  them  with  his  own  hand  ;  and 
after  contriA-ing  to  gain  a  few  minutes' 
private  chat  \dih.  Grace,  he  amply  rewarded 
the  pijDer.  He  was  now  about  to  take  his 
leave  and  proceed  with  his  brother,  when 
two  women,  one  about  thirty-five,  and  the 
other  far  advanced  in  years,  both  accosted 
him  almost  at  the  same  moment. 

"  Your  honor  won't  go,"  said  the  less  aged 
of  the  two,  "until  you  get  your  fortune 
tould." 

"  To  be  sure  he  won't,  Caterine,"  they  aH 
replied  ;  "we'U  engage  the  gentleman  will 
cross  your  hand  wid  silver  ;  like  his  father 
before  him,  his  heart's  not  in  the  money." 

"  Never  mind  her,  six-,"  said  the  aged  crone, 
"  she's  a  schemer,  and  will  tell  you  nothing 
but  what  she  knows  a^oII.  plaise  you.  Show 
me  your  hand,  sii*,  and  I'll  tell  you  the 
truth." 

"  Never  mind  the  calliagh,  sii',  (old  woman, 
by  way  of  reproach  ;)  she's  dotin',  and  hasn't 
remembered  her  ovm.  name  these  ten  years." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  "Woodward,  ad- 
dressing Caterine,  "I  shall  hear  what  you 
both  have  to  say — but  you  first." 

He  accordingly  crossed  her  hand  Avith  a 
piece  of  silver,  after  which  she  looked  closely 
into  it — then  upon  his  countenance,  and 
said, 

"  You  have  two  tilings  in  youi*  mind,  and 
they'U  both  succeed. " 

"  But,  my  good  woman,  any  one  might  tell 
me  as  much." 

"No,"  she  repUed,  with  confidence  ;  "ex- 
amine your  ovm  heart  and  you'U  find  the 
lioo  things  there  that  it  is  fixed  upon  ;  and 
whisper,"  she  added,  putting  her  hjjs  to  his 
ear,  "I  know  what  they  are,  and  can  help 
you  in  both.  A^Tien  you  want  me,  inquire 
for  Caterine  Collins.  My  uncle  is  Sol  Pon- 
nell,  the  herb  doctor." 

He  smiled  and  nodded,  but  made  no  re- 
ply- 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  my  old  crone,  come  and 
let  me  hear  what  you  have  to  say  for  me  ; " 
and  as  he  spoke  another  coin  was  dropped 
into  her  withered  and  skinny  hand. 

"  Bring  me  a  candle,"  said  she,  in  a  voice 
that  whistled  with  age,  and  if  one  could 
judge  by  her  hag-like  and  repulsive  features, 
vai\\  a  malignity  that  was  a  habit  of  her  life. 
After  having  inspected  his  palm  with  the 
candle,  she  uttered  three  eldrich  laughs,  or 
rather  screams,  that  sounded  through  the 
room   as  if  they  were   more  than  natiu'al. 


"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  she  exclaimed;  "look  here, 
there's  the  line  of  life  stopped  by  a  red  in* 
strument ;  that's  not  good  ;  I  see  it,  I  feel  it ; 
your  life  will  be  short  and  your  death 
violent ;  ay,  indeed,  the  purty  bonfire  of 
your  life,  for  all  so  bright  as  it  burns,  vn)l  be 
put  out  wid  blood — and  that  soon." 

"  You're  a  d— d  old  croaker,"  said  Wood- 
ward, "  and  take  dehght  in  predicting  evil. 
Here,  my  good  woman,"  he  added,  turning 
to  the  other,  "  there's  an  additional  half- 
crown  for  you,  and  I  won't  forget  your 
words." 

He  and  Charles  then  joined  their  friends 
in  the  other  room,  and  as  it  was  getting  late 
they  aU  resolved  to  stroll  once  more  thi'ough 
the  town,  in  order  to  take  a  parting  look  at  the 
bonfires,  to  vdsh  the  people  good-night,  and 
to  thank  them  for  the  kindness  and  alacrity 
with  which  they  got  them  up,  and  manifested 
theii"  good  feeling  upon  so  short  a  notice. 
The  large  fire  was  again  blazing,  having  been 
recruited  with  a  fresh  supply  of  materials. 
The  crowd  were  looking  on  ;  many  were 
staggermg  about,  uttermg  a  feeble  huzza,  in 
a  state  of  complete  intoxication,  and  the  fool 
of  the  parish  was  attempting  to  dance  a 
hornpipe,  when  large,  blob-like  drops  began 
to  fall,  as  happens  at  the  commencement  of  a 
heavy  shower.  Lindsay  put  his  hand  to  his 
face,  on  which  some  few  of  them  had  fallen, 
and,  on  looking  at  his  fingers,  perceived 
that  they  ■v\'ere  spotted  as  if  with  blood  ! 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  is 
this  ?     Am  I  bleeding  ?  " 

They  all  stared  at  him,  and  then  at  each 
other,  with  dismay  and  horror  ;  for  there, 
unquestionably,  was  the  hideous  and  terri- 
ble fact  before  them,  and  legible  on  every 
face  around  them — it  was  raining  blood  ! 

An  awe,  which  we  cannot  describe,  and  a 
silence,  deep  as  that  of  the  grave,  followed 
this  terrible  prodigy.  The  silence  did  not  last 
long,  however,  for  in  a  few  minutes,  diuing 
whifch  the  blood  fell  very  thickly,  making 
their  hands  and  visages  appear  as  if  they  had 
been  steej)ed  in  gore — in  a  few  moments, 
we  say,  the  heavens,  which  had  become  one 
black' and  dismal  mass,  opened,  and  from 
the  chasm  issued  a  red  flash  of  lightning, 
which  was  followed  almost  immediately  by  a 
roar  of  thunder,  so  loud  and  terrific  that  the 
whole  people  became  fearfully  agitated  as 
they  stood  round  the  blaze.  It  was  ex- 
tremely diflicult,  indeed,  for  ignorant  persons 
to  account  foi',  or  speculate  upon,  this 
strange  and  frightful  phenomenon.  As  they 
stood  in  fear  and  terror,  Avith  theu*  faces  ap- 
parently bathed  in  blood,  they  seemed  rather 
to  resemble  a  group  of  hideous  mui'derers, 
standing  as  if  about  to  be  driven  into  the 
flames  of  perdition  itself.    To  compare  them 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


04; 


to  a  tribe  of  red  Indians  surrounding  tlieir 
war  fires,  \Tould  be  but  a  faint  and  feeble 
simile  when  contrasted  with  the  ten'or  which, 
notwithstanding  the  gory  hue  with  which 
they  were  covered  fi-oni  top  to  toe,  might 
be  read  in  tlieir  terrified  eyes  and  visages. 
After  a  few  minutes,  however,  the  jdarm 
became  more  intense,  and  put  itself  forth 
into  words.  The  fearfvd  inteUigence  now 
spread.  "It  is  raining  blood  !  it  is  raining 
blood  ! "  was  shouted  fi'om  every  mouth  ; 
those  who  were  in  the  houses  i-ushed  out, 
and  soon  found  that  it  was  true  ;  for  the  red 
liquid  w'as  still  descending,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  they  soon  were  as  red  as  the  others. 
The  flight  home  now  became  one  of  panic  ; 
every  house  was  crowded  with  strangers, 
who  took  refuge  wherever  thev  could  find 
shelter  ;  and  in  the  meantime  the  hghtning 
was  dashing  and  the  thunder  pealing  with 
stunning  dejith  throughout  the  heavens. 
The  bonfires  were  soon  deserted  ;  for  even 
those  who  were  drunk  and  tipsy  had  been 
aroused  by  the  alarm,  and  the  language  in 
which  it  was  uttered.  Nobody,  in  fact,  was 
left  at  the  great  fire  except  those  who  com- 
posed the  dinner  party,  with  the  exception 
of  the  two  clergj^men,  who  fled  and  dis- 
appeared along  with  the  mob,  urged,  too,  by 
the  same  motives. 

"  This  will  not  be  beheved,"  said  Lindsay  ; 
"it  is,  beyond  all  doubt  and  scejiticism,  a 
prodigy  fi'om  heaven,  and  must  portend  some 
fearful  calamity.  May  God  in  heaven  pro- 
tect us  !  But  who  is  this  ?  " 

As  he  spoke,  a  hideous  old  hag,  bent  over 
her  staflf,  approached  them  ;  but  it  did  not 
appear  that  she  was  about  to  pay  them  any 
pai'ticular  attention.  She  was  mumbling 
and  cackhng  to  herself  when  about  to  pass, 
but  was  adtli'essed  by  Lindsay. 

"  "Where  are  you  going,  you  old  hag  ?  They 
say  you  ai*e  acquainted  with  more  than  you 
ought  to  know.  Can  you  account  for  this 
blooil  that's  faUiug  ?  " 

"Who  are  you  that  axes  me?"  she 
squeaked. 

"  I'm  ^Ir.  Lindsay,  the  magistrate." 

"Ay,"  she  screamed  again,  "it  was  for 
your  son,  Harry,  na  Sail  Gloir,*  that  this 
bonfire  was  made  to-night.  Well  he  knows 
what  I  tould  him,  and  let  him  think  of  it ; 
but  there  will  be  more  blood  than  this,  and 
that  before  long,  I  can  tell  you  and  him." 

So  sajing,  she  hobbled  on,  mumbling  and 
muttering  to  herself  like  a  witch  rehearsing 
her  incantations  on  her  way  to  join  their 
sabbath.  They  now  tiinied  their  steps 
homewards,   but    had    not    proceeded   far, 

*  Suil  Gloir  was  an  epithet  bestowed  on  persons 
vhose  eyes  were  of  different  colors. 


when  the  rain  came  down  as  it  might  be 
supposed  to  have  done  in  the  deluge  ;  the 
hghtnings  flashed,  the  thunder  continued 
to  roiu%  and  by  the  time  they  reached  Rath- 
fillan  House  they  were  absolutely  drenched 
to  the  skin.  The  next  moniing,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  people,  there  was  not 
visible  a  trace  or  fragment  of  the  bonfires ; 
every  vestige  of  them  had  disappeared  ;  and 
the  general  impression  now  was,  that  there 
must  have  been  something  e\-il  and  un- 
hallowed connected  with  the  indi\'idual  for 
whom  they  had  been  prepared. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Shawn-na-Middogue — Sfian-Dhinne-Dhut,    or   27u 

Black  SjKCtre. 

The  next  evening  was  calm  and  mild  ;  the 
sun  shone  with  a  serene  and  mellow  light 
from  the  evening  sky ;  the  trees  were  gi*eeu, 
and  still ;  but  the  music  of  the  blackbii'd 
and  the  thinish  came  sweetly  fi'om  their  leafy 
branches.  Henry  Woodward  had  been  Kst- 
ening  to  a  rather  lengthy  discussion  upon 
the  subject  of  the  blood-shower,  which,  in- 
deed, was  the  topic  of  much  conversation 
and  great  wonder  throughout  the  whole 
pai-ish.  His  father,  a  Protestant  gentleman, 
and  with  some  portion  of  education,  al- 
though not  much,  was,  nevertheless,  deeply 
imbued  with  the  suj^erstitions  which  pre- 
vailed aroimd  him,  as,  in  fact,  were  most  ol 
those  who  existed  in  his  day ;  the  very  air 
which  he  breathed  was  rife  with  them  ;  but 
what  puzzled  him  and  his  family  most  was 
the  difficulty  which  they  found  in  shaping 
the  prodigy  into  significance.  Wliy  should 
it  take  place,  and  ujDon  such  an  occasion, 
they  could  not  for  then-  hves  imagine.  The 
only  persons  in  the  family  who  seemed  alto- 
gether indifterent  to  it  were  Woodward  and 
his  mother,  both  of  whom  treated  it  with 
ridicule  and  contempt. 

"It  comes  before  some  calamity,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Lindsay. 

"  It  comes  before  a  fiddle-stick.  Lindsay," 
rejDhed  liis  wife.  "  Calamity  I  yes  ;  perhaps 
you  may  have  a  headache  to-morrow,  for 
which  the  world  must  be  prepiu-ed  by  a 
storm  of  thunder  and  lightning,  and  a 
shower  of  blood.  The  head  that  reels  over 
night  with  an  excess  of  wine  and  pimch  will 
ache  in  the  morning  without  a  prodigj'  to 
foretell  it." 

"  Say  what  you  wiU,"  he  replied,  "  I  be- 
lieve the  de%'il  had  a  hand  in  it ;  and  I  tell 
you,"  he  added,  laughing,  "that  if  you  be 
advised  by  me,  you'll  begin  to  prepai-e  your* 


o48 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


self — 'a  stitch  in  time  saves  nine,' jou  know 
— so  look  sharp,  I  say." 

"  This,  Hany,"  she  said,  addressing  her 
son,  "is  the  -way  yoiu'  mother  has  been 
treated  all  along ;  yes,  by  a  bintal  and 
coarse-minded  husband,  who  pays  no  atten- 
tion to  anything  but  his  own  gi'oss  and 
selfish  enjo}-ments  ;  but,  thank  God,  I  have 
now  some  person  to  protect  me." 

"  O,  ho  !  "  said  her  husband,  "  you  are  for 
a  battle  now.  Hai-iw,  you  don't  know  her. 
If  she  lets  loose  that  scuiiilous  tongue  of  hers 
I  have  no  chance  ;  upon  my  soul,  I'd  encoun- 
ter another  half  dozen  of  thunder-storms, 
and  as  many  showers  of  blood,  sooner  than 
come  under  it  for  ten  minutes  ;  a  West  India 
hiUTicane  is  a  zephyr  to  it." 

"Ah,  God  heljD  the  unhapj^y  woman  that's 
bhstered  for  hfe  with  an  ignoi'ant  sot  \—such 
a  woman  is  to  be  pitied — and  such  a  woman 
am  I ; — I,  you  good-for-nothing  dininken 
booby,  who  made  you  what  you  are." 

"0,  fie!  mamma,"  said  Maria,  "this  is 
too  bad  to  papa,  who,  you  know,  seldom  re- 
phes  to  you  at  all." 

"  ]Miss  Lindsay,  I  shall  suffer  none  of  your 
impertinence,"  said  her  mother  ;  "  leave  the 
room,  madam,  this  moment — how  dare  you  ? 
but  I  am  not  siirprised  at  it ; — -leave  the  room, 
I  say." 

The  poor,  amiable  gii-1,  who  was  aU  fear- 
fulness  and  affection,  quietly  left  the  room 
as  she  was  desii*ed,  and  her  father,  who  saw 
that  his  worthy  vpife  was  brimful  of  a  coming 
squall,  put  on  his  hat,  and  after  having  given 
one  of  his  usual  sardonic  looks,  left  the 
apartment  also. 

"Mother,"  said  her  son  Charles,  "I  must 
protest  against  the  unjustifiable  violence  of 
temper  Avith  which  you  treat  my  father.  You 
know  he  was  only  jesting  in  what  he  said  to 
you  this  moment." 

"Let  him  cany  his  jests  elsewere,  Mr. 
Charles,"  she  rephed,  "  he  shan't  indulge  in 
them  at  my  expense  ;  nor  tvoU  I  have  you 
abet  him  in  them  as  you  always  do — yes,  sir, 
and  laugh  at  them  in  my  face.  All  this, 
however,  is  veiy  natm-al ;  as  the  old  cock 
crows  the  young  one  learns.  As  for  Maria, 
if  she  makes  as  dutiful  a  wife  as  she  does  a 
daughter,  her  husband  may  thank  God  for 
getting  his  fuU  share  of  e^il  in  this  hfe." 

"I  protest  to  heaven,  Hany,"  said  Charles, 
addressing  his  brother,  "  if  ever  there  was  a 
meek,  sweet-tempered  girl  living,  Maria  is. 
You  do  not  yet  know  her,  but  you  wiU,  of 
course,  have  an  opportunity  of  judging  for 
yourself." 

"You  perceive,  Harry,"  said  his  mother, 
addressing  him  in  turn,  "  you  perceive  how 
they  are  banded  against  me  ;  in  fact,  they 
are  joined  with  their  father  in  a  conspiracy 


to  destroy  my  peace  and  happiness.  This  is 
the  feeling  that  prevails  against  me  in  the 
house  at  large,  for  which  I  may  thank  my 
husband  and  children — I  don't  include  you, 
Hany.  There  is  not  a  servant  in  om-  estab- 
hshment  but  could  poison  me,  and  probably 
would,  too,  were  it  not  for  fear  of  the  gal- 
lows." 

Woodward  hstened  to  this  strange  scene 
with  amazement,  but  was  pinident  enough 
to  take  no  part  in  it  whatsoever.  On  the 
contraiy,  he  got  his  hat  and  proceeded  out 
to  take  a  stroU,  as  the  evening  was  so  fine, 
and  the  aspect  of  the  country  was  so  de- 
Hghtful. 

"Harry,"  said  his  brother,  "if  you're  for 
a  walk  I'U  go  vrith  you," 

"Not  at  present,  Charley,"  said  he,  "lam 
in  a  thoughtful  mood,  and  generally  prefer 
a  lonely  stroll  on  such  a  beautiful  evening  as 
this." 

He  accordingly  went  out,  and  bent  his 
steps  by  a  long,  rude  green  lane,  which  ex- 
tended upwards  of  half  a  mile  across  a  rich 
country,  undulating  with  fields  and  mead- 
ows. This  was  terminated  by  a  clump  of 
hawthorn  trees,  then  white  and  fragi'ant  with 
their  lovely  blossoms,  which  lay  in  rich  pro- 
fusion on  the  ground.  Contiguous  to  this 
was  a  small  but  dehghtful  green  glen,  fi'om 
the  side  of  which  issued  one  of  those  beau- 
tiful sjDiing  weUs  for  which  the  countiy  is  so 
celebrated.  Over  a  verdant  httle  hill,  which 
concealed  this  glen  and  the  well  we  mention, 
from  a  few  humble  houses,  or  rather  a  de- 
center  kind  of  cabins,  was  visible  a  beaten 
pathway  by  which  the  inhabitants  of  this 
small  hamlet  came  for  their  water.  Upon 
this,  shaded  as  he  was  by  the  trees,  he  stead- 
ily kept  his  eye  for  a  considerable  time,  as  if 
in  the  expectation  of  some  person  who  had 
made  an  aj^pointment  to  meet  him.  Half 
an  hour  had  nearly  elapsed — the  shades  of 
evening  were  now  beginning  to  fall,  and  he 
had  just  come  to  the  resolution  of  retracing 
his  steps,  with  a  curse  of  disappointment 
on  his  lips,  when,  on  taking  another,  and 
what  he  intended  to  be  a  last  glance  at  the 
pathway  in  question,  he  espied  the  indiridual 
for  whom  he  waited.  This  was  no  other 
than  the  young  beauty  of  the  neighborhood 
— Grace  Davoren.  She  was  trij^ping  along 
with  a  hght  and  merry  step,  lilting  an  Irish 
air  of  a  very  lively  character,  to  Avhich  she 
could  scarcely  prevent  herself  from  dancing, 
so  elastic  and  buoyant  were  her  spirits.  On 
coming  to  the  brow  of  the  glen  she  paused 
a  moment  and  cast  her  e^^e  searchingly 
around  her,  but  seemed  after  the  scrutiny  to 
hesitate  about  proceeding  farther. 

Woodward  immediately  showed  himself, 
and  after  beckoning  to  her,  proceeded  to- 


TRE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


649 


ft-ard  the  well.  She  still  paused,  however, 
as  if  irresolute  ;  but  after  one  or  two  sifrni- 
ficant  gestures  on  his  part,  she  descended 
with  a  slow  and  apparently  a  timid  step,  and 
in  a  couple  of  minutes  stood  beside  the  well. 
The  immediate  puiport  of  their  conversation 
is  not  essentijd  to  this  narrative  ;  but,  indeed, 
we  presume  that  our  readers  may  give  a 
ver}-  good  guess  at  it  without  any  assistance 
fi'om  us.  Tlie  beautiful  gii-1  was  young,  and 
credulous,  and  innocent,  as  might  naturally 
be  inferred  fi-om  the  confusion  of  her  manner, 
and  the  tremulous  tones  of  her  voice,  which, 
indeed,  were  seductive  and  full  of  natural 
melody.  Her  heart  palpitated  until  its  beat- 
ings might  be  heard,  and  she  trembled  with 
that  kind  of  ten-or  which  is  composed  of 
apprehension  and  pleasure.  That  a  gentle- 
man— one  of  the  quaUtij — could  condescend 
to  feel  any  interest  in  a  humble  girl  like  her, 
was  what  she  could  scarcely  have  dreamed  ; 
but  when  he  told  her  of  her  beauty,  the 
natural  elegance  and  sjTnmetry  of  her  figure, 
and  added  that  he  loved  her  better  than  any 
girl,  either  high  c>r  low,  he  had  ever  seen, 
she  beUeved  that  his  words  were  true,  and 
her  brain  became  almost  giddy  with  wonder 
and  dehght.  Then  she  considered  what  a 
triumph  it  was  over  all  her  female  acquaint- 
ances, who,  if  they  knew  it,  would  certainly 
en^-y  her  even  far  more  than  they  did 
ah'eady.  After  about  half  an  hour's  conver- 
sation the  darkness  set  in,  and  she  expressed 
an  apprehension  lest  some  of  her  family 
should  come  in  quest  of  her — a  circumstance, 
she  said,  which  might  be  dangerous  to  them 
both.  He  then  prevailed  on  her  to  promise 
another  meeting,  which  at  length  she  did  ; 
but  on  his  taking  leave  of  her  she  asked 
him  by  which  way  he  intended  to  go  home. 

"I  came  by  the  old  green  path,"  said  he, 
"but  intend  to  turn  down  the  glen  into  the 
common  road.'' 

"  O,  don't  go  that  way,"  said  she  ;  "  if  you 
do,  you'll  have  to  pass  the  haunted  house, 
ay,  and  maybe,  might  meet  the  Shan-dhinne- 
dhuv." 

"  ^Miat  is  that,"  said  he. 

"O,  Lord  save  us,  sii',"  said  she,  "did you 
never  hear  of  the  Shan-dhinne-dhnvf  A 
spirit,  sii*,  that  appears  about  the  haunted 
house  in  the  shape  of  a  black  ould  man,  and 
they  say  that  nobody  lives  long  afther  seein' 
him  three  times." 

*'  Yes  ;  but  did  he  ever  take  any  person's 
fife?" 

"  Thev  say  so,  sir." 

"  AMien  ?    How  long  ago  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  can't  tell  that,  sii*  ;  but  sure 
every  one  says  it." 

"  We'l,  what  every  one  says  must  be 
true,'  he  replied,  smiling.     "I,  however,  am 


'  not  afraid  of  him,  as  I  never  go  unarmed ; 

and  if  I  liappen  to  meet  him,  trust  me  I  wiD 

'  know  what  mettle  he's  made  of  before  we 

part,  or  whether  he  belongs  to  this  world  or 

the  other." 

He  then  went  down  the  glen,  by  the 
bottom  of  which  the  road  went ;  and  at  a 
lonely  place  in  a  dai'k  angle  of  it  this  far- 
famed  spirit  was  said  to  appear. 

This  vain,  but  simple  gir^  the  pride  of  her 
honest  parents  and  all  her  simple  relations 
'  and  friends,  took  up  her  pitcher  and  pro- 
'  ceeded  with  an  elated  heart  by  the  pathway 
'  we  have  mentioned  as  leading  to  her  father's 
'  house.  We  say  her  heart  was  elated  at  the 
'  notion  of  having  engaged  the  affections  of  a 
handsome,  young,  and  elegant  gentleman, 
but  at  the  same  time  she  felt  a  secret  sense 
'  of  error,  if  not  of  guilt,  in  having  given  him 
'  a  clandestine  meeting,  and  kept  an  appoint- 
ment which  she  knew  her  parents  and 
brothers  would  have  heaixl  with  indignation 
and  shame.  ■  She  was  confident,  however,  in 
her  own  strength,  and  resolved  in  her  mind 
that  Woodward's  attachment  for  her  never 
should  terminate  either  in  her  disgrace  o> 
nain.  There  were,  however,  many  foolish 
and  pernicious  ballads  sung  about  that 
period  at  the  hearths  of  the  peasantiy,  in 
which  some  lord  or  squire  of  high  degree 
was  represented  to  have  fallen  in  love  with 
some  beautiful  giii  of  humble  life,  whom  he 
manned  in  spite  of  his  proud  relations,  and 
after  having  made  her  a  lady  of  rank,  and 
dres.sed  her  in  silks  and  satins,  gold  lings 
and  jewels,  brought  her  home  to  his  castle, 
where  they  hved  in  gi-andeur  and  happiness 
for  the  remainder  of  their  lives.  The  simple- 
minded  girl  began  to  imagine  that  some  such 
agi'eeable  destiny  might  be  reserved  for  her- 
self ;  and  thus  endeavored,  by  the  deceitful 
sophistry  of  a  credvdous  heart,  and  proud  of 
her  beauty,  to  p.'Uliate  her  conduct  amidst 
the  accusations  of  her  own  conscience,  which 
told  her  she  was  acting  wrong. 

She  had  now  got  about  half  way  home, 
when  she  saw  an  individual  approach  her  at 
a  rapid  pace  ;  and  as  the  moon  had  just 
risen,  his  figure  wsis  distinctly  before  her, 
and  she  iuiTuediately  felt  a  strong  impres- 
sion of  tenor  and  alarm.  The  individuid  in 
question  w;is  young,  tall,  and  mjiscuLar  :  his 
person  had  in  it  every  s^nnptdm  of  extra- 
ordinarA'  activity  and  ^^gor.  His  features, 
however,  wei*e  not  at  all  such  as  could  be 
termed  handsome  ;  so  far  from  that,  they 
were  rude  and  stem,  but  not  without  a  wild 
and  disagi'eeable  dignity.  His  eyes  were  at 
all  times  fierce  and  fiery,  and  gave  imequi- 
:^cal  indications  of  a  fierce  and  fien*-  spirit 
He  wore  a  pair  of  rude  pantaloons  that  fitted 
closely   to   his   finely   made  hmbs,  a  short 


650 


WILLIAM  CAELETON'S  W0EK8. 


jacket  or  Wyliecoat  that  also  fitted  closely  to 
his  body,  over  wliich  he  wore  the  usual  cloak 
of  that  day,  which  was  bouud  about  his 
middle  with  a  belt  and  buckle,  in  wliich  was 
stuck  a  middog-ue,  or,  as  it  ought  to  be 
wi'itten,  meadoige,  and  pronounced  maddogay. 
He  wore  a  kind  of  caj)  or  harrad,  which,  as 
well  as  his  cloak,  could,  by  being  tiu-ned  in- 
side out,  instantly  change  his  whole  apj^ear- 
ance,  and  mislead  his  pursuers — for  he  was 
the  outlaw.  Such  was  the  startling  indi- 
vidual who  now  aj)iDroached  her,  and  at 
whose  fierce  aspect  she  trembled — not  less 
fi'om  her  knowledge  of  the  natural  violence 
of  his  character  than  fi'om  a  consciousness  of 
her  inteiTiew  with  Woodwaixl. 

"  Well,  Granua  (Grace),"  said  he,  cjuickly 
and  with  some  vehemence,  "where  have 
you  been  ?  " 

"At  the  well,"  she  repHed  ;  "have  you 
eyes  in  your  head  ?  Don't  you  see  my  pit- 
cher?" 

"  I  do  ;  but  what  kept  you  there  so  long  ? 
and  why  is  your  voice  trembliu',  as  if  you 
wor  afeard,  or  did  something  wrong  ?  Why 
is  your  face  pale,  too  ? — it's  not  often  so." 

"  The  Lord  save  us,  Shawn,"  repHed 
Grace,  attempting  to  treat  those  pointed  in- 
terrogatories mth  a  jocidar  spirit,  "  how  can 
you  exj^ect  me  to  answer  such  a  catechize  as 
you're  puttin'  to  me  at  wanst." 

"Answer  me,  in  the  mane  time,"  he  re- 
plied ;  "I'll  have  no  doubhng,  Granua." 

"Has  anything  vexed  you,  Shawn?" 

"  Chorp  an  diaoul !  tell  me  wh}^  you  staid 
so  long  at  the  well " — and'  as  he  spoke  his 
eyes  flashed  TNdth  resentment  and  suspicion. 

"  I  didn't  stay  long  at  it." 

"  I  say  you  did.     What  kept  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  bekaise  I  didn't  hiu-ry  myself,  but 
took  my  time.     I  was  often  longer." 

"You  were  spakin'  to  some  one  at  the 
well." 

"Ah,  thin,  Shawai,  who  would  I  be  spakin' 
to?" 

"Maybe  I  know — I  beheve  I  do — but  I 
want  now  to  know  whether  you're  a  bar,  as 
I  suspect  you  to  be,  or  whether  you  are 
honest  enough  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  Do  you  susjDect  me,  then  ?  " 

"I  do  suspect  you;  or  rather  I  don't — 
bekaise  I  ki^ow  the  truth.  Answer  me — 
who  were  yoU  spakin'  with  ?  " 

"  Troth,"  said  she,  "  I  was  lookin'  at  your 
sweetheart  in  the  well,"  meaning  her  own 
shadow,  "  and  was  only  asking  her  how  she 
did." 

"You  danced  with  Harry-na-Suil  Balor 
last  night?" 

"  I  did  ;  because  the  gentleman  axed  me 
/—and  why  would  I  refuse  him  ?  " 

"  You  whispered  in  a  comer  with  him  ?  " 


"  I  did  not,"  she  rejDlied  ;  "  how  could  1 
when  the  room  was  so  thi-ong  ?  " 

"  Ay,  betther  in  a  throng  room  than  a 
thin  one  ;  ay,  and  you  promised  to  meet 
Mm  at  the  well  to-night ;  and  you  kept  yo\xt 
word." 

A  woman's  courage  and  determination  to 
persist  in  falsehood  are  never  so  decided 
and  dehberate  as  when  she  feels  that  the 
suspicion  expressed  against  her  is  true.  She 
then  gets  into  heroics  and  attempts  to  turn 
the  tables  upon  her  opponent,  especiaDy 
when  she  knows,  as  Miss  Davoren  did  on 
this  occasion,  that  he  has  nothing  hut  sus- 
picion to  support  him.  She  knew  that  her 
lover  had  been  at  the  bonfire,  and  that  his 
fi'iends  must  have  seen  her  dance  with 
Woodward  ;  and  this  she  did  not  attemj)t  to 
deny,  because  she  could  not  ;  but  as  for  their 
trj'st  at  the  well,  she  felt  satisfied,  from  her 
knowledge  of  his  jealous  and  violent  charac- 
ter, that  if  he  had  been  aware  of  it,  it  would 
not  have  been  by  seeking  the  fact  through 
the  medium  of  his  threats  and  her  fears 
that  he  would  have  proceeded.  Had  he 
seen  W^oodward,  for  instance,  and  herself 
holding  a  secret  meeting  in  such  a  i^lace  and 
at  such  an  hour,  she  concluded  justly  that 
the  middogue  or  dagger,  for  the  use  of  which 
he  had  been  ah'eady  so  celebrated,  would 
have  been  brought  into  requisition  against 
either  one  or  both. 

"I'll  talk  no  more  to  you,"  she  repHed, 
with  a  flushed  face  ;  "for  even  if  I  tould  yor, 
the  truth,  you  wouldn't  beheve  me.  I  did 
meet  him,  then  ;  are  you  satisfied  now  ?  " 

This  admission  was  an  able  stroke  of  pol- 
icy on  her  part,  as  the  reader  will  soon  per- 
ceive. 

"  O,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  bitter,  or, 
rather,  a  furious  expression  of  face,  "  dar 
manim,  if  you  had,  you  wouldn't  dare  to 
confess  as  much.  But  hsten  to  me ;  if  I 
ever  hear  or  know,  to  mj  own  satisfaction, 
that  you  meet  him,  or  keep  his  company,  or 
put  yourself  in  his  power,  I'll  send  six  in- 
ches of  this  " — and  he  pulled  out  the  glitter- 
ing weajDon — "  into  your  heart  and  his  ;  so 
now  be  warned  and  avoid  him,  and  don't 
bring  down  my  vengeance  on  you  both." 

"  I  don't  see  what  right  you  have  to  bring 
me  over  the  coals  about  any  one.  My  father 
was  forcin'  me  to  marry  you  ;  but  I  now  teU 
you  to  your  teeth,  that  I  never  had  the  slight- 
est intention  of  it.  No  !  I  wouldn't  take  the 
wealth  of  the  barony,  and  be  the  wife  of  sich 
a  savage  muixlherer.  No  man  wid  blood 
upon  his  hands  and  upon  his  sowl,  as  j'ou 
have — a  public  robber,  a  murdherer,  an  out- 
law— will  ever  be  my  husband.  "What  right 
have  you  to  tell  me  who  I'm  to  spake  to,  or 
who  I'm  not  to  spake  to  ?  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


651 


"All,"  be  replied,  "that  wasn't  your  lan- 
guage to  me  not  long  ago." 

"  13ut  you  were  a  diiierent  boy  then  from 
what  you  are  now.  If  you  had  kept  your 
name  free  fi-om  disgi-ace  and  blood,  I  might 
have  loved  you ;  but  I  cannot  love  a  man 
with  such  crimes  to  answer  for  as  you 
have. " 

"You  accuse  me  of  shedding  blood,"  he 
replied  ;  "  that  is  false.  I  have  never  shed 
blood  nor  takeji  life  ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
did  all  in  my  power  to  prevent  those  who 
have  pLaced  me  at  their  head  from  doin'  so. 
Yet,  when  they  did  it  in  my  absence,  and 
against  my  orders,  the  blame  and  guilt  is 
chai'ged  upon  me  because  I  am  theu*  leader. 
As  for  any  tiling  else  I  have  done,  I  do  not 
look  upon  it  as  a  ciime  ;  let  it  rest  upon  the 
opjiression  that  diove  me  and  others  to  the 
wild  lives  we  lead.  We  are  forced  to  Uve 
now  the  best  way  we  can,  and  that  you 
know  ;  but  as  to  this  gentleman,  you  mustn't 
spake  to  him  at  any  rate,"  he  proceeded ; 
"  why  should  you  ?  ^^^lat  'ud  make  a  man 
so  high  in  life,  and  so  far  above  you  as  he 
is,  strive  to  become  acquainted  with  you, 
unless  to  bring  about  yoiu"  ruin  to  gi-atify 
his  o^^•n  bad  passions?  Think  of  it,  and 
bring  it  home  to  your  heart.  You  have  too 
many  examples  before  your  eyes,  young  as 
you  are,  of  silly  girls  that  allow  themselves 
to  be  made  fools  of,  and  desaved  and  ruined 
by  such  scoundi-els  as  this.  Look  at  that 
unfortunate  girl  in  the  mountains  there — 
Nannie  Moriissey  ;  look  at  her  father  hanged 
only  for  takin'  God's  just  revenge,  as  he  had 
a  right  to  do,  on  the  villain  that  brought  de- 
struction upon  her  and  his  innocent  family, 
and  blaclc  shame  upon  their  name  that  never 
had  a  spot  upon  it  before.  After  these 
words  you  may  now  act  as  you  like  ;  but  re- 
member that  you  have  got  Shaivn-na-Mid- 
dofjue's  icarnintj,  and  you  ought  to  know  what 
that  is." 

He  then  started  oflf  in  the  same  direction 
which  Woodward  had  taken,  and  Grace, 
ha\iug  looked  after  him  with  considerable 
indignation  on  her  own  part  and  consider- 
able apprehension  on  behalf  of  Woodward, 
took  up  her  pitcher  and  proceeded  home. 

She  now  felt  herself  much  disturbed,  and 
experienced  that  state  of  mind  which  is  often 
occasioned  by  the  enunciation  of  that  which 
is  kuo\Mi  to  be  truth,  but  which,  at  the  same 
time,  is  productive  of  pain  to  the  conscience, 
especi;xlly  when  that  conscience  begins  to 
abandon  the  field  and  fly  from  its  duty. 

Woodward,  as  he  had  intended,  prefeiTed 
the  open  and  common  road  home,  although 
it  was  much  longer,  rather  than  return  by 
the  old  gi*een  lane,  which  was  rugged  and 
uneven,  and  full  of  deep  ruts,  dangerous  in- 


equahties,  and  stumps  of  old  trees,  all  of 
which  rendered  it  not  only  a  disagreeable,  but 
a  dangerous,  path  by  night.  Having  got  out 
upon  the  highway,  which  here,  and  until  he 
reached  near  home,  wa.s,  indeed,  solemn- 
looking  and  lonely,  not  a  habitation  except 
the  haunted  house  being  visible  for  upwards 
of  two  miles,  he  jiroceeded  on  his  way,  think- 
ing of  his  interview  with  Grace  Davoren. 
The  country  on  each  side  of  him  was  neai'ly 
a  desert ;  a  gi-ay  I'uin,  some  of  whose  stand- 

'.  ing  and  isolated  fi'agments  assumed,  to  the 
excited  imagination  of  the  tenified  peasants 
as  they  passed  it  by  night,  the  appearance  of 
sujiernatui-al  beings,  stood  to  the  left,  in  the 
centre  of  an  antiquated  church-yard,  in  which 
there  had  not  been  a  corpse  buried  for  near- 
ly half  a  centun.- — a  circumstance  which 
always  invests  a  gravej'ai'd  with  a  more 
fearful  character.  As  Woodward  gazed  at 
these  stiU  and  lonely  relics  of  the  dead,  upon 
which  the  faint  rays  of  the  moon  gleamed 
vrith  a  sjDCctral  and  melancholy  light,  iie 
could  not  help  feeling  that  the  sight  itself, 
and  the  associations  connected  with  it,  were 
calculated  to  fill  weak  minds  with  strong 
feehngs  of  sujieniatural  teiTor.  His,  how- 
ever, was  not  a  mind  acces.sible  to  any  such 
impressions  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  could 
make  allowance  for  them  among  those  who 
had  seldom  any  other  notions  to  guide  them 
on  such  subjects  than  those  of  superstition 
and  ignorance. 

The  haunted  house,  which  was  not  yet  in 
sight,  he  did  not  remember,  nor  was  he  ac- 
quainted with  its  histoiy,  with  the  exception 
of  Grace's  shght  allusion  to  it.  At  length  he 
came  to  a  part  of  the  road  which  was  over- 
hung, or  rather  altogether  covered  with  long 
beech  trees,  whose  huge  arms  met  and  in- 
tertwined Arith  each  other  across  it,  filling 
the  fu'ch  they  made  with  a  solemn  dai-kness 

'  even  in  the  noon  of  day.     At  night,  how- 

j  ever,  the  obscurity  was  black  and  palpable  ; 

!  and  such  upon  this  occasion  was  its  a^'ful 
solemnit;\'  and  stillness,  and  the  sense  of  Ln- 
secui'ity  occasioned  b}'  the  almost  super- 
natural gloom  about  him.  that  Woodward 
could  not  avoid  the  idea  that  it  afforded  no 

i  bad  conception  of  the  entrance  to  the  world 
of  darkness  and  of  spirits.  He  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far,  however,  ixnder  this  dismal 
canopy,  when  an  incident  occuired  which 
tested  his  courage  severely.  As  he  went 
along  he  imagined  that  he  heai'd  the  sound 
of  human  footsteps  ne;u'  him.  This,  to  be 
sure,  gave  him  at  first  no  trouble  on  the  score 
of  anyihiug  supernatiu'al.  The  country, 
however,  was,  as  we  have  ah-eady  intimated, 
veiT  much  infested  with  outlaws  and  rob- 
bers,   and    although    Woodward    was   well 

,  ai-med,  as  he  had  tnily  said,   and  was  no 


652 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


coward  besides,  yet  it  was  upon  this  A-iew  of 
the  matter  that  he  experienced  anything  Uke 
apprehension.  He  accordingly  paused,  in 
order  to  ascertain  whether  the  footsteps  he 
heard  might  not  have  been  the  echo  of  his 
own.  When  his  steps  ceased,  so  also  did  the 
others  ;  and  when  he  advanced  again  so  did 
they.  He  coughed  aloud,  but  there  was  no 
echo  ;  he  shouted  out  "  Is  there  any  one 
there  '? "  but  still  there  was  a  dead  stillness. 
At  length  he  said  again,  "Whoever  you  may 
be,  and  especijilly  if  yoiu'  designs  be  evil  and 
imlawful,  you  had  l^etter  beware  ;  I  am  well 
ai-med,  and  both  able  and  determined  to  de- 
fend myself ;  if  money  is  your  object,  pass 
on,  for  I  have  none  about  me." 

Again  there  was  the  silence,  as  there  was 
the  dai-kness  of  the  grave.  He  now  resumed 
his  former  pace,  and  the  noise  of  footsteps, 
evidently  and  distinctly  difit'erent  fi*om  his 
own,  were  once  more  heard  near  him.  Those 
that  accompanied  him  fell  upon  his  ear  with 
a  hght,  but  strange  and  chilling  sound,  that 
filled  him  with  sui-prise,  and  something  like 
awe.  In  fact,  he  had  never  heard  anything 
similar  to  it  before.  It  was  veiy  strange,  he 
thought,  for  the  sounds,  though  hght,  were 
yet  as  distinct  and  weU-defined  as  his  own. 
He  still  held  a  pistol  in  each  hand,  and  as  he 
had  no  means  of  unravelling  this  mystery  so 
long  as  he  was  in^Tapped  in  such  Cimmerian 
gloom,  he  resolved  to  accelerate  his  pace  and 
get  into  the  hght  of  the  moon  as  soon  as  he 
could.  He  accordingly  did  so  ;  but  the  foot- 
steps, although  they  fell  not  now  so  quickly 
as  his  own,  still  seemed  to  maintain  the 
same  distance  from  him  as  before.  This 
certainly  puzzled  him  ;  and  he  was  attempt- 
ing, if  possible,  to  solve  this  new  difficulty, 
when  he  fovmd  himseK  emerging  fi-om  the 
darkness,  and  in  a  few  moments  standing  in 
the  hght  of  the  moon.  He  immediately 
looked  about  him,  but  except  the  usual  in- 
animate objects  of  nature,  he  could  see 
nothing.  Whatever  it  is,  thought  he,  or, 
rather,  v:hoever  it  is,  he  has  thought  proper 
to  remain  undiscovered  in  the  darkness.  I 
shaU  now  bid  him  good-night,  and  proceed 
on  my  way  home.  He  accordingly  moved 
on  once  more,  when,  to  his  utter  astonish- 
ment, he  heard  the  footsteps  again,  precisely 
within  the  same  distance  of  him  as  be- 
fore. 

"  Tut,"  said  he,  "  I  now  perceive  what  the 
matter  with  me  is.  This  is  a  mere  hallucina- 
tion, occasioned  by  a  disordered  state  of  the 
nerves  ;  and  as  he  spoke  he  returned  his 
pistols  into  his  breast  pockets,  where  he 
usually  wore  them,  and  once  more  resumed 
his  journey.  There  was,  however,  some- 
thing in  the  i^ouncl  of  the  footsteps  —some- 
thing so  hoUow — so  cold,  as  it  were,  and  so 


'  unearthly,  that  he  could  not  throw  off  the 
unaccountable    impression   which    it  made 
upon  him,  infidel  and  sceptic  as  he  was  up- 
I  on  all  supernatui-al  intimations  and  appear- 
■  ances.     At  length,  he  proceeded,  or  rathei 
:  they   proceeded,   onward   until   he    arrived 
:  within  sight  of  what  he  sujDposed  to  be  the 
haunted  house.     He  paused  a  few  moments, 
and  was  not  now  so  insensible  to  its  lonely 
and   dismal   aspect.     It  was   a   two-storied 
I  house,  and  nothing  could  sm-pass  the  spec- 
i  tral  appearance  of  the  moon's  hght  as  it  feU 
with  its  pale  and  death-like  lustre  upon  the 
!  windows.     He    stood   contemjjlating   it  for 
some  time,  when,  aU  at  once,  he  jDerceived, 
walking  about  ten  yards  in  advance  of  him, 
the  shajDe  of  a  man  dressed  in  black  from 
i  top  to  toe.     It  was  not  within  the  scope  of 
human  fortitude  to  avoid  being  startled  by 
'  such  a  sudden  and  incomprehensible  appari- 
tion.    Woodward  icas  startled  ;  but  he  soon 
recovered  himself,  and  after  the  first  shock 
]  felt  rather  satisfied  that  he  had  some  visible 
object  with  which  he  could  make  the  experi- 
ment   he  ]Dr ejected,  viz.,   to   ascertain   the 
nature,  whether  mortal  or  otherwise,  of  the 
1  being   before   him.     With  this   pui-pose  in 
riew,  he  walked  very  quickly  after  him,  and 
as  the  other  did  not  seem  to  quicken  his 
pace  into  a  corresponding  speed,  he  took  it 
for   gTanted   that  he  would   soon  overtake 
him.     In  this,  however,  he  was,  much  to  his 
astonishment,  mistaken.     His  own  walk  was 
quick  and  rapid,  whilst  that  of  this  incompre- 
hensible figure  was  slow  and  solemn,  and  3'et 
he  could  not  lessen  the  distance  between 
them  a  single  inch. 

"  Stop,  su',"  said  Woodwai'd,  "  whoever 
or  whatever  you  are — stop,  I  wish  to  speak 
with  you  ;  be  you  mortal  or  sj)iritual,  I  fear 
you  not — only  stop." 

The  being  before  him,  however,  walked  on 
at  the  same  slow  and  solemn  pace,  but  stiU 
persisted  in  maintaining  his  distance.  Wood- 
ward was  resolute,  fearless — a  sceptic,  an 
infidel,  a  materiahst — but  here  was  a  walking 
projDosition  in  his  presence  which  he  could 
not  solve,  and  which,  up  to  that  point,  at 
least,  had  set  all  his  theories  at  defiance. 
His  blood  rose — he  became  annoyed  at  the 
strange  silence  of  the  being  before  him, 
but  more  still  at  the  mysterious  and  tardy 
pace  with  which  it  seemed  to  precede  and 
escape  him. 

"  I  will  follow  it  until  morning,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "or  else  I  shall  develop  this  start- 
ling enigma." 

At  this  moment  his  mysterious  fellow- 
traveller,  after  having  advanced  as  if  there 
had  not  been  such  an  individual  as  Wood- 
wai'd  in  existence,  now  stood  ;  he  was  di- 
rectly   opposite    the    haunted    house,    and 


THE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


653 


turning'  ronnd,  faced  the  tantalized  and  bewil- 
dered mortal.  The  latter  looked  on  him  ; 
his  countenance  was  the  countenance  of  the 
dead — of  the  sheeted  dead,  stretched  out  in 
the  bloodless  pallor  which  lies  upon  the  face 
of  vanished  life — of  existence  that  is  no 
more,  at  least  in  flesh  and  blood.  Wood- 
ward approached  him — for  the  thing  had 
stood,  as  we  have  said,  and  permitted  him 
to  come  mthin  a  few  yards  fi*om  him. 
His  eyes  were  cold  and  glassy,  and  appar- 
ently without  speculation,  Hke  those  of  a 
dead  man  open ;  yet,  notwithstanding  this, 
Woodward  felt  that  they  looked  at  him,  if 
not  into  him. 

"Speak,"  said  he,  "speak;  who  or  what 
are  you  ?  " 

He  received  no  reply  ;  but  in  a  few  sec- 
onds the  apparition,  if  it  were  such,  put  his 
hand  into  liis  bosom,  and,  puUing  out  a 
dagger,  which  gleamed  with  a  faint  and 
visionarj'  hght,  he  du'ected  it  as  if  to  his 
(Woodward's)  heart.  Three  times  he  did 
this,  in  an  attitude  more  of  warning  than  of 
anger,  when,  at  length,  he  turned  and  ap- 
proached the  haunted  house,  at  the  door  of 
"which  he  disappeared. 

Woodward,  as  the  reader  must  have  per- 
ceived, was  a  strong-minded,  fearless  man, 
and  examined  the  awful  featiures  of  this 
inscrutable  being  closely. 

" Tliis,  then,"  thought  he,  "is  the  Shan- 
dhinne-dhiiv,  or  the  Black  Spectre  ;  but,  be 
it  what  it  may,  I  am  strongly  of  opinion 
that  it  was  present  at  the  bonfire  last  night, 
and  as  I  am  well  armed,  I  will  unquestion- 
ably pursue  it  into  the  house.  Nay,  what  is 
more,  I  suspect  that  it  is  in  some  way  or 
other  connected  with  the  outlaw  SJiaion-na- 
Middogue,  who  it  was,  they  say,  made  that 
amazing  leap  over  the  aforesaid  bonfire  in 
my  o\N-n  presence." 

On  that  ver}'  account,  however,  he  reflect- 
ed that  such  an  intrusion  might  be  attended 
with  more  danger  than  that  to  be  apprehen- 
ded from  a  ghost.  He  consequently  paused 
for  some  time  before  he  coiild  decide  on 
follomng  up  such  a  pei-ilous  resolution. 
While  he  thus  stood  deliberating  upon  the 
prudence  of  this  daiing  exploit,  he  heard  a 
variety  of  noises,  and  knockings,  and  roll- 
ings, as  if  of  empty  ban-els,  and  ratthng  of 
chains,  all  going  on  inside,  whilst  the  house 
itseK  appeare<l  to  be  dark  and  still,  without 
smoke  from  the  chimneys,  or  light  in  the 
windows,  or  any  other  symptom  of  being 
inhabited,  unless  by  those  who  were  pro- 
ducing the  wild  and  extraordinary  noises  he 
then  heard. 

"If  I  do  not  see  this  out,"  said  he,  "my 
account  of  it  will  go  to  add  another  page  to 
the   great   volume   of  superstition.      I   am 


armed,   not  a  whit  afraid,  and  /  iviil  see  it 
out,  if  human  enterprise  can  effect  it." 

He  immediately  entered  the  door,  which 
he  found,  somewhat  to  his  sm-prise,  was  on- 
ly laid  to,  and,  after  hstening  for  a  few  mo« 
ments,  resolved  to  examine  the  premises 
closely.  In  deference  to  the  reader,  whose 
nei-ves  may  not  be  so  strong  as  those  of 
Henry  Woodward,  and  who  consequently 
may  entertain  a  veiy  decided  objection  to 
enter  a  haimted  house,  especially  one  in 
such  a  lonely  and  remote  situation,  we  will 
only  say  that  he  remained  La  it  for  at  least 
an  hour  and  a  half  ;  at  the  expiration  ot 
which  time  he  left  it,  walked  home  in  a 
silent  and  meditative  mood,  spoke  little  to 
his  family,  who  were  a  good  deal  surprised 
at  his  abstracted  manner,  and.  after  sipjiing 
a  tumbler  of  punch  with  his  step-father, 
went  rather  gloomily  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  he  looked 
a  good  deal  paler  than  they  had  yet  seen 
him,  and  for  some  time  his  contribution  to 
the  family  dialogue  was  rather  scanty. 

"HaiT}',"  said  liis  mother,  "what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  You  are  silent,  and  look 
pale.     Are  you  unwell '? " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  he  repHed,  "  I  cannot  say 
that  I  am.  But,  by  the  way,  have  you  not  a 
haunted  house  in  the  neighborhood,  and  is 
there  not  an  apparition  called  the  Black 
Man,  or  the  Black  Spectre,  seen  occasionally 
about  the  premises  ?  " 

"So  it  is  said,"  replied  Lindsay,  "but 
none  of  this  family  has  ever  seen  it,  Jilthough 
I  believe  it  has  undoubtedly  been  seen  by 
many  persons  in  the  neighborhood." 

"  "WTiat  is  supposed  to  have  been  the 
cause  of  its  appeai-ance  ?  "  asked  Harry. 

"  Faith,  Harry,"  repHed  his  brother,  "  I 
fear  there  is  nobody  here  can  give  you  that 
information.  To  speak  for  myself,  I  never 
heai'd  its  appeai'ance  accounted  for  at  all. 
Perhaps  Barney  Casey  knows.  Do  vou, 
father?" 

"  Not  I,"  replied  his  father  ;  "  but  as  you 
say,  Charley,  we  had  better  try  Barney. 
Call  him  up." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  IMrs.  Lindsay,  shai-ply 
and  disdainfully,  "  it  was  the  Black  Spectre 
who  produced  the  shower  of  blootl  last 
night?" 

"  Faith,  it's  not  unlikely,"  rephed  her  hus- 
band, "if  he  be,  as  the  jieople  think,  con- 
nected "\rith  the  de\il." 

In  a  couple  of  minutes  Barney  entered  to 
know  what  was  wanted. 

" Barney,"  said  his  master,  "can  you  in- 
form us  who  or  what  the  ShaJi-dhimte-dhuv 
is,  or  why  he  appears  in  this  neighborhood  ? 
Damn  the  fellow  ;  he  has  that  house  of  mine 
on   my   hands   this  many  a  long  year,    for 


654 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


I  cannot  get  it  set.  I've  had  priests  and 
parsons  to  lay  liim,  and  for  some  time  we 
thought  the  country  was  free  of  him  ;  but  it 
was  all  to  no  purjjose  ;  he  was  still  sm-e  to 
return,  and  no  earthly  habitation  should 
serve  him  but  that  unlucky  house  of  mine. 
It  is  ver}'  odd  that  he  never  began  to  appear 
until  after  my  second  marriage." 

"  Sir,"  replied  Barney,  "I  hard  something 
about  it ;  but  I'm  not  clear  on  it.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  there's  two  or  three  accounts 
of  him  ;  but  anyhow,  sir,  you're  in  luck  for 
the  right  one  ;  for  if  livin'  man  can  give  it  to 
you.  Bandy  Brack,  the  pedler,  is  the  man. 
He's  now  at  his  breakfast  in  the  kitchen  ; 
but  I'll  have  him  up." 

"Not  in  the  parlor,"  said  his  mistress;  "  a 
strolling  knave  like  him.  Who  ordered  him 
his  breakfast  in  the  kitchen  without  my 
knowledge  ?  "  she  asked,  "  The  moment  I 
can  find  out  the  person  that  dared  to  do  so, 
that  moment  they  shall  leave  my  family. 
Must  I  keep  an  oj^en  house  for  every  stroll- 
ing vagabond  in  the  country  ?  " 

"  If  3'ou  choose  to  turn  me  out,"  rej^lied 
her  husband,  "  you  may  try  your  hand  at  it. 
It  was  I  ordered  the  poor  man  his  breakfast; 
and,  what  is  more,  I  desire  j^ou  instantly  to 
hold  your  peace." 

As  he  spoke,  she  saw  that  one  of  his  de- 
termined looks  settled  upon  his  countenance 
— a  pretty  certain  symptom  that  she  had 
better  be  guided  by  his  advice. 

"  Come,  Barney,"  said  he,  "throw  up  that 
window  and  send  the  poor  man  here,  until 
he  tells  us  what  he  knows  about  this  affair." 

The  window  was  accordingly  thrown  open, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Bandy  Brack  made  his 
appearance  outside,  and,  on  being  interro- 
gated on  the  subject  in  question,  took  off  his 
hat,  and  was  about  to  commence  his  narra- 
tive, when  Lindsay  said, 

"  Put  on  your  hat.  Bandy  ;  the  sun's  too 
hot  to  be  uncovered." 

"  That's  more  of  it,"  said  his  wife  ;  "  a  fine 
way  to  make  yourself  respected,  Lindsay." 

"I  love  to  be  respected,"  he  rephed 
sternly,  "  and  to  deserve  respect :  but  I  have 
no  desire  to  incui-  the  hatred  of  the  poor  by 
opi3ression  and  want  of  charity,  like  some  of 
my  female  acquaintances." 

"  Plase  your  honor,"  said  Bandy,  "  aU  that 
I  know  about  the  Shan-dhinne-dhuv,  or  the 
Black  Spectre,  as  the  larned  call  him,  won't 
require  many  words  to  tell  you.  It's  not 
generally  known  what  I'm  goin'  to  say  now. 
The  haunted  house,  as  your  honor,  maybe, 
remimbers,  was  an  inn — a  carman's  inn 
chiefly — and  one  night,  it  seems,  there  came 
a  stranger  to  stop  in  it.  He  was  dressed  in 
black,  and  when  he  thought  it  time  to  go  to 
^ed  he  called  the  landlord,  Antony  Mc]\Iurt, 


and  placed  in  his  hands  a  big  purse  o'  goold 
to  keep  for  him  till  he  should  start  at  day- 
break, as  he  intended,  the  next  morning. 
Antony — " 

"  Ay,"  said  Lindsay,  inteiTupting  him, 
"  that  accounts  for  the  nature  of  the  villain's 
death.  I  remember  him  well,  Bandy,  al- 
though I  was  only  a  boy  at  the  time  ;  go  on 
— he  was  always  a  dishonest  scoundrel  it 
was  said — proceed." 

"  Well  it  seems,  Antony,  su',  mistook  him 
for  a  Protestant  parson  ;  and  as  he  had  a 
hankeriu'  afther  the  goold,  he  opened  a  gus- 
set in  the  man's  throat  that  same  night, 
when  the  imsuspectin'  traveller  was  sound 
in  that  sleep  that  he  never  woke  fi'om  in 
this  world.  When  the  deed  was  done  An- 
tony stripi^ed  him  of  his  clothes,  and  in  do- 
ing so  discovered  a  silver  crucifix  upon  his 
breast,  and  a  bravery  (breviary)  under  his 
head,  by  which  he  found  that  he  had  mur- 
dhered  a  priest  of  his  own  rehgion  in  mis- 
take. They  say  he  stabbed  him  in  the  jigler 
vein  wid  a  middoge.  At  all  events,  the  body 
disappeared,  and  there  never  was  any  in- 
Cjuiry  made  about  it — a  good  proof  that  the 
unfortunate  man  was  a  stranger.  Well  and 
good,  your  honor — in  the  coorse  of  a  short 
time,  it  seems,  the  murdhered  priest  began 
to  appear  to  him,  and  haunted  liim  almost 
every  night,  until  the  unfortunate  Antony 
began  to  get  out  of  Ids  rason,  and,  it  is  said, 
that  when  he  appeared  to  him  he  always 
pointed  the  middoge  at  him,  just  as  if  he 
wished  to  jDut  it  into  his  heart.  Antony 
then,  widout  telhn'  his  own  saicret,  began 
to  tell  everybody  that  he  was  doomed  to  die 
a  bloody  death  ;  in  short,  he  became  unset- 
tled— got  faii'ly  beside  himseK,.  and  afther 
mopin'  about  for  some  months  in  ordher  to 
avoid  the  bloody  death  the  priest  threatened 
him  wid,  he  went  and  hanged  himself  in  the 
very  room  where  he  killed  the  xinfortunate 
priest  before." 

"I  remember  when  he  hanged  himself, 
very  well,"  observed  Lindsay,  "  but  d — n 
the  syllable  of  the  robbery  and  murder  of 
the  priest  or  any  body  else  ever  I  heard  of 
till  the  present  moment,  although  there  was 
an  inquest  held  over  himself.  The  man  got 
low-spirited  and  depressed,  because  his  busi- 
ness failed  him,  or,  rather,  because  he  didn't 
attend  to  it  ;  and  in  one  of  these  moods 
hanged  liimself  ;  but  b}^  all  accounts,  Bandy, 
if  he  hadn't  done  the  deed  for  himself  the 
hangman  would  have  done  it  for  him.  He 
was  said,  I  think,  to  have  been  connected 
with  some  of  the  outlaws,  and  to  have  been 
a  bad  boy  altogether.  I  think  it  is  now 
near  fifty  years  ago  since  he  hanged  him- 
self." 

"  'Tis  said,  sir,  that  this  account  comes 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


655 


from  one  of  his  own  relations ;  but  there's 
anotlier  account,  sir,  of  the  Shan-dhinne-dhuv 
that  I  don't  beheve  a  word  of." 

"  Another— what  is  that,  Bandy  ?  " 

"  O,  bedad,  su-,"rephed  Bandy,  "  it's  more 
than  I  could  venture  to  tell  you  here." 

"  Come,  come — out  with  it." 

Mrs.  Lindsay  went  over  with  an  inflamed 
face,  and  having  ordered  him  to  go  about 
his  business,  slapped  down  the  window  with 
great  violence,  giving  poor  Bandy  a  look  of 
^vrath  and  intimidation  that  sealed  his  hps 
upon  the  subject  of  the  otJier  tradition  he 
aUuded  to.  He  was,  consequently,  glad  to 
escape  fi-om  the  threatening  stomi  which  he 
saw  brewing  in  her  countenance,  and,  con- 
sequently, made  a  very  hasty  retreat.  Bar- 
ney, who  met  him  in  the  yard  returning  to 
fetch  his  pack  fi-om  the  kitchen,  noticed  his 
perturbation,  and  asked  him  what  was  the 
matter. 

"May  the  Lord  protect  me  from  that 
woman's  eye  !  "  replied  the  j^edler,  "  if  you'd 
'a'  seen  the  look  she  gave  me  when  she 
thought  I  was  goin'  to  tell  them  the  true 
story  of  the  Shan-dhinne-dhuv." 

"And  why  should  she  put  a  sword  in  her 
eye  against  you  for  that,  Bandy  ?  "  asked  the 
other. 

Bandy  looked  cautiously  about  him,  and 
said  in  a  whisper  : 

"  Because  it's  connected  with  her  family, 
and  follows  it." 

He  then  proceeded  to  the  kitchen,  and 
having  secured  his  pack,  he  made  as  rapid  a 
disappearance  as  possible  fi'om  about  the 
premises. 


CHAPTEK  Vn. 

A  Council  of  Two.  —  Visit  to  Beech  Orove. — TTie 

Herbalist. 

Woodward  now  amused  himself  by  walk- 
ing and  riding  about  the  countiy  and  view- 
ing its  sceneiy,  most  of  which  he  had 
forgotten  during  his  long  absence  fi'om 
ho*ue.  It  was  not  at  all  singulai'  in  that  dark 
state  of  popidar  superstition  and  ignorance, 
that  the  shower  of  blood  should,  somehow 
or  another,  be  associated  v»'ith  him  and  his 
detested  mother.  Of  covu-se,  the  associa- 
tion was  vague,  and  the  people  knew  not 
how  to  apply  it  to  theii'  circumstances.  As 
they  believed,  however,  that  !Mrs.  Lindsjiy  : 
possessed  the  power  of  overlooking  cattle,  I 
which  was  considered  an  evil  gift,  and  in 
some  mysterious  manner  connected  -with  the 
e\il  spirit,  and  as  they  remembered — for  1 
superstition,  like  guilt,  always  possesses  a 
good  memory — that  even  in  his  yoimg  days,  | 


when  little  more  than  a  child,  her  son  Harry 
was  remarkable  for  having  eyes  of  a  ditfer- 
ent  color,  from  which  circumstance  he  was 
even  then  called  Harry  na  Snil  Gloir,  they 
naturjill}'  inferred  that  his  appearance  in  th» 
countiy  boded  nothing  good  ;  that,  of  course, 
he  had  the  Evil  Eye,  as  every  one  whose 
eyes  differed,  as  his  did,  had  ;  and  that  the 
thunder  and  hghtniug,  the  rain  which 
di'owned  the  bonfires,  but,  above  all,  the 
blood-shower,  were  indications  that  the  mo- 
ther and  son  were  to  be  feai-ed  and  avoided 
as  much  as  possible,  especially  the  latter. 
Others  denied  that  the  de'vil  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  shower  of  blood,  or  the  storm 
which  extinguished  the  fii-es,  and  stoutly 
maintained  that  it  was  God  himself  who  had 
sent  them  to  warn  the  countiy  against  hav- 
ing any  intercoui'se  that  could  possibW  be 
avoided,  with  them.  Then  there  was  the 
Black  Spectre  that  was  said  to  follow  her 
family ;  and  did  not  eveiy  one  know  that 
when  it  appeared  three  times  to  any  person, 
it  was  a  certain  jjroof  that  that  person's  coffin 
might  be  purchased  ?  We  all  know  how 
rapitUy  such  opinions  and  colloquies  spread> 
and  we  need  scarcely  say  that  in  the  coui'se 
of  a  fortnight  after  the  night  of  the  bonfires 
all  these  matters  had  been  discussed  over 
half  the  barony.  Some,  in  fact,  were  for 
loading  him  with  the  heavy  buixlen  of  his 
mother's  unpopularity ;  but  others,  more 
generous,  were  for  waiting  until  the  peojDle 
had  an  opportunit}-  of  seeing  how  he  might 
turn  out — whether  he  would  follow  in  his 
mother's  footsteps,  or  be  guided  by  the  be- 
nevolent princijjles  of  his  step-father  and  the 
rest  of  the  family.  Omng  to  these  circum- 
stances, need  we  say,  that  there  was  an  un- 
usual interest,  almost  an  excitement,  felt 
about  him,  which  nothing  could  rej^ress. 
His  brother  Chai'les  was  as  well-beloved  and 
as  popular  as  his  father,  but,  then,  he  excited 
no  particular  interest,  because  he  was  not 
suspected  to  possess  the  Evil  Eye,  nor  to 
have  any  particidar  connection  with  the 
devil. 

Li  this  case  matters  stood,  when  one  day 
Woodward,  haA-ing  di-essed  himself  with  jDar- 
ticular  care,  ordered  his  horse,  saying  that 
he  would  ride  over  to  Beech  Grove  and  pay  a 
visit  to  the  Goodwins.  There  were  none  in 
the  room  at  the  time  but  Chaiies  and  his 
mother.  The  fonner  started,  and  seemed 
uneasy  at  this  inteUigence  ;  and  his  mother, 
having  considered  for  a  time,  said  : 

"  Charles,  I  wish  to  speak  to  Harry." 

Charles  took  the  hint,  and  left  the  mother 
and  son  to  the  following  dialogue  : — 

"Hany,"  said  she,  "you  spoke  veiy 
warmly  of  that  cunning  sei-pent  who  defraud- 
ed you  of  your  inheritance,  and  all  of  us 


656 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


out  of  our  right.  May  I  ask  for  what  pur- 
pose you  wish  to  cultivate  an  intimacy  with 
Buch  a  scheming  and  dishonest  crew  as 
that?" 

"  Faith,  mother,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  you 
don't  detest  them,  nor  feel  the  loss  of  the 
property  more  than  I  do  ;  but  the  truth  is, 
that  the  game  I  ■\^dsh  to  play  with  them  will 
be  a  winning  one,  if  I  can  induce  them  to 
hold  the  cards.  I  Avish  to  get  the  j)roperty, 
and  as  I  feel  that  that  can't  be  done  ■uithout 
marrying  their  milk-and-curd  of  a  daughter, 
why,  it  is  my  intention  to  many  her  accord- 
ingly." 

"  Then  you  don't  mari-y  a  wife  to  be  happy 
with  her  ?  " 

"In  one  sense  not  I — in  another  I  do  ;  I 
shall  make  myseK  happy  mth  her  prop- 
erty." 

''Indeed,  Hariy,  to  tell  you  the  tnith, 
there  is  very  little  haj)piness  in  married  life, 
and  they  are  only  fools  that  expect  it.  You 
see  how  I  am  treated  by  Lindsay  and  my 
own  children." 

"  Well,  but  you  provoke  them — why  dis- 
turb yourself  with  them?  Why  not  pass 
thi-ough  hfe  as  quietly  as  you  can  ?  Imitate 
Lindsay." 

"What !  make  a  sot  of  myseK — become  a 
fool,  as  he  is  ?  " 

"  Then,  why  did  you  many  him  ?  " 

"  Because  /was  the  fool  then,  but  I  have 
suffered  for  it.  Why,  he  manages  this 
propei'ty  as  if  it  wasn't  mine — as  if  I  didn't 
bring  it  to  him.  Think  of  a  man  who  is  silly 
enough  .o  forgive  a  tenant  his  gale  of  rent, 
provided  he  makes  a  poor  mouth,  and  says 
he  is  not  able  to  pay  it." 

"  J3ut  I  see  no  harm  in  that  either ;  if  the 
nan  is  not  able  to  pay,  how  can  he  ?  What 
does  Lindsay  do  but  make  a  -virtue  of  neces- 
sity.    He  cannot  skin  a  flint,  can  he  ?  " 

"  That's  an  ugly  comparison,"  she  replied, 
"  and  I  can't  conceive  why  you  make  it  to  me. 
I  am  afraid,  Hany,  jou  have  suffered  your- 
self to  be  prejudiced  against  the  only  Mend 
— the  only  true  friend,  you  have  in  the 
house.  I  can  teU  you,  that  although  they 
keep  fair  faces  to  you,  you  are  not  liked 
here." 

"  Very  well  ;  if  I  find  that  to  be  true,  they 
will  lose  more  than  they'll  gain  by  it." 

"  They  have  been  striving  to  secure  yoiu* 
influence  against  me.  I  know  it  by  your 
language." 

"In  the  devil's  name,  how  can  you  know 
it  by  my  language,  mother  ?  " 

"  You  talked  about  skinning  a  flint ;  now, 
you  had  that  fi'om  them  with  reference  to 
me.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that  an  ill- 
ton  gued  hou:3i&  raaid  of  mine,  after  I  had 
paid  her  her  wages,  and  '  stopped '  for  the 


articles  she  injured  on  me,  turned  round,  and 
called  me  a  skinflint ;  they  have  made  it  a 
common  nickname  on  me.  I'd  have  torn  her 
eyes  out  only  for  Lindsay,  w^ho  had  the 
assurance  to  tell  me  that  if  he  had  not 
interfered  I'd  have  had  the  worst  of  it — 
that  I'd  come  off  second  best,  and  such  slang ; 
yes,  and  then  added  aft'erwards,  that  he  was 
Sony  he  interfered.  That's  the  kind  of  a 
husband  he  is,  and  that's  the  life  I  lead% 
Now,  this  j)roperty  is  mine,  and  I  can  leave 
it  to  any  one  I  please ;  he  hasn't  even  a  Hfe 
interest  in  it." 

"O,"  exclaimed  the  son,  in  sui'prise,  "is 
that  the  case  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  she  repHed,  "  and  yet  you  see  how 
I  am  treated." 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  that,  my  dear  mother," 
responded  worthy  Harry.  "  That  alters  the 
case  entii-el}'.  "^^Tiy,  Lindsay,  in  these  cir- 
cumstances, ought  to  j)ut  his  hands  under 
youi*  feet ;  so  ought  they  all  I  think.  Well, 
my  dear  mother,  of  one  thing  I  can  assure 
you,  no  matter  how  they  may  treat  you, 
calculate  firmly  upon  my  sujoport  and  pro- 
tection ;  make  yourself  sure  of  that.  But, 
now,  about  j\Iiss  IMilk-aud-curds — what  do 
you  think  of  my  project?  " 

"I  have  been  frequently  turning  it  over  in 
my  mind,  Harry,  since  the  morning  you 
praised  her  so  violently,  and  I  think,  as  you 
cannot  get  the  property  without  the  girl, 
you  must  only  take  her  with  it.  The  notion 
of  its  going  into  the  hands  of  strangers 
would  drive  me  mad." 

"  Well,  then,  we  understand  each  other  ;  I 
have  your  sanction  for  the  courtship." 

"  You  have  ;  but  I  tell  you  again,  I  loathe 
her  as  I  do  poison.  I  never  can  forgi'/e  ler 
the  art  with  which  she  wheedled  that  joiter- 
headed  old  sinner,  your  uncle,  out  of  twelve 
hundred  a  year.  Unless  it  returns  to  the 
family,  may  my  bitter  malediction  fall  upor 
her  and  it." 

"  Well,  never  mind,  my  dear  mother,  leave 
her  to  me — I  shall  have  the  girl  and  the 
property — but  by  hook  or  crook,  the  prop- 
erty. I  shaU  ride  over  there,  now,  and  it 
will  not  be  my  fault,  if  I  don't  tij^  both  her 
and  them  the  saccharine." 

"  By  the  way,  though,  Harry,  now  that  I 
think  of  it,  I'm  afi'aid  you'll  have  opposi- 
tion." 

"  Opposition  !     How  is  that  ?  " 

"It  is  said  there  is  a  distant  relation  of 
theu's,  a  gentleman  named  O'Connor,  a 
Ferdora  O'Connor,  I  think,  who,  it  is  sup- 
wsed,  is  likely  to  be  successful  there  ;  but, 
Ky  the  way,  are  you  aware  that  they  are 
CathoHcs?" 

"  As  to  that,  my  dear  mother,  I  don't  care 
&  f^  fcr    h/9r  reUgion  ;  my  rehgion   is  her 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


657 


property,  or  rather  will  be  so  when  I  get  it. 
The  other  matter,  however,  is  a  thing  I  must 
look  to — I  mean  the  rivah'y  ;  but  on  that, 
too,  we  shall  put  our  heads  together,  and  try 
what  can  be  done.  I  am  not  very  timid  ; 
and  the  proverb  says,  you  know,  a  faint  heai-t 
never  won  a  fair  lady." 

Our  readers  may  perceive,  from  the  spu-it 
of  the  above  conversation,  that  the  son  was 
worthy  of  the  mother,  and  the  mother  of  the 
son.  The  latter,  however,  had,  at  least, 
some  command  over  liis  temper,  and  a  great 
de;\l  of  dexterity  and  penetration  besides  ; 
wliilst  the  mother,  though  violent,  was 
clumsy  in  her  resentments,  and  transparent 
in  her  motives.  Short  as  Woodward's  resi- 
dence in  the  family  was,  he  saw  at  a  glance 
that  the  abuse  she  heaped  upon  her  husband 
and  children  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
dehberate  falsehood.  This,  however,  to  him 
was  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference.  He 
was  no  gi'eat  advocate  of  truth  himself,  when- 
ever he  found  that  his  interests  or  his  pas- 
sions could  be  more  effectually  promoted  by 
ffilsehood  ;  although  he  did  not  disdain  even 
truth  whenever  it  equally  sex-ved  his  purpose. 
L\  such  a  case  it  gave  him  a  reputation  for 
candor  imder  which  he  could,  with  more 
safety,  avail  himself  of  his  disingenuity 
and  prevarication.  He  knew,  as  we  said, 
that  his  mother's  descrijDtion  of  the  family 
contained  not  one  atom  of  truth  ;  and  yet 
he  was  too  dastartUy  and  cunniug  to  defend 
them  against  her  calumny.  The  great  basis 
of  his  character,  in  fact,  was  a  selfishness, 
which  kept  him  perpetually  indifferent  to 
anything  that  was  good  or  generous  in  itself, 
or  outside"  tlie  circle  of  his  own  interests, 
beyond  which  he  never  passed.  Now,  noth- 
ing, on  the  other  hand,  could  be  more  ad- 
versative to  this,  than  the  conduct,  temper, 
and  principles  of  his  brother  and  sister. 
Chiirles  was  an  amiable,  manly,  and  genex-ous 
young  feUow,  who,  with  both  spiiit  and  in- 
dependence, was,  as  a  natiu*al  consequence, 
loved  and  respected  by  aU  who  knew  him  ; 
and  as  for  his  sweet  and  affectionate  sister, 
^laria,  there  was  not  living  a  girl  more 
capable  of  winning  attachment,  nor  more 
Avorihy  of  it  when  attained  ;  and  severely, 
indeed,  was  the  patience  of  this  admirable 
brother  and  sister  tried,  by  the  diabohcal 
temper  of  their  violent  and  savage  mother. 
As  for  Harry,  he  had  come  to  the  resolution, 
710W  that  he  imdei'stood  the  position  of  the 
property,  to  cultivate  his  mother's  disposition 
upon  such  a  principle  of  conduct  as  would  i 
not  compromise  him  with  either  party.  As  ] 
to  theu*  feuds  he  was  perfectly  indifferent  to  I 
them  ;  but  now  his  great  object  was,  to  ] 
iitudy  how  to  promote  his  own  interests  in  I 
his  own  way.  I 


Ha\ing  reached  Beech  Grove,  he  found  that 
unassuming  family  at  home,  as  they  usually 
were  ;  for,  indeed,  all  their  principal  enjoy- 
ments lay  within  the  quiet  range  of  domestic 
life.  Old  Goodwin  himself  saw  him  through 
the  parlor  window  as  he  approached,  and, 
with  ready  and  sincere  kindness,  met  him  iu 
the  haU. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward," said  he.  "  Allow  me  to  conduct  you 
to  the  drawing-room,  where  you  will  meet 
ilrs.  Goodwin,  Alice,  and  a  pai-ticular  fiiend 
of  ours.  I  cannot  myself  stop  long  with 
you,  because  I  am  engaged  on  particular 
business  ;  but  you  wiQ  not  miss  an  old  feUow 
like  me  when  you  have  better  company.  I 
hope  my  old  friends  are  all  well.  Step  in, 
sir.  Here  is  ]Mi'.  Woodward,  ladies ;  ^Ii*. 
Woodwai'd,  this  gentleman  is  a  friend  of 
ours,  3Ir.  Ferdora  O'Connor;  Ferdora,  this 
is  i\Ii-.  Woodward  ;  and  now  I  must  leave 
you  to  entertain  each  other  ;  but  I  shaU  re- 
turn, ^Ii'.  Woodward,  before  you  go,  unless 
you  ai-e  in  a  great  hurry.  Bridget,  see  that 
luncheon  is  ready  ;  but  you  must  lay  it  in 
the  fi'ont  pai'lor,  because  I  have  these  tenants 
about  me  in  the  dining-room,  as  it  is  so 
much  larger." 

"  I  have  ah-eady  given  orders  for  that,"  re- 
pHed  his  -wife.  He  then  hvu-ried  out  and 
left  them,  evidently  much  gi-atified  by  Wood- 
wai*d"s  visit.  O'Connor  and  the  latter  having 
scanned  each  other  by  a  glance  or  two, 
bowed  with  that  extreme  air  of  pohteness 
which  is  only  another  name  for  a  want  of 
cordiaHty.  O'Connor  was  rather  a  plain- 
looking  young  feUow,  as  to  liis  j^erson  and 
general  appearance  ;  but  his  !Milesian  face 
was  handsome,  and  his  eye  clear  and  candid, 
with  a  dash  of  determination  and  fii*e  in  it 
Very  diff'erent,  indeed,  was  it  from  the  eye 
that  was  scrutinizing  him  at  that  moment, 
with  such  keenness  and  penetration.  There 
ai'e  such  things  as  antipathies  ;  othei-v\ise 
why  should  those  two  individuals  enterttiiu, 
almost  in  a  moment's  time,  such  a  secret 
and  unaccountable  disrelish  towai'ds  each 
other?  Woodwai'd  did  not  love  Alice,  so 
that  the  feeling  could  not  proceed  from  jeal- 
ousy ;  and  we  will  so  fai-  tlii'ow  aside  mystei-y 
as  to  say  here,  that  neither  did  O'Connor  ; 
and,  we  may  add  still  fiu-ther,  that  poor,  in- 
nocent, unassuming  Alice  was  attached  to 
neither  of  them. 

"I  hope  your  brother  is  well,  sir,"  said 
O'Connor,  anxious  to  break  the  ice,  and  try 
the  stuff  Woodward  was  made  of.  "  I  have 
not  seen  him  for  some  time." 

"O!  then,  you  are  acquaintances?"  said 
Woodward. 

"  We  are  more,  sir,"  replied  O'Connor, 
"we  ai-e  fi-iends." 


658 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"I  hope  you  are  all  well,"  interrupted  ' 
kiBci-heai-ted  Mrs.  Goodwin.  ■ 

"  Quite  well,  my  dear  madam,"  he  replied.  \ 
Then  turning  to  O'Connor  :  "  To  be  a  friend  I 
to  my  brother,  sii',"  he  said,  "  next  to  finding  ! 
vou  a  friend  and  favorite  in  this  family,  is  ' 
the  warmest  recommendation  to  me.     My  ! 
long  absence  from  home  prevented  me  from 
knomng  his  value  until  now  ;  but  now  that 
I  do  know  him,  I  say  it,  perhaps,  with  too 
much  of  the  partiality  of  a  brother,  I  think 
that  any  man  may  feel  proud  of  his  friend- 
ship ;  and  I  say  so  Mith  the  less  hesitation,  ; 
because  I  am  sure  he  woidd  select  no  man  j 
for  his  friend  who  was  not  worthy  of  it ; "  i 
and  he  bowed  covu'teously  as  he  spoke.  i 

"Faith,  sir," replied  O'Connor,  "you  have  i 
hit  it ;  I  for  one  am  proud  of  it ;  but,  ujj-  j 
on  my  conscience,  he  wouldn't  be  his  father's  I 
son  if  he  wasn't  what  he  is."  ! 

AHce  was  sewing  some  embroidery,  and  | 
seemed  to  take  no  notice,  if  one  could  judge 
by  her  do^Ticast  lonks,  of  what  they  said. 
At  length  she  said,  with  a  smile  : 

"  As  you,  Ferdora,  have  inquired  for  your 
favorite,  I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  inquire 
after  wane  ;  how  is  yoiu-  sister,  IMr.  Wood- 
ward ?  " 

"Indeed,  she's  the  picture  of  health,  Miss 
GoodAvin  ;  but  I  vrill  not " — he  added,  with 
a  smile  to  balance  her  own — "  I  will  not  be 
answerable  for  the  health  of  her  heart." 

Alice  gave  a  low  laugh,  that  had  the 
sHghtest  tinctui'e  of  malice  in  it,  and  glanced 
at  O'Connor,  who^  began  to  tap  his  boot  with 
his  riding  whip. 

"  She  is  a  good  girl  as  ever  Uved,"  said 
IVIrs.  Goodwin,  "  and  I  hope  will  never  have 
a  heartache  that  may  harm  her." 

"  Heaven  knows,  madam,"  repHed  Wood- 
wai-d,  "it  is  time  only  that  will  tell  that. 
Love  is  a  strange  and  sometimes  rather  a 
painful  malady." 

"  Of  course  you  speak  fr*om  j'our  own  ex- 
perience, Mr.  Woodward,"  replied  AHce. 

"  Then  you  have  had  the  complaint,  sir," 
said  O'Connor,  laughing.  "  I  wonder  is  it 
like  small-pox  or  measles  ?  " 

"  How  is  that,  sir  ?  "  said  Woodward,  smil- 
ing. 

"Why,  that  if  you've  had  it  once  you'll 
never  have  it  a  second  time." 

"  Yes,  but  if  I  should  be  ill  of  it  now  ?  " 
and  he  glanced  at  Alice,  who  blushed. 

"  AMiy,  in  that  case,"  replied  O'Connor, 
"  it's  in  bed  you  ought  to  be  ;  no  man  with 
an  epidemic  on  him  should  be  permitted  to 
go  abroad  among  his  majesty's  liege  sub- 
jects." 

"  Yes,  Ferdora,"  said  Alice,  "  but  I  don't 

think  Mr.  Woodward's  complaint  is  catch- 
er ™  " 


"  God  forbid  that  the  gentleman  should 
die  of  it,  though,"  rephed  Ferdora,  "  for 
that  would  be  a  serious  loss  to  the  ladies." 

"  You  exaggerate  that  calamity,  sir,"  re- 
plied Woodward,  with  the  slightest  imagin- 
able sneer,  "  and  forget  that  if  /  die  you 
suiTive  me." 

"  Well,  certainly,  there  is  consolation  in 
that,"  said  O'Connor,  "  especially  for  the 
ladies,  as  I  said  ;  isn't  there.  Alley  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  rephed  Alice  ;  "  in  making 
love,  Ferdora,  you  have  the  prowess  of  ten 
men." 

"  Do  you  speak  fr-om  experience,  noio, 
Miss  Goodwin  ? "  asked  Woodward,  rather 
di-yly. 

"  O !  no,"  replied  Alice,  "  I  have  only  his 
own  word  for  it." 

"  Only  his  o^xn  word,  ]\Iiss  Goodwin  !  Do 
you  imply  by  that,  that  his  own  word  re- 
quires corroboration  ?  " 

Alice  blushed  again,  and  felt  confused. 

"I  assure  you,  ]VIi\  Woodward,"  said 
O'Connor,  "  that  when  my  word  requires  cor- 
roboration, I  always  corroborate  it  myself," 

"  But,  according  to  JMiss  Goodwin's  ac- 
count of  it,  sir,  that's  not  likely  to  add  much 
to  its  authenticity." 

"Well,  Mr.  Woodward,"  said  O'Connor, 
with  the  greatest  suavity  of  manner,  "I'll 
teU  you  my  method  under  such  circum- 
stances ;  whenever  I  meet  a  gentleman  that 
doubts  my  word,  I  always  make  him  eat  his 
own. 

"There's  nothing  new  or  wonderful  in 
that,"  reiDlied  the  other;  "it  has  been  my 
own  practice  during  life." 

"  What  ?  to  eat  your  own  words  !  "  ex- 
claimed O'Connor,  purposely-  mistaking  him  ; 
"  very  windy  feeding,  faith.  Upon  my  honor 
and  conscience,  in  that  case,  your  complaint 
must  be  nothing  else  but  the  colic,  and  not 
love  at  all.  Try  peppermint  wather,  Mr. 
Woodv/ard." 

Alice  saw  at  once,  but  could  not  account 
for  the  fact,  that  the  worthy  gentlemen  were 
cutting  at  each  other,  and  the  timid  girl  be- 
came insensibly  alarmed  at  the  unaccount- 
able sharjDness  of  their  brief  encounter.  She 
looked  with  an  anxious  comitenance,  first  at 
one,  and  then  at  the  other,  but  scarcely 
knew  what  to  say.  Woodwai'd,  however, 
who  was  better  acquainted  with  the  usages 
of  society,  and  the  deference  due  to  the 
presence  of  women,  than  the  brusque,  but 
somewhat  fiei-y  IMilesian,  now  said,  with  a 
smile  and  a  bow  to  that  gentleman  : 

"  Sir,  I  submit ;  I  am  vanquished.  If  you 
are  as  successful  in  love  as  you  are  in  banter, 
I  should  not  wish  to  enter  the  list  against 
you." 

"Faith,    sir,"   replied   O'Connor,  with   a 


TILE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTliE. 


G59 


pood-bumored  laugh,  "  if  your  swoi'd  is  as 
sharp  as  your  wit,  you'd  ha  an  ugly  customer 
to  meet  iu  a  quarrel." 

O'Connor,  who  had  been  there  for  some 
time,  now  rose  to  take  bis  leave,  at  which 
Alice  felt  rather  satisfied.  Indeed,  she  could 
not  avoid  observing  that,  whatever  the  cause 
of  it  might  be,  there  seemed  to  exist  some 
secret  feeling  of  dislike  between  them,  which 
occasioned  her  no  inconsiderable  apprehen- 
sion. O'Connor  she  knew  was  kind-hearted 
and  generous,  but,  at  the  same  time,  as  c[uick 
as  gunpowder  in  taking  and  resenting  an  in- 
sult. On  the  other  hand,  she  certainly  felt 
much  regret  at  being  subjected  to  the  pres- 
ence of  Woodward,  against  whom  she  enter- 
tained, as  the  reader  knows,  a  strong  feeling 
that  amounted  absolutely  to  aversion.  She 
could  not,  however,  think  of  treating  him 
•with  anything  bordering  on  disrespect,  es- 
pecially in  her  own  house,  and  she,  conse- 
quently, was  about  to  say  something  merely 
calculated  to  pass  the  time.  In  this,  how- 
ever, she  was  anticipated  by  Woodwai-d, 
who,  as  he  had  his  suspicions  of  O'Connor, 
resolved  to  sound  her  on  the  subject. 

'•  That  seems  an  agreeable  young  fellow," 
said  he  ;  "  somewhat  free  and  easy  in  his 
deportment." 

"Take  care,  Mr.  Woodward,"  said  her 
mother,  "say  nothing  harsh  against  Fer- 
dora,  if  you  wish  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  Alley.  He's  the  white-headed  boy  with 
her" 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  that,  madam," 
he  rephed,  "  possessed  as  he  is  of  such  a  rare 
and  fortunate  qualitv." 

"Pray,  what  is  that,  j\Ii'.  Woodward?" 
asked  AUce,  timidly. 

"WTiy,  the  faculty  of  making  love  with 
the  jDOwer  of  ten  men,"  he  replied. 

"  You  must  be  a  very  serious  man,"  she 
replied. 

"  Serious,  Miss  Goodwin !  A^Tiy  do  you 
think  so  ?  " 

"  I  hoj)e  3'ou  ai*e  not  in  the  habit  of  re- 
ceiving a  jest  as  a  matter  of  fact." 

"Not,"  he  rephed,  "if  I  could  satisfy  my- 
self that  there  was  no  fact  in  the  jest  ;  but, 
indeed,  in  this  world,  Miss  Goodwin,  it  is 
very  difficult  to  distinguish  jest  fi*om  ear- 
nest." 

"  I  am  a  bad  reasoner,  ]\Ii-.  Woodward," 
she  replied. 

"  But,  perhaps,  ISIiss  Goodwin,  ]\Ii-.  O'Con- 
nor would  say  that  you  make  up  in  feeling 
what  you  want  in  logic." 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  replied  Alice,  with  some 
spirit — for  she  felt  hui-t  at  his  last  observa- 
tion— "  that  I  will  never  feel  on  any  subject 
until  I  have  reason  as  well  as  inclination  to 
support  me." 


I  "Ah,"  said  he,  "I  fear  that  if  you  once 
i  possess  the  inclination  you  will  soon  supply 
I  the  reason.  But,  by  the  way,  talking  of 
I  your  fi-iend  and  favorite,  ]Mr.  O'Connor,  I 
must  say  I  like  him  veiy  much,  and  I  am 
not  surprised  that  you  do." 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  know  of 
nobody  I  like  better  than  honest,  frank,  and 
generous  Ferdora," 

"  Well,  IVIiss  Goodwin,  I  assure  you  h« 
shall  be  a  favorite  of  mine  for  yoiu*  sake." 

"Indeed,  !Mi'.  Woodwaixl,  if  you  knew 
him,  he  would  become  one  for  1  lis  own." 

"  Have  you  knovsTi  him  long^  may  I  ask. 
Miss  Goodwin  ?  " 

"  O  dear,  yes,"  said  !Mi's.  Goodwin,  who 
now,  finding  this  a  fair  opening  iu  the  con- 
versation, resolved  to  have  her  share  of  it — 
"  O  dear !  yes ;  Alley  and  he  know  each 
other  ever  smce  her  childhood ;  he's  some 
three  or  four  years  older  than  she  is,  to  be 
sure,  but  that  makes  httle  difference." 

"And,  I  suppose,  IMi-s.  Goodwin,  their 
intimacy — perhaps  I  may  say  attachment — 
has  the  sanction  of  their  resiDective  fami- 
hes  ?  " 

"  God  bless  you,  sir,  to  be  sure  it  has — 
are  they  not  distantly  related  ?  " 

"  That,  indeed,  is  a  very  usual  proceeding 
among  families,"  obsen'ed  Woodward  ;  "the 
boy  and  girl  are  thro^vn  together,  and  de- 
sired to  look  upon  each  other  as  destined  to 
become  husband  and  wife  ;  they  accordingly 
do  so,  fall  in  love,  are  maiTied,  and  soon 
find  themselves — miserable  ;  in  fact,  these 
matches  seldom  turn  out  well." 

"But  there  is  no  risk  of  that  here,"  re- 
plied Alice. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  not,  IVIiss  Goodwin.  Li 
your  case,  unless  the  husband  was  a  fool,  or 
a  madman,  or  a  villain,  there  m  ud  be  happi- 
ness. Of  course  you  will  be  happy  with 
him  ;  need  I  say,"  and  here  he  sighed,  "  that 
he  at  least  ought  to  be  so  Avith  you  ?  " 

"Upon  my  word,  I\Ii\  Woodwai'd,"  replied 
Alice,  smiling,  "you  are  a  much  cleverei 
man  than  I  presume  your  own  modesty  evei 
permitted  you  to  suspect." 

"  I  don't  understiuid  you,"  he  rephed, 
vrith  a  look  of  embarrassment. 

"  Why,"  she  proceeded,  "  here  have  you, 
in  a  few  minutes,  made  up  a  match  between 
two  persons  who  never  were  intended  to  be 
maiiied  at  all ;  you  have  got  the  sanction  of 
two  famihes  to  a  union  which  neither  of 
them  even  for  a  moment  contemplated. 
Deal-  me,  su\  may  not  a  lady  jxnd  gentleman 
become  acquainted  without  necessarily  fall- 
ing in  love  ?  " 

"Ah,  but,  in  yom*  case,  my  dear  ]\Iiss 
Goodwin,  it  would  be  difficult — impossible  I 
should   say — to   remain    indifferent,    if  the 


660 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


gentleman  had  either  taste  or  sentiment ; 
however,  I  assure  you  I  am  sincerely  glad  to 
find  that  I  have  been  misttiken." 

"God  bless  me,  IMr.  Woodward,"  said 
Mi'S.  Goodwin,  "did  you  think  they  were 
sweetheai'ts  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  madam,  I  did — and  I 
was  very  soriy  for  it." 

"i\Ir.  Woodwai'd,"  rephed  Alice,  "don't 
mistake  me  ;  I  am  inaccessible  to  flattery." 

"  I  am  dehghted  to  hear  it,"  said  he,  "be- 
cause I  know  that  for  that  reason  you  are  not 
and  will  net  be  insensible  to  truth." 

"  Unless  when  it  borrows  the  garb  of 
flatteiy,  and  thus  causes  itself  to  be  suspected. " 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Woodward,  "  nothing 
but  good  sense,  Miss  Goodwin,  can  draw 
the  distinction  between  them — and  now  I 
know  that  you  are  possessed  of  that." 

"  I  hope  so,  sii',"  she  rephed,  "  and  that  I 
will  ever  continue  to  observe  that  distinction. 
Mamma,  I  want  more  thread,"  she  said : 
"  where  can  I  get  it  ?  " 

"  Up  stairs,  dear,  in  my  work-box." 

She  then  bowed  shghtly  to  Woodward 
and  went  up  to  find  her  thread,  but  in  fact 
from  a  wish  to  put  an  end  to  a  conversation 
ihat  she  felt  to  be  exceedingly  disagi'eeable. 
A.t  this  moment  old  Goodwin  came  in. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  I  trust,  jMr.  Wood- 
ivard,"  said  he,  "I  was  down  in  the  dining- 
room  receiving  rents  for ."     He  paused, 

ror,  on  reflection,  he  felt  that  this  was  a  dis- 
agreeable topic  to  allude  to  ;  the  fact  being 
tJiat  he  acted  as  his  daughter's  agent,  and 
had  been  on  that  and  the  preceding  day  re- 
ceiving her  rents.  "  Martha,"  said  he,  "  what 
about  luncheon  ?  You'U  take  luncheon  with 
us,  IVIr.  Woodward  ?  " 

Woodward  bowed,  and  Mrs.  Goodwin  was 
about  to  leave  the  room,  when  he  said  : 

"  Perhaps,  IMi's.  Goodwin,  you'd  be  good 
enough  to  remain  for  a  few  minutes."  Mrs. 
Goodwin  sat  down,  and  he  proceeded  :  "I 
trust  that  my  arrival  home  will,  under  Provi- 
dence, be  the  means  of  reconciling  and  re- 
uniting two  families  who  never  should  have 
been  at  variance.  Not  but  that  I  admit,  my 
dear  fi-iends, — if  you  will  allow  me  to  call 
you  so, — that  the  melancholy  event  of  my 
poor  uncle's  death,  and  the  unexpected  dis- 
position of  so  large  a  property,  were  calcu- 
lated to  try  the  patience  of  worldly-minded 
people — and  who  is  not  so  in  a  more  or  less 
degree  ?  " 

"I  don't  think  any  of  your  family  is," 
•  rephed  Goodwin,  bluntly,  "  with  one  excep- 
tion." 

"  O  !  yes,  my  mother,"  replied  Woodward, 
"  and  I  gi-ant  it ;  at  least  she  was  so,  and 
acted  upon  worldly  principles  ;  but  I  think 
you  will  admit,  at  least  as  Chi-istians  you 


must,  that  the  hour  of  change  and  regret 
may  come  to  every  human  heart  when  its 
eiTors,  and  its  selfishness,  if  you  will,  have 
been  clearly  and  mildly  j)ointed  oiit.  I  do 
not  attribute  the  change  that  has  happily 
taken  place  in  my  dear  mother  to  myseK, 
but  to  a  higher  power  ;  although  I  must  ad- 
mit, as  I  do  with  all  humility,  that  I  wrought 
earnestly,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  since 
my  retiu-n,  to  biing  it  about ;  and,  thank 
heaven,  I  have  succeeded.  I  come  this  day 
as  a  messenger  of  peace,  to  state  that  she  is 
willing  that  the  famihes  should  be  reconciled, 
and  a  happier  and  more  lasting  union  effect- 
ed between  them." 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  IMr.  Wood- 
ward," said  Goodwin,  much  moved  ;  "  God 
knows  I  am.  Blessed  be  the  peace-maker, 
and  you  are  he  ;  an  easj'  conscience  and  a 
hght  heart  must  be  your  reward." 

"  They  must,"  added  his  wife,  wiping  her 
eyes  ;  "  they  must  and  they  will." 

"  Alas !  "  proceeded  Woodward,  "  how  far 
from  Gospel  jDurity  is  every  human  motive 
when  it  comes  to  be  tried  by  the  Word !  I 
will  not  conceal  fi'om  you  the  state  of  my 
heart,  nor  deny  that  in  accomphshing  this 
thing  it  was  influenced  by  a  certain  selfish 
feeling  on  my  part ;  in  one  sense  a  disinter- 
ested selfishness  I  admit,  but  in  another  a 
selfishness  that  involves  raj  own  happiness. 
However,  I  will  say  no  more  on  that  subject 
at  present.  It  wovdd  scarcely  be  delicate 
until  the  reconcihation  is  fidly  accomi^lished  ; 
then,  indeed,  perhaps  I  may  endeavor,  with 
fear  and  trembling,  to  make  myself  under- 
stood. Only  until  then,  I  beg  of  you  to 
think  well  of  me,  and  permit  me  to  consider 
myself  as  not  unworthy  of  a  humble  place  in 
yoiu'  affections." 

Old  Goodwin  shook  him  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  his  wife  once  more  had  recourse  to 
her  pocket-handkerchief.  "  God  bless  you, 
]\Ii'.  Woodward  !  "  he  exclaimed  ; "  God  bless 
you.  I  now  see  your  worth,  and  know  it ; 
you  ah'eady  have  oui*  good-will  and  affections, 
and,  what  is  more,  we  feel  that  you  deserve 
them." 

"  I  wish,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  other, 
"that  ]\Iiss  Goodwin  understood  me  as  well 
as  you  and  her  respected  mother." 

"  She  does,  'Six.  Woodward,"  replied  her 
father  ;  "  she  does,  and  she  will,  too." 

"I  tremble,  however,"  said  Woodward, 
with  a  deep  sigh  ;  "  but  I  will  leave  my  fate 
in  your  hands,  or,  I  should  rather  say  in  the 
hands  of  Heaven." 

Lunch  was  then  announced,  and  they  went 
down  to  the  front  parlor,  where  it  was  laid 
out.  On  entering  the  room  Woodward  was 
a  good  deal  disappointed  to  find  that  Misa 
Goodwin  was  not  there. 


THE  EVIL  EYE:    OIL    THE  BLACK  SPEC  THE 


661 


"  Win  not  Miss  Goodwin  join  us  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"Certainly,"  said  her  father;  "Martha, 
where  is  she  V  " 

"  You  know,  my  dear,  she  seldom  lun- 
ches," rephed  her  mother. 

"Well,  but  she  will  now,"  said  Goodwin  ; 
"it  is  not  everyday  we  have  Mr.  Woodward  ; 
let  her  be  sent  for.  John,  find  out  Miss 
Geodwin,  and  say  we  wish  her  to  join  us  at 
luncheon." 

John  in  a  few  moments  retiu-ned  to  say 
that  she  had  a  slight  headache,  and  could 
not  have  the  pleasure  of  coming  down. 

"  O,  I  am  very  sony  to  hear  she  is  un- 
well," said  Woodward,  with  an  aj^j^earance 
of  disappointment  and  chagiiu,  which  he 
did  not  wish  to  conceal ;  or,  to  spe;ik  the 
truth,  which,  in  a  great  measure,  he  as- 
sumed. 

After  lunch  his  horse  was  ordered,  and  he 
set  out  on  his  way  to  Rathfillan,  meditating 
upon  his  -sisit,  and  the  rather  indiii'erent  x'e- 
ception  he  had  got  from  Alice. 

^liss  Goodwin,  though  timid  and  nervous, 
was,  nevertheless,  in  many  things,  a  girl  of 
spii'it,  and  possessed  a  gi*eat  deal  of  natural 
wit  and  penetration.  On  that  day  Wood- 
ward exerted  himself  to  the  utmost,  with  a 
hope  of  making  a  favorable  impression  upon 
her.  He  calculated  a  good  deal  upon  her 
isolated  position  and  necessaiy  ignorance  of 
ufe  and  the  world,  and  in  doing  so,  he  calcu- 
lated, as  thousands  of  self-sulficient  liber- 
tines, in  their  estimate  of  women,  have  done 
both  before  and  since.  He  did  not  know- 
that  there  is  an  intuitive  sjnrit  in  the  female 
heart  which  often  enables  it  to  discover  the 
true  character  of  the  opposite  sex  ;  and  to 
discriminate  between  the  real  and  the  as- 
sumed ^^ith  almost  infallible  accuracy.  But, 
independently  of  this,  there  was  in  Wood- 
ward's manner  a  hardness  of  outline,  and  in 
liis  conversation  an  unconscious  absence  of 
all  reality  and  tnith,  together  with  a  cold, 
studied  formahty,  diT,  shaip,  and  presump- 
tuous, that  required  no  extraordinary  pene- 
tration to  discover  ;  for  the  worst  of  it  was, 
that  he  made  himself  disagreeably  felt,  and 
excited  those  powers  of  scrutiny  and  anjily- 
sis  that  ai'e  so  peculiar  to  the  generality  of 
the  other  sex.  In  fact,  he  sought  his  way 
home  in  anything  but  an  agi'eeable  mood. 
He  thought  to  have  met  Alice  an  ignorant 
country  girl,  whom  he  might  jjlay  vc\)(m.  ; 
but  he  found  himself  completely  mistaken, 
because,  fortunately  for  herself,  he  had 
taken  her  upon  one  of  her  strong  points. 
As  it  was,  however,  whilst  he  could  not  help 
admiring  the  pertinence  of  her  replies, 
neither  could  he  help  experiencing  some- 
thing  of  a  bitter  feeling  against  her,  be- 


cause she  indulged  in  them  at  his  own  ex- 
pense ;  whilst  against  O'Connor,  who  ban- 
tered him  with  such  spirit  and  success,  and 
absolutely  turned  him  into  ridicule  in  her 
presence,  he  almost  entertained  a  persona] 
resentment.  His  only  hojie  now  was  in  her 
parents,  who  seemed  as  anxious  to  entertaip. 
his  proposals  with  favor  as  AUce  was  to  re- 
ject them  with  disdain.  As  for  Alice  her- 
self, her  ojiinion  of  him  is  a  matter  with 
which  the  reader  is  already  acquainted. 

Our  hero  was  about  half  way  home  when  he 
overtook  a  thin,  lank  old  man,  who  was  a  rath- 
er important  character  in  the  eyes  of  the  igno- 
rant people  at  the  period  of  which  we  ^^'rite. 
He  w-as  tall,  and  so  bai-e  of  flesh,  that  when 
asleep  he  might  pass  for  the  skeleton  of  a 
coi*pse.  His  eyes  wei-e  red,  cunning,  and 
sinister-looking  ;  his  lips  thin,  and  from  un- 
der the  ujDper  one  projected  a  single  tooth, 
long  and  yellow  as  saffi'on.  His  face  was  of 
unusual  length,  and  his  parchment  cheeks 
formed  two  inward  cui^ves,  occasioned  by 
the  want  of  his  back  teeth.  His  breeches 
were  open  at  the  knees  ;  his  j^olar  legs  were 
without  stockings  ;  but  his  old  brogues  were 
foddered,  as  it  is  called,  with  a  wisp  of  straw, 
to  keep  his  feet  warm.  His  arms  Avere  long, 
even  in  projjortion  to  his  body,  and  his  bony 
fingers  resembled  claws  rather  than  auj-thing 
else  we  can  now  remember.  The}'  (the  claws) 
were  black  as  ebony,  and  resembled  in  length 
and  shai-jmess  those  of  a  cat  when  she  is 
stretching  herself  after  rising  fi'om  the 
hearth.  He  wore  an  old  barrad  of  the  day, 
the  gi'easy  top  of  which  fell  down  upon  the 
collar  of  liis  old  cloak,  and  over  his  shoulder 
was  a  bag  w-hich,  fi'om  its  appearance,  must 
have  contained  something  not  very  weighty, 
as  he  walked  on  without  seeming  to  travel 
as  a  man  who  carried  a  burden.  He  had  a 
huge  stali'  in  his  right  hand,  the  left  liaAing 
a  hold  of  his  bag.  Woodward  at  first  mis- 
took him  for  a  mendicant,  but  upon  looking 
at  him  more  closely,  he  perceived  uotliing  of 
that  watchful  and  whining  cant  for  alms 
which  marks  the  character  of  the  professional 
beggar.  The  old  skeleton  walked  on,  ajjpa- 
rently  indifferent  and  independent,  and  never 
once  put  himself  into  the  usual  jjosture  of 
entreaty.  This,  and  the  originality  of  hia 
appearance,  excited  Woodward's  curiosity, 
and  he  resolved  to  speak  to  him. 

"  WeU,  my  good  old  niiin,  what  may  you 
be  cariying  in  the  bag  ?  " 

The  man  looked  at  him  respectfully,  and 
raising  his  hand  and  staff,  touched  his  bar' 
rad,  and  replied  : 

"  A  few  yarribs,  your  honor." 
"  Yan-ibs  ?     AMiat  the  deuce  is  that  ?  " 
"  TMiy,  the  yai-ribs  that  gi'ow,  sir — to  c\ire 
the  people  when  they  are  sick." 


662 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"O,  you  mean  herbs." 

"  I  do,  sir,  and  I  gather  them  too  for  the 
potecars." 

"  O,  then  jou  are  what  they  call  a  herb- 
alist." 

"  I  believe  I  am,  sir,  if  you  put  that  word 
against  (to)  a  man  that  gethers  yarribs." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  mean.  You  sell  them 
to  the  apothecaries,  I  supx)ose  ?  " 

"I  do  a  Uttle,  sir,  but  I  use  the  most  of 
them  myseK.  Son-a  much  the  potecars 
knows  about  the  use  o'  them  ;  they  kill  more 
than  they  cure  ^vid  'em,  and  calls  them  that 
understands  what  they're  good  for  rogues 
and  quacks.  ,iMay  the  Lord  forgive  them 
this  day!  Amin,  acheerndh!  (Amen,  O 
Lord!)" 

"And  do  you  administer  these  herbs  to 
the  sick?" 

"I  do,  gii",  to  the  sick  of  all  kinds — man 
and  baste.  There's  nothing  like  them,  sir, 
bekaise  it  was  to  cure  diseases  of  all  kinds 
that  the  Lord,  blessed  be  His  name  !  amm, 
acheernah  !  planted  them  in  the  earth  for  the 
use  of  his  cratures.  Why,  sir,  w^ill  you  hs- 
ten  to  me  now,  and  mark  my  words  ?  There 
never  was  a  complaint  that  folhed  either  man 
or  baste,  bnite  or  bird,  but  ayarrib  grows 
that  'ud  ciu-e  it  if  it  was  known.  When 
the  head's  hot  wid  faver,  and  the  heart  low 
wid  care,  the  yarrib  is  to  be  foimd  that  will 
cool  the  head  and  rise  the  heai't." 

"  Don't  you  think,  now,"  said  Yv'oodward, 
imagining  that  he  would  catch  him,  "  that  a 
glass  of  wine,  or,  what  is  better  still,  a  good 
glass  of  punch,  would  raise  the  heart  better 
than  all  the  herbs  in  the  universe  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  me  ! "  he  exclaimed^  as  if  in 
soliloquy;  "the  ignorance  of  the  rich  and 
wealthy,  and  of  great  peojile  altogether,  is 
unknoAvn  !  Wine  and  punch  !  And  what, 
wiU  you  tell  me,  does  wine  and  j)unch  come 
fi'omV  Doesn't  the  wine  come  from  the 
gi'apes  that  grow  in  forrin  parts — sich  as  we 
have  in  our  hot-houses — and  doesn't  the 
whiskey  that  you  make  your  punch  of  gTow 
fi'om  the  honest  barley  in  our  own  fields  ? 
So  much  for  your  knowledge  of  yarribs." 

""V\Tiy,  there  you  are  I'ight,  my  old  friend. 
I  forgot  that." 

"  You  forgot  it  ?  Tell  the  truth  at  once, 
and  say  you  didn't  know  it.  But  may  be 
you  did  forget  it,  for  troth  he'd  be  a  poor 
crature  that  didn't  know  whiskey  was  macle 
fi'om  barley." 

He  here  turned  his  red  satirical  eye  upon 
Woodward,  ^vith  a  glance  that  was  strongly 
indicative  of  contempt  for  his  general  infor- 
mation. 

"Well,"  he  proceeded,  "  the  power  of  yar- 
ribs is  wondherful, — if  it  was  known  to  many 
cs  it  is  to  me." 


"  "\iMiy,  from  long  practice,  I  suppose, 
you  must  be  skilful  in  the  properties  o! 
herbs  ?  " 

"  Well,  indeed,  you  needn't  only  suppose 
it,  but  you  may  be  sartin  of  it.  Have  you  a 
good  api^etite '? " 

"  A  particulai'ly  good  one,  I  assure  you." 

"  Now,  wouldn't  you  think  it  strange  that 
I  could  give  you  a  dose  that  'ud  keep  you 
on  half  a  male  a  day  for  the  next  three 
months." 

"  God  forbid,"  rephed  Woodward,  who, 
among  his  other  good  quahties,  was  an 
enormous  trencherman,  —  "  God  forbid 
that  ever  such  a  dose  should  go  down  my 
throat." 

"  Would  you  thinlc,  now,"  he  jDroceeded, 
with  a  sinister  grin  that  sent  his  yellow  tusk 
half  an  inch  out  of  his  inouth,  "  that  if  a  man 
was  jealous  of  his  wife,  or  a  wife  of  her  hus- 
band, I  couldn't  give  either  o'  them  a  dose 
that  'ud  ciu'e  them  ?  " 

"Faith,  I  dare  say  3'ou  could,"  rephed 
Woodward  ;  "a  dose  that  would  fi'ee  them 
from  care  of  all  sorts,  as  well  as  jealousy." 

"  I  don't  mane  that,"  said  the  skeleton  ; 
".ha,  ha!  you're  a  funny  gentleman,  and 
maybe  I — but  no — I  don't  mane  that ;  but 
widout  injurin'  a  hair  in  either  o'  their 
heads." 

"  I  am  not  married,"  said  the  other,  "  but 
I  expect  to  be  soon,  and  when  I  am  I  will 
pay  you  well  for  the  knowledge  of  that 
herb — for  my  wife,  I  mean.  Where  do  you 
hve  ?  " 

"  In  Eathfillan,  sir.  I'm  a  weU-known 
man  there,  and  for  many  a  long  mile  about 
it." 

"  You  must  be  very  useful  to  the  country 
peoj)le  hereabouts  ?  " 

"Ay,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  mane  to  the 
poor,  I  suppose,  and  you're  right ;  but  may- 
be I'm  of  sarvice  to  the  rich,  too.  Many  a 
face  I  save  fi'om — I  could  save  fi'om  shame, 
I  mane — if  I  liked,  and  could  get  well  ped  for 
it,  too.  Some  young,  extravagant  peojile  that 
have  rich  ould  fathers  do  be  spakin'  to  me, 
too  ;  but  thin,  you  know,  I  have  a  sowl  to 
be  saved,  and  am  a  rehgious  man,  I  hope, 
and  do  my  duty  as  sich,  and  that  every  one 
that  has  a  sowl  to  be  saved,  may !  Amin, 
acheernah  !  " 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  that  your  sense  of  duty 
preserves  you  against  such  strong  tempta- 
tions." 

"  Then,  there's  another  set  of  men — these 
outlaws  that  do  be  robbin'  rich  people's 
houses,  and  they,  too,  try  to  tempt  me." 
j  "  Why  should  they  tempt  you  ?  " 
I  "  Bekaise  the  j)eople,  now  knowin'  that 
j  they're  abroad,  keep  watch-dogs,  blood 
j  hounds,  and  sich  useful  animals,  that  giva 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


663 


the  ala/m  at  night,  aud  the  robbers  vrishin', 
you  see,  to  get  them  out  of  the  way,  do 
be  temptm'  me  about  wishin'  me  to  jjison 
them." 

"  Of  course  you  resist  them  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  \\o\i&  I  do  ;  but  sometimes  it's 
hard  to  get  over  them,  especially  when  they 
plant  a  ?.kea)x  or  a  middofjue  to  one's  navel, 
and  swear  great  oaths  that  they'U  make 
a  scabbard  for  it  of  my  jjoor  ould  bidg  (belly) 
— I  say,  when  the  thieves  do  the  business 
that  way,  it  requires  a  grate  dale  of  the  grace 
o'  God  to  deny  them.  But  what's  any 
Christhen  'idout  the  grace  o'  God  ?  May  we 
all  have  it !  Amin,  avhrernah!'' 

"  Well,  when  I  marry,  as  I  vdU  soon,  I'll 
call  ujDon  3'ou ;  I  dare  saj'  my  wife  will  get 
jealous,  for  I  love  the  ladies,  if  that's  a 
fault." 

Another  gi*in  was  his  first  reply  to  this, 
after  which  he  said  : 

"Well,  sir,  if  she  does,  come  to  me." 

"  ^\Tiere  in  Eathfillan  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  O,  anybody  will  tell  you  ;  inquire  for 
ould  Sol  Donnel,  the  yamb  man,  and  you'll 
soon  find  me  out." 

"  But  suppose  I  shouldn't  wish  it  to  be 
known  that  I  called  on  you  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  old  villain,  giving  him 
another  significant  gj-in  that  once  more  pro- 
jected the  fang  ;  "  well,  maybe  you  wouldn't. 
If  you  want  my  sarvices,  then,  come  to  the 
cottage  that's  built  agin  the  church-yard 
wall,  on  the  north  side  ;  and  if  3'ou  don't 
.  >vish  to  be  seen,  why  you  can  come  about 
midnight,  wlien  every  one's  asleej)." 

"  What's  this  you  say  your  name  is?  " 

"  Sol  Donnel." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  Sol?" 

He  turned  up  his  red  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment, and  exclaimed : 

"  Well,  now,  to  think  that  a  larned  man  as 
you  must  be  shouUbi't  know  what  Sol 
means  !  WeU,  the  ignorance  of  you  great 
people  is  unknown.  Don't  you  know — but 
3'ou  don't — oughn't  you  know,  then,  that 
Sol  means  Solomon,  who  was  the  ^\-isest  man 
and  the  biggest  blaggai'd  that  ever  lived ! 
Faith,  if  /  had  lived  in  his  day  he'd  be  a 
poor  customer  to  me,  bekaise  he  had  no 
shame  in  him  ;  but  indeed,  the  doin's  that 
goes  on  now  in  holes  and  corners  among 
ourselves  was  no  shame  in  his  time.  That's 
a  fine  bay  hoi'se  you  ride  ;  would  you  like  to 
have  him  dappled?  A  dappled  bay,  you 
know,  is  always  a  gi-eat  beauty." 

"  And  could  you  dapj:)le  liim  ?  " 

"Ay,  as  siu'e  as  you  ride  him." 

"Weil,  I'll  think  about  it  and  let  you 
know ;  there's  some  silver  for  you,  and 
good-by,  honest  Solomon." 

Ir'oodwai'd  then  rode  on,  reflecting  on  the 


novel  and  extraoi-dinary  character  of  this 
hypocritical  old  \'illaiu,  in  whose  withered 
and  repulsive  visage  he  could  not  discover  a 
single  trace  of  an^-thing  that  intimated  the 
existence  of  sympathy  with  his  kind.  As  to 
that,  it  was  a  tabula  nu-^a,  bhmk  of  all  feel- 
ings except  those  which  characterize  the 
hyena  and  the  fox.  Aft^r  he  had  left  him, 
the  old  fellow  gave  a  bitter  and  derisive  look 
after  him. 

"  There  you  go,"  said  he,  "  and  well  I 
knew  you,  although  you  didn't  think  so. 
Weren't  you  pointed  out  to  me  the  night  o' 
the  divil's  bonfire,  that  yom-  mother,  they 
say,  got  up  for  you  ;  and  didn't  I  see  you 
since  spakin'  to  that  skamin'  blaggaixl,  Cat- 
erime  CoUins,  my  niece,  that  t?xkes  many  u 
penny  out  o'  my  hands  ;  and  didn't  I  know 
that  you  coultln't  be  talkin'  to  her  about  kuy- 
thing  that  was  good.  Troth,  you're  not 
yovu"  mother's  son  or  you'll  be  comin'  tj  me 
?««  well  as  her.  Bad  luck  to  her  !  she  was 
neiU'  gettin'  me  into  the  stocks  when  I  sowld 
her  the  dose  of  oak  bark  for  the  sarvants,  to 
draw  in  theii*  stomachs  and  shorten  their 
feetlin'.  ]My  faith,  ould  Lindsay  'ud  have 
jmt  me  in  them  only  for  fi'aid  o'  bzingiu' 
shame  upon  his  wife."  * 


CHAPTER  XUI. 

A  Heeding  of  the  Breach. — ^1  Proposal  for  Marriage 
Accepted. 

Ox  that  evening,  when  the  family  were 
assembled  at  supper,  Mrs.  Lindsay,  who  had 
had  a  pre^•ious  consultation  Arith  her  son 
Hai-ry,  thought  proper  to  introduce  the  sub- 
ject of  the  projected  maiTiage  between  him 
and  Ahce  Goodwin. 

"Harry  has  paid  a  visit  to  these  neigh- 
bors of  ours,' said  she,  "these  Goodwins, 
and  I  think,  now  that  he  has  come  home,  it 
would  be  only  pi-udent  on  oiu*  part  to  renew 
the  intimacy  that  was  between  us.  Not  that 
I  hke,  or  ever  "will  hke,  a  bone  in  one  of  their 
bodies  ;  but  it's  only  right  that  we  shoidd 
foil  them  at  their  own  weapons,  and  try  to 


*  Some  of  our  readers  may  imagine  that  in  the 
enumeration  of  the  cures  which  old  Sol  professed 
to  effect  we  have  drawn  too  largely  upon  their 
credulity,  whereas  there  is  scarcely  one  of  them 
that  is  not  practised,  or  attempted,  in  remote  and 
uneducated  parts  of  Ireland,  almost  down  to  the 
present  day.  We  ourselves  in  early  youth  saw  a 
man  who  professed,  and  was  believed  to  be  able,  to 
cure  jealousy  in  either  man  or  woman  by  a  potion  ; 
whilst  charms  for  colics,  toothaches,  taking  motea 
out  of  the  eye,  and  for  producing  love,  wete  com- 
mon among  the  ignorant  people  within  oiu  owl 
recollection. 


d64 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


get  back  the  property  into  the  hands  of  one 
of  the  family  at  least,  if  we  can,  and  so  pre- 
vent it  fi'om  going  to  strangers.  I  am 
determined  to  pay  them  a  fi-iendly  visit  to- 
moiTow. ' 

"A  fi'iendly  \isit !  "  exclaimed  her  hus- 
band, mth  an  expression  of  sui-prise  and 
indignation  on  his  countenance  which  he 
could  not  conceal ;  "  how  can  you  say  a 
frieudly  visit,  after  ha\'ing  just  told  us  that 
you  neither  like  them,  nor  ever  will  like 
them  ?  not  that  it  was  at  all  necessaiy  for 
you  to  assure  us  of  that.  It  is,  however,  the 
hji^ocrisy  of  the  thing  on  youi'  part  that 
startles  and  disgusts  me." 

"  Call  it  prudence,  if  you  please,  Lindsay, 
or  worldly  Avisdom,  if  you  hke,  after  all  the 
best  kind  of  wisdom  ;  and  I  only  wish  you 
had  more  of  it." 

"  That  makes  no  difference  in  life,"  rephed 
her  husband,  calmly,  but  severely  ;  "  as  it  is, 
you  have  enough,  and  more  than  enough  for 
the  whole  family." 

"But  has  Han-y  any  hopes  of  success  with 
Ahce  Goodwin,"  asked  Charles,  "because 
everji;hing  depends  on  that  f  " 

"If  he  had  not,  you  foohsh  boy,  do  you 
think  I  would  be  the  first  to  break  the  ice  by 
going  to  j)ay  them  a  \isit  ?  The  gii'l,  I  dare 
say,  will  make  a  very  good  wife,  or  if  she 
does  not,  the  property  will  not  be  a  pound 
less  in  value  on  that  account ;  that's  one 
comfort." 

"  And  is  it  ui^on  this  hoUow  and  treacher- 
ous principle  that  you  are  about  to  pay  them 
a  friendly  \isit  ?  "  asked  her  husband,  with 
ill-repressed  indignation. 

"Lindsay,"  she  replied,  sharply,  "I  per- 
ceive you  are  rife  for  a  quarrel  now  ;  but  I 
beg  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  wiU  neither  seek 
yoiu'  aj^probation  nor  regard  your  authority. 
I  must  manage  these  people  after  my  own 
fashion." 

"Harry,"  said  his  step-father,  turning 
abruptly,  and  with  incredulous  surpiise  to 
him,  "  surely  it  is  not  possible  that  you  are 
a  party  to  such  a  shameful  imposture  upon 
this  excellent  family  ?  " 

His  brother  Charles  fastened  his  eyes  up- 
on him  as  if  he  would  read  his  heart. 

"I  am  sorry,  sir,"  replied  that  gentleman, 
"  that  you  should  think  it  necessary  to  apply 
the  word  imjjostui-e  to  any  proceeding  of 
mine.  You  ought  to  know  my  mother's  out- 
spoken way,  and  that  her  heart  is  kinder 
than  her  language.  The  fact  is,  from  the 
first  moment  I  saw  that  beautiful  girl  I  felt 
a  warm  interest  in  her,  and  I  feel  that  in- 
terest increasing  every  day.  I  certainly  am 
very  anxious  to  secure  her  for  her  own  sake, 
whilst  I  candidly  admit  that  I  am  not  whoUy 
indifferent  to  the  property.     I  am   only  a 


common  man  like  others,  and  not  above  the 
world  and  its  influences — who  can  be  that 
lives  in  it  ?  My  mother,  besides,  wiU  come 
to  think  better  of  Ahce,  and  all  of  them, 
when  she  shall  be  enabled  to  call  Ahce 
daughter  ;  won't  you,  mother  ?  " 

The  mother,  who  knew  by  the  sentiments 
which  he  had  expressed  to  her  before  on 
this  subject,  that  he  was  nowplajing  a  game 
with  the  family,  did  not  consider  it  prudent 
to  contradict  him  ;  she  consequently  re- 
plied,— 

"I  don't  know,  Harry;  I  cannot  get  their 
trick  about  the  projDerty  out  of  my  heart ; 
but,  i^erhaps,  if  I  saw  it  once  more  where  it 
ought  to  be,  I  might  change.  That's  all  I  can 
say  at  i:)resent." 

"Well,  come,  HaiTy,"  said  Lindsay — ad- 
verting to  what  he  had  just  said — "  I  think 
you  have  spoken  fairly  enough  ;  I  do — it's 
candid  ;  you  are  not  above  this  world  ;  why 
should  you  be? — come,  it  is  candid." 

"I  trust,  sir,  you  -nill  never  find  me  un- 
candid,  either  on  this  or  anv  other  subject." 

"  No  ;  I  don't  think  I  shall,  Eaiiy.  WeU, 
be  it  so — setting  your  mother  out  of  the 
question,^  proceed  with  equal  candor  in 
your  coui'tship.  I  trust  you  deserve  her, 
and,  if  so,  I  hope  you  may  get  her." 

"If  he  does  not,"  said  Maria,  "he  will 
never  get  such  a  wife." 

"  By  the  way,  Harry,"  asked  Charles,  "  has 
she  given  you  an  intimation  of  anything  like 
encoui-agement  ?  " 

"  WeU,  I  rather  think  I  am  not  exactly  a 
fool,  Charles,  nor  Likely  to  undertake  an 
enterj)rise  without  some  jjrospect  of  success. 
I  hope  you  deem  me,  at  least,  a  candid 
man." 

"  Yes  ;  but  there  is  a  class  of  persons  who 
frequently  form  too  high  an  estimate  of  them- 
selves, especially  in  their  intercourse  with 
women  ;  and  who  very  often  mistake  civihty 
for  encouragement." 

"Very  true,  Charles — exceedingly  just 
and  true  ;  but  I  hope  I  am  not  one  of  those 
either  ;  my  knowledge  of  hfe  and  the  world 
wiU  prevent  me  from  that,  I  tiiist." 

"I  hope,"  continued  Charles,  "  that  if  the 
girl  is  adverse  to  such  a  connection  she  will 
not  be  harassed  or  annoyed  about  it." 

"  I  hope,  Charles,  I  have  too  much  pride 
to  press  any  proposal  that  may  be  disagree- 
able to  her  ;  I  rather  think  I  have.  But  have 
you,  Charles,  any  reason  to  suj^jDOse  that  she 
should  not  like  me  ?  " 

"  ^Miy,  fi-om  what  you  have  ah-eady 
hinted,  Harry,  you  ought  to  be  the  best 
judge  of  that  yourself." 

"Well,  I  think  so,  too.  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  v,alking  blindfold  into  any  adven- 
ture,  especially  one  so  imjDortant  as  this. 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


665 


Trust  to  my  address,  my  dear  fellow,"  he 
added,  with  a  confident  smile,  "  and,  believe 
me,  you  shall  soon  see  her  your  sister-in-law." 

"  And  I  shall  be  dehghted  at  it,  Han-y," 
said  his  sister;  "so  go  on  and  prosper.  If  you 
get  her  you  will  get  a  treasure,  setting  her 
property  out  of  the  question." 

"  //*';•  projierty  !  "  ejacuLated  Mrs.  Lindsay  ; 
■'  but  no  matter  ;  we  shall  see.  I  can  speak 
sweetly  enough  when  I  wish." 

"  I  \vish  to  God  you  would  try  it  oftener, 
then,"  said  her  husband  ;  "but  I  tinist  that 
during  this  risit  of  yours  you  will  not  give 
way  to  your  precious  temper  and  insult  them 
at  the  outset.  Don't  tie  a  knot  -vNath  your 
tongue  that  you  can't  unravel  with  yoiu* 
teeth.  Be  quiet,  now  ;  I  didn't  speak  to 
raise  the  devil  and  draw  on  a  tempest — only 
let  us  have  a  glass  of  pimch,  till  Charley  and 
I  drink  success  to  Han-y." 

The  next  day  ]Mi-s.  Lindsay  ordered  the 
car,  and  proceeded  to  pay  her  intended 
visit  to  the  Goodwins.  She  had  an-ived 
pretty  near  the  house,  when  two  of  Good- 
win's men,  who  were  dri\'ing  his  cows  to  a 
grazing  field  on  the  other  side  of  the  road 
by  which  she  was  approaching,  having 
noticed  and  recognized  her,  immediately 
turned  them  back  and  drove  them  into  a 
paddock  enclosed  by  trees,  where  they  were 
completely  out  of  her  sight. 

"  De\'il  blow  her,  east  and  west ! "  said 
one  of  them.  "  "VMiat  bikings  her  across  us 
now  that  we  have  the  cattle  wid  us?  and 
doesn't  all  the  world  know  that  she'd  lave 
them  sick  and  sore  wid  one  glance  of  her 
unlucky  eye.  I  hope  in  God  she  didn't  see 
them,  the  thief  o'  the  devil  that  she  is." 

"  She  can't  see  them  now,  the  cratures," 
rephed  the  other  ;  "  and  may  the  de\al 
knock  the  Hght  out  of  her  eyes  at  any  rate," 
he  added,  "  for  sure,  they  say  it's  the  hght 
of  hell  that's  in  them." 

"  Well,  when  she  goes  there  she'll  be  able 
to  see  her  way,  and  svu'e  that'll  be  one  com- 
fort,"  I'ephed  his  companion  ;  "  but  in  the 
mane  time,  if  anything  happens  the  cows — 
poor  bastes — we'll  know  the  rason  of  it." 

"  She  must  dale  wid  the  deAol,"  said  the 
other,  "  and  I  hope  she'll  be  bunied  for  a 
■witch  yet  ;  but  whisht,  here  she  comes,  and 
may  the  devil  roast  her  on  his  toastin'  iron 
the  first  time  he  wants  a  male  !  " 

"  Ti'oth,  an'  he'd  find  her  tough  feedin'," 
said  his  comi*ade  ;  "  and  barrin'  he  has  strong 
tusks,  as  I  suppose  he  has,  he'd  find  it  no 
eveiT-day  mtde  wid  Lim." 

As  they  spoke,  the  object  of  their  animad- 
version appeared,  and  turned  upon  them,  so 
naturally,  a  sinister  and  sharp  look,  that  it 
seemed  to  the  men  as  if  she  had  suspected 
the  subject  of  their  conversation. 


}      "  Yoa  are  Mr.  Goodwin's  laborers,  are  vou 

'not?" 

!  "We  are,  ma'am,'  rephed  one  of  them, 
without,  as  usual,  touching  his  hat  how- 
ever. 

I  "  You  ill-mannered  boor,"  she  said,  "  why 
do  you  not  touch  your  hat  to  a  lady,  when 
she  conde.sceuds  to  speak  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  always  touch  my  hat  to  a  lady,  ma'am," 

\  replied  the  man  sharply. 

"  Come  here,  you  other  man,"  said  she  ; 
"perhaps  you  ai'e  not  such  an  insolent 
rutiian  as  this  ?     Can  you  tell  me  if  ^Ii*.  and 

'  Mi's.  Goodwin  are  at  home  ?  " 

!      "  Are  you  goin'  there  ?  "  asked  the  man, 

i  making  a  low  bow. 

"  Yes,  I  am,  my  good  man,"  she  re- 
phed. 

"  Well,  then,  ma'am,"  he  added,  bowing 

I  again,  "  youll  find*  that  out  when  you  go  to 
the  house  ; "  and  he  made  her  another  bow 
to  wind  up  the  information  with  all  due 
pohteness. 

"  Barney,"  said  she  to  the  servant,  her 
face  inflamed  with  rage,  "drive  on.  I  only 
wish  I  had  those  ruffianly  scoundrels  to  deal 

'  with  ;  I  would  teach  them  manners  to  theil 
betters  at  all  events  ;  and  you,  siiTa,  why 
did   vou   not  use   your  whip  and  chasti.se 

'  them'?  " 

I      "  Faith,  ma'am,"  rephed  our  fiiend  Barney 

I  Casey,  "it's  aisier  said  than  done  wid  some 
of  us.  ^Tiy,  ma'am,  they're  the  two  hardi- 
est and  bed  men  in  the  parish  ;    however, 

,  here's  Pugshy  Ruah  turnin"  out  o'  the  gate, 
and  shell  be  able  to  teU  you  whether  they 
are  at  home  or  not." 

[  "  O,  that's  the  woman  they  say  is  un- 
lucky," obsei-ved  his  mistress—"  unlucky  to 
meet,  I  mean  ;  I  have  often  heard  of  her  ; 
indeed,  it  may  be  so,  for  I  believe  there 
ai'e  such  persons ;  we  shall  .speak  to  her, 
however.  My  good  woman,"  she  said,  ad- 
di-essing  Pugshy,  "allow  me  to  a.sk,  have 
you  been  at  ]Mr.  Goodwin's  ?  " 

Now  Pugshy  had  all  the  legitimate  chai*ac- 
teristics  of  an  "  unlucky "  woman  ;  red- 
haired,  had  a  game  eye — that  is  to  say,  she 
squinted  with  one  of  them  ;  Pugshy  wore  a 
caubeen  hat,  hke  a  man  ;  had  on  neither 
shoe  nor  stocking  ;  her  huge,  brawny  ai'uis, 
imcovered  almost  to  the  shoulders,  were 
brown  with  freckles,  as  was  her  face  ;  so 
that,  altogether,  she  would  have  made  a  bad 
substitute  either  for  the  Medicean  Venus  or 
the  Apollo  Belridere. 

"  My  good  woman,  allow  me  to  ask  if  you 
have  been  at  Mr.  Goodwin's." 

Pugsh}-,  who  knew  her  well,  stood  for  a 
moment,  and  closing  the  eye  with  which  she 
did  not  squint,  kept  the  game  one  fixed  upon 
her  very  steadily  for  half  a  minute,  and  as 


666 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


she  wore  the  caubeen  rather  rakishly  on 
oue  side  of  her  head,  her  whole  figure  and 
expression  were  something  between  the 
frightful  and  the  ludicrous. 

"  Was  I  at  Misther  Goodwin's,  is  it?  Lord 
love  you,  ma'am,  (and  ye  need  it,  sotto  voce), 
an'  maybe  you'd  give  us  a  thrifle  for  the 
male's  mate  ;  it's  hard  times  wid  us  this 
weader." 

"I  have  no  change  ;  I  never  bring  change 
out  Via th  me." 

"  You're  goin'  to  Mr.  Goodwin's,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  are  he  and  ]\Irs.  Goodwin  at  home, 
can  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  They  are,  ma'am,  but  you  may  as  well 
go  back  again ;  you'll  have  no  luck  this 
day." 

"^Tiy  so?" 

"  Why,  bekaise  you  won't ;  didn't  you 
meet  me?  Who  ever  has  luck  that  meets 
me  ?  Nobody  ought  to  know  that  betther 
than  3'ourself,  for,  by  all  accounts,  you're 
taiTed  wid  the  same  stick." 

"  Foolish  woman,"  rej)Hed  IVIrs.  Lindsay, 
"  how  is  it  in  your  j)Ower  to  prevent  me  ?  " 

"No  matther,"  i-eplied  the  woman  ;  "go 
an  ;  but  mark  my  words,  you'll  have  your 
journey  for  nuttin',  whatever  it  is.  Lideed, 
if  I  turned  back  three  stej)s  wid  you  it 
might  be  other'v^T.se,  but  you  refused  to  cross 
my  hand,  so  you  must  take  your  luck,"  and 
with  a  frightful  glance  from  the  eye  afore- 
said, she  passed  on. 

As  she  drove  up  to  Mr.  Goodwin's  resi- 
dence she  was  met  on  the  steps  of  the  hall- 
door  by  that  kind-hearted  gentleman  and  his 
wife,  and  received  with  a  feeling  of  gratifi- 
cation which  the  good  people  could  not  dis- 
guise. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mrs.  Lindsay,  after 
they  had  got  seated  in  the  drawing-room, 
"  that  you  are  surjjrised  to  see  me  here  ?  " 

"  We  are  delighted,  say,  IMrs.  Lindsay," 
rephed  Mr.  Goodwin—"  delighted.  Why 
shoiild  ill-will  come  between  neighbors  and 
friends  without  any  just  cause  on  either  side  ? 
That  property " 

"  O,  don't  talk  about  that,"  replied  Mrs. 
Lindsay  ;  "  I  didn't  come  to  sj^eak  about  it  ; 
let  everything  connected  with  it  be  forgot- 
ten ;  and  as  proof  that  I  \niih.  it  should  be 
BO,  I  came  here  to-day  to  renew  the  intimacy 
that  should  subsist  between  us." 

"  And,  indeed,"  replied  Mi's.  Goodwin, 
"  the  iuterinijition  of  that  intimacy  distress- 
ed us  very  much — more,  perhaj)s,  Mrs.  Lind- 
say, than  you  might  feel  disposed  to  give  us 
credit  for." 

"  Well,  my  dear  madam,"  rejilied  the 
other,  "I  am  svu-e  you  will  be  glad  to  hear 
that  I  have  not  only  my  OAvn  inclination,  but 
the  sanction  and  wish  of  my  whole  family,  in 


making  this  fx-iendly  visit,  with  the  hope  o1 
placing  us  all  upon  our  former  footing.  But, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  this  might  not  have 
been  so,  were  it  not  for  the  anxiet}'  of  my 
son  Henry,  who  has  returned  to  us,  and 
whom,  I  believe,  you  know." 

"  We  have  that  pleasure,"  rephed  Good- 
win ;  "  and  from  what  we  have  seen  of  him, 
we  think  jon  have  a  right  to  feel  proud  of 
such  a  son." 

"  So  I  do,  indeed,"  replied  his  mother  ; 
"  he  is  a  good  and  most  amiable  young  man, 
without  either  art  or  cunning,  but  truthful 
and  honorable  in  the  highest  degree.  It  is 
to  him  we  shall  all  be  indebted  for  this  re- 
conciliation ;  or,  perhaps,  I  might  say,"  she 
added,  with  a  smile,  "  to  your  own  daughter 
Alice." 

"  Ah !  poor  Alice,"  exclaimed  her  father  ; 
"  none  of  us  felt  the  estrangement  of  the 
families  with  so  much  regret  as  she  did." 

"Indeed,  Mi-s.  Lindsay,"  added  his  wife, 
"  I  can  bear  witness  to  that ;  many  a  bitter 
tear  it  occasioned  the  poor  girl." 

"  I  believe  she  is  a  most  amiable  creature," 
replied  Mrs.  Lindsay  ;  "  and  I  beheve,"  she 
added  wdth  a  smile,  "  that  there  is  one  parti- 
ciilar  young  gentleman  of  that  oj)inion  as 
well  as  myseK." 

We  believe  in  our  souls  that  the  simplest 
woman  in  existence,  or  that  ever  lived,  be- 
comes a  deep  and  thorough  diplomatist  when 
engaged  in  a  conversation  that  involves  in 
the  remotest  degi'ee  any  matrimonial  specu- 
lation for  a  daughter.  Now,  Mi's.  Goodwin 
knew  as  well  as  the  reader  does,  that  IMrs. 
Lindsay  made  allusion  to  her  son  Harry,  the 
new-comer  ;  but  she  felt  that  it  was  contrary 
to  the  spirit  of  such  negotiations  to  make  a 
direct  admission  of  that  feeling  ;  she,  accord- 
ingly, was  of  02:)inion  that  in  order  to  bring 
IVIi'S.  Lindsay  dii-ectly  to  the  point,  and  to 
exonerate  herself  and  her  husband  from  ever 
having  entertained  the  question  at  all,  her 
best  plan  was  to  misunderstand  her,  and 
seem  to  proceed  upon  a  false  scent. 

"  O,  indeed,  Mrs.  Lindsay,"  she  rephed, 
"  I  am  not  surjDrised  at  that ;  Charles  and 
Alice  were  always  great  favorites  vdth  each 
other." 

"  Charles !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lindsay  ; 
"  Charles !  What  could  induce  you  to  think 
of  associating  Charles  and  Alice  ?  He  is  un- 
worthy of  such  an  association." 

"Bless  me,"  exclaimed  Mi's.  Goodwin  in 
her  tui-n ;  "why,  I  thought  you  alluded  to 
Charles." 

"  No,"  said  her  neighbor,  "  I  alluded  to 
my  eldest  son,  Harry,  to  whose  good  offices 
in  this  matter  both  families  are  so  much  in- 
debted. He  is  worthy  of  any  girl,  and  in- 
deed few  girls  are  worthy  of  him  ;  but  as  foi 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


667 


Alice,  you  know  what  a  favorite  she  was  with 
me,  and  I  trust  now  I  shall  like  her  even 
better  than  ever." 

"  You  are  right,  Mrs.  Lindsay,"  said  Good- 
win, "  in  saying  that  few  women  are  worthy 
of  your  eldest  son  ;  he  is  a  most  gentleman- 
ly, and  evidently  a  most  accomplished  young 
mfin  ;  his  conversation  at  breakfast  here  the 
morning  after  the  storm  was  so  remarkable, 
both  for  good  sense  and  good  feehng,  that  I 
am  not  sui-prised  at  your  friendly  \dsit  to- 
day, Mrs.  Lindsay.  He  was  sent,  I  hope,  to 
introduce  a  spiiit  of  jjeace  and  concord  be- 
tween us,  and  God  forbid  that  we  should 
repel  it  ;  on  tlie  contraiy,  we  hail  his  medi- 
ation witli  delight,  and  feel  deeply  indebted 
to  him  for  placing  both  famihes  in  their 
original  position." 

"  I  trust  in  a  better  position,"  replied  his 
adroit  mother  ;  "I  trust  in  a  better  position, 
Mr.  Goodwin,  and  a  still  nearer  and  dearer 
connection.  It  is  better,  howevei-,  to  speak 
out ;  you  know  me  of  old,  my  dear  friends, 
and  that  I  am  blunt  and  straightforward — as 
the  proverb  has  it,  '  I  think  what  I  say,  and  I 
say  what  I  think.'  This  visit,  then,  is  made, 
as  I  said,  not  only  by  my  owai  wish,  but 
at  the  express  entreaty  of  my  son  Harry,  and 
the  great  delight  of  the  whole  family  ;  there 
is  therefore  no  use  in  concealing  the  fact — he 
is  deeply  attached  to  your  daughter,  Alice, 
and  was  from  the  first  moment  he  saw  her  ; 
— of  course  you  now  understand  my  mission 
— which  is,  in  fact,  to  make  a  proposal  of 
marriage  in  his  name,  and  to  entreat  youi* 
favorable  consideration  of  it,  as  well  as  your 
influence  in  his  behalf  with  Alice  herself." 

"  Well,  I  declare,  Mrs.  Lindsay,"  replied 
Mrs.  Goodwdn,  (God  forgive  her  !)  "  you  have 
taken  us  quite  by  surprise — you  have  in- 
deed ; — dear  me — I'm  quite  agitated  ;  but 
he  is,  indeed,  a  tine  young  man — a  perfect 
gentleman  in  his  manners,  and  if  he  be  as 
good  as  he  looks — for  marriage,  God  help 
us,  tries  us  ixll " 

"  I  liope  it  never  tried  you  much,  iVIai'tha," 
replied  her  husband,  smiling. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  don't  say  so.  Still,  when 
the  happiness  of  one's  child  is  concerned — 
and  such  a  child  as  Alice " 

"  But  consider,  Mrs.  Goodwin,"  replied 
the  ambassadress,  who,  in  fact,  was  not  far 
from  an  explosion  at  what  she  considered  a 
piece  of  conteujptible  vacillation  on  the  part 
of  her  neighbor—"  consider,  ]\Irs.  Goodwin," 
saitl  she,  "  that  the  hajjpiness  of  my  son  is 
concerned." 

"  I  know  it  is,"  she  replied  ;  "  but  speak 
to  her  father,  IMi's.  Lindsay — he,  as  such,  is 
the  proper  person — Q,  dear  me." 

"Well,  Mr.  Goodwin — you  have  heard 
what  I  have  said  ?  " 


"I  have,  madam,"  said  he;  "but  tliauk 
God  I  am  not  so  nervous  as  my  good  wife 
here.  I  hke  your  son,  Harry,  very  much, 
from  what  I  have  seen  of  him — and,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  I  re.-dly  see  no  objection  to 
such  a  match.  On  the  contrary,  it  will  pro- 
mote peace  and  good-Avill  between  us  ;  and, 
I  have  no  doubt,  will  prove  a  hapi)y  event  to 
the  parties  most  concerned." 

"  O,  there  is  not  a  doubt  of  it,"  exclaimed 
]Mi-s.  Goodwin,  now  chiming  in  with  her 
husband  ;  "  no,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  it, 
O,  they  will  be  very  happy  together,  and 
that  -will  be  so  delightful.  My  darhng 
Alice  !  " — and  here  she  became  pathetic,  and 
shed  tears  copiously — "yes,"  she  added, 
"  we  will  lose  3'ou,  my  darling,  and  a  lonely 
house  we  will  have  after  you,  for  I  suppose 
they  will  live  in  the  late  ISIi'.  Hamilton's  resi- 
dence, on  their  own  property." 

This  allusion  to  the  arrangements  contem- 
plated in  the  event  of  the  marriage,  redeemed, 
to  a  certain  degree,  the  simple-hearted  ^Ii'S, 
Good^vin  from  the  strongest  possible  con- 
tempt on  the  part  of  a  womiui  who  was 
never  known  to  shed  a  tear  upon  any  earthly 
subject. 

"  Well,  then,"  proceeded Mi'S.  Lindsay,  "I 
am  to  understand  that  this  proposal  on  the 
behalf  of  my  son  is  accepted  ?  " 

"So  far  as  I  and  ]Mi's.  Goodwin  are  con- 
cerned," replied  Goodwin,  "you  are,  indeed, 
Mrs.  Lindsay,  and  so  far  all  is  smooth  and 
eas}^ ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  Alice 
— she,  you  know,  is  to  be  consulted." 

"  O  !  as  for  poor  Alice,"  said  her  mother, 
"  there  will  be  no  difficulty  with  her  ;  what- 
ever I  and  her  father  wish  her  to  do,  if  it  be 
to  please  us,  that  she  will  do." 

"I  trust,"  said  ]VIi-s.  Lindsay,  "she  has  no 
previous  attachment ;  for  that  would  be  un- 
fortunate for  herself,  poor  girl." 

"  She  an  attachment !  "  exclaimed  her  mo- 
ther ;  "  no,  the  poor,  timid  creature  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"  It  is  difficult  for  parents  to  know  that," 
replied  Mi-s.  Lindsay  ;  "but  where  is  she?" 

"  She's  gone  out,"  replied  her  mother,  "to 

take   a   jileasant  jaunt   somewhere   with    a 

young  fiiend  of  ours,  a  ]Mi'.  O'Connor  ;  but, 

indeed,  I'm  glad  she  is  not  here,  for  if  she 

was,  we  could  not,  you  know,  discuss  this 

matter  in  her  presence." 

I      "  That  is  verj'  time,"  observed  IMrs.  Lind- 

;  say,  dryly  ;  "  but  perhaps  she  doesn't  regret 

her  absence.     As  it  is,  I  think  you  ought  to 

i  impress  upon  her  that,  in  the  article  of  mar- 

'  riage,  a  young  and  inexperienced  girl  hke 

I  her  ought  to  have  no  will  but  that  of  her 

parents,  who  are  best  qualified,  from  their 

experience  and  knowledge  of  life,  to  form 

I  and  dii'ect  her  piiuciples." 


668 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"I  do  not  think,"  said  her  father,  "that 
there  is  anj-thing  to  be  apprehended  on  her 
part.  She'  is  the  most  unselfish  and  disin- 
terested girl  that  ever  existed,  and  sooner 
than  give  her  mother  or  me  a  pang,  I  am 
sure  she  would  make  any  saciifice  ;  but  at 
the  same  time,"  he  added,  "if  her  owti  hap- 
piness were  involved  in  the  matter,  I  should 
certainly  accept  no  such  sacrifice  at  her 
hands." 

"As  to  that,  ]VIr.  Goodwin,"  she  rephed, 
"I  hope  we  need  calculate  ujDon  nothing  on 
her  part  bat  a  wiUing  consent  •  and  obedi- 
ence. At  all  events,  it  is  but  natural  that 
they  shoidd  be  pretty  frequently  in  each 
other's  society,  and  that  my  son  should  have 
an  opportunity  of  inspiring  her  with  good 
will  towards  him,  if  not  a  still  wai'mer  feel- 
ing. The  matter  being  now  understood,  of 
course,  that  is  and  will  be  his  exclusive  priv- 
ilege." 

"YoTU'  observations,  my  dear  madam,  are 
but  reasonable  and  natural,"  rephed  Good- 
win. ""N^liy,  indeed,  should  it  be  other- 
wise, considering  their  contemplated  relation 
to  each  other  ?  Of  course,  we  shall  be  de- 
hghted  to  see  him  here  as  often  as  he 
chooses  to  come,  and  so,  I  am  sure,  will 
Ahce." 

They  then  separated  upon  the  most  cor- 
dial terms  ;  and  IMrs.  Lindsay,  ha"sdng  moun- 
ted her  vehicle,  proceeded  on  her  way  home. 
She  Avas,  however,  far  fi'om  satisfied  at  the 
success  of  her  interview  with  the  Goodwins. 
So  far  as  the  consent  of  her  father  and  mo- 
ther went,  all  was,  to  be  sui'e,  quite  as  she 
could  have  wished  it  ;  but  then,  as  to  Ahce 
herself,  there  might  exist  an  insurmountable 
difiiculty.  She  did  not  at  all  relish  the  fact 
of  that  young  lady's  taking  her  amusement 
with  Mr.  O'Connor,  who  she  knew  was  of  a 
handsome  person  and  independent  circum- 
stances, and  veiy  likely  to  become  a  formi- 
dable rival  to  her  son.  As  matters  stood, 
however,  she  resolved  to  conceal  her  appre- 
hensions on  this  point,  and  to  m-ge  Harry 
to  secure,  if  possible,  the  j^roperty,  which 
both  she  herself  and  he  had  solely  in  view. 
As  for  the  girl,  each  of  them  looked  on  her 
as  a  cipher  in  the  transaction,  whose  only 
value  was  rated  by  the  broad  acres  which 
they  could  not  secure  without  taking  her 
along  mth  them. 

The  family  were  dispersed  when  she 
retvu-ned  home,  and  she,  consequently,  re- 
sen'ed  the  account  of  her  mission  until  she 
should  meet  them  in  the  evening.  At 
length  the  hour  came,  and  she  lost  no 
time  in  opening  the  matter  at  full  length, 
suppressing,  at  the  same  time,  her  ovm 
apprehensions  of  Alice's  consent,  and  her 
dread  of  the  rivahy  on  the  part  of  O'Connor. 


"WeU,"  said  she,  "I  have  seen  thesi 
people  ;  I  have  called  upon  them,  as  you 
all  know ;  and,  as  I  said,  I  have  seeo 
them." 

"  To  very  little  pui-pose,  I  am  afraid,"  said 
her  husband  ;  "I  don't  lilce  j-our  commence- 
ment of  the  report." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  she  replied  ;  "  but,  thank 
God,  it  is  neither  youi*  liking  nor  disliking 
that  we  regard,  Lindsay.  I  have  seen  them, 
Harry  ;  and  I  am  glad  to  say  that  they  are 
civil  people." 

"Is  it  only  now  you  found  that  out?" 
asked  her  husband  ;  "  why,  they  never  were 
anything  else,  Jenny." 

"  Well,  really,"  said  she,  "  I  shall  be  forced 
to  ask  you  to  leave  the  room  if  you  proceed 
at  this  rate.  Children,  will  you  protect  me 
from  the  inten-uption  and  the  studied  insults 
of  this  man  ?  " 

"Father,"  said  Charles,  "for  Heaven's 
sake  "«ill  you  aUow  her  to  state  the  result  of 
her  visit  ?  We  are  all  very  anxious  to  hear 
it ;  none  more  so  than  I." 

"  Please  except  your  elder  brother,"  said 
Harry,  laughing,  "whose  interest  you  know, 
Chaiiey,  is  most  concerned." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so,"  said  Charles ;  "  of 
course,  Hariy — but  proceed,  mother,  we 
shan't  interrupt  you." 

" O,  go  on,"  said  his  mother,  "go on  ;  dis- 
cuss the  matter  among  you,  I  can  wait ;  don't 
hesitate  to  interrupt  me  ;  yoiu'  father  there 
has  set  you  that  gentlemanly  example." 

"  It  must  siu'ely  be  good  when  it  comes," 
said Hari'y,with  a  smile;  "but  do  ]iroceed,  my 
dear  mother,  and  never  mind  these  queer 
folk  ;  go  on  at  once,  and  let  us  know  all : 
we — that  is,  myself — are  jDrejoared  for  the 
worst ;  do  proceed,  mother." 

"  Am  I  at  hberty  to  sjDeak  ?  "  said  she,  and 
she  looked  at  them  with  a  glance  that 
expressed  a  very  fierce  interrogatory.  They 
all  nodded,  and  she  resumed  : 

"  Well,  I  have  seen  these  j)eople,  I  say  ;  I 
have  made  a  proposal  of  marriage  between 
Harry  and  Alice,  and  that  proposal  is " 

She  paused,  and  looked  around  her  with 
an  air  of  triumph  ;  but  whether  that  look 
communicated  the  triumph  of  success,  or 
that  of  her  inveterate  enmity  and  contempt 
for  them  ever  since  the  death  of  old  Hamil- 
ton, was  as  great  a  secret  to  them  as  the 
Bononian  enigma.  There  was  a  dead  silence, 
much  to  her  moriification,  for  she  would 
have  given  a  great  deal  that  her  husl^and 
had  iuterrui^ted  her  just  then,  and  taken  her 
upon  the  wi-ong  tack. 

"Well,"  she  proceeded,  "do  tou  all  wish 
to  hear  it  ?  " 

Lindsay  put  his  forefinger  on  his  hps,  and 
nodded  to  all  the  rest  to  do  the  same. 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


669 


"All,  Liudsay,"  she  exclaimed,  "you  are 
an  ill-minded  man  ;  but  it  matters  not  so 
far  as  ijou  are  concerned — in  three  words, 
Haiirv,  the  proposal  h<  awcpted ;  yes,  accepted, 
and  with  gratitude  and  thanksgiving." 

"  And  you  had  no  quarrel  ?  "  said  Lindsay, 
with  astonishment ;  "  nor  you  didn't  let  out 
on  tliem  ?      Well,  well !  " 

"  Children,  lam  addressing  myself  to  you, 
and  esjiecially  to  Harry  here,  who  is  most 
interested  ;  no,  I  see  nothing  to  prevent  us 
from  having  back  the  property  and  the  curds- 
and-whey  along  with  it." 

"  Faith,  and  the  curds-and-whey  are  the 
best  part  of  it  after  all,"  said  Lindsay  ;  "  but, 
in  the  meantime,  you  might  be  a  little  more 
particular,  iuid  f^ive  us  a  touch  of  your  own 
eloquence  and  ability  in  bringing  it  about. " 

"AVhat  did  Ahce  herself  say,  mother?" 
asked  Charles  ;  "  was  she  a  party  to  the 
consent  ?  because,  if  she  was,  your  triumph, 
or  rather  Harry's  here,  is  complete." 

"It  is  complete,"  replied  his  mother, 
having  recourse  to  a  dishonest  evasion  ;  "  the 
girl  and  her  parents  have  but  one  opinion. 
Indeed,  I  always  did  the  poor  thing  the 
crecht  to  beheve  that  she  never  was  capable 
of  enteriainiug  an  oi)inion  of  her  o-wn,  and 
it  now  turns  out  a  very  fortunate  thing  for 
HaiTy  that  it  is  so  ;  but  of  course  he  has 
made  an  imjjression  upon  hei\" 

"As  to  that,  mamma,"  said  Maria,  "I 
don't  know — he  ma}',  or  he  may  not ;  but  of 
this  I  am  satisfied,  that  Alice  Goodwin  is  a 
giii  who  can  form  an  opinion  for  herself,  and 
that,  whatever  that  opinion  be,  she  will 
neither  change  or  abandon  it  upon  slight 
grounds.  I  know  her  well,  but  if  she  has 
consented  to  marry  Harry  she  will  man-y 
him,  tmd  that  is  all  that  is  to  be  said  about 
it." 

"I  thought  she  would,"  said  Hai-ry  ;  "I 
toid  vou,  Charlev,  that  I  didn't  think  I  was 
a  fool— didn't  I  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  did,  Harrv',"  replied  his 
brother  ;  "  but  I  don't  know  how — it  strikes 
me  that  I  would  rather  have  any  other  man's 
opinion  on  that  subject  than  your  own  ; 
however,  time  will  tell." 

"  It  will  tell,  of  course  ;  and  if  it  proves 
me  a  fool,  I  \\i\\  give  you  leave  to  clap  the 
fool's  cap  on  me  for  life.  And  now  that  we 
have  advanced  so  far  and  so  well,  I  will  go 
and  take  one  of  my  evening  strolls,  in  order 
to  meditate  on  my  approaching  happiness." 
And  he  did  so. 

The  family  were  not  at  all  surjDrised  at 
this,  even  jdthough  tlie  period  of  his  walks 
fi-equently  extended  into  a  protracted  hour 
of  the  night.  Not  so  the  servants,  who  won- 
dered why  Master  HiU'iy  should  wtilk  so 
much  abroad  and  remain  out  so  late  at  night. 


especially  considering  the  unsettled  and 
alarming  state  of  the  country,  in  consequence 
of  the  outrages  and  robberies  which  were  of 
such  frequent  occurrence.  This,  it  is  time, 
was  startling  enough  to  these  simple  people  ; 
but  that  which  filled  them  not  only  with  as- 
tonishment, but  with  something  like  awe, 
was  the  indifit'erence  with  which  he  was 
known  to  traverse  haunted  places  alone  and 
unaccompanied,  when  the  whole  country 
around,  excej^t  thieves  and  robbers,  witches, 
and  evil  spirits,  were  sound  asleep.  "  What," 
they  asked  each  other,  "  could  he  mean  by 
it  ?  ■" 

"Barney  Casey,  you  that  knows  a  great 
deal  for  an  unlarned  man,  tell  us  what  you 
think  of  it,"  said  the  cook;  'isn't  it  the 
world's  Avondher,  that  a  man  that's  out  at 
such  hours  doesn't  see  somefhin'  ?  There's 
Lanty  Bawn,  and  sure  the}*  say  he  sa^r  the 
ivhite  ivoman  beyaut  the  end  of  the  long  bo- 
reen  on  Thursday  night  last,  the  Lord  save 
us  ;  eh,  Barney  ?  " 

Barney  immediately  assumed  the  oracle. 

"  He  did,"  said  he  ;  "  and  what  is  still  more 
feai-ful,  it's  said  there  was  a  black  man  along 
wid  her.  They  say  that  Lanty  seen  them 
both,  and  tliat  the  black  man  had  his  arm 
about  the  white  woman's  waist,  and  was 
kissin'  her  at  full  trot." 

The  cook  crossed  herself,  and  the  whole 
kitchen  turned  up  its  eyes  at  this  diaboHcal 
piece  of  courtship. 

"  Musha,  the  Lord  be  about  us  in  the 
manetime  ;  but  bad  luck  to  the  ould  boy,  (a 
black  pxan  is  always  considered  the  devil,  or 
the  ould  boy,  as  they  call  liim,)  wasn't  it  a 
daisant  taste  he  had,  to  go  to  kiss  a  ghost?" 

"Why,"  rephed  Barney  with  a  grin,  "I 
suppose  the  ould  chap  is  hard  set  on  that 
point ;  who  the  deril  else  would  kiss  him, 
banin'  some  she  ghost  or  other?  Some 
luckless  ould  maid,  I'U  go  bail,  that  gother  a 
beard  while  she  was  here,  and  the  de\il  now 
is  kissin'  it  oif  to  get  seein'  what  kind  of  a 
face  she  lias.  Well,  all  I  can  say,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "  is,  that  I  wish  him  luck  of  his  em- 
ployment, for  in  troth  it's  an  honorable  one 
and  he  has  a  right  to  be  proud  of  it." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  housemaid,  "it's  a 
wondher  how  any  one  can  walk  by  them- 
selves at  night ;  wasn't  it  near  the  well  at 
the  foot  of  the  long  hill  that  goes  up  to 
where  the  Davorens  Uve  that  they  were 
seen  ?  " 

"  It  was,"  repHed  Barney  ;  "  at  laste  they 
say  so." 

"And  didn't  yourself  tell  me,"  she  pro- 
ceeded, "  that  that  same  lonesome  boreen  is 
a  common  walk  at  night  wid  Master  Harry  ?  " 

"And  so  it  is,  Ntmse,"  repHed  Bai-uey ; 
"  but  as  for  Misther  Harry,  I  beheve  it'a 


870 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


piirty  well  knoT\Ti,  that  by  night  or  by  day 
he  may  walk  where  he  hkes." 

"  Father  of  heaven  !  "  they  exclaimed  in  a 
low,  earnest  voice  ;  "  but  xchij,  Barney  ? " 
yiey  asked  in  a  condensed  whisper. 

"  Why !  Why  is  he  called  Han-y  na  Suil 
Balor  for  ?  Can  you  tell  me  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  bekaise  his  two  eyes  isn't  one 
color." 

"And  why  ai-n't  they  one  color?  Can  you 
tell  me  that  ?  " 

"  O,  the  sorra  step  farther  I  can  go  in  that 
question." 

"  No,"  said  Barney,  full  of  importance,  "I 
thought  not,  and  what  is  more,  I  didn't  ex- 
pect it  fi-om  you.  His  mother  coiild  tell, 
though.  It's  in  her  family,  and  there's  worse 
than  that  in  her  family." 

"Troth,  by  all  accounts,"  observed  the 
girl,  "  there  never  was  anything  good  in  her 
tamily.  But,  Barney,  achora,  will  you  tell 
us,  if  you  know,  what's  the  rason  of  it  ?  " 

"If  I  know?"  said  Barney,  rather  offend- 
ed ;  "maybe  I  don't  know,  and  maybe  I  do, 
if  it  came  to  that.  Any  body,  then,  that  has 
two  eyes  of  different  colors  always  has  the  Evil 
Eye,  or  the  Suil  Balor,  and  has  the  power  of 
overlookin' ;  and,  between  ourselves,  Masther 
Harry  has  it.  The  misthress  herseK  can 
only  overlook  cattle,  bekaise  both  her  eyes  is 
of  the  one  color  ;  but  Masther  Harry  could 
overlook  either  man  or  woman  if  he  vdshed. 
And  how  do  you  think  that  comes  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  knows,"  replied  the  cook, 
crossing  herself;  "fi'om  no  good,  at  any 
rate.  Troth,  I'U  get  a  gosj)el  and  a  scapular, 
for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  observed  that 
Masther  Hariy  gave  me  a  look  the  other  day 
that  made  my  flesh  creep,  by  rason  that  he 
thought  the  mutton  was  overdone." 

"  O,  you  needn't  be  afeard,"  replied  Bar- 
ney ;  "  he  can  overlook  or  not,  as  he  plaises  ; 
if  he  does  not  wish  to  do  so,  you're  safe 
enough  ;  but  when  any  one  hke  him  that 
has  the  j^ower  wishes  to  do  it,  they  could 
wither  you  by  degrees  off  o'  the  aii'th." 

"  God  be  about  us  !  But,  Barne}^  you 
didn't  teU  us  how  it  comes,  for  all  that." 

"  It  comes  fi'om  the  fairies.  Doesn't 
every  one  know  that  the  fairies  themselves 
has  the  power  of  overlookin'  both  cattle  and 
Christians  ?  " 

"  That's  true  enough,"  she  replied ; 
"every  one,  indeed,  knows  that.  Sure,  my 
aunt  had  a  child  that  died  o'  the  fairies." 

"Yes,  but  Masther  Harry  can  see  them." 

"  What !  is  it  the  fairies  ?  " 

"Ay,  the  fames,  but  only  wid  one  eye, 
that  piercin'  black  one  of  his.  No,  no  ;  as  I 
said  before,  he  may  walk  where  he  likes, 
both  by  night  and  by  day  ;  he's  safe  from 
everytlung  of  the  kind ;  even  a  ghost  daren't 


lay  a  finger  on  him  ;  and  as  the  devil  an(5 
the  fairies  are  connected,  he's  safe  fi'om  him, 
too,  in  this  world  at  laste  ;  but  the  Lord  pity 
him  when  he  goes  to  the  next ;  for  there 
he'll  suffer  laity." 

The  truth  is,  that  in  those  days  of  witch* 
craft  and  apparitions  of  all  kinds,  and  even 
in  the  present,  among  the  ignorant  and  un- 
educated of  the  lower  classes,  any  female 
seen  at  night  in  a  lonely  place,  and  supposed 
to  be  a  spii'it,  was  termed  a  vhite  xooman,  no 
matter  what  the  color  of  her  dress  may  have 
been,  pro\ided  it  was  iiot  black.  The  same 
suj^erstition  held  good  when  anything  in  the 
shape  of  a  man  happened  to  appear  under 
similai'  circumstances.  Terror,  and  the  force 
of  an  excited  imagination,  instantly  trans- 
formed it  into  a  black  man,  and  that  black 
man,  of  course,  was  the  devil  liimself.  In 
the  case  before  us,  however,  our  readers,  we 
have  no  doubt,  can  give  a  better  guess  at  the 
nature  of  the  black  man  and  white  woman 
in  question  than  either  the  cook,  the  house- 
maid, or  even  Barney  himseK. 

It  was  late  that  night  when  Harry  came 
in.  The  servants,  with  whose  terrors  and 
superstitions  Casey  had  taken  such  liberties, 
now  looked  upon  him  as  something  awful, 
and,  as  might  be  naturally  exjiected,  felt  a 
dreadful  ciuiosity  with  respect  to  him  and 
his  movements.  They  lay  awake  on  the 
night  in  c[uestion,  mth  the  express  purpose 
of  satisfying  themselves  as  to  the  hour  of  his 
retui-n,  and  as  that  was  between  twelve  and 
one,  they  laid  it  down  as  a  certain  fact  that 
there  was  something  "not  right,"  and  be- 
3'ond  the  common  in  his  remaining  out  so 
late. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Chase  of  the  White  Hare. 
*'  Hark,  forward,  forward  ;  holla  ho  I  " 

The  next  morning  our  friend  Harry  ap- 
peared at  the  breakfast  table  rather  paler 
than  usual,  and  in  one  of  his  most  abstracted 
moods  ;  for  it  may  be  said  here  that  the  fi'e- 
quent  occurrence  of  such  moods  had  not 
escaped  the  observation  of  his  family,  espe- 
cially of  his  step-father,  in  whose  good  grace, 
it  so  happened,  that  he  was  not  improving. 
One  cause  of  this  was  his  superciHous,  or, 
rather,  his  contemptuous  manner  towards 
his  admirable  and  affectionate  brother.  He 
refused  to  associate  with  him  in  his  sports 
or  diversions  ;  refvised  him  his  confidence, 
and  seldom  addressed  him,  except  in  that 
tone  of  banter  wliich  always  implies  an  offen- 
sive impression  of  inferiority  and  want  of  re- 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


671 


spect  towards  the  object  of  it.  After  break- 
fast the  next  morning,  his  father  said  to 
Charles,  when  the  other  members  of  the 
family  had  all  left  the  room, — 

"  Charley,  there  is  something  behind  that 
gloom  of  Harry's  which  I  don't  like.  In- 
deed, altogether,  he  has  not  imi^roved  upon 
me  since  his  retiu'u,  and  you  are  awai'e  that 
I  knew  nothing  of  him  before.  I  cannot 
conceive  his  object  in  retui-ning  home  just 
now,  and,  it  seems,  with  no  intention  of  go- 
ing back.  His  uncle  was  the  kindest  of  men 
to  him,  and  intended  to  provide  for  him 
handsomely.  It  is  not  for  nothing  he  would 
leave  such  an  uncle,  and  it  is  not  for  nothing 
that  such  an  uncle  would  part  with  him,  un- 
less there  was  a  screw  loose  somewhere.  I 
don't  wish  to  press  him  into  an  explanation  ; 
but  he  has  not  offered  any,  and  refuses,  of 
course,  to  place  any  confidence  in  me." 

"  !My  deal-  father,"  replied  the  generous 
brother,.  "  I  fear  you  judge  him  too  harshly. 
As  for  these  tits  of  gloom,  they  may  be  con- 
stitutional ;  you  know  my  mother  has  them, 
and  won't  speak  to  one  of  us  sometimes  for 
whole  days  together.  It  ts  possible  that 
some  quarrel  or  misunderstantllng  may  have 
taken  place  between  him  and  his  uncle  ;  but 
how  do  you  know  that  his  silence  on  the 
subject  does  not  proceed  from  dehcacy 
towards  that  relative  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  may  be  so  ;  and  it  is  a  very  kind 
and  generous  interjoretation  which  you  give 
of  it,  Charley.  Let  that  part  of  the  subject 
l^ass,  then  ;  but,  again,  regarding  this  mar- 
riage. The  principle  ujion  which  he  and  his 
mother  ai-e  proceeding  is  selfish,  heartless, 
and  pei-fidious  in  the  highest  degree  ;  and 

d me  if  I  think  it  would  be  honorable 

in  me  to  stand  by  and  see  such  a  rillaiuous 
game  played  against  so  excellent  a  family — 
against  so  lovely  and  so  jidmirable  a  girl  as 
Alice  Goodwin.  It  is  a  union  between  the 
kite  and  the  dove,  Charley,  and  it  would  be 
base  and  cowardly  in  me  to  see  such  a  union 
accomphshed." 

"Father,"  said  Charles,  "in  thin  matter 
will  you  be  guided  by  me  ?  If  Alice  herself 
is  a  consenting  party  to  the  match,  you 
have,  in  my  opinion,  no  right  to  interfere,  at 
least  with  her  affections.  If  she  mames  him 
without  stress  or  compulsion,  she  does  it 
deliberately,  and  she  shapes  her  owai  course 
and  her  own  fate.  In  the  meantime  I  ad- 
vise you  to  hold  back  for  the  present,  and  , 
wait  until  her  own  sentiments  are  distinctly  ' 
understood.  That  can  be  effected  by  a 
private  interview  with  yourself,  which  you 
can  easily  obtain.  Let  us  not  be  severe  on 
Harry.  I  rather  think  he  is  pressed  for- 
ward in  the  matter  by  my  mother,  for  the 
sake  of  the  property      If  his  uncle  has  dis-  i 


carded  him,  it  is  not,  surely,  vmreasonable 
that  a  young  man  hke  him,  without  a  pro- 
fession or  any  fixed  pui-pose  in  life,  shoidd 
wish  to  secure  a  wife — and  auch  a  wife — who 
will  bring  back  to  him  the  ver^'  proj^erty 
which  was  originally  destined  for  himself  in 
the  first  instance.  Wait,  then,  at  all  events, 
until  Ahce's  conduct  in  the  matter  is  known. 
If  there  be  unjustifiable  force  and  pressure 
upon  her,  ad  ;  if  not,  I  think,  sii-,  that,  with 
eveiy  respect,  your  interference  would  be  an 
vmjustifiable  intrusion." 

"Very  well,  Charley;  I  beheve  you  are 
right ;  I  will  be  guided  by  you  for  the  pres- 
ent ;  I  won't  interfere  ;  but  in  the  meantime 
I  shall  have  an  eye  to  their  proceedings.  I 
don't  think  the  Goodwuis  at  all  mercenary 
or  selfish,  but  it  is  quite  possible  that  they 
may  look  upon  Harry  as  the  heir  of  his 
uncle's  wealth ;  and,  after  all,  Charley,  na- 
ture is  nature  ;  that  may  influence  them  even 
unconsciously,  and  yet  I  am  not  in  a  condi- 
tion to  undeceive  them." 

"  Father,"  said  Charles,  "  all  I  would  sug- 
gest is,  as  I  said  before,  a  httle  patience  for 
the  present ;  wait  a  while  tmtil  we  leani  how 
Alice  herself  will  act.  I  am  sony  to  say 
that  I  perceived  what  I  beheve  to  be  an 
equivocation  on  the  part  of  my  mother  in 
her  allusion  to  Alice.  I  think  it  wiU  be 
fovmd  by  and  by  that  her  personal  consent 
has  not  been  given  ;  and,  what  is  more,  that 
she  was  not  present  at  all  during  their  con- 
versation on  the  subject.  If  she  was,  how- 
ever, and  became  a  consenting  party  to  the 
proposal,  then  I  say  now,  as  I  said  before, 
3'ou  have  no  right  to  interfere  in  the  busi- 
ness." 

"  What  keeps  him  out  so  late  at  night  ? 
I  mean  occasionally.  He  is  out  two  or  three 
nights  every  week  until  twelve  or  one  o'clock. 
Now,  you  know,  in  the  present  state  of  the 
country,  that  it  is  not  safe.  >Shawn-na-Mid- 
dogue  and  such  scoundrels  are  abroad,  and 
thev  might  \yu.i  a  buUet  through  him  some 
night  or  other. 

"  He  is  not  at  all  afraid  on  that  score,"  re- 
phed  Charles;  "he  never  goes  out  in  the 
evening  without  a  case  of  pistols  fi-eshly 
loaded." 

"Well,  but  it  is  wrong  to  subject  himseli 
to  danger.     Where  is  he  gone  now  ?  " 

"  He  and  Barney  Casey  have  gone  out  to 
course  ;  I  think  they  went  up  towai'ds  the 
mountains." 

Such  was  the  fact.  HaiTy  was  quite  ena- 
moured of  sport,  and,  finding  dogs,  gvms, 
and  fishing-rods  ready  to  his  hand,  he  be- 
came a  regular  sportsman — a  pursuit  in 
which  he  found  Barney  a  verj'  able  and  in- 
telligent assistant,  inasmuch  as  he  knew  the 
country,  and  every  spot  where  game  oi  every 


872 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S  W0I2KS. 


description  was  to  be  bad.  Tbey  bad  traver- 
sed a  cousiderable  portiou  of  rougb  mountain 
land,  and  killed  two  or  tbree  bares,  wben 
tbe  beat  of  tbe  day  became  so  excessive  tbat 
tbey  considered  it  time  to  rest  and  take  re- 
fresbments. 

"Tbe  sun,  Mastber  Hany,  is  d bot," 

said  Barney;  "  and  now  tbat  ovdd  Bet  Har- 
ramount  basn't  been  in  it  for  many  a  long 
year,  we  may  as  well  go  to  tbat  dissolate 
cabin  tbere  above,  and  sbelter  om-selves  fi-om 
tbe  bate — not  tbat  I'd  undbertake  to  go  tbere 
by  myself ;  but  now  tbat  you  are  wid  me  I 
don't  care  if  I  take  a  peep  into  tbe  inside  of 
it,  out  of  ciu'iosity." 

"Wby,"  said  Woodward,  "wbat  about 
tbat  cabin  ?  " 

"  I'U  tell  you  tbat,  sir,  wben  we  get  into  it. 
It's  consanain'  coorsin'  too  ;  but  nobody  ever 
bved  in  it  since  she  left  it." 

"  Since  wbo  left  it  ?  " 

"  Never  mind,  sir  ;  I'U  tell  you  all  about 
it  by  and  by." 

It  was  certainly  a  most  desolate  and  mis- 
erable but,  and  bad  sucb  an  air  of  loneliness 
and  desertion  about  it  as  was  calculated  to 
awaken  reflections  every  wbit  as  deep  and 
melancboly  as  tbe  contemplation  of  a  very 
palace  in  ruins,  especially  to  tbose  wbo,  bke 
Barney,  knew  tbe  bistory  of  its  last  inbabi- 
tant.  It  was  far  up  in  tbe  mountains,  and 
not  witbin  miles  of  anotber  buman  babitation. 
Its  lonebness  and  desolation  alone  would  not 
bave  made  it  so  peculiarly  strikuig  and  im- 
pressive bad  it  been  inbabited  ;  but  its  want 
of  smoke — its  stiU  and  Ufeless  appearance — 
tbe  silence  and  tbe  solitude  around  it — tbe 
absence  of  all  symptoms  of  buman  bfe — its 
significant  aspect  of  destitution  and  poverty, 
even  at  tbe  best — all  contributed  to  awaken 
in  tbe  mind  tbat  dreamy  reflection  tbat 
would  induce  tbe  spectator  to  tbink  tbat, 
apart  from  tbe  strife  and  bustle  of  life,  it 
migbt  bave  existed  tbere  for  a  tbousand 
years.  Humble  and  contemptible  in  appear- 
ance as  it  was,  yet  tbere,  as  it  stood — smoke- 
less, alone,  and  desolate,  as  we  bave  said, 
witb  no  exponent  of  existence  about  it — no 
bird  singing,  no  animal  moving,  as  a  token  of 
contiguous  bfe,  no  tree  waving  in  tbe  breeze, 
no  sbrub,  even,  stirring,  but  all  still  as  tbe 
gi'ave — tbere,  we  say,  as  it  stood,  afar  and 
aj^art  from  tbe  general  uproar  of  tbe  world, 
and  apparently  gray  witb  long  antiquity,  it 
was  a  solemn  and  a  melancboly  bomily  upon 
buman  life  in  aU  its  aspects,  from  tbe  cabin 
to  tbe  palace,  and  from  tbe  palace  to  tbe 
gi*ave.  Now,  its  position  and  appeai'ance 
migbt  suggest  to  a  tbmking  and  romantic 
mind  all  the  reflections  to  wbicb  we  bave  al- 
luded, without  any  additional  accessories  ; 
but  wben  tbe  reader  is  informed  tbat  it  was 


supposed  to  be  tbe  abode  of  crime,  tbe  ren- 
dezvous of  evil  spirits,  the  theatre  of  unholy 
incantations,  and  tbe  temporaiy  abode  of 
tbe  Great  Tempter — and  when  all  these  facts 
are  taken  in  connection  witb  its  desolate 
character,  be"nill  surely  admit  tbat  it  was 
calculated  to  imj)ress  the  mind  of  all  tbose 
wbo  knew  tbe  bistory  of  its  antecedents 
with  awe  and  di'ead. 

"  I  bave  never  been  in  it,"  said  Barney, 
"  and  I  don't  tbink  there's  a  man  or  woman 
in  the  next  tbi-ee  parishes  that  would  enter 
it  alone,  even  by  daybght ;  but  now  that  you 
are  wid  me,  I  bave  a  terrible  curiosity  to  see 
it  inside." 

A  curse  was  thought  to  bang  over  it,  but  tbat 
curse,  as  it  baiDj)ened,  was  its  preservation 
in  tbe  undilapidated  state  in  wbicb  it  stood. 

On  entering  it,  which  Barney  did  not  do 
without  j)i'eviously  crossing  himself,  they 
were  surprised  to  find  it  precisely  in  tbe 
same  situation  in  wbicb  it  had  been  aban- 
doned. There  were  one  small  pot,  two  stools, 
an  earthen  pitcher,  a  few  wooden  trenchers 
lying  upon  a  shelf,  an  old  dusty  salt-bag,  an 
ash  stick,  broken  in  the  middle,  and  doubled 
down  so  as  to  form  a  tongs ;  and  gathered 
up  in  a  corner  was  a  trviss  of  straw,  covered 
with  a  i"ug  and  a  thin  old  blanket,  which  bad 
constituted  a  wretched  substitute  for  a  bed. 
Tbat,  however,  wbicb  alarmed  Barney  most, 
was  an  old  broomstick  with  a  stump  of  worn 
broom  attached  to  the  end  of  it,  as  it  stood 
in  an  ojDposite  corner.  This  constituted  the 
whole  furnitui'e  of  tbe  but. 

"Now,  Barney,"  said  Harry,  after  tbey 
bad  examined  it,  "out  mth  tbe  brandy  and 
water  and  tbe  sbces  of  bam,  till  we  refresh 
ourselves  in  tbe  first  place,  and  after  that  I 
will  bear  your  bistory  of  this  magnificent 
mansion." 

"O,  it  isn't  tbe  mansion,  sir,"  be  replied, 
"  but  tbe  woman  that  lived  in  it  tbat  I  bave  to 
spake  about.  God  guard  us  !  Tbere  in  tbat 
comer  is  tbe  very  broomstick  she  used  to  ride 
through  tbe  air  upon  !  " 

"  Never  mind  tbat  now,  but  ransack  tbat 
immense  shooting-pocket,  and  produce  its 
contents." 

They  accordingly  sat  down,  each  upon  one 
of  tbe  stools,  and  helped  themselves  to  bread 
and  bam,  together  with  some  tolerablv  co- 
pious  draughts  of  brandy  and  water  vvbicb 
tbey  bad  mixed  before  leaving  home.  Wood- 
ward, pei'ceiving  Barney's  anxiety  to  debver 
himself  of  bis  narrative,  made  him  take  an 
additional  draught  by  way  of  encouragement 
to  proceed,  wbicb,  having  very  willingly  fin- 
ished tbe  bumper  offered  him,  be  did  as 
follows : 

"  Well,  Mastber  Hany,  in  tbe  first  plaoe^ 
do  you  beUeve  in  tbe  Bible  ?  " 


TILE  EVIL   EYE;    OIL    THE   BLACK  SPECTRE. 


073 


"  In  the  Bible  ! — ahem — why — 3'es — cer- 
iainly,  Barney  ;  do  you  suppose  I'm  not  a 
Christian  ?  " 

"  God  forbid,"  replied  Barney  ;  "  well,  the 
Bible  itself  isn't  thruer  than  what  I'm  goin' 
to  tell  you — sure  all  the  world  for  ten  miles 
round  knows  it" 

1    ''  Well,  but,  Barney,  I  would  rather  you 
would  let  me  know  it  in  the  first  place." 

"So  I  ■will,  sir.  Well,  then,  there  was  a 
witch-wom  in,  by  name  one  Bet  Harramount, 
and  on  the  surface  of  God's  earth,  blessed 
be  his  name  !  there  was  nothin'  undher  a 
bonnet  and  petticoats  so  ligly.  She  was 
pitted  ^"id  the  small-pox  to  that  degree  that 
you  might  hide  half  a  peck  of  marrowfat 
piise  (peas)  in  her  face  widout  their  being 
noticed  ;  then  the  sames  (seams)  that  i-an 
across  it  were  five-foot  raspers,  everj'  one  of 
them.  She  had  one  of  the  purtiest  goose- 
berry eyes  in  Europe  ;  and  only  for  the 
squint  in  the  other,  it  would  have  been  the 
ornament  of  her  comely  face  entirely  ;  but  as 
it  was,  no  human  bein'  was  ever  able  to  de- 
cide between  them.  She  had  two  buck 
teeth  in  the  front  of  her  mouth  that  nobody 
could  help  a<lmirin' ;  and,  indeed,  altogether 
I  don't  wondher  that  the  de^il  fell  in  consate 
wid  her,  for,  by  all  accounts,  they  say  he 
carries  a  sweet  tooth  himself  for  comely  ovdd 
women  like  Bet  Harramount.  Give  the 
tasty  otdd  chap  a  ^\Tinkle  fmy  day  before  a 
dimple,  when  he  promotes  them  to  be 
witches,  as  he  did  her.  Sure  he  was  seen 
kissin'  a  ghost  the  other  night  near  Crukan- 
esker  well,  where  the  Davorens  get  their 
wather  from.  O,  thin,  bedad,  but  Grace 
Davoren  is  a  beauty  all  out ;  and  maybe  'tis 
herself  doesn't  know  it." 

"  Go  on  Avith  your  story,"  said  Woodward, 
rather  dryly  ;  "proceed." 

^'  Well,  sir,  there  is  Bet  Harramount's  face 
for  you,  and  the  rest  of  her  figure  wasn't 
sich  as  to  disgrace  it.  She  was  half  bent 
wid  age,  wore  an  ould  black  bonnet,  an  ould 
red  cloak,  and  walked  "wid  a  staff  that  was 
bent  at  the  top,  as  it  seems  everj'  witch  must  j 
do.  Where  she  came  from  nobody  could  i 
ever  tell,  for  she  was  a  black  stranger  in  this 
part  of  the  country.  At  all  events,  she  lived 
in  the  town  below,  but  }\i)xvi  she  lived  nobody 
could  tell  either.  Everything  about  her  was 
a  riddle  ;  no  wondher,  considlierin'  she  hard- 
ly was  ever  known  to  spake  to  any  one,  from  : 
tlie  lark  to  the  lamb.  At  length  she  began 
to  be  suspected  by  many  sensible  people  to 
be  something  not  right ;  which  you  know, 
sir,  was  only  natural.  Peter  O'Figgins,  that 
was  cracked  —  but  then  it  was  only  -wid 
dhrink  and  lamin' — said  it ;  and  Katty  Mc- 
Trollop,  Lord  Bilberry's  henwife,  was  of  the 
same  opinion,  and  from  them  and  others  the 
22 


thing  grew  and  spread  until  it  became  right 
I  well  known  that  she  was  nothin'  else  than  a 
witch,  and  that  the  big  wart  on  her  neck 
was  nothin'  more  nor  less  than  the  mark  the 
devil  had  set  upon  her,  to  suckle  his  babies 
by.  From  this  out,  them  that  had  Chi-istian 
hearts  and  loved  their  religion  trated  the 
thief  as  she  desarved  to  be  trated.  She  was 
hissed  and  hooted,  thank  God,  wherever  she 
showed  her  face  ;  but  still  nobody  had  cour- 
age to  lay  a  hand  upon  her  by  rason  of  her 
blasphaimin'  and  cursin',  which,  they  say, 
used  to  make  the  hair  stand  hke  wattlea 
upon  the  heads  of  them  that  heard  her." 

"  Had  she  not  a  black  cat  ?  "  asked  Wood- 
ward ;  "  surely,  she  ought  to  have  had  a 
famihar." 

"No,"  reiDlied  Barney  ;  "the  cat  she  had 
was  a  white  cat,  and  the  mainin'  of  its  color 
will  appear  to  you  by  and  by  ;  at  any  rate, 
out  came  the  truth.  You  have  heard  of  the 
Black  Spectre — the  Shan-dhinne-dhuc ? " 

"  I  have,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  proceed." 

"  Well,  sir,  as  I  said,  the  truth  came  out 
at  last ;  in  the  coorse  of  a  short  time  she 
was  watched  at  night,  and  seen  goin'  to  the 
haunted  house,  where  the  Spectre  lives." 

"Did  she  walk  there,  or  fly  upon  her 
broomstick?"  asked  Woodward,  gravely. 

"  I  believe  she  walked,  sir,"  rephed  Bar- 
ney ;  "  but  afther  that  every  eye  was  upon 
her,  and  many  a  time  she  was  seen  goin'  to 
the  haunfsd  house  when  she  thought  no  eye 
was  u^n  her.  Afther  this,  of  coorse,  she 
disappeared,  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  the 
town  became  too  hot  for  her  ;  and,  indeed, 
this  is  not  surj^risin'.  Two  or  three  of  the 
neighborin'  women  miscarried,  and  several 
people  lost  their  cattle  after  she  came  to  the 
town  ;  and  to  make  a  long  story  short,  just 
as  it  was  made  up  to  tlu-ow  her  into  the 
parson's  pond,  she  disapj^eared,  as  I  said,  ex- 
actly as  if  she  had  known  their  intention  : 
and  becoorse  she  did." 

"  And  did  they  ever  find  out  where  she 
went  to  ?  " 

"  Have  patience,  sir,  for  patience,  they  say, 
is  a  virtue.  About  a  mouth  afterwards  some 
of  the  townspeople  came  up  to  the  moun- 
tains here,  to  hunt  hares,  just  as  we  did. 
Several  of  them  before  this  had  seen  a  white 
hare  near  the  very  spot  we're  sittin'  in,  but 
sorra  dog  of  any  description,  either  hound, 
greyhound,  or  lurcher  could  blow  wind  in 
her  tail  ;  even  a  pair  of  the  Irish  blood- 
hounds were  brought,  and  when  they  came 
on  her,  she  flew  from  them  like  the  wind, 
and  laughed  at  them,  becoorse.  Well,  sir, 
the  whole  country  was  in  a  terrible  state  of 
alarm  about  the  white  hare,  for  every  one 
knew,  of  coorse,  that  she  was  a  -witch  ;  and  as 
the  cows  began,  here  and  there,   to  fail  in 


674 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


their  milk,  why,  it  was  a  clear  case  that  she 
sucked  them  in  ordher  to  supply  some  imp 
of  the  devil  that  sucked  herself.  At  that 
time  there  was  a  priest  in  this  parish,  a  very 
pious  man,  by  name  Father  McFeen  ;  and  as 
he  liked,  now  and  then,  to  have  a  dish  of 
hare  soup,  he  kept  a  famous  greyhound, 
called  Koolawn,  that  was  never  said  to  miss 
a  hare  by  any  chance.  As  I  said,  some  of 
the  townspeojDle  came  up  here  to  have  a 
hunt,  and  as  they  -wished,  above  aU  things, 
to  bring  the  priest's  greyhound  and  the 
white  hare  together,  they  asked  the  loan  of 
him  fx'om  his  reverence,  telling  him,  at  the 
same  time,  what  they  wanted  him  for.  Fath- 
er McFeen  was  very  proud  of  his  dog,  and 
good  right  he  had,  and  tould  them  they 
should  have  him  with  pleasure. 

"  '  But,  as  he's  goin'  to  try  his  speed  against 
a  witch,'  said  he,  TU  venture  to  say  that 
you'll  have  as  pretty  a  i-un  as  ever  was  seen 
on  the  hills.' 

"  WeU,  sir,  at  all  events,  off  they  set  to  the 
mountains  ;  and  siu'e  enough,  they  weren't 
long  there  when  they  had  the  best  of  sport, 
but  no  white  hare  came  in  their  way.  Koo- 
lawn, however,  was  kept  in  the  sHp  the  whole 
day,  in  the  hope  of  their  startin'  her,  for  they 
didn't  wish  to  have  him  tired  if  they  should 
come  across  her.  At  last,  it  was  gettin'  late, 
and  when  they  were  just  on  the  point  of  giv- 
in'  her  up,  and  goin'  home,  begad  she  stai-ted, 
and  before  you'd  say  Jack  Eobinson,  Kool- 
awn and  she  were  at  it.  Sich  a  chase,  they 
say,  was  never  seen.  They  flew  at  sich  a  rate 
that  the  people  could  hardly  keep  their  eyes 
upon  them.  The  hare  went  like  the  wind  ; 
but,  begad,  it  was  not  every  evening  she  had 
sich  a  dog  as  famous  Koolawn  at  her  scut. 
He  turned  her,  and  turned  her,  and  every 
one  thought  he  had  her  above  a  dozen  of 
times,  but  still  she  tui'ned,  and  was  off  from 
him  again.  At  this  rate  they  went  on  for 
long  enough,  imtil  both  began  to  fail,  and  to 
appear  nearly  run  down.  At  length  the  gal- 
lant Koolawn  had  her ;  she  gave  a  squeal 
that  was  heard,  they  say,  for  miles.  He  had 
her,  I  say,  hard  and  fast  by  the  hip,  but  it 
was  only  for  a  moment ;  how  she  escaped 
from  him  nobody  knows  ;  but  it  was  thought 
that  he  wasn't  able,  from  want  of  breath,  to 
keep  his  hoult.  To  make  a  long  story  short, 
she  got  off  from  him,  tiuTied  up  towards  the 
cabin  we're  sittin'  in,  Koolawn,  game  as 
ever,  stiU  close  to  her  ;  at  last  she  got  in,  and 
as  the  dog  was  about  to  spring  in  afther  her, 
he  found  the  door  shut  in  his  face.  There 
now  was  the  proof  of  it ;  but  wait  till  you 
hear  what's  comin'.  The  men  all  ran  up 
here  and  opened  the  door,  for  there  was  only 
a  latch  upon  it,  and  if  the  hare  was  in  exist- 
ence, surely  they'd  find  her  now.    WeU,  they 


closed  the  door  at  wanst  for  fraid  she'd  bs- 
cape  them  ;  but  afther  sarchin'  to  no  pur- 
pose, what  do  you  think  they  found?  No 
hare,  at  any  rate,  but  ould  Bet  Harramounl 
pantin'  in  the  straw  there,  and  covered  wid  a 
rug,  for  she  hadn't  time  to  get  on  the  blank- 
et— just  as  if  the  life  was  lavin'  her.  The 
sweat,  savin'  youi*  presence,  was  pourin'  from 
her  ;  and  upon  examinin'  her  more  closely, 
which  they  did,  they  found  the  marks  of  the 
dog's  teeth  in  one  of  her  ould  hips,  which 
was  fi-eshly  bleedin'.  They  were  now  satis- 
fied, I  think,  and " 

"But  why  did  they  not  seize  and  carry 
her  before  a  magistrate  ?  " 

"  Aisy,  Masther  Harry  ;  the  white  cat,  all 
this  time,  was  sittin'  at  the  fii*eside  there, 
lookin'  on  very  quietly,  when  the  thought 
struck  the  men  that  they'd  set  the  dogs 
upon  it,  and  so  they  did,  or  rather,  so  they 
tried  to  do,  but  the  minute  the  cat  was 
pointed  out  to  them,  they  dropped  their 
ears  and  tails,  and  made  out  o'  the  house, 
and  all  the  art  o'  man  couldn't  get  them  to 
come  in  again.  "When  the  men  looked  at  it 
agin  it  was  four  times  the  size  it  had  been  at 
the  beginnin',  and,  W'hat  was  still  more 
frightful,  it  was  gettin'  bigger  and  bigger, 
and  fiercer  and  fiercer  lookin',  every  min- 
ute. Begad,  the  men  seein'  this  took  to 
their  heels  for  the  present,  wid  an  inten- 
tion of  comin'  the  next  mornin',  wid  the 
priest  and  the  magisthrate,  and  a  strong 
force  to  seize  upon  her,  and  have  her  tried 
and  convicted,  in  ordher  that  she  might  be 
burned* " 

"  And  did  they  come  ?  " 

"  They  did  ;  but  of  aU  the  storms  that 
ever  fell  fi'bm  the  heavens,  none  o'  them 
could  aquil  the  one  that  come  on  that  night. 
Thundher,  and  wind,  and  lightnin',  and  hail, 
and  rain,  were  all  at  work  together,  and  every 
one  knew  at  wanst  that  the  devil  was  riz  for 
somethin'.  Well,  I'm  near  the  end  of  it. 
The  next  mornin'  the  priest  and  the  magis- 
thrate, and  a  large  body  of  people  fi'om  all 
quarthers,  came  to  make  a  jDrisoner  of  her  ; 
but,  indeed,  wherever  she  might  be  herself, 
they  didn't  expect  to  find  this  hght,  flimsy 
hut  standin',  nor  stick  nor  stone  of  it  together 
afther  such  a  storm.  What  was  their  sur- 
prise, then,  to  see  wid  theii-  owti  eyes  that 
not  a  straw  on  the  roof  of  it  was  disturbed 
any  more  than  if  it  had  been  the  calmest 
night  that  ever  came  on  the  earth  ! " 

"  But  about  the  witch  herself  ?  " 

"  She  was  gone  ;  neither  hilt  nor  hair  of 
her  was  there  ;  nor  fi'om  that  day  to  this 
was  she  ever  seen  by  mortal.  It's  not  hard 
to  g-uess,  however,  what  became  of  her. 
Every  one  knows  that  the  devil  carried  her 
and  her  imp  off  in  the  tempest,  either  to 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


675 


some  safer  place,  or  else  to  give  her  a  wai'm 
comer  below  stairs." 

"  \Vliy,  Barney,  it  must  be  an  awful  little 
house,  this." 

"  You  may  say  that,  sir ;  there's  not  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  in  the  barony  would 
come  into  it  by  themselves.  Every  one  keejDS 
from  it ;  the  very  rapparees,  and  robbers  of 
every  description,  woiild  take  the  shelter  of 
a  cleft  or  cave  rather  than  come  into  it. 
Here  it  is,  then,  as  you  see,  just- as  she  and 
the  devil  and  his  imp  left  it ;  no  one  has  laid 
a  hand  on  it  since,  nor  ever  will." 

"  But  why  was  it  not  pulled  doAvn  and 
levelled  at  the  time  ? "' 

"Why,  Masther  Harry?  Dear  me,  I 
wondher  you  ask  tliat.  Do  you  think  the 
people  would  be  mad  enough  to  bring  do^vn 
her  vengeance  upon  themselves  or  their 
property,  or  maybe  upon  both  ?  and  for  that 
matther  she  may  be  alive  yet." 

"  Well,  then,  if  she  is,"  replied  Woodward, 
"  here  goes  to  set  her  at  defiance  ; "  and  as 
he  spoke  he  tossed  bed,  straw,  rug,  blanket, 
and  every  miserable  article  of  furniture  that 
the  house  contained,  out  at  the  door. 

Barney's  hair  stood  erect  upon  his  head, 
and  he  looked  aghast. 

"  Well,  Masther  Harry,"  said  he,  "  I'm  but 
a  poor  man,  and  I  wouldn't  take  the  wealth 
of  the  parish  and  do  that.  Come  away,  sir  ; 
let  us  lave  it ;  as  Itould  you,  they  say  there's 
a  curse  upon  it,  and  upon  every  one  that 
makes  or  meddles  wid  it.  Some  people  say 
it's  to  stand  there  till  the  day  of  judgment." 

Having  now  refreshed  themselves,  they 
left  Bet  Plarramount's  cabin,  with  all  its 
awful  associations,  behind  them,  and  resumed 
their  sport,  which  they  continued  imtil  even- 
ing, Avhen,  having  killed  as  many  hares  as 
they  could  readily  carry,  they  took  a  short 
cut  home  through  the  lower  fields.  By  this 
way  they  came  upon  a  long,  gi*eeu  hill, 
covered  in  some  places  with  short  furze,  and 
commanding  a  full  view  of  the  haunted 
house,  which  lay  some  four  or  five  hundred 
yards  below  them,  with  its  back  door  ly- 
ing, as  usual,  open. 

"  Let  us  beat  these  furze,"  said  Woodward, 
"and  have  one  run  more,  if  we  can,  before 
getting  home  ;  it  is  just  the  place  for  a  hare." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  Barney  ; 
"another  will  complete  the  half  dozen." 

They  accordingly  commenced  searching 
the  cover,  which  they  did  to  no  jiuriDOse,  and 
were  upon  the  jioint  of  giving  up  all  hope  of 
success,  when,  from  the  centre  of  a  low, 
broad  clump  of  furze,  out  starts  a  hare, 
as  white  almost  as  snow.  Barney  for  a 
moment  was  struck  dumb  ;  but  at  length 
exerting  his  voice,  for  he  was  some  distance 
from  Woodw:u*d,  he  shouted  out — 


"  O,  for  goodness'  sake,  hould  in  the  dogsy 
Masther  Harry  ! " 

It  was  too  late,  however  ;  the  gallant 
animals,  though  fatif>Tied  by  their  previous 
exertions,  immediately  gave  noble  chase,  and 
by  far  the  most  beautiful  and  interest- 
ing course  they  had  had  that  day  took 
pLoce  upon  the  broad,  clear  plain  that 
stretched  before  them.  It  was,  indeed,  to 
the  eye  of  a  sportsman,  one  of  intense  and 
surpassing  interest — an  interest  which,  even 
to  Woodw  ard,  who  only  laughed  at  Bai'ney's 
story  of  the  witch,  was,  nevertheless,  deep- 
ened tenfold  by  the  coincidence  between  the 
two  circumstances.  The  swift  and  mettle- 
some dogs  pushed  her  hard,  and  succeeded 
in  turning  her  several  times,  when  it  was 
observed  that  she  made  a  point  to  manage 
her  i-uiming  so  as  to  approximate  to  the 
haunted  house — a  fact  which  was  not  un- 
observed by  Barney,  who  now,  ha^ing  joined 
Woodward,  exclaimed — 

"  Mark  it,  Masther  Harry,  mark  my  words, 
she's  alive  still,  and  will  be  Avid  the  Shan- 
dhinnc-dhuv  in  spite  o'  them  !  Bravo,  Sambo  ! 
Well  done,  Snail ;  ay.  Snail,  indeed — hillo  ! 
by  the  sweets  o'  rosin  they  have  her — no,  no 
— but  it  was  a  beautiful  turn,  though  ;  and 
poor  Snail,  so  tired  afther  his  day's  work. 
Now,  Masther  Hairy,  thunder  and  turf! 
how  beautiful  Sambo  takes  her  up.  Bravo, 
Sambo  !  stretch  out,  my  darlin'  that  you  are  ! 
— O,  blood,  Masther  Harrv,  isn't  that  beauti- 
ful? See  how  they  go  neck  and  neck  wid 
1  their  two  noses  not  six  inches  fi'om  her  scut ; 
1  and  dang  my  buttons  but,  witch  or  no  witch, 
I  she's  a  thorough  bit  o'  game,  too.  Come, 
Bet,  don't  be  asleep,  my  ould  lady ;  move 
along,  my  darlin' — do  you  feel  the  breath  of 
your  sweetheart  at  your  bottom*?  Take  to 
3'our  broomstick  ;  you  want  it/' 

As  he  uttered  these  words  the  hare  tiuiied, 
'  — indeed  it  was  time  for  her — and  both 
:  dogs  shot  forward,  by  the  impetus  of  their 
i  flight,  so  far  beyond  the  point  of  her  tiu-n, 
j  that  she  started  oft*  towards  the  haunted 
!  house.  She  had  little  time  to  spare,  how- 
j  ever,  for  they  were  once  more  gaining  on 
j  her  ;  but  still  she  approached  the  house,  the 
j  dogs  nearing  her  fast.  She  approached  the 
;  house,  we  say  ;  she  entered  the  open  door, 
!  the  dogs  within  a  few  yards  of  her,  when, 
\  almost  in  an  instant,  they  came  to  a  stand- 
still, looked  into  it,  but  did  not  enter ;  and 
I  when  whistled  back  to  where  Woodward  and 
I  Barney  stood,  they  looked  in  Barney's  eye. 
\  not  only  panting  and  exhausted,  as  indeed 
they  were,  but  terrified  also. 

"  Well,  ^Masther  Harrv-,"  said  he,  assuming 
the  air  of  a  man  who  spoke  with  authority, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  thnf  ?  " 

"I  think  you  are   right,"  re'^lied  Wood' 


676 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S    WoRK:S. 


ward ;  assuming-  on  his  part,  for  reasons 
wliich  will  be  subsequently  understood,  an 
impression  of  sudden  conviction.  "I  think 
you  are  ri<^ht,  Barney,  and  that  the  Black 
Spectre  and  the  witch  are  acquaintances." 

"  Try  her  wid  a  silver  bullet,"  said  Barney ; 
"  there  is  nothing  else  for  it.  No  dog  can 
kill  her — that  s  a  clear  case  ;  but  souple  as  she 
is,  a  silver  bullet  is  the  only  messenger  that 
can  overtake  her.  Bad  luck  to  her,  the 
thief  !  sure,  if  she'd  turn  to  God  and  repint, 
it  isn't  codgerin'  wid  sich  company  she'd  be, 
and  often  in  danger,  besides,  of  havin'  a 
greyhound's  nose  at  her  flank.  I  hope 
you're  satisfied,  Masther  Harry  ?  " 

"Perfectly,  Bamey  ;  there  can  be  no  doubt 
about  it  now.  As  for  my  part,  I  know  not 
what  temptation  could  induce  me  to  enter 
that  haunted  house.  I  see  that  I  was  on 
dangerous  ground  when  I  defied  the  witch 
in  the  hut ;  but  I  shall  take  care  to  be  more 
cautious  in  future." 

They  then  bent  their  steps  homewards, 
each  sufficiently  fatigued  and  exhausted  af- 
ter the  sports  of  the  day  to  require  both 
food  and  rest.  Woodward  went  early  to 
bed,  but  Barney,  who  was  better  accustomed 
to  exercise,  ha\ing  dined  heartily  in  the 
kitchen,  could  not,  for  the  soul  of  him.  con- 
tain within  his  own  bosom  the  awful  and 
supernatural  adventure  which  had  just  oc- 
curred. He  assumed,  as  before,  a  very 
solemn  and  oracular  air  ;  spoke  little,  how- 
ever, but  that  httle  was  deeply  abstracted 
and  mysterious.  It  was  evident  to  the  whole 
kitchen  that  he  was  brimful  of  something, 
and  that  that  something  was  of  more  than 
ordinai-y  importance. 

"  Well,  Barney,  had  you  and  Masther 
Harry  a  pleasant  day's  sport?  I  see  you 
have  brought,  home  five  hares,"  said  the 
cook. 

"  Hum  !  "  groaned  Bamey  ;  "  but  no  mat- 
ther ;  it's  a  quare  world,  Mrs.  jMalony,  and 
there's  strange  things  in  it.  Heaven  bless 
me !  Heaven  bless  me,  and  Heaven  bless  us 
aU,  if  it  comes  to  that !  Masther  Harry 
said  he'd  send  me  down  a  couple  o'  glasses 

of  O,  here    comes    Biddy  wid    them  ; 

that's  a  girl,  Bid — divil  sich  a  kitchen-maid 
in  Europe ! " 

Biddy  handed  him  a  decanter  with  about 
lialf  a  pint  of  stout  whiskey  in  it,  a  portion 
of  which  passed  into  a  goblet,  was  diluted 
with  water,  and  dnmk  off,  after  which  he 
smacked  his  lips,  but  with  a  melancholy  air, 
and  then,  looking  solemnly  and  meditatively 
into  the  fire,  relapsed  into  silence. 

"  Did  you  meet  any  fairies  on  your  way?" 
asked  Nanse,  the  housemaid.  For  about 
half  a  minute  Bamey  did  not  reply  ;  but  at 
►•■iigth,  looking  about  him,  he  started — 


"Eh?  What's  that?  Who  spoke  tc 
me?" 

"Who  spoke  to  you?"  replied  Nanse. 
"Why,  I  think  you're  beside  yoursel — 1 
did." 

"  What  did  you  say,  Nanse  ?  I  am  beside 
myself." 

There  was  now  a  sudden  cessation  in  all 
the  cuhnary  operations,  a  general  pause,  and 
a  rapid  congregating  around  Barney,  who 
still  sat  looking  solemnly  into  the  fire. 

"  ^\Tiy,  Barney,  there's  something  strange 
over  you,"  said  the  cook.  "Heaven  help 
the  poor  boy  ;  sure,  it's  a  shame  to  be  tor- 
mentin'  liim  this  way  ;  but  in  the  name  of 
goodness,  Barney,  and  as  3-ou  have  a  sowl  to 
be  saved,  will  you  tell  us  all  ?  Stand  back, 
Nanse,  and  don't  be  torturin'  the  poor  lad 
this  way,  as  I  said." 

"  Biddy,"  said  Barney,  bis  mind  still  wan- 
dering, and  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  fire — 
"  Biddy,  darhn',  wiU  you  hand  me  that  de- 
canther  agin ;  I  find  I'm  not  aquil  to  it. 
Heaven  presarve  us  !  Heaven  presarve  us  ! 
that's  it ;  now  hand  me  the  wather,  like  an 
angel  out  of  heaven,  as  you  are.  Bid.  Ah, 
glory  be  to  goodness,  but  that's  refreshin', 
especially  afther  sich  a  day — sich  a  day  !  O 
saints  above,  look  down  upon  us  poor  sin- 
ners, one  and  all,  men  and  women,  wid  pity 
and  compassion  this  night !  Here  ;  I'm  veiy 
wake  ;  let  me  get  to  bed  ;  is  there  any  pump 
wather  in  the  kitchen  ?  " 

To  describe  the  pitch  to  which  he  had 
them  wound  up  would  be  utterly  impossible. 
He  sat  in  the  cook's  arm-chair,  leaning  a  Ut- 
tle  back,  his  feet  placed  upon  the  fender, 
and  his  eyes,  as  before,  immovably,  painful- 
ly, and  abstractedly  fixed  upon  the  embers. 
He  was  now  the  centre  of  a  circle,  for  they 
were  all  crowded  about  him,  wa-apped  up  to 
the  highest  possible  pitch  of  curiosity. 

"  We  were  talkin'  about  Masther  Harry,' 
said  he,  "  the  other  night,  and  I  think  I  tould 
you  something  about  him  ;  it's  hke  a  dhrame 
to  me  that  I  did." 

"  You  did,  indeed,  Barney,"  said  the  cook, 
coaxingly,  "  and  I  hope  that  what  you  tould 
us  wasn't  true." 

"  Aye,  but  about  to-day,  Bamey  ;  some- 
thin'  has  happened  to-day  that's  troublin' 
you." 

"  Who  is  it  said  that  ?  "  said  he,  his  eyea 
now  closed,  as  if  he  were  wrapped  up  in 
some  distressing  mysteiy.  "  Was  it  you, 
Nanse?     It's  like  your  voice,  achora." 

Now,  the  reader  must  know  that  a  deadlj 
jealousy  lay  between  Nanse  and  the  cook, 
quoad  honest  Barney,  who,  being  aware  of 
the  fact,  kept  the  hopes  and  fears  of  each  in 
such  an  exact  state  of  equihbrium,  that  nei- 
ther of  them  covdd,  for  the  Ufe  of  her,  claim 


THE   EVIL   EYE ;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


677 


the  slightest  adrantage  over  the  other.  The 
droll  vaxlet  had  an  appetite  like  a  shark,  and 
a  strong  relish  for  drink  besides,  and  what 
between  precious  tidbits  from  the  cook  and 
borrowing  small  sums  for  hquor  fi'om  Nanse, 
he  contrived  to  play  them  off  one  against 
the  other  with  great  tact. 

"I  think,"  said  he,  his  eyes  still  closed, 
•'  that  that  is  Nause's  voice  ;  is  it,  acushla  ?  " 

"It  is,  Barney,  achora,"  replied  Nanse  ; 
"  but  there's  something  wrong  wid  you." 

'*  I  wish  to  goodness,  Nanse,  you'd  let  the 
boy  alone,"  said  the  cook  ;  "  when  he  chooses 
to  spake,  he'll  spake  to  them  that  can  undher- 
stand  him." 

"  O,  jaminy  stars  !  that's  you,  I  suppose  ; 
ha,  ha,  ha." 

"  Keeji  silence,"  said  Barney,  "  and  listen. 
Nanse,  you  are  right  in  one  sinse,  and  the 
cook's  right  in  another  ;  3'ou're  both  right, 
but  at  the  present  spakin'  you're  both  wrong. 
Listen — you  aU  know  the  Shan-dinne-dhnv  ?" 

"Know  him!  The  Lord  stand  between 
us  and  him,"  replied  Nanse  ;  "  I  hope  in  God 
we'll  never  either  know  or  see  him." 

"You  know,"  proceeded  Barney,  "  that  he 
keeps  the  haunted  house,  and  appears  in  the 
neighborhood  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  we  know  that,  achora,"  repUed  the 
cook,  sweetly. 

"  Well,  you  can't  forget  Bet  Harramount, 
the  witch,  that  lived  for  some  time  in  Rath- 
fillan?  She  that  was  hunted  in  the  shape 
of  a  white  hare  by  pious  Father  McFeen's 
famous  greyhound,  Koolawn." 

"  Doesn't  all  the  world  know  it,  Barney, 
aviUish  ?  "  said  Nanse. 

"  Divil  the  word  she'll  let  out  o'  the  poor 
boy's  lips,"  said  the  cook,  with  a  fair  portion 
of  venom.  Nanse  made  no  reply,  but  laughed 
with  a  certain  description  of  confidence,  as 
she  glanced  sneeringly  at  the  cook,  who,  to 
say  the  truth,  turned  her  eyes  with  a  fiery  and 
impulsive  look  towards  the  ladle. 

"  Well,"  proceeded  Barney,  "you  all  know 
that  the  divil  took  her  and  her  imp,  the  white 
cat,  away  on  the  night  of  the  great  storm 
that  took  place  then  ?  " 

"  We  do !  Sure  we  have  heard  it  a  thou- 
sand times." 

"  Yeiy  well — I  want  to  show  you  that  Bet 
Han-amount,  the  white  witch,  and  the  lilack 
Spi'dhre  are  sweetheaiis,  and  are  leadin'  a 
bad  life  together." 

"  Heavenly  father  !  Saints  above  !  Blessed 
ilother ! "  were  ejaculated  by  the  whole 
kitchen.  Barney,  in  fact,  was  progressing 
with  great  effect. 

"  O,  yez  needn't  be  surprised,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  for  it  was  well  known  that  they  had 
many  private  meetin's  while  Bet  was  H\'in' 
in  RathfiUan.     But  it  was  thought  the  divil 


'  had  taken  her  away  from  the  priest  and 
magisthrate  on  the  night  o'  the  storm,  and 
so  he  did  ;  and  he  best  knew  why.  Listen, 
I  say — Masther  Harn.'  and  I  went  out  this 
day  to  coorse  hares  ;  we  went  far  up  into 
the  mountains,  and  never  pulled  bridle  till 
we  came  to  the  cabin  where  the  v\itch  lived, 
the  same  that  Koolawn  chased  her  into  in  the 
shape  of  a  white  hare,  after  taking  a  bite 
out  of  her — out  of  the  part  next  her  scut. 
W^ell,  we  sat  down  in  the  cursed  cabin,  much 
against  my  wishes,  but  he  would  rest  no- 
where else — marL  that — so  while  we  were 
helpin'  ourselves  to  the  ham  and  brandy,  I 
up  and  tould  him  the  hi.story  of  Bet  Harra- 
mount fi-om  a  to  izzard.  '  Well,'  said  he, 
'  to  show  you  how  httle  /  care  about  her, 
and  that  /  set  her  at  defiance,  I'll  toss  every 
atom  of  her  beggarly  furniture  out  of  the 
door  ; '  and  so  he  did  — but  by  dad  I  thought 
he  done  it  in  a  jokin'  way,  as  much  as  to 
say,  /  can  take  the  liberty  where  another 
can't.  I  knew,  becoor.se,  he  was  wi-ong  ;  but 
that  makes  no  maxim — I'll  go  on  wid  my 
story.  On  our  way  home  we  came  to  the 
green  fields  that  He  on  this  side  of  the 
haunted  house  ;  a  portion  of  it,  on  a  risin* 
ground,  is  covered  with  furz.  Now  listen — 
when  we  came  to  it. he  stood  ;  '  Barney,'  says 
he,  '  there's  a  hare  here  ;  give  me  the  dogs. 
Sambo  and  Snail ;  theyll  have  sich  a  hunt 
as  they  never  had  yet,  and  never  will  have 
agin.' 

"  He  then  closed  his  eyes,  raised  his  left 
foot,  and  dhrew  it  back  three  times  in  the 
divil's  name,  pronounced  some  words  tliat  I 
couldn't  understand,  and  then  said  to  me, 
'  Now,  Barney,  go  down  to  that  withered 
furze,  and  as  you  go,  always  keep  yoiu-  left 
foot  foremost  ;  cough  three  times,  then  kick 
the  fiirze  with  your  left  foot,  and  maybe 
you'll  see  an  old  friend  o'  yours.' 

"Well,  I  did  so,  and"^  troth  I  though! 
there  was  somethin'  over  me  when  I  did  it  •. 
but — what  'ud  you  think  ? — out  starts  a  ivhitg 
hare,  and  off  went  Sambo  and  Snail  after  her. 
full  butt.  I  have  seen  many  a  hard  run. 
but  the  likes  o'  that  I  never  seen.  If  they 
turned  her  wanst  they  turned  her  more  than 
a  dozen  times  ;  but  where  do  you  think  she 
escaped  to  at  last  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  knows,  Barney  ;  where  ?  " 

"  As  heaven's  above  us,  into  the  haunted 
house  ;  and  if  the  dogs  were  to  get  a  thou- 
sand guineas  apiece,  one  of  them  couldn't 
be  forced  into  it  afther  her.  They  ran  with 
their  noses  on  her  very  scut,  widin  five  or 
six  yards  of  it,  and  when  she  went  into  it 
they  stood  stock  still,  and  neither  man  nor 
sword  could  get  them  to  go  fiirther.  But 
what  do  you  think  Masther  Harry  said  afther  ^ 
he  had  seen  all  this  ?     '  Bai-ney,'  said   he. 


078 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


'I'm  detarmined  to  spend  a  night  in  the 
haunted  hoiise  before  I'm  much  ouldher ; 
only  keep  that  to  yourself,  and  don't  make  a 
blowing  horn  of  it  through  the  parish.'  And 
what  he  said  to  me,  I  say  to  you — never 
breathe  a  syllable  of  it  to  man  or  mortal. 
It'll  be  worse  for  you  if  you  do.  And  now, 
do  you  remember  what  Lanty  Malony  saw 
the  other  night  ?  The  black  man  kissin'  the 
white  woman.  Is  it  clear  to  yez  now  ?  The 
Shan-dhinne-dhuv — the  Black  Specthre — kis- 
sin' Bet  Harramount,  the  white  woman. 
There  it  is  ;  and  now  you  have  it  as  clear  as 
a,  b,  c." 

Barney  then  retired  to  his  bed,  leaving 
the  denizens  of  the  kitchen  in  a  state  which 
the  reader  may  very  well  xinderstand. 


CHAPTEKX. 

True  Love  Defeated. 

Me.  and  IMi's.  Goodwin,  in  the  absence  of 
their  daughter,  held  a  very  agreeable  con- 
versation on  the  subject  of  IVIi's.  Lindsay's 
visit.  Neither  Goodwin  nor  his  wife  was  in 
the  shghtest  degree  selfish,  yet,  somehow, 
there  crept  into  their  hearts  a  certain  por- 
tion of  selfishness,  which  could  be  traced 
only  to  the  afi'ection  which  they  felt  for 
Alice.  They  calculated  that  Henry  Wood- 
ward, ha\ing  been  reared  and  educated  by 
his  uncle,  would  be  amply  j:)roTided  for  by 
that  wealthy  gentleman  —  who,  besides, 
was  childless.  This  consideration  became  a 
strong  element  in  their  deliberations  and 
discussions  upon  the  projected  match,  and 
they  accordingly  resolved  to  win  over  Alice's 
consent  to  it  as-  soon  as  possible.  From  the 
obedience  of  her  disposition,  and  the  nat- 
ural pliancy  of  her  character  with  the  opin- 
ions of  others,  they  concluded  the  matter  as 
arranged  and  certain.  They  forgot,  how- 
ever, that  Alice,  though  a  feeble  thinker  on 
matters  of  superstition  and  others  of  a  minor 
importance,  could  sometimes  exercise  a  will 
of  her  own,  but  very  seldom,  if  ever,  when 
opposed  to  theirs.  They  knew  her  love  and 
alfection  for  them,  and  that  she  was  capable 
of  making  any  sacrifice  that  might  contrib- 
ute to  their  happiness.  They  had,  how- 
ever, observed  of  late — indeed  for  a  consid- 
erable time  past — that  she  appeared  to  be 
in  low  spirits,  and  moved  about  as  if  there 
was  a  pressure  of  some  description  in  her 
mind  ;  and  when  they  asked  her  if  she  were 
at  ease — which  they  often  did — she  only  re- 
plied by  a  smile,  and  asked  thein  in  return 
,  why  she  should  be  otherwise.  With  this  re- 
ply they  were  satisfied,  for  they  knew  that 


i  upon  the  general  occurrences  of  life  she  was 
J  almost  a  mere  child,  and  that,   although  her 
I  health  was  good,  her  constitution  was  natur- 
I  ally  delicate,  and   Hable  to  be  aftected  by 
j  many  things  indifierent  in  themselves,  which 
girls  of  a  stronger  mind  and  constitution 
1  would  neither  perceive  nor  feel.     The  sum- 
ming up  of  all  was  that  they  apprehended 
no  obstruction  to  the  proposed  union  fi'om 
any   objection  on  her  part,  as  soon  as  she 
should    be    made    acquainted    with     their 
wishes. 

In  the  course  of  that  very  evening  they 
introduced  the  subject  to  her,  with  that  nat- 
ural confidence  which  resulted  from  their 
foregone  conclusions  upon  it. 

"Alley,"  said  her  mother,  "I hope  you're 
in  good  spirits  this  evening." 

"  Indifierent  enough,  mamma  ;  my  spirits, 
you  know,  are  not  natui-ally  good." 

"And  why  should  they  not?"  said  her 
mother  ;  "  what  on  earth  have  vou  to  trouble 
you?" 

"  O,  mamma,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you  don't 
know  how  often  I  miss  my  sister  ;- — at  night 
I  think  I  see  her,  and  she  looks  pale  and 
melancholy,  and  full  of  sorrow — just  as  she 
did  when  she  felt  that  her  hope  of  life  was 
gone  forever.  O,  how  willingly — how  joy- 
fully— would  I  return  her  fortune,  and  if  I 
had  ten  times  as  much  of  my  own,  along 
with  it,  if  it  could  only  bring  her  back  to  mo 
again ! " 

"  Well,  you  know,  my  darling,  that  can't 
be  done  ;  but  cheer  up  ;  I  have  good  new9 
for  vou — news  that  I  am  sure  will  dehght 


stand  in  need  of  anv  good 


you. 

"  But  I  don't 
news,  mamma." 

This  simple  reply  proved  an  unexpected 
capsize  to  her  mother,  who  kncAV  not  how  to 
proceed  ;  but,  in  the  moment  of  her  em- 
barrassment, looked  to  her  husband  for  as- 
sistance. 

"My  dear  Alice,"  said  her  father,  "the 
fact  is  this — you  have  achieved  a  conquest, 
and  there  has  been  a  proposal  of  marriage 
made  for  you." 

Alice  instantly  susjDected  the  individual 
from  whom  the  proposal  came,  and  turned 
pale  as  death. 

"That  does  not  cheer  my  spirits,  then^ 
papa." 

"That  may  be,  my  dear  Alice,"  rephed 
her  father  ;  "  but,  in  the  opinion  of  your 
mother  and  me,  it  ought." 

"  From  what  quarter  has  it  come,  papa, 
may  I  ask  ?  I  am  living  very  lonel^'  and  re- 
tired here,  you  know." 

"  The  proposal,  then,  my  dear  child,  has 
come  from  Henry  Woodveard,  this  day  ;  and 
what  wiU  surprise   you  more,  through  his 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


679 


mother,  too — who  lias  Ijeen  of  late  such  an 
inveterate  eueiiiy  to  our  family.  So  fjir  as  I 
have  seen  of  Henry  himself,  he  is  everything 
I  could  wish  for  a  son-in-law." 

"But  you  have  seen  very  Httle  of  him, 
pai)a.'' 

"  "WTiat  I  have  seen  of  him  has  pleased  me 
very  much,  Alice." 

"How  sti-ange,"  said  she  musingly,  "that 
father  and  daughter  should  draw  such  differ- 
ent conclusions  from  tlie  same  premises. 
The  very  thought  of  that  young  man  sinks 
the  heart  within  me.  I  beg,  once  for  all,  that 
you  will  never  mention  his  name  to  me  on 
this  subject,  and  in  this  light,  again.  It  is 
not  that  I  hate  him — I  trust  I  hate  nobody — 
but  I  feel  an  antipathy  against  him  ;  and 
what  is  more,  I  feel  a  kind  of  terror  when  I 
even  think  of  him  ;  and  an  oppression,  for 
which  I  cannot  account,  whilst  I  am  in  his 
society." 

"This  is  very  strange,  Alice,"  rephed  her 
father  ;  "  and,  I  am  afraid,  rather  foolish, 
too.  There  is  nothing  in  his  face,  person, 
manner,  or  conversation  that,  in  my  opinion, 
is  not  calculated  to  attract  any  young  woman 
in  his  own  rank  of  life — at  least,  I  think  so." 

"Well,  but  the  poor  child, "  said  her 
mother,  "  knows  nothing  about  love — how 
could  she  ?  Sure,  my  dear  Alley,  true  love 
never  begins  until  after  marriage.  You 
don't  know  what  a  dislike  I  had  to  your 
father,  there,  whilst  our  friends  on  both 
sides  were  making  up  the  courtship.  They 
literally  dragged  me  into  it." 

"Yes,  Alley,"  added  her  father,  smihng,  j 
"  and  they  literdly  dragged  me  into  it ;  and 
yet,  when  we   canie   together,    Alice,  there 
never  was  a  hapi)ier  couple  in  existence."        ! 

Alice  could  not  help  smiling,  but  the 
smile  soon  passed  away.  "  That  may  be  all 
very  true,"  she  replied,  "  but  in  the  mean- 
time, you  must  not  press  me  on  this  subject. 
Don't  entertain  it  for  a  moment.  I  shall 
never  marry  this  man.  Put  an  end  to  it — 
see  his  mother,  and  inform  her,  without  loss 
of  time,  of  the  unalterable  deteiTnination  I  i 
have  made.  Do  not  palter  with  them,  father 
— do  not,  mother  ;  and  above  all  things,  J 
don't  attempt  to  sacrifice  the  happiness  of 
your  only  daughter.  /  could  make  any 
sacrifice  for  your  happiness  but  this  ;  and  if, 
in  obedience  to  your  ■\\-ishes,  I  made  it,  I  can 
tell  you  that  I  would  soon  be  with  my  sit^ter. 
You  both  know  that  I  am  not  strong,  and 
that  I  am  incapable  of  severe  struggles. 
Don't,  then,  harass  me  upon  this  matter." 

She  here  burst  into  tears,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  wept  bitterly.  | 

"  We  must  give  it  up,"  said  her  father,  ! 
/.coking  at  Mrs.  Good^vin. 

"  No  such  thing,"  rephed  his  wife  ;  "  think  ; 


of  our  own  case,   and  how  happy  we  havp 
been  in  spite  of  ourselves." 

"Ay,  but  we  were  neither  of  us  foola, 
]Martha  ;  at  least  you  were  not,  or  you  would 
never  have  suft'ered  yourself  to  be  persuaded 
into  matrimony,  as  you  did  at  last.  There 
was,  it  is  true,  an  affected  fro^\^l  upon  your 
brow  ;  but  then,  again,  there  was  a  very  sly 
smile  Tinder  it.  As  for  me,  I  would  have 
escaped  the  match  if  I  could  ;  but  no  mat- 
ter, it  was  all  for  the  best,  although  neither 
of  us  anticipated  as  much.  Alice,  my  child, 
think  of  what  we  have  said  to  you  ;  reflect 
\x\iO\\  it.  Our  object  is  to  make  you  happy ; 
our  experience  of  life  is  much  greater  than 
yours.  Don't  reply  to  us  now  ;  we  will  give 
you  a  reasonable  time  to  tliink  of  it.  Con- 
sider that  you  will  add  to  yovu*  mother's 
happiness  and  mine  b}'  consenting  to  such 
an  unobjectionable  match.  This  young  man 
will,  of  course,  inherit  his  uncle's  property  ; 
he  will  elevate  you  in  life  ;  he  is  handsome, 
accomplished,  and  evidently  knows  the 
woi'ld,  and  3'ou  can  look  up^to  him  as  a 
husband  of  whom  you  will  have  a  just  right 
to  feel  proud.  Allow  the  young  man  to  \i.sit 
you  ;  study  him  as  closely  as  you  may  ;  but 
above  all  things  do  not  cherish  an  unfound- 
ed antipathy  against  him  or  any  one." 

Several  inter\iews  took  place  afterwards 
between  Alice  and  Heni-y  Woodward  ;  and 
after  each  interview  her  parents  sought  her 
opinion  of  him,  and  desired  to  know  whether 
she  was  beginning  to  think  more  favorably 
of  him  than  she  had  hitherto  done.  Still, 
however,  came  the  same  reply.  Everj'  inter- 
view only  increased  her  repugnance  to  the 
match,  and  her  antipathy  to  the  man.  At 
length  she  consented  to  allow  him  one  last 
interview — the  last,  she  asserted,  which  she 
would  ever  afford  him  on  the  subject,  and 
he  accordingly  presented  himself  to  know 
her  final  determination.  Not  that  from  what 
came  out  from  their  former  conversations  he 
had  any  grounds,  as  a  reasonable  man,  to 
expect  a  change  of  opinion  on  her  pai't ;  but 
as  the  property  was  his  object,  he  resolved 
to  leave  nothing  undone  to  overcome  her 
prejudice  against  him  if  he  could.  They 
were,  accordingly,  left  in  the  dra\\ing-room 
to  discuss  the  matter  as  best  they  might, 
but  with  a  hope  on  the  part  of  her  parents 
that,  knowing,  as  she  did,  how  eai'nestly 
their  hearts  were  fixed  upon  her  marriage 
with  him,  she  might,  if  only  for  their  sakes, 
renounce  her  foolish  antipathy,  and  be  pre- 
vailed upon,  by  his  ardor  and  his  eloquence 
to  consent  at  List. 

"  Well,  ^liss  Goodwin,"  said  he,  when  they 
were  left  together,  "  this  I  understantL  ajid 
what  is  more,  I  fear,  is  to  be  my  day  of 
doom.     Heaven  gi-imt  that  it  may  be  a  favor 


680 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


able  one,  for  1  am  badly  prepared  to  see  my 
hopes  blasted,  and  my  affection  for  you 
spumed !  My  happiness,  my  dear  !Miss 
Goodwin — my  happiness  for  life  depends  up- 
on the  res&it'of  this  interview.  I  know — but 
I  should  not  say  so — for  in  this  instance  I 
must  be  guided  by  hearsay — well,  I  know 
from  hearsay  that  your  heart  is  kind  and  af- 
fectionate. Now  I  believe  this  ;  for  who  can 
look  upon  your  face  and  doubt  it  ?  Believing 
this,  then,  how  can  you,  when  you  know  that 
the  happiness  of  a  man  who  loves  you  be- 
yond the  power  of  language  to  express,  is  at 
stake,  depends  upon  your  will — how  can  you, 
1  say,  refuse  to  make  that  individual — who 
appreciates  all  your  virtues,  as  I  do — who 
feels  the  influence  of  your  extraordinary 
beauty,  as  I  do — who  contemplates  your 
futiu-e  happiness  as  the  great  object  of  his 
life,  as  I  do — how  can  you,  I  say,  refuse  to 
make  that  man  happy  ?  " 

"Mr.  Woodward,"  she  said,  "I  will  not 
reply  to  your  arguments  ;  I  simply  wish  to 
ask  you," Are  you  a  gentleman? — in  other 
words,  a  man  of  integrity  and  principle  ?  " 

"Do  you  doubt  me,  Miss  Goodwin?"  he 
inquired,  as  if  he  felt  somewhat  hurt. 

"It  is  very  difficult,  ]\Ir.  "Woodward,"  she 
rephed,  "  to  know  the  heart ;  I  request,  how- 
ever, a  direct  and  a  serious  answer,  for  I  can 
assure  you  that  I  am  about  to  place  the 
deepest  possible  confidence  in  your  faith  and 
honor. " 

"  O,"  he  exclaimed,  "  that  is  sufficient ;  in 
such  a  case  I  feel  bound  to  respect  j'our  con- 
fidence as  sacred  ;  do  not  hesitate  to  confide 
in  me.  Let  me  perish  a  thousand  times 
sooner  than  abuse  such  a  trust.  Sjpeak  out, 
llkliss  Goodwin." 

"It  is  necessary  that  I  should,"  she  re- 
plied, "both  for  your  sake  and  my  own. 
Know,  then,  that  my  heart  is  not  at  my  own 
disposal ;  it  is  engaged  to  another." 

"  I  can  only  listen,  Miss  Goodwin — I  can 
only  listen  —  but  —  but  —  excuse  me — pro- 
ceed." 

"My  heart,  as  I  said,  is  engaged  to 
another — and  that  other  is  your  brother 
Charles." 

Woodward  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  face — 
already  scarlet  with  blushes,  and  when  she 
ventured  to  raise  hers  upon  him,  she  beheld 
a  countenance  sunk  apparently  in  the  deep- 
est sorrow. 

"Alas!  Miss  Goodwin,"  he  replied,  "you 
have  filled  my  heart  with  a  double  grief.  I 
could  resign  you — of  course  it  would  and 
must  be  with  the  most  inexpressible  anguish 

— but  to  resign  you  to  such  a .     O  !  "  he 

proceeded,  shaking  his  head  sorrowfully, 
"  you  know  not  in  what  a  position  of  torture 
jrou  place  me.     You  said  you  believed  me  to 


j  be  a  gentleman  ;  so  I  trust — I  feel — J  am, 
and  what  is  more,  a  brother,  and  an  affec- 
j  tionate  brother,  if  I — O,  my  God,  what  am  1 
j  to  do  ?  How,  knowing  what  I  know  of  that 
j  unfortunate  young  man,  could  I  ever  have 
expected  ihiii'?  In  the  meantime  I  thank  you 
for  your  confidence.  Miss  Goodwin  ;  I  hope 
it  was  God  himself  who  inspired  you  to  place 
it  in  me,  and  that  it  may  be  the  means  of 
your  salvation  from — but  perhaps  I  am  say- 
ing too  much  ;  he  is  my  brother ;  excuse 
me,  I  am  not  just  now  cool  and  calm  enough 
to  say  what  I  would  wish,  and  what  you, 
poor  child,  neither  know  nor  suspect,  and 
perhaps  I  shall  never  mention  it ;  but  you 
must  give  me  time.  Of  course,  under  the 
circumstances  you  have  mentioned,  I  resign 
all  hopes  of  my  own  happiness  with  you  ; 
but,  so  help  me  Heaven,  if  I  shall  resign  all 
hopes  of  yours.  I  cannot  now  speak  at  fur- 
ther length  ;  I  am  too  much  surprised,  too 
much  agitated,  too  much  shocked  at  what  I 
have  heard  ;  but  I  shall  see  you,  if  you  will 
allow  me,  to-morrow  ;  and  as  I  cannot  be- 
come your  husband,  perhaps  I  mnj  become 
your  guardian  angel.  Allow  me  to  see  you 
to-morrow.  You  have  taken  me  so  complete- 
ly by  surprise  that  I  am  quite  incapable  of 
speaking  on  this  subject,  as  perhaps — but  I 
know  not  yet — I  must  become  more  cool,  and 
reflect  deeply  upon  what  my  conduct  ought 
to  be.  Alas  !  my  dear  Miss  Goodwin,  Httle 
you  suspect  how  completely  your  happiness 
and  misery  are  in  my  jDOwer.  Will  you  per- 
mit me  to  see  you  to-morrow  ?  " 

"Certainly,  sir,"  replied  Alice,  "since  it 
seems  that  you  have  something  of  more  than 
ordinary  importance  to  communicate  to  me 
— something,  which,  I  suppose,  I  ought  to 
know.     I  shall  see  you." 

He  then  took  his  leave  with  an  air  of  deep 
melancholy  and  sorrow,  and  left  poor  Alice 
in  a  state  of  anxiety  very  difficult  to  be  de- 
scribed. Her  mind  became  filled  with  a  sud- 
den and  unusual  alarm  ;  she  trembled  like 
an  aspen  leaf  ;  and  when  her  mother  came  to 
ask  her  the  result  of  the  interview,  she  found 
her  pale  as  death  and  in  tears. 

"WTiy,  Alley,  my  child,"  said  she,  "what 
is  the  matter?  WTiy  do  you  look  so  much 
alarmed,  and  why  are  you  in  tears?  Has 
the  man  been  rude  or  offensive  to  you  ? " 

"No,  mamma,  he  has  not;  but — but — I 
am  to  see  him  again  to-morrow,  and  imtil 
then,  mamma,  do  not  ask  me  anv-thing  upon 
the  subject  of  our  interview  to-day." 

Her  mother  felt  rather  gratified  at  this. 
There  was,  then,  to  be  another  interview,  and 
that  was  a  proof  that  Woodward  had  not 
been  finally  discarded.  So  far,  matters  did 
not  seem  so  disheartening  as  she  had  antici- 
pated.    She  looked  upon   Alice's  agitation- 


THE  EVIL   F.YE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


68) 


and  the  tears  she  had  been  shedding,  as  the 
result  of  the  constraint  which  she  had  put 
upon  her  inchnation  in  giving  him,  she 
hoped,  a  f.ivorable  reception  ;  and  with  this 
impression  she  went  to  communicate  what 
she  conceived  to  be  the  good  inteUigence  to 
iicr  husband. 

Alice,  until  the  next  interview  took  place, 
passed  a  wretched  time  of  it.  As  the  reader 
knows,  she  was  constitutionally  timid  and 
easily  alarmed,  and  she  consequently  antici- 
pated something  very  distressing  in  the  dis- 
closures which  Woodward  was  about  to 
make.  That  there  was  something  vmcom- 
mon  and  painful  in  connection  with  Charles 
Lindsay  to  be  mentioned,  was  quite  evident 
from  ^^'oodward's  language  and  his  unac- 
countable agitation.  He  was  evidently  in 
earnest ;  and,  from  the  suddenness  with 
wliich  the  confession  of  her  attachment  to 
his  brother  came  upon  him,  it  was  impossi- 
ble, she  concluded,  that  he  could  have  had 
time  to  concoct  the  hints  which  he  threw 
out.  Could  she  have  been  mistaken  in 
Charles  ?  And  yet,  why  not  ?  Had  he  not, 
as  it  were,  abandoned  her  ever  .since  the  oc- 
currence of  the  family  feud  ?  and  why  .should 
he  have  done  so  unless  there  had  been  some 
reason  for  it  ?  It  was  quite  clear,  she  thought, 
tiiat,  whatever  revelation  Woodward  was 
about  to  make  concerning  him,  it  was  one 
which  would  occasion  himseK  great  pain  as 
liis  brother,  and  that  nothing  but  the  neces- 
sity of  saving  her  from  unhappiness  could 
force  him  to  speak  out.  In  fact,  her  mind 
was  in  a  tumult ;  she  felt  quite  nervous — 
tremulous — afi-aid  of  some  disclosure  that 
might  destroy  her  hopes  and  her  happiness,  | 
and  make  her  wretched  for  hfe.  \ 

On  the  next  day  Woodward  made  his  ap- 
pearance and  found  Alice  by  herseK  in   the  : 
drawing-room,   as  when  he  left  her  the  day  ' 
before.     His  countenance  seemed  the  very  ! 
exponent  of  suffering  and  miseiy. 

"  Miss  Goodwin,"  said  he,  "I  have  passed  ; 
a  period  of  the  deepest  anxiety  since  I  saw  , 
■sow  last.     You  may,  indeed,  read  what  I  have  , 
suffered,  and  am  suffering,  in  my  face,  for 
unfortunately  it  is  a  tell-tale  upon  my  heart ; 
but  I  cannot  help  that,  nor  should  I  wish  it 
to  be  otherwise.     Believe  me,  however,  that 
it  is  not  for  myself  that  I  suffer,  but  for  you, 
and  the  prospects  of  your  future  happiness. 
You   must  look  upon  my  conduct  now  as 
perfectly  disinterested,  for  I  have  no  hope.  - 
What,  then,  should  that  conduct  be  in  me 
as  a  generous  man,  wliich  I  trust  I  am,  but  j 
!;o  promote  your  happiness  as  fiir  as  I  can  ? 
and  on  that  I  am  detennined.     You  say  you 
love  my  brother  ;  ai-e  you  certain  that  your 
affection  is  recijDrocated  ?  "  I 

"I   believe   your    brother    certainly    did  I 


love  me,"  she  replied,  with  a  tremor  in  hei 
voice,  which  she  could  not  prevent, 

"Just  so,  my  dear  Miss  Goodwin  ;  that  is 
well  expressed — did  love  you  ;  perhaps  it 
may  have  been  so  ;  possessing  anything  like  a 
heart,  I  don't  see  how  it  could  have,  been 
otherwise." 

"I  will  thank  you,  Mr.  Woodward,  to  state 
what  you  have  to  say  with  as  little  circum- 
locution and  ambiguity  as  po.ssible.     Take 
me  out  of  suspense,  and  let  me  know  the 
worst.     Do  not,  I  entreat  you,  keep  me  in  a 
:  state  of  uncertainty.     Although  I  have  ac- 
j  knowledged   my  love  for  your  brother,  in 
I  order  to  relieve  myself  from  your  addresses, 
which  I  could  not  encourage,  still  I  am  not 
i  without  the  pride  of  a  woman  who  re.spects 
j  herself." 

I      "I  am  aware  of  that ;  but  before  I  pro- 
ceed, allow  me  to  ask,  in  order  that  I  may 
I  see   my   way   the   clearer,    to   what   length 
'  did  the  expression  of  my  brother's  affection 

"It  went  so  far,'  she  rephed,  blushing, 
"as  an  avowal  of  mutual  attachment ;  in- 
deed, it  might  be  called  an  engagement ; 
but  ever  since  the  death  of  his  cousin,  and 
the  estrangement  of  ovu*  famihes,  he  seems 
to  have  forgotten  me.  It  is  very  strange ; 
when  I  was  a  portionless  gui  he  was  ardent 
and  tender,  but,  ever  since  this  unfortunate 
property  came  into  my  hands,  he  seems  to 
have  joined  in  the  hai-d  and  unjust  feehng 
of  his  family  against  me.  I  have  certainly 
met  him  since  at  parties,  and  on  other  oc- 
casions, but  we  met  almost  as  strangers  ;  he 
was  not  the  Chailes  Lindsay  whom  I  had 

I  known   when  I  was  comparatively   a   poor 

i  girl ;   he  appeared  to  shrink  from  me.     In 
the  meantime,  as  I  have  ah'eady  confessed  to 

!  you,   he  has  my  heart ;  and,  so  long  as  he 
has,  I  cannot  encourage  the  addresses  of  any 

!  other  man." 

Woodward  paused,  and  looked  upon  her 

;  with  well-feigned  admu-atiou  and  son-ow. 

,       "  The  man  is  blind,"  he  at  length  said, 

,  "  not  only  to  the  fascinations  of  your  per.son 
and  character,  but  to  his  own  interests. 
What  is  he  in  point  of  property  ?  Nothing. 
He  has  no  rich  uncle  at  his  back  to  establi.sh 
him  in  life  upon  a  scale,  almost,  of  magnifi- 
cence. ^^^ly,  it  is  since  you  came  into  this 
property  that  he  ought  to  have  ui-ged  his 
suit  with  greater  earnestness.  I  am  speak- 
ing now  like  a  man  of  the  world,  Miss  Good- 
win ;  and  I  am  certain  that  he  would  have 
done  so  but  for  ona  fact,  of  which  I  am 
aware  :  he  has  got  into  a  low  intrigue  with  a 
peasant's  daughter,  who  possesses  an  intlu- 
ence  over  him  such  as  I  have  never  witnassecL 
She  certainly  is  veiy  beautiful,  it  is  said  , 
but  of  that  I  cannot  speak,  as  I  have  not  yet 


682 


WILLIAM  OABLETON'S  WOIiKS. 


seen  lier  ;  but  I  am  afraid,  Miss  Goodwin, 
from  all  I  liear,  that  a  very  little  time  "will 
disclose  her  calamity  and  his  guilt.  You 
will  now  understand  what  I  felt  yesterday 
when  you  made  me  acquainted  with  yoiu- 
pure  and  virtuous  attachment  to  such  a 
man  ;  what  shall  I  say,"  he  added,  rising,  and 
walking  indignantly  through  the  room,  "  to 
such  a  profligate  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Woodward,"  replied  Alice,  "  I  can 
scarcely  believe  that  ;  you  miast  have  been 
imjDosed  on  by  some  enemy  of  his.  Depend 
upon  ib  yoii  are.  I  think  I  know  Charles  well 
— too  well  to  deem  him  cai:)able  of  such  prof- 
Ugacy  ;  I  will  not  beheve  it." 

"  I  don't  wish  you,  my  dear  Miss  Good- 
win, to  believe  it  ;  I  only  wish  you  to  sus- 
pend your  opinion  until  time  shall  con\dnce 
you.  I  considered  it  m}'  duty  to  mention 
the  fact,  and  after  that  to  leave  you  to  the 
exercise  of  your  own  judgment." 

"  I  will  not  beheve  it,"  replied  Alice,  "be- 
cause I  place  his  estrangement  to  a  higher 
and  nobler  motive,  and  one  more  in  accord- 
ance with  his  honorable  and  generous  char- 
acter. I  do  believe,  Mr.  Woodward,  that 
his  apparent  coldness  to  me,  of  late,  pro- 
ceeds fr'om  delicacy,  and  a  disinterestedness 
that  is  honorable  to  him  ;  at  least  I  will  in- 
terpret his  conduct  in  this  hglJt  until  I  am 
perfectly  convinced  that  he  is  the  prothgate 
you  describe  him.  I  do  not  impute,  in  the 
disclosure  you  have  made,  ungenerous  mo- 
tives to  you  ;  because,  if  you  attempted  to 
displace  my  affections  fr'om  your  brother  by 
gi'oundless  slander  or  deliberate  falsehood, 
you  would  be  a  monster,  and  as  such  I 
would  look  upon  you,  and  ■will,  if  it  appears 
that  you  are  maligning  him  for  selfish  pur- 
poses of  your  own.  I  will  now  tell  \o\x  to 
what  I  ijnpute  his  ajDparent  estrangement ;  I 
imi)ute  it  to  honor,  sfr — to  an  honorable 
pride.  He  knows  now  that  I  am  rich  ;  at 
least  comparatively  so,  and  that  he  is  com- 
paratively i^oor  ;  he  hesitates  to  renew  our 
relations  witli  each  other  lest  I  might  suspect 
him  of  mingling  a  selfish  principle  with  his 
affection.  That  is  the  conduct  of  a  man  of 
honor ;  and  until  the  facts  you  hint  at  come 
out  broadly,  and  to  jniblic  proof,  as  such  I 
shall  continue  to  consider  him.  But,  ]VIi\ 
Woodward,  I  .shall  not  rest  liere  ;  I  shall  see 
him,  and  give  him  that  to  which  his  previous 
affection  and  honorable  conduct  have  entitled 
him  at  m;'  hands — that  is,  an  oi^portunity  of 
making  an  explanation  to  myself.  But,  at 
all  events,  I  assure  you  of  this'  fact,  that,  if  I 
do  not  marry  him,  I  shall  never  mai'ry  an- 
othei'." 

"  Great  God  !  "  exclaimed  Woodward, 
"what  a  jewel  he  has  lost.  Well,  Miss 
Goodwin,  I  have  nothing  further  to  say  ;  if  I 


am  wrong,  time  will  convict  me.  I  have 
mentioned  these  matters  to  you,  not  on  my 
own  account  but  yours.  I  have  no  hope  of 
your  affection  ;  and  if  there  were  any  liring 
man,  except  myself,  to  whom  I  should  wnsh 
to  see  you  united,  it  would  be  m}'  brother 
Charles — that  is,  if  I  thought  he  was  worihy 
of  you.  All  I  ask  of  you,  however,  is  to  wait 
a  little  ;  remain  calm  and  quiet,  and  time 
wall  teU  you  which  of  us  feels  the  deepest  in- 
terest in  your  happiness.  In  the  meantime, 
aware  of  your  attachment  to  him,  as  I  am,  I 
beg  yovi  will  no  longer  consider  me  in  any 
other  light  than  that  of  a  sincere  fr'iend.  To 
seduce  innocence,  indeed — but  I  Arill  not 
dwell  upon  it ;  the  love  of  woman,  they  say, 
is  generous  and  forgiving  ;  I  hope  yours  will 
be  so.  But,  Miss  Goodwin,  as  I  can  ap- 
proach you  no  longer  in  the  character  of  a 
lover,  I  trust  I  may  be  permitted  the  jsriri- 
lege  of  visiting  the  family  as  a  friend  and  ac- 
quaintance. Now  that  your  decision  against 
me  is  kno"\\-n,  it  will  be  contrary  to  the  wish- 
es of  our  folks  at  home  ;  especially  of  my 
mother,  whose  temper,  as  I  suppose  you  are 
aware,  is  none  of  the  coolest  ;  you  will  allow 
me,  then,  to  visit  you,  but  no  longer  as  claim- 
ant for  your  hand." 

"  I  shall  always  be  happy  to  see  you,  IVIr. 
Woodward,  but  upon  that  condition." 

After  he  had  taken  his  leave,  her  parents, 
anxious  to  hear  the  result,  came  up  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  they  found  her  in  a 
kind  of  a  reverie,  from  which  theii'  appear- 
ance startled  her. 

"  Well,  Alley,"  said  her  mother,  smiling, 
"  is  everything  concluded  between  you "? " 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  replied  Alice,  "  everj'thing 
is  concluded,  and  finally,  too." 

"  Did  he  name  the  day  ?  "  said  her  father, 
smiling  gravely. 

Alice  stared  at  him  ;  then  recollecting  her- 
self, she  replied — 

"  I  thought  I  told  you  both  that  this  was 
a  man  I  could  never  think  of  marrying.  I 
don't  understand  him ;  he  is  either  vei-y 
candid  or  very  hypocritical ;  and  I  feel  it 
painful,  and,  besides,  unnecessary  in  me  to 
take  the  trouble  of  balancing  the  character 
of  a  person  who  loses  ground  in  my  opinion 
on  every  occasion  I  see  him.  Of  course,  I 
have  discarded  him,  and  I  know  very  well 
that  his  mother  will  cast  fire  and  sword 
between  us  as  she  did  before  ;  but  to  do  ]\Ir. 
Woodward  justice,  he  proposes  to  stand 
aloof  from  her  resentments,  and  wishes  to 
visit  us  as  usual." 

"  Then  it's  all  over  between  you  and  him  ?  " 
said  her  motlier. 

"  It  is  ;  and  I  never  gave  you  reason  to 
anticipate  any  other  result,  mamma." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  her  fatJier,  "  vou  never 


TUE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


G8a 


did,  Alice  ;  but  still  I  think  it  is  generous  in 
him  to  sepai-ate  himself  fi-om  the  resentments 
of  that  woman,  and  as  a  fi-iend  we  will  be 
always  glad  to  see  him." 

"  i  know  not  how  it  is,"  repHed  AHce  ; 
"  but  I  felt  that  the  exin-ession  of  his  eye, 
during  our  last  intemew,  opjjressed  me 
excessively  ;  it  was  never  off  me.  There 
•;v'as  a  killing — a  mahgnant  inliuence  in  it, 
that  thrilled  through  me  with  pain  ;  but, 
perhaps,  I  can  account  for  that.  As  it  is,  he 
has  asked  leave  to  visit  us  as  usual,  and  to 
stand,  with  respect  to  me,  in  the  hght  of  a 
friend  only.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  j^apa, 
I  could  not  refuse  him  a  common  jirivilege 
of  ci^•ility  ;  but,  to  tell  you  both  the  tnith,  I 
shall  always  meet  him  not  only  with  reluc- 
tance, but  with  something  almost  amounting  ' 
to  fear."  j 

Woodward,  now  that  he  had  learned  his 
fate,  and  was  aware  that  his  brother  stood 
between  him  and  his  expectations,  experi- 
enced a  feeling  of  vengeance  against  him 
and  Alice,  which  he  neither  could,  nor  at- 
tempted to,  restrain.  The  rage  of  his  mo- 
ther, too,  when  she  heard  that  the  latter  had 
rejected  him,  and  avowed  her  attachment  to 
Chai'les,  went  beyond  all  bounds.  Her  son, 
however,  who  possessed  a  greater  restraint 
upon  his  feelings,  and  was  master  of  more 
profound  hypocrisy  and  cunning,  requested 
her  to  conceal  the  attachment  of  Alice  to  his 
brothel',  as  a  matter  not  to  be  disclosed  on 
any  account. 

"Leave   me   to   my  resources,"  said   he, 
"  and  it  ■^^all  go  hard  or  I  -^-ill  so  manage 
Charles  as  to  disentangle  him  from  the  con- 
sequences of  her  influence  over  him.     But 
the  familie.s,  mother,  must  not  be  for  the 
present  p  rmitted  to  visit   again.     On  the  \ 
contrary,  it  is  better  for  our  jDui-jioses  that  i 
they  should  not  see  each  other  as  formerly, 
nor   resume  their   intimacy.     If  you  suffer 
your  passions  to  overcome  you,  even  in  our 
own  family,  the  consequence  is  that  you  pre- 
vent us  both  from  i)laying  our  game  as  we 
ought,  and  as  we  shall  do.     Leave  Charles 
to  me  ;  I  shall  make  O'Connor  of  use,  too  ; 
but  above  all  things  do  not  breathe  a  sylla- 
ble to  any  one  of  them  of  my  haring  been 
thrown  off.     I  think,  as  it  is,  I  have  damped  | 
her  ardor  for  him   a  little,  and  if  she  had  | 
not  been  obstinate  and  fooh.shly  romantic,  I 
would  have  extinguished  it  completely.     As  : 
it  is,  I  told  her  to  leave  the  tiiith  of  what  I  ; 
mentioned  to  her  respecting  him,  to  time,  , 
and  if  she  does  I  shall  rest  satisfied.    WiD  you  ' 
now  be  guided  by  me,  my  dear  mother '? "       i 

"  I  will  endeavor  to  do  so,"  she  rephed  ;  1 
"  but  it  will  be  a  ten-ible  restraint  upon  me,  I 
and  I  scai'cely  know  how  I  shall  be  able  to 
keep  myself  calm.     I  will  try,  however  ;  the  ' 


object  is  worth  it.     You  know  if  she  dies 
without  issue  the  property  revei'ts  to  you." 

"Yes,  mother,  the  object  in  worth  mucL 
more  than  the  paltry  sacrifice  I  ask  of  you. 
Keep  yourself  quiet,  then,  and  we  will  ac- 
comphsh  our  puqioses  yet.  I  shall  set  in- 
struments to  work  who  will  ripen  oui*  pro- 
jects, and,  I  trust,  ultimately  accompUsb 
them." 

"  ^\Tiy,  what  instruments  do  you  intend  to 
use?" 

"I  know  the  girl's  disposition  and  charac- 
ter well.  I  have  learned  much  concerning 
her  from  Casey,  who  is  often  there  as  a  suitoj 
for  the  fail-  hand  of  her  favorite  maid. 
Casey,  however,  is  a  man  in  whom  I  can 
place  no  confidence  ;  he  is  too  much  attached 
to  the  rest  of  the  family,  and  does  not  at  all 
relish  me.  I  will  make  him  an  unconscious 
agent  of  mine,  notwithstanding.  Li  the 
meantime,  let  nothing  apijear  in  your  man- 
ner that  might  induce  them  to  suspect  the 
present  position  of  affairs  between  us.  They 
may  come  to  know  it  soon  enough,  and  then 
it  will  be  our  business  to  {ict  with  greater 
energ}'  and  decision." 

And  so  it  was  arranged  between  this 
l^recious  mother  and  son. 

Woodward  who  was  quick  in  the  concep- 
tion of  his  projects,  had  them  all  laid  even 
then  ;  and  in  order  to  work  them  out  with 
due  effect,  he  resolved  to  pay  a  visit  to  our 
fiiend,  Sol  Donnel,  the  herb  doctor.  This 
h}i)ocritical  old  villain  was  uncle  to  Caterine 
CoUins,  the  fortune-teUer,  who  had  prognos- 
ticated to  him  such  agreeable  tidings  on  the 
night  of  the  bonfire.  She,  too,  was  to  be 
made  useful,  and,  so  far  as  mone}'  could  do 
it,  faithful  to  his  designs — diabohcal  as  they 
were.  He  accordingly  went  one  night,  about 
the  hour  mentioned  by  Donnel,  to  the  cabin 
of  that  worthy  man  ;  and  knocking  gently 
at  the  door,  was  replied  to  in  a  peevish  voice, 
like  that  of  an  individual  who  had  been  in- 
terrupted in  the  pertormance  of  some  act  ol 
piety  and  devotion. 

"  ^^^^o  is  there  ?  "  said  the  voice  inside. 

"A  fiicnd,"  replied  Woodward,  in  a  low, 
cautious  tone ;  "a  friend,  who  wishes  to 
speak  to  you." 

"I  can't  spake  to  you  to-night,"  replied 
Sol ;  "  you're  disturbin'  me  at  my  prayers." 

"But  I  wish  to  sjjeak  to  you  on  particulai 
business." 

"What  business?  Let  me  finish  my  pa- 
dereens  and  go  to  bed  like  a  %ile  sinner,  as  I 
am — God  help  me.     Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  intend  to  tell  you  that  just  now, 
Solomon  ;  do  you  wish  me  to  shout  it  out 
to  you,  in  order  that  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood may  hear  it  ?  I  have  private  business 
with  you." 


/ys* 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"Well,"  replied  the  other,  "I  think,  by 
youj.'  voice  and  language,  you're  not  a  com- 
mon man,  and,  aldough  it's  against  my  rule 
to  open  at  this  time  o'  night  to  any  one,  still 
rU  let  you  in — and  sure  I  must  only  say  my 
prayers  aftherwards.  In  the  manetime  it's 
a  sin  for  you  or  any  one  to  disturb  me  at 
them  ;  if  you  knew  what  the  value  of  one 
sinful  sowl  is  in  the  sight  of  God,  you 
wouldn't  do  it — no,  indeed.  Wait  till  I 
Hght  a  candle." 

He  accordingly  lighted  a  candle,  and  in 
the  course  of  a  few  minutes  admitted  Wood- 
ward to  his  herbarium.  When  the  latter 
entered,  he  looked  about  him  with  a  curi- 
osity not  iinnatural  under  the  circumstances. 
His  first  sensation,  however,  was  one  that 
affected  his  olfactory  nerves  very  strongly. 
A  combination  of  smells,  struggling  with 
each  other,  as  it  were,  for  predominance, 
ahnost  overpowered  him.  The  good  and  the 
bad,  the  pleasant  and  the  oppressive,  were 
here  mingled  up  in  one  sickening  exhalation 
— for  the  disagreeable  prevailed.  The  whole 
cabin  was  hung  about  with  bunches  of  herbs, 
pome  dry  and  withered,  others  fresh  and 
gi-een,  gi\'ing  evidence  that  they  had  been 
only  newly  gathered.  A  number  of  bottles 
of  all  descriptions  stood  on  wooden  shelves, 
but  without  labels,  for  the  old  sinner's  long 
practice  and  great  practical  memory  enabled 
him  to  know  the  contents  of  every  bottle 
with  as  much  accuracy  as  if  they  had  been 
labelled  in  capitals. 

"  How  the  devil  can  you  live  and  sleep  in 
such  a  suffocating  compound  of  vile  smells 
as  this  ?  "  asked  Woodward. 

The  old  man  glanced  at  him  keenly,  and 
replied, — 

'Practice  makes  masther,  sir — I'm  used 
to  them  ;  I  feel  no  smeU  but  a  good  smell ; 
and  I  sleep  sound  enough,  barrin'  when  I 
wake  o'  one  purpose,  to  think  of  and  repent  o' 
my  sins,  and  of  the  ungrateful  world  that  is 
about  me  ;  people  that  don't  thank  me  for 
doin'  them  good — God  forgive  them  !  amin 
acheernah  !  " 

"Wliy,  now,"  rephed  Woodward,  "if  I 
had  a  friend  of  mine  that  was  unwell — ob- 
.serve  me,  a  fnend  of  mine — that  stood  be- 
tween me  and  my  .own  interests,  and  that  I 
was  kind  and  charitable  enough  to  forget 
any  iU-will  against  him,  and  wished  to  re- 
cover him  from  his  illness  through  the  means 
of  your  skin  and  herbs,  could  you  not  assist 
me  in  such  a  good  and  Christian  work  ?  " 

The  old  fellow  gave  him  a  shrewd  look 
and  piercing  glance,  but  immediately  re- 
plied— 

"  Wliy,  to  be  sure,  I  could  ;  what  else  is 
the  business  of  my  whole  life  but  to  cure 
my  fellow-cratui'es  of  their  complaints  ?  " 


"  Yes  ;  I  beUeve  you  are  very  fortunat* 
in  that  way  ;  however,  for  the  present,  ] 
don't  require  your  aid,  but  it  is  very  likely  1 
shall  soon.  There  is*  a  friend  of  mine  in 
poor  health,  and  if  he  doesn't  otherwise  re 
cover,  I  shall  probably  apply  to  you  ;  but 
then,  the  party  I  speak  of  has  such  a  preju- 
dice against  quacks  of  all  sorts,  that  I  feai 
we  must  substitute  one  of  your  draughts,  in 
a  private  ivay,  for  that  of  the  regular  doctor. 
That,  however,  is  not  what  I  came  to  speak 
to  you  about.  Is  not  Caterine  Collins,  the 
fortune-teller  a  niece  of  yours  ?  " 

"  She  is,  sir." 

"Where  and  when  could  I  see  her? — but 
mark  me,  I  don't  wish  to  be  seen  speaking 
to  her  in  pubhc." 

"  Why  not  ? — what's  to  prevent  you  from 
chattin'  wid  her  in  an  aisy  pleasant  way  in 
the  streets  ;  nobody  will  obsarve  any  thing 
then,  or  think  it  strange  that  a  gentleman 
should  have  a  funny  piece  o'  discoorse  wid  a 
fortune-teller." 

"  I  don't  know  that ;  observations  might 
be  made  afterw^ards." 

"  But  what  can  she  do  for  you  that  /can't? 
She's  a  bad  graft  to  have  anything  to  do  wid, 
and  I  wouldn't  recommend  you  to  put  much 
trust  in  her." 

"  Yvliy  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  she's  nothin'  else  than  a  schemer." 

Little  did  old  Solomon  suspect  that  he  was 
raising  her  very  highly  in  the  estimation  of 
his  visitor  by  falling  foul  of  her  in  this  man- 
ner. 

"At  aU  events,"  said  Woodward,  "I  wish 
to  see  her  ;  and,  as  I  said,  I  came  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  asking  you  where  and  when 
I  could  see  her — privately,  I  mean." 

"  That's  what  I  can't  tell  you  at  the  pres- 
ent spakin',"  replied  Solomon.  "She  has 
no  fixed  place  of  livin',  but  is  here  to-day 
and  away  to-morrow.  God  help  you,  she 
has  travelled  over  the  whole  kingdom  "tellin' 
fortunes.  Sometimes  she's  a  dummy,  and 
spakes  to  them  by  signs — sometimes  a  gypsy 
— sometimes  she's  this  and  sometimes  she's 
that,  but  not  often  the  same  thing  long  ; 
she's  of  as  many  colors  as  the  rainbow.  But 
if  you  do  wish  to  see  her,  there's  a  chance 
that  you  may  to-morrow.  A  conjurer  has 
come  to  town,  and  he's  to  open  to-moiTOw, 
for  both  town  and  country,  and  she'll  surely 
be  here,  for  that's  taking  the  bit  out  of  her 
mouth." 

"  A  conjurer  !  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  here  before  some  time  ago, 
about  the  night  of  that  bonfire  that  was  put 
out  by  the  shower  o'  blood,  but  somehow  he 
disappeared  from  the  place,  and  he's  now 
come  back." 

"A  conjurer — well,  I  shall  see  the  con 


THE  EVTL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


635 


jurer  myself  to-morrow  ;  but  can  you  give 
me  no  more  accvu'ute  information  M-ith  re- 
spect to  your  niece  ?  " 

"  Sarra  syllable — as  I  tould  you,  she's 
never  two  nights  in  the  same  place  ;  but,  if 
I  should  see  her,  I'U  let  her  know  your 
wishes  ;  and  what  might  I  say,  sir,  that  you 
wanted  her  to  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  That's  none  of  your  affair,  most  sagacious 
Solomon — I  wish  to  speak  with  her  myself, 
and  privately,  too  ;  and  if  you  see  hei",  tell 
her  to  meet  me  here  to-morrow  night  about 
this  hour." 

"  I'll  do  so  ;  but  God  forgive  you  for  dis- 
turbin'  me  in  my  devotions,  as  you  did.  It's 
not  often  I'd  give  tliem  up  for  any  one  ;  but 
sure  out  of  regard  for  the  proi:»rietor  o'  the 
town  I'd  do  that,  and  more  for  you." 

"  Here,"  rephed  Woodward,  putting  some 
silver  into  liis  hand,  "  let  that  console  you  ; 
and  tell  your  niece  when  you  see  her  that  I 
am  a  good  paymaster  ;  and,  if  I  should  stand 
in  need  of  your  skiU,  you  shall  find  me  so, 
too.  Good-niglit,  and  may  your  prayers  be 
powerful,  as  I  know  they  come  from  a  Chris- 
tian heart,  honest  Solomon." 


CHARTER  XI. 

A  Conjurer's  Lecee. 

We  cannot  form  at  this  distance  of  time 
any  adequate  notion  of  the  influence  which  ' 
a  conjurer  of  those  days  exercised  over  the 
minds  and  feelings  of  the  ignorant.     It  was  ; 
necessar}'  that  he  should  be,  or  be  supposed 
at  least  to  be,  well  versed  in  judicial  astrol- 
ogy, the  use  of  medicine,  and  consequently  j 
able  to  cast  a  nati\'ity,  or  cure  any  earthly  | 
complaint.     Tliere  is  scarcely  any  grade  or  | 
species  of  superstition  that  is  not  associated  ! 
with  or  founded  upon  fear.     The  conjiu'er, 
consecjuently,  was  both  feared  and  resi)ect- 
ed  ;  and  his  character  appeared   in  different 
phases  to  the  people — each  phase  adapted  | 
to  the  corresponding  character  of  those  with 
whom   he   had   to   deal.     The   educated  of 
those  days,  vfith.  but  few  exceptions,  believed 
in  astrology,  and  the  possibility  of  developing 
the  future  fate  and  fortunes  of  an  individual, 
whenever   the   hour   of   his   birth   and  the 
name  of  the  star  or  planet  under  which  he 
was  boi-u  could  be  ascertained.     The  more  I 
ignorant  class,  however,  generally  associated 
the  character  of  the  conjurer  with  that  of  the 
necromancer  or  magician,  and  consequentlj'  ' 
attributed  his  predictions  to  demoniaciil  in-  i 
fluence.     Neither  were  they  much  mistaken,  I 
for  they  only  judged  of  these  impostors  as  | 
they  found  them.     In  nineteen  cases  out  of 


twenty,  the  character  of  the  low  astrologer, 
the  necromancer,  and  the  quack  was  associ- 
ated, and  the  influence  of  the  stars  and  the 
aid  of  the  devil  were  both  considered  as 
gi\ing  assurance  of  supernatural  knowledge 
to  the  same  individual.  This  unaccountable 
anxiety  to  see,  as  it  were,  the  volume  o' 
futuiit}'  unrolled,  so  far  as  it  discloses  indi- 
vidual fate,  has  characterized  mankind  ever 
since  the  world  began  ;  and  hence,  even  in 
the  present  day,  the  same  anxiety  among  the 
ignorant  to  run  after  spae-women,  fortune- 
tellers, and  gj-jisies,  in  order  to  have  their 
fortunes  told  through  the  means  of  their 
adi'oit  predictions. 

On  the  following  morning  the  whole  tovn\ 
of  RathfiUan  was  in  a  state  of  excitement  by 
the  rumor  that  a  conjurer  had  arrived,  for 
the  i^uri^ose  not  only  of  telling  all  their 
future  fates  and  fortunes,  but  of  discovering 
all  those  who  had  been  guilty  of  theft,  and 
the  places  where  the  stolen  property  was  to 
be  found.  This  may  seem  a  bold  stroke  ;  but 
when  we  consider  the  materials  upon  which 
the  sagacious  conjurer  had  to  work,  we  need 
not  feel  surprised  at  his  frequent  success. 

The  conjurer  in  question  had  taken  up  his 
residence  in  the  best  inn  which  the  little 
town  of  Rathfillan  afforded.  Immediately 
after  his  arrival  he  engaged  the  beadle,  with 
beU  in  hand,  to  proclaim  his  presence  in  the 
town,  and  the  i)uri)ort  of  his  visit  to  that 
part  of  the  country.  This  was  done  through 
the  medium  of  pi'inted  handbills,  v.iiich  that 
officer  read  and  distributed  through  the 
crowds  who  attended  him.  The  bill  in 
question  was  as  follows  : 

"  To  the  inhabitants  of  Rathfillan  and  the 
adjacent  neighborhood,  the  foUo-niug  im- 
portant communications  are  made  : — 

"Her  Zander  Vandei-pluckem,  the  cele- 
brated German  conjurer,  astrologist,  and 
doctor,  who  has  had  the  honor  of  predicting 
the  deaths  of  three  kings,  five  queens,  twenty- 
one  princesses,  and  seven  princes,  all  of  royal 
blood,  and  in  the  best  possible  state  of  health 
at  the  time  the  predictions  were  made,  and 
to  all  of  whom  he  had  himself  the  honor  of 
being  medical  attendant  and  state  physician, 
begs  to  announce  his  arrival  in  tbis  town. 
He  is  the  seventh  son  of  the  gi-eat  and  re- 
no^vned  conjurer.  Her  Zander Vanderhoaxem, 
who  made  the  stai's  tremble,  and  the  devil 
sweat  himself  to  powder  in  a  fit  of  repentance. 
His  influence  over  the  stars  and  heavenly 
bodies  is  tremendous,  and  it  is  a  well-kno^vn 
fact  throughout  tlie  universe  that  he  haa 
them  in  sucli  a  complete  state  of  terror  and 
subjection,  that  a  single  comet  dai'e  not  wag 
his  t^oil  unless  by  his  permission.  He  travels 
up  and  down  the  milky  way  one  night  in 


due 


WILLIAM   CARLETOIST'S  WORKS. 


every  month,  to  see  that  the  dairies  of  the 
sky  are  all  right,  and  that  that  celebrated 
path  be  iDroiDerly  lighted  ;  brings  down  a 
pail  of  the  milk  with  him,  which  he  churns 
into  butyrus,  an  nugiaent  so  efficacious  that 
it  cures  all  maladies  imder  the  sun,  and 
many  that  never  existed.  It  can  be  had  at 
live  shilhngs  a  spoonful.  He  can  make  Ursa 
Major,  or  the  Great  Bear,  dance  without  a 
leaxler,  and  has  taught  Pisces,  or  the  Fishes, 
to  live  out  of  water — a  prodigy  never  knowTi 
or  heard  of  before  since  the  creation  of  terra 
firma.  Such  is  the  power  of  the  gi'eat  and 
celebrated  Her  Vanderpluckem  over  the 
stai's  and  planets.  But  now  to  come  neai*er 
home  :  he  cures  all  patients  of  all  complaints. 
No  person  asking  his  assistance  need  ever  be 
sick,  unless  when  they  happen  to  be  unwell. 
His  insight  into  futuidty  is  such  that,  when- 
ever he  looks  far  into  it,  he  is  obhged  to 
shut  his  eyes.  He  can  tell  fortunes,  discover 
hidden  wealth  to  any  amount,  and  create 
such  love  between  sweethearis  as  will  be  sure 
to  end  in  matrimony.  He  is  complete  master 
of  the  fairies,  and  has  the  whole  generation 
of  them  under  his  thumb  ;  and  he  generally 
•travels  with  the  king  of  the  fames  in  his 
left  pocket  closed  up  in  a  snuffbox.  He 
intei-jDrets  di-eams  and  visions,  and  is  never 
mistaken  ;  can  foretell  whether  a  child  im- 
born  will  be  a  boy  or  a  girl,  and  can  also 
inform  the  parents  whether  it  will  be  brought 
to  the  bench  or  the  gallows.  He  can  also 
foretell  backwards,  and  disclose  to  the  indi- 
vidual an}i;hing  that  shall  happen  to  him  or 
her  for  the  last  seven  years.  His  philters, 
concocted  upon  the  profound  science  of  al- 
ehemistic  philosophy,  have  been  sought  for 
by  persons  of  the  highest  distinction,  who 
have  always  found  them  to  produce  the  very 
effects  for  which  they  were  intended,  to  wit, 
mutual  affection  between  the  parties,  uni- 
formly ending  in  matrimony  and  happiness. 
Devils  expelled,  ghosts  and  spirits  laid  on 
the  shortest  notice,  and  at  the  most  moderate 
terms.  Also,  recipes  to  farmers  for  good 
weather  or  rain,  according  as  they  may  be 
wanted. 

"(Signed,)  Her  Zander  Vanderpluckem," 
"  The    Greatest    Conjurer.    Astrologer,    and 
Doctor  in  the  world." 

To  describe  the  effect  that  this  bill,  which, 
by  the  vf^j,  was  posted  against  every  dead 
wall  in  the  town,  had  upon  the  people,  would 
be  impossible.  The  inn  in  which  he  stop- 
ped was,  in  a  short  time,  crowded  with  ap- 
plicants, either  for  relief  or  information,  ac- 
cording as  their  ills  or  wishes  came  under 
the  respective  heads  of  his  advertisement. 
The  room  he  occupied  was  upstairs,  and  he 
had  a  door  that  led  into  a  smaller  one,  or 


kind  of  closet,  at  the  end  of  it ;  here  sat  hl 
old-looking  man,  dressed  in  a  black  coat 
black  breeches,  and  black  stockings  ;  tht 
very  picture  of  the  mysterious  iudividuai 
who  had  appeared  and  disappeared  so  sud 
denl}'  at  the  bonfire.  He  had  on  a  full-bot 
tomed  wig,  and  a  long  white  beard,  depend- 
ing fi-om  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  swept 
his  reverend  breast.  A  large  book  lay  open 
before  him,  on  the  pages  of  which  were  in- 
scribed cabalistic  characters  and  strange 
figures.  He  only  admitted  those  who  wished 
to  consult  him,  singly ;  for  on  no  occasion 
did  he  ever  permit  two  persons  at  a  time  to 
approach  him.  All  the  paraphernalia  of  as- 
trology were  exposed  uj)on  the  same  table, 
at  one  end  of  wiiich  he  sat  in  an  arm-chair, 
awaiting  the  commencement  of  operations. 
At  length  a  good-looking  country-woman,  of 
about  forty-five  years,  made  her  appearance, 
and,  after  a  low  courtesy,  was  solemnly  mo- 
tioned to  take  a  seat. 

"Well,  IMi's.  Houlaghan,"  said  he,  "how 
do  you  do  '?  " 

The  poor  woman  got  as  pale  as  death. 
"Heavenly  Father,"  thought  she,  "how  does 
it  haj^peu  that  he  comes  to  know  my  name  ! " 

"5li's.  Houlaghan,  what  can  I  do  for  you? 
not  that  I  need  ask,  for  I  could  give  a  veiy 
good  guess  at  it ; "  and  this  he  added  Arith  a 
very  sage  and  solemn  risage,  precisely  as  if 
he  knew  the  whole  circumstances. 

"A\Tiy,  your  honor,"  she  rej^lied — "but, 
blessed  Father,  how  did  you  come  to  know 
my  name  ?  " 

"  That's  a  question,"  he  replied,  solemnly, 
"which  you  ought  not  to  ask  me.  It  is 
enough  that  you  see  I  know  it.  How  is 
your  husband,  Frank,  and  how  is  your 
daughter,  INIary  ?  She's  complaining  of  late 
— is  she  not  ?  " 

This  private  knowledge  of  the  family 
completely  overwhelmed  her,  and  she  felt 
unable  to  speak  for  some  time. 

"  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry,  jMrs.  Houlaghan," 
said  he,  mildly  ;  "  reflect  upon  what  you  are 
about  to  say,  and  take  your  time." 

"  It's  a  ghost,  youi'  reverence,"  she  replied 
— "  a  ghost  that  haunts  the  house." 

"  Very  well,  Mrs.  Houlaghan  ;  the  fee  for 
laying  a  ghost  is  five  shillings  ;  I  Avill  trouble 
you  for  that  sum ;  we  conjurers  have  no 
power  until  we  get  money  from  the  party 
concei'ned,  and  then  we  can  work  with  effect." 

The  simple  woman,  in  the  agitation  of 
the  moment,  handed  him  the  amount  of  his 
demand,  and  then  collected  herself  to  hear 
the  response,  and  the  means  of  laying  the 
ghost. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  he,  "  teU  me  aU  about 
this  ghost,  Mrs.  Houlaghan.  How  long  has 
it  been  troubling-  the  family  ?  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  J^  PEC  TEE. 


681 


"WTiy,  then,  ever  since  Frank  lost  the 
use  of  his  sight,  now  goin'  upon  five 
months." 

"  When  does  it  appear  ?  " 

"  AMay,  generally  afther  twelve  at  night ; 
and  what  miikes  it  more  stninge  is,  that 
poor  Marj^'s  more  afeard  o'  me  than  she  is 
of  the  ghost.  She  says  it  appears  to  her  in 
her  bedroom  every  night ;  but  she  knows 
I'm  so  timersome  that  she  keeps  her  door 
alwavs  locked  for  fi*aid  I'd  see  it,  poor 
child." 

"  Does  it  terrify  her  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit ;  she  says  it  does  her  no  harm 
on  earth,  and  that  it's  gi-eat  company  for  her 
when  she  can't  sleep." 

"  Has  Manr'  many  sweethearts  ?  " 

"  She  has  two  :  one  o'  them  rather  ould, 
but  wealthy  and  well  to  do  ;  her  father  and 
myself,  wishiu'  to  see  her  well  settled,  are 
doin'  all  we  can  to  get  her  consent  to  marry 
him." 

"  Wno's  the  other  ?  " 

"One  Brine  Oge  M'Gaveran,  a  good- 
lookin'  vagabone,  no  doubt,  but  not  worth  a 
copi^er." 

"  Is  she  fond  of  him  ?  " 

"  Troth,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Fm  afeard 
she  is ;  he  has  been  often  seen  about  the 
house  in  the  evenin's." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Houlaghan,  I  will  teU  you 
how  to  lay  this  ghost." 

"  God  bless  you,  sir ;  poor  Mary,  although 
she  purtends  that  the  ghost  is  good  compa- 
ny for  her,  is  lookin'  pale  and  very  quare 
somehow." 

"  Well,  then,  here  is  the  receipt  for  laying 
the  ghost :  Many  her  as  soon  as  you  possi- 
bly can  to  Brine  Oge  ^I'Gaveran — do  that 
and  the  ghost  will  never  appear  again  ;  but 
if  you  refuse  to  do  it — I  may  lay  that  ghost 
of  course — but  another  ghost,  as  like  it  as 
an  e^Q  is  to  an  e^^,  will  haunt  your  house 
until  she  is  married  to  Brine  Oge.  You 
have  wealth  yourselves,  and  you  can  make 
Brine  and  her  comfortable  if  you  M-ish. 
She  is  your  only  child  " — ("  Blessed  Father, 
think  of  him  kno^'in'  this  I  ") — "  and  as  you 
are  As'ell  to  do  in  the  world,  it's  both  a  sin 
and  a  scandal  for  you  to  urge  a  pretty  young 
girl  of  nineteen  to  marrj'  an  old  miserly  runt 
of  fifty.  You  know  now  how  to  lay  the 
ghost,  ^Ii's.  Houlaghan — and  that  is  -^-hat  I  j 
can  do  for  you  ;  but  if  you  do  not  maiTy  } 
her  to  Brine  Oge,  as  I  said,  another  ghost 
will  certainl}'  contrive  to  haunt  you.  You 
may  now  withdraw."  i 

A  farmer,  with  a  very  shrewd  and  comic 
expression   of  countenance,  next  made  his 
appearance,  and  taking  his  hat  off  and  laying 
it  on  the  floor  with  his  staff  across  it,  took  ' 
his  seat,  as  he  had  been  motioned  to  do,  i 


upon  the  chair  which  JMrs.  Houlaghan  had 
just  vacated. 

"  Well,  my  friend,"  said  the  conjurer, 
"what's  troubling  you  ?  " 

"  A  crock  o'  butther,  your  honor.** 
"How  is  that?  explain  yourself." 
"  AVliy,   sir,  a  crock  o'  butther  that  wa* 
stolen  from  me  ;  and  I'm  tould  for  a  sai'tinty 
that  you  can  discover  the  thief  o'  the  world 
that  stole  it." 

"  And  so  I  can.  Do  you  suspect  any- 
body?" 

"  Troth,   sir,  I  can*t  say — for  I  live  in  a 
very  honest  neighborhood.     Tlie  only   two 
thieves  that  were  in  it — Chaiiey  FoUiott  and 
George  Austin — were  hanged  not  long  ago, 
and  I  don't  know  anybody  else  in  the  coun- 
try side  that  would  stale  it." 
"  What  family  have  you  ?  " 
"Three  sons,  sir." 
"  How  many  daughters?" 
i      "  One,  sir — but  she's  only  a  girsha  **  (a 
j  little  giri). 

I      "I  suppose  your  sons  are  very  good  chil- 
dren to  you  ? " 
j      "  Betther  never  broke  bread,  sir — all  but 
the  voimgest." 
!      "mat  age  is  he?'* 

"  About  nineteen,  sir,  or  goin'  an  twenty  ; 
I  but  he's  a  heart-scald  to  me  and  the  family 
— although  he's  his  mother's  pet ;  the  diril 
I  can't  stand  him  for  dress — and,  moreover, 
he's  given  to  hquor  and  card-playin',  and  is 
altogether  goin'  to  the  bad.     Widin  the  Last 
;  two  or  thi'ee  days  he  has  bought  himself  a 
I  new  hat,  a  new  pair  o'  brogues,  and  a  pair  6 
span-new    breeches — and,    upon    my    con- 
science, it  wasn't  fi-om  me  or  mine  he  go* 
the  money  to  buy  them." 

The  conjurer  looked  solemnly  into  hi? 
book  for  some  minutes,  and  then  raising  hip 
head,  fastened  his  cold,  glassy,  gHttering 
eyes  on  the  faiTuer  with  a  glance  that  filled 
him  with  awe. 

"I  have  found  it  out,"  said  he;  "there 
are  two  parties  to  the  theft — your  wife  and 
your  youngest  son.  Go  to  the  hucksters  oi 
the  town,  and  ask  them  if  they  will  buy  any 
more  butter  hke  the  last  of  yours  that  they 
bought,  and,  dej^end  on  it,  you  ^vill  find  out 
the  truth." 

"  Then  you  think,  sir,  it  was  my  wife  and 
son  between  them  that  stole  the  butter  ?  " 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  and  if  you  tell  them 
that  /  said  so,  they  will  confess  it.  You  owe 
me  five  shillings." 

The  farmer  put  his  hand  in  liis  pocket, 
and  placing  the  money  before  him,  left  the 
room,  satisfied  that  there  was  no  earthly 
subject,  past,  present,  or  to  come,  with 
which  the  learned  conjurer  was  not  ac- 
quainted. 


688 


WILLIAM  CABLETOiTS    WORKS. 


The  next  individual  that  came  before  him 
was  a  very  pretty  buxom  widow,  who,  having 
made  the' venerable  conjurer  a  courtesy,  sat 
iown  and  immediately  burst  into  tears. 

"  ^\Tiat  is  the  matter  with  you,  madam  ?  " 
asked  the  astrologer,  rather  surprised  at 
this  unaccountable  exhibition  of  the  pathetic. 

"0,  sir,  I  lost,  about  fifteen  months  ago, 
one  of  the  best  husbands  that  ever  broke  the 
world's  bread." 

Here  came  another  effusion,  accompanied 
with  a  very  distracted  blow  of  the  nose. 

"  That  must  have  been  veiy  distressing  to 
you,  madam ;  he  must  have  been  extremely 
fond  of  such  a  veiy  pretty  wife." 

"  O  sir,  he  doted  alive  upon  me,  as  I  did 
upon  him — poor,  darling  old  Paul." 

"  Ah,  he  was  old,  was  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  left  me  verj'  rich." 

"  But  what  do  you  wish  me  to  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  sii',  he  was  very  fond  of  money  ; 
was,  in  fact,  a — a — kind  of  miser  in  his  way. 
My  father  and  mother  forced  me  to  marry 
the  dear  old  man,  and  I  did  so  to  please 
them  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  very  kind 
in  his  manner  to  me — indeed,  so  kind  that 
he  allowed  me  a  shilling  a  month  for  pocket 
money." 

"  Well,  but  what  is  your  object  in  coming 
tome?" 

"  "Wliy,  sir,  to  ask  your  opinion  on  a  case 
of  great  difficulty." 

"Very  well,  madam;  you  shall  have  the 
best  opinion  in  the  known  world  upon  the 
subject — that  is,  as  soon  as  I  hear  it.  Speak 
out  without  hesitation,  and  conceal  nothing." 

"  Why,  su*,  the  poor  dear  man  before  his 
death — ah,  that  ever  my  darling  old  Paul 
should  have  been  taken  away  from  rie  ! — the 
poor  dear  man,  before  his  death — ahem — be- 
fore his  death — O,  ah," — here  came  another 
effusion — "began  to — to — to — get  jealous  of 
me  with  a  young  man  in  the  neighborhood 
that — that — I  was  fond  of  before  I  mamed 
my  dear  old  Paul." 

"  Was  the  young  man  in  question  hand- 
some ?  " 

"Indeed,  sir,  he  was,  and  is,  very  hand- 
some— and  the  impudent  minxes  of  the  parish 
are  throwing  their  eaps  at  him  in  dozens." 

"But  still  you  are  keeping  me  in  the 
dark." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  will  teU  you  my  difficulty. 
When  poor  dear  old  Paul  was  dying,  he 
called  me  to  the  bed-side  one  day,  and  says 
to  me  :  *  Biddy,'  says  he,  'I'm  going  to  die 
— and  you  know  I  am  wealthy  ;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  I  won't  leave  you  sixpence.'  'It's 
not  the  loss  of  yovir  money  I  am  thinking  of, 
my  darling  Paul,'  says  I,  'but  the  loss  of 
yourseK' — and  I  kissed  him,  and  cried. 
'You  didn't  often  kiss  me  that  way  before,' 


said  he — '  and  I  know  what  you're  kissing 
me  for  now.'  'No,'  I  said,  'I  did  not ;  be- 
cause I  had  no  notion  then  of  losing  you,  mj 
own  darling  Paul — you  don't  know  how  1 
loved  you  all  along,  Paul,'  said  I ;  'kiss  me 
again,  jewel.'  '  Now,'  said  he,  '  I'm  not  going 
to  leave  you  sixpence,  and  I'll  teU  you  why^ 
I  saw  young  Charley  Mulvany,  that  you  were 
coiu-tiug  before  I  married  you — I  saw  him,  1 
say,  through  the  veindy  there,  kiss  you,  with 
my  own  eyes,  when  you  thought  I  was  asleep 
— and  you  put  your  arms  about  his  neck  and 
hugged  him,'  said  he.  I  must  be  particular, 
sir,  in  order  that  you  may  understand  the 
difficulty  I"m  in." 

"  Proceed,  madam,"  said  the  conjurer.  "  If 
I  were  young  I  certainly  would  en\j  Charley 
Mulvany — but  proceed." 

"  W^eU,  sir,  I  repHed  to  him  :  '  Paul,  dear,' 
said  I,  '  that  was  a  kiss  of  friendship — and 
the  reason  of  it  was,  that  poor  Charley  was 
near  crying  when  he  heard  that  you  were 
going  to  die  and  to  leave  me  so  lonely,' 
'  Well,'  said  he,  '  that  may  be — many  a  thing 
may  be  that's  not  likely — and  that  may  be 
one  of  them.  Go  and  get  a  prayer-book,  and 
come  back  here.'  Well,  sir,  I  got  a  book  and 
went  back.  'Now,'  said  he,  'if  you  swear 
by  the  contents  of  that  book  that  you  will 
never  put  a  ring  on  man  after  my  death,  I'll 
leave  you  my  property.'  'Ah,  God  pardon 
you,  Paul,  darling,'  said  I,  '  for  supjDosing 
that  I'd  ever  dream  of  marrying  again ' — and 
I  couldn't  help  .kissing  him  once  more  and 
cx'jing  over  him  when  I  heard  what  he  said. 
'  Now,'  said  he,  '  kiss  the  book,  and  swear 
that  you'll  never  put  a  ring  on  man  after  my 
death,  and  I'll  leave  you  every  shilling  I'm 
worth.'  God  knows  it  was  a  trying  scene  to 
a  losing  heart  hke  mine — so  I  swore  that  I'd 
never  put  a  ring  on  man  after  his  death — and 
then  he  altered  his  will  and  left  me  the  prop 
erty  on  those  conditions." 

"Proceed,  madam,"  said  the  conjurer  ;  "I 
am  still  in  the  dark  as  to  the  object  of  your 
visit." 

"  Why,  sir,  it  is  to  know — ahem — O,  poor 
old  Paid.  Grod  forgive  me  !  it  was  to  know. 
sir-,  O " 

"  Don't  cry,  madam,  don't  cvj." 

"  It  was  to  know,  su-,  if  I  covdd  ever  think  oi 
— of — you  must  know,  sir,  we  had  no  family, 
and  I  would  not  wish  that  the  jDrojierty  should 
die  with  me  ;  to  know  if—  if  you  think  I 
could  venture  to  marry  again  ?  " 

"  Tliis,"  repHed  the  conjurer,  "is  a  matter 
of  uniTSual  importance  and  difficulty.  In 
the  first  place  you  must  hand  me  a  guinea — 
that  is  my  fee  for  cases  of  this  kind." 

The  money  was  immediately  paid,  and  the 
conjurer  proceeded  :  "I  said  it  was  a  case  oi 
gi-eat  difficult3%  and  so  it  is,  but " 


THE  EVIL   EYE ;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


689 


*'I  torj^t  lo  mention,  sir,  that  when  I  went 
5ut  to  get  the  prayer-book,  I  found  Charley 
Mulvany  in  the  next  room,  and  lie  said  he 
had  one  in  his  pocket ;  so  that  the  truth,  sir, 
is,  I — I  took  the  oath  ^ipon  a  book  of  ballads. 
Now,"  she  proceeded,  '  I  have  strong  reasons 
for  maiTying  Charley  Mulvany  ;  and  I  wish 
to  know  if  I  can  do  »)  without  losing  the 
property." 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  point,"  re- 
plied the  conjurer  ;  '"  you  swore  never  to  put 
a  ring  on  man,  but  you  did  not  swear  that  a 
man  would  never  put  a  ring  on  you.  Go  home," 
he  continued,  "  and  if  you  be  adWsed  by 
me,  you  Mill  marry  Chiirley  Mulvany  with- 
out loss  of  time." 

A  man  rather  advanced  in  j-ears  next  came 
in,  and  talking  his  seat,  wiped  his  face  and 
gave  a  deep  groan. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  the  conjurer,  "in 
what  way  can  I  serve  you  ?  " 

"  God  knows  it's  hard  to  tell  that,"  he  re- 
plied—" but  I'm  troubled." 

"  WTiat  troubles  you  ?  " 

"It's  a  quare  world,  sir,  altogether." 

"  There  are  many  strange  things  in  it  cer- 
tainly." 

"  That's  truth,  sir  ;  but  the  saison's  favor- 
able, thank  God,  and  there's  every  pros- 
pect of  a  fine  spring  for  puttin'  down  the 
crops." 

"  You  are  a  farmer,  then  ;  but  why  should 
you  feel  troubled  about  what  you  call  a  fine 
eeason  for  putting  do^Mi  the  crops  ?  " 

The  man  moved  uneasily  upon  his  chair,  and 
seemed  at  a  lo.ss  how  to  proceed  ;  the  con- 
jurer looked  at  him,  and  waited  for  a  little 
that  he  might  allow  him  sufficient  time  to 
disclose  his  difficulties. 

"  There  are  a  great  many  troubles  in  this 
life,  sir,  especially  in  married  families." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,  my  friend," 
replied  the  conjurer. 

"  No,  sir,  there  is  not.  I  am  not  aisy  in 
my  mind,  somehow." 

"  Hundreds  of  thousands  are  so,  as  well 
as  you,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  would  be 
glad  to  see  the  man  who  has  not  sonu'thinr/ 
to  trouble  him  ;  but  will  you  allow  me  to  ask 
you  wh  t  it  is  that  troubles  you?  " 

"I  took  her,  sir,  ^\'idout  a  shift  to  her 
back,  and  a  betther  husband  never  breathed 
the  breath  of  hfe  than  I  have  been  to  her  ; " 
and  then  he  paused,  and  pulling  out  his 
handkerchief,  shed  bitter  tear.s.  "  I  would 
love  her  still,  if  I  could,  sir  ;  but,  then,  the 
thing's  impossible." 

"  O,  yes,"  said  the  conjurer  ;  "  I  see  you 
are  jealous  of  her  ;  but  will  you  state  upon 
what  grounds?" 

"  "Well,  sir,  I  think  I  have  good  grounds 
for  it" 


"  ^\liat  description  of  a  woman  is  yoiu 
wife,  and  what  age  is  she  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  she's  about  my  own  age.  Sh( 
was  once  handsome  enough — indeed  ver; 
handsome  when  I  married  her." 

"  Was  the  marriage  a  cordial  one  betweei. 
you  and  her  ?  " 

"  AVTiy,  sir,  she  was  dotin'  upon  me,  as  ) 
was  upon  her  ?  " 

"  Have  you  had  a  family  ?  " 

"A  fine  family,  sir,  of  sons  and  daugh- 
ters." 

"  And  how  long  is  it  since  you  began  to 
suspect  her  ?  " 

"  \Miy,  sir,  I — I — well,  no  matther  about 
that ;  she  was  always  a  good  vnfe  and  a 
good  mother,  until — "  Here  he  paused,  and 
again  wiped  his  eyes. 

"  Until  what  ?  " 

"  ^Vhy,  sir,  until  Billy  Fulton,  the  fiddler, 
came  across  her." 

"Well,  and  what  did  Billy  Fulton  do?" 

"  He  ran  away  wid  my  ould  woman,  sir/' 

♦•  What  age  is  BiUy  Fulton  ?  " 

"About  my  own  age,  sir;  but  by  no 
means  so  stout  a  man  ;  he's  a  dancin'  ma.s- 
ther,  too,  sir ;  and  barrin'  his  pumps  and 
white  cotton  stockin's,  I  dont  know  what 
she  could  see  in  him  ;  he's  a  poor  hght 
crature,  and  walks  as  if  he  had  a  hump  on  his 
hip,  for  he  always  carries  his  fiddle  undhei 
his  sku't.  Ay,  aaid  what's  more,  sir,  oui 
daughter,  Nancy,  is  gone  off  wid  him." 

"The  devil  she  is.  "WTiy,  did  the  old 
dancing-master  run  off  with  both  of  them  ? 
How  long  is  it  since  this  elojiement  took 
place  ?  " 

"  Only  three  days,  sir." 

"  And  you  wish  me  to  assist  you?  " 

"  If  you  can,  sir  ;  and  I  ought  to  tell  you 
that  the  vagabone's  son  is  gone  oft'  wid  them 
too." 

"  O,  O,"  said  the  conjurer,  *'  that  makes 
the  matter  worse." 

"  Xo,  it  doesn't,  sir,  for  what  makes  the 
matter  worse  i.s,  that  they  took  away  a  hun- 
dred and  thirty  pounds  of  my  money  along 
wid  'era." 

"  Then  you  wish  to  know  what  I  can  do 
for  you  in  this  business  ?  " 

"  I  do,  sir,  i'  you  pLai.se." 

"  Were  you  ever  jealous  of  your  wife  be 
fore?" 

"  No,  not  exactly  jealous,  sir,  but  a  little 
suspicious  or  so  ;  I  didn't  think  it  aife  to  let 
her  out  much  ;  I  thought  it  no  harm  to  keep 
my  eye  on  her." 

"Now,"  said  the  conjurer,  "is  it  not  no- 
torious that  you  are  the  most  jealous — by 
the  way,  give  me  five  shillings  ;  I  can  make 
no  further  communications  till  I  am  paid  ; 
there — thank  vou — now,  is  it  not  notorioup 


390 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


that  you  are  one  of  the  most  jealous  old 
scoundrels  in  the  whole  country  ?  " 
.  "No,  sir,  barrin'  a  little  wholesome  sus- 
picion." 

"  Well,  sir,  go  home  about  your  business. 
Your  daughter  and  the  dancing  master's  son 
have  made  a- runaway  match  of  it,  and  your 
wife,  to  protect  the  character  of  her  daughter, 
has  gone  with  them.  You  are  a  miser,  too. 
Go  home,  now  ;  I  have  nothing  more  to  say 
to  you,  except  that  you  have  been  youi'self 
%  profligate.  Look  at  that  book,  su' ;  there 
it  is  ;  the  stai-s  have  told  me  so." 

"You  have  got  my  five  shillings,  sir  ;  but 
say  what  you  hke,  all  the  wather  in  the  ocean 
wouldn't  wash  her  clear  of  the  ould  dancin'- 
masther." 

In  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  a  beautiful 
peasant  girl  entered  the  room,  her  face 
mantled  with  blushes,  and  took  her  seat  on 
the  chair  as  the  others  had  done,  and  re- 
mained for  some  time  silent,  and  apparently 
panting  with  agitation. 

""What  is  youi"  name,  my  j)retty  girl?" 
asked  the  conjui'er. 

"  Grace  Davoren,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  And  what  do  you  wish  to  know  fi'om  me, 
Miss  Davoren  ?  " 

"  O,  don't  call  me  miss,  sir ;  I'm  but  a 
poor  girl." 

The  conjui-er  looked  into  his  book  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then,  raising  his  head,  and 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  her,  replied — 

"Yes,  I  will  call  you  miss,  because  I  have 
looked  into  your  fate,  and  I  see  that  there  is 
great  good  fortune  before  you." 

The  young  creature  blushed  again  and 
smiled  \A\h.  something  like  confidence,  but 
seemed  rather  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  or  how 
to  proceed. 

"From  3'our  extraordinary  beauty  you 
must  have  a  gi*eat  many  admii'ers,  Miss 
Davoren." 

"  But  only  two,  sir,  that  gives  me  any 
trouble — one  of  them  is  a " 

The  conjiu-er  raised  his  hand  as  an  inti- 
mation to  her  to  stoj),  and  after  poring  once 
more  over  the  book  for  some  time,  pro- 
ceeded : — 

"  Yes — one  of  them  is  Shaivn-na-Middogue  ; 
but  he's  an  outlaw — and  that  courtship  is  at 
an  end  now." 

"  Wid  me,  it  is,  sir ;  but  not  wid  him. 
Tlie  sogers  and  autoiities  is  out  for  him  and 
others  ;  but  stiU  he  keeps  watchin'  me  as 
close  as  he  can." 

"  Well,  wait  till  I  look  into  the  book  of 
fate  again — yes — yes — here  is — a  gentleman 
over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  you." 

Poor  Grace  blushed,  then  became  quite 
Dale.  "  But,  sir,"  said  she,  "  will  the  gentle- 
tian  marry  me  ?  " 


"To  be  sure  he  will  marry  you •,  but  he 
cannot  for  some  time." 

"  But  will  he  save  me  from  disgrace  and 
shame,  sir  ? "  she  asked,  with  a  death-like 
face. 

"  Don't  make  your  mind  uneasy  on  that 
point ; — but  wait  a  moment  tiU  I  find  out  his 
name  in  the  great  book  of  fatahty  ; — yes,  1 
see — his  name  is  Woodward.  Don't,  how- 
ever, make  your  mind  uneasy  ;  he  will  take 
care  of  you." 

"  My  mind  is  very  uneasy,  sir,  and  I  wish 
I  had  never  seen  him.  But  I  don't  know 
what  could  make  him  fall  in  love  wid  a  poor 
simple  girl  like  me." 

This  was  said  in  the  coquettish  con- 
sciousness of  the  beauty  which  she  knew 
she  possessed,  and  it  was  accompanied,  too, 
by  a  sHght  smile  of  self-complacency. 

"Do  you  think  I  could  become  a  lady, 
sir  ?  " 

"  A  lady !  why,  what  is  to  prevent  you  ? 
You  are  a  lady  already.  You  want  nothing 
but  silks  and  satins,  jewels  and  gold  rings, 
to  make  you  a  perfect  lady." 

"  And  he  has  promised  all  these  to  me," 
she  replied. 

"  Yes  ;  but  there  is  one  thing  you  ought 
to  do  for  your  owti  sake  and  his — and  that 
is  to  betray  Shawn-na-Middogue,  if  you  can  ; 
because  if  you  do  not,  neither  your  own  life, 
nor  that  of  your  lover,  ]Mr.  Woodward,  will 
be  safe." 

"I  couldn't  do  that,  sir,"  i-eplied  the  girl  ; 
"  it  would  be  treacherous  ;  and  sooner  than 
do  so,  I'd  just  as  soon  he  would  kiU  me  at 
wanst — still  I  would  do  a  great  deal  to  save 
Mr.  Woodward.  But  will  Mr.  W^oodward 
marry  me,  sir  ?  because  he  said  he  would — 
in  the  coorse  of  some  time." 

"  And  if  he  said  so  don't  be  uneasy ;  he  is 
a  gentleman,  and  a  gentleman,  you  know, 
always  keejDS  his  word.  Don't  be  alarmed, 
my  pretty  girl — your  lover  will  provide  for 
you." 

"  Am  I  to  pay  you  anything,  sir  ?  "  she 
asked,  rising. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  wiU  take  no  money  from 
you  ;  but  if  you  wish  to  save  ]\Ii'.  Woodward 
from  danger,  you  vdll  enable  the  soldiers  to 
arrest  Shawn-na-3Iiddogue.  Even  you,  your- 
self, are  not  safe  so  long  as  he  is  at  large." 

She  then  took  her  leave  iu  silence. 

It  is  not  to  be  supi:)osed  that  among  the 
crowd  that  was  assembled  around  the  inn 
door  there  were  not  a  number  of  waggish 
characters,  who  felt  strongly  inclined  to 
have,  if  possible,  a  hearty  laugh  at  the 
great  conjurer.  No  matter  what  state  of  so- 
ciety may  exist,  or  what  state  of  feehng 
may  prevail,  there  will  always  be  found  a 
class  of  persons  who   are  exceptions  to  the 


THE  KVJL   KYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


09. 


general  rule.  Whilst  the  people  were  chat- 
ting ill  wonder  and  admiration,  not  without 
awe  and  fear,  concernin<T  the  extraordinary 
knowledge  and  power  of  the  conjurer,  a 
chai'acter  peculiar  to  aU  times  and  all  ages 
made  his  appearance,  and  soon  joined  them. 
This  was  one  of  those  ciiciilatiug,  unsettled 
vagabonds,  wliom,  like  scum,  society,  whether 
igitateii  or  not,  is  always  sure  to  throw  on 
the  surface.  The  comictd  miscreant  no 
sooner  made  his  appearance  than,  hke  Lis- 
ton,  when  coining  on  the  stage,  he  was 
greeted  with  a  general  roar  of  laughter. 

"  So,"  said  he,  "  you  have  a  conjurer  above. 
But  wait  a  while ;  by  the  powdhcrs  o'  delf 
Rantin'  liody's  the  boy  will  try  his  mettle. 
If  he  can  look  farther  tlian  his  nose,  I'm  tlie 
lad  will  hud  it  out.  If  he  doesn't  say  I'll  be 
hanged,  he  knows  nothing  about  his  busi- 
ness. I  have  mj'self  half-a-dozen  hangmen 
engaged  to  let  me  do\\Ti  aisy  ;  it's  a  death 
I've  a  great  fancy  for,  and,  plaise  God,  I'm 
workiu'  honestly  to  desarve  it.  Which  of 
you  has  a  cow  to  steal  ?  for,  by  the  sweets  o' 
rosin,  I'm  low  in  cash,  and  want  a  thrifle  to 
support  nather  ;  for  nather,  my  boys,  must 
be  supported,  and  it  was  never  my  intintion 
to  die  for  want  o'  my  vittles  ;  aitin'  and 
drinkin'  is  not  very  pleasant  to  most  people, 
I  know,  but  I  was  bom  wid  a  fancy  for 
both." 

"  Rantin'  Rody,  in  airnest,  will  you  go  uj) 
and  have  your  fortune  tould  ?  " 

"  But  wait,"  he  proceeded  ;  "  wait,  I  say, 
— wiiit, — I  have  it."  And  as  he  said  so  he 
went  at  the  top  of  his  speed  down  the  street, 
and  disappeared  in  Sol  Donuel's  cabin. 

"  By  this  and  by  that,"  said  one  of  them, 
"  Rantin'  Rody  will  tiike  spunk  out  of  him, 
if  it's  in  him." 

"I  think  he  had  better  have  notin'  to  do 
wid  him,"  said  an  old  woman,  "  for  fraid  he'd 
n'-sv;  the  de^•il — Lord  guard  us  !  Sure  it's  the 
same  man  that  was  in  this  very  towTi  the 
nig]  it  he  was  viz  before,  and  that  the  bonfire 
for  Suil  Balor  (the  eye  of  Balor,  or  the  Ei-'d 
Eij'')  Woodward  was  dro\\Tied  by  a  shower 
of  blood.  Troth  I  wouldn't  be  in  the  same 
Woodward's  coat  for  the  Avealth  o'  the  world. 
As  for  Rantin'  Rody,  let  him  take  care  of 
himself.  It's  never  safe  to  sport  wid  edged 
tools,  and  he'll  be  apt  to  find  it  so,  if  he 
attempts  to  put  his  tricks  upon  the  con- 
jurer." 

In  the  meantime,  while  that  gentleman 
was  seated  above  stairs,  a  female,  tall,  sUm, 
and  considerably  advanced  in  years,  entered 
the  room  and  took  her  seat.  Her  face  was 
thin,  and  red  in  complexion,  especially  about 
the  point  of  a  rather  long  nose,  wliere  the 
color  appeared  to  be  considerably  deeper  in 
tiut. 


"Sir,"  said  she,  in  a  sharjj  tone  of  voice, 
"I'm  told  you  can  tell  fortunes." 

"  Certainly,  madam,"  lie  rephed,  "  you 
have  been  correctly  informed." 

"  You  won't  be  offended,  then,  if  I  wish  to 
ask  you  a  question  or  two.  It's  not  about 
myself,  but  a  sister  of  mine,  who  is — ahem — 
what  the  censorious  world  is  pleased  to  call 
an  old  maid." 

"  Why  did  your  sister  not  come  herself?  " 
he  asked  ;  "  I  cannot  predict  anything  unless 
the  individual  is  before  me  ;  I  must  hare 
him  or  her,  as  the  case  may  be,  under  mj 
eye." 

"  Bless  me,  sir !  I  didn't  know  that ;  but 
as  I  am  now  here — could  you  teU  me  any- 
thing about  myself  ?  " 

"  I  could  tell  you  many  things,"  replied 
the  conjurer,  who  read  old  maid  in  every 
hne  of  her  face — "many  things  liot  very 
l^leasant  for  you  to  reflect  upon." 

"  O,  but  I  don't  \\-ish  to  hear  anything  un- 
pleasant," said  she ;  "  tell  me  something 
that's  agreeable." 

"In  the  tu'st  place,  I  cannot  do  so,"  he 
replied  ;  "I  must  be  guided  by  truth.  You 
have,  for  instance,  been  guilty  of  great  ci*u- 
elty  ;  and  although  you  lu-e  but  a  yoimg  wo- 
man, in  the  very  bloom  of  life " 

Here  the  lady  bowed  to  liim,  and  simpered 
— her  thin,  red  nose  twisted  into  a  gracious 
cuil,  as  thanking  him  for  his  poUteness. 

"  In  the  very  prime  of  Hfe,  madam — yet 
you  have  much  to  be  accountable  for,  in  con- 
sequence of  your  very  heartless  cruelty  to 
the  male  sex — you  see,  madam,  and  you  feel, 
too,  that  I  speak  truth." 

The  lady  put  the  spectre  of  an  old  fan  up 
to  her  "VN-itliered  visage,  and  pretended  to 
enact  a  blush  of  admission. 

"  Well,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  I — I — I  cannot 
say  but  that — indeed  I  have  been  charged 
with — not  that  it — cnielty — I  mean — was 
ever  in  my  heai't ;  but  you  must  admit,  sir, 
that — that — in  fact — where  too  many  press 
upon  a  person,  it  is  the  more  difficult  to 
choose." 

"  Unquestionably ;  but  you  should  have 
made  a  judicious  selection — and  that  was 
because  you  were  in  no  hurr}* — and  indeed 
you  need  not  be  ;  you  have  plenty  of  time 
before  you.  Still,  there  is  much  blame  at- 
tached to  you — you  have  defrauded  society 
of  its  rights.  \Miy,  now,  you  might  have 
been  the  proud  mother  of  a  son  or  daughter 
at  least  five  years  old  by  this  tune,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  your  own  obduracy — excuse 
me." 

Up  went  the  skeleton  fan  again  with  a 
wonderfully  modest  if  not  an  offended  sim- 
per at  the  notion  of  such  an  insinuation:  but, 
said  she  in  her  heart,  this  is  tlie  most  gen 


692 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


tlemanly  conjurer  that  ever  told  a  fortune  ; 
qui*:e  a  delightful  old  gentleman ;  he  is 
really  charming  ;  I  wish  I  had  met  him 
twenty  years  ago." 

"Well,  sir,"  she  repHed,  "I  see  there  is  no 
use  in  den^ong — especially  to  you,v,']io  seem  to 
know  ever}-thing — the  truth  of  the  facts  you 
have  stated.  There  was  one  gentleman  in 
particular  whom  I  rejected — that  is,  con- 
ditionally— rather  harshly ;  and  do  you  know, 
he  took  the  scarlet- fever  soon  afterwards  tmd 
died  of  a  broken-heart." 

"  Go  on,  madam,"  said  he  ;  "  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it — so  shall  you  enable  me  to  com- 
pare the  future  with  the  past,  and  state 
your  coming  fortunes  more  distinctly." 

"Another  gentleman,  sii-  —  a  country 
squire — owes,  I  fear,  his  death  to  my  severity; 
he  was  a  hard  drinker,  but  I  gave  him  a 
month  to  reform — which  sentence  he  took  so 
much  to  heart  that  he  broke  his  neck  in  a  fox- 
cliase  from  mere  despair.  A  thii'd  indi-sddual 
— a  very  handsome  young  man — of  whom  I 
must  confess  I  was  a  httle  jealous  about  his 
flii'ting  with  another  young  lad}' — felt  such 
remorse  that  he  absolutely  ran  away  with 
and  married  her.  I  know,  of  course,  I  am 
accountable  for  all  these  calamities  ;  but  it 
cannot  be  helped  now — my  conscience  must 
beai'  it." 

"  You  should  not  look  back  upon  these 
things  with  too  much  remorse,"  rephed  the 
conjurer  ;  "  forget  them — bear  a  more  relent- 
ing heart ;  make  some  man  happy,  and 
marry.  Have  you  no  person  at  present  in 
youi'  eye  with  whom  you  could  share  your 
charms  and  your  fortune  ?  " 

"  O,  sir,  you  are  comphmentary." 

"  Not  at  all,  madam  ;  speak  to  me  can- 
didly, as  you  perceive  I  do  to  you. " 

""Well,  then,"  she  rephed,  "there  is  a 
young  gentleman  with  whom  I  should  wish  to 
enter  into  a — a  domestic — that  is — a  matri- 
monial connection." 

"  Pray  what  age  is  he  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  he  is  but  y-oung,  scarce  nineteen  ; 
but  then  he  is  very  wild,  and  I — I — have — 
indeed  I  am  of  too  kind  a  heart,  sir.  I  have 
supplied  his  extravagance — for  so  I  must  call 
it — poor  boy — but  cannot  exactly  get  him  to 
accept  a  legitimate  right  over  me — I  fear  he 
is  attached  elsewhere — but  you  know  he  is 
young,  sir,  and  not  come  to  his  ripe  judg- 
ment yet.  I  read  your  handhill,  sir  ;  and  if 
you  could  furnish  me  with  a — something — 
ahem — that  might  enable  me  to  gain,  or 
rather  to  restore  his  affections — for  I  think 
he  was  fond  of  me  some  few  months  ago — I 
would  not  grudge  whatever  the  payment 
might  be." 

"You  mean  a  philter?  " 

''I  beheve  that  is  what  it  is  called,  sir." 


"  Well,  madam,  you  shall  be  supplied  -with 
a  philter  that  never  fails,  on  the  payment  o! 
twenty-cne  shillings.  This,  philter,  madam, 
win  not  only  make  him  fond  of  you  before 
marriage,  but  will  secure  his  affections 
during  life,  increasing  them  day  by  day,  sc 
that  every  month  of  your  hves  will  be  a  deli 
cious  honeymoon.  There  is  another  bottle 
at  the  same  price  ;  it  may  not,  indeed,  be 
necessaiy  for  you,  but  I  can  assure  you  that 
it  has  made  many  famihes  happy  where 
there  had  been  previously  but  httle  prospect 
of  happiness  ;  the  price  is  the  same — twenty- 
one  shillings." 

Up  went  the  spectral  fan  again,  and  out 
came  the  forty-tAvo  shillings,  and,  with  a 
formal  coui'tesy,  the  venerable  old  maid 
walked  away  with  the  two  bottles  of  aqua 
2ntra  in  her  pocket. 

Now  came  the  test  for  the  conjurer's 
knowledge — the  sharj)  and  imexpected  trial 
of  his  skill  and  sagacity.  After  the  old  maid 
had  taken  her  leave,  possessed  of  the  two 
bottles,  a  middle-aged,  large-sized  woman 
walked  in,  and,  after  making  a  low  courtesy, 
sat  down  as  she  had  been  desired.  The 
conjurer  glanced  keenly  at  her,  and  some- 
thing hke  a  smile  might  be  seen  to  settle 
upon  his  features  ;  it  was  so  slight,  however, 
that  the  good  woman  did  not  notice  it. 

"Pray,  what's  the  object  of  your  visit  tc 
me,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  My  husband,  sir — he  runn'd  away  from 
me,  sure." 

"  Small  blame  to  him,"  repHed  the  con- 
jurer. "  If  I  had  such  a  wife  I  would  not  re- 
main a  single  hour  in  her  company." 

"And  is  that  the  tratement  you  give  a 
lieai't-broken  and  desarced  crature  like  me  ?  " 

"  Come,  what  made  him  run  away  from 
you?" 

"In  regard,  sir,  of  a  dishke  he  took  to 
me." 

"That  was  a  proof  that  the  man  had  some 
taste." 

"Ay,  but  why  hadn't  he  that  taste  afore  he 
married  me  ?  " 

"It  was  very  well  that  he  had  it  after« 
wards — better  late  than  never." 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  ine  where  he  is." 

"  AMiat  family  have  you  ?  " 

"  Seven  small  childi-e  that's  now  fatherless, 
I  may  say." 

"What  kind  of  a  man  was  your  hus- 
band ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed,  as  handsome  a  vagabone 
as  you'd  see  in  a  day's  travellin'." 

"Mention  his  name  ;  I  can  tell  you  noth- 
ing till  I  hear  it." 

"  He's  called  Rant  in'  Rody,  the  thief,  anc? 
a  gi'eat  schamer  he  is  among  the  girls." 

"  Ranting  Rody — let  me  see,"  and  here  h« 


TUE  EVIL  ElE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


693 


looked  very  solemnly  into  his  book — "yes  ; 
I  see — a  halter.  My  good  woman,  you  had 
better  not  inquire  after  him  ;  he  was  born 
to  be  hanged." 

"  But  when  will  that  happen,  sir  ?  " 

"  Your  fate  and  his  are  so  closely  united, 
that,  wlienever  he  swings,  you  \vill  sT^•ing. 
You  will  both  hang  together  from  the  same 
gallows  ;  so  that,  in  point  of  fact,  you  need 
not  give  yourself  much  trouble  about  the 
time  of  his  suspension,  because  I  see  it  wi-it- 
ten  here  in  the  book  of  fate,  that  the  same 
hangman  who  SNvings  you  otf,  wiU  swing 
him  otf  at  the  same  moment.  Youll  die 
lovingly  together  ;  and  when  he  puts  his 
tongue  out  at  those  who  will  attend  his  exe- 
cution, so  will  you  ;  and  when  lie  dances  his 
last  jig  in  their  presence,  so  wUl  you.  Are 
you  now  satisfied  ?  " 

'•  Troth,  and  I'm  veiy  fond  o'  the  vaga- 
bone,  although  he's  the  worst  friend  I  ever 
had.  But  jou  won't  teU  me  where  he  is  ?  and 
I  know  wliy,  because,  A\"ith  all  your  pretended 
knowledge,  the  devil  a  know  you  know." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  " 

"  Ay,  cocksure." 

"  Then  I  can  teU  you  that  he  is  sitting  on 
the  chair  there,  opposite  me.  Go  about 
your  business,  Rody,  and  rant  elsewhere  ; 
you  may  impose  upon  others,  but  not  upon 
a  man  that  can  penetrate  the  secrets  of  hu- 
man hfe  as  I  can.  Go  now ;  there  is  a 
white  wand  in  the  comer, — my  conjuring 
rod, — and  if  I  only  touched  you  with  it,  I 
could  leave  you  a  cripple  and  beggar  for  hfe. 
Go,  I  siiy,  and  tell  Caterine  Collins  how 
much  she  and  you  gained  by  this  attempt  at 
disgracing  me." 

Rody,  for  it  was  he,  was  thunderstruck  at 
this  discovery,  and,  springing  to  his  feet, 
disappeared. 

"Well,  Rody,"  said  the  crowd,  "  how  did 
you  manage  ?     Did  he  know  you  ?  " 

Rody  was  as  white  in  the  face  as  a  sheet. 
"  Let  me  alone,"  he  replied  ;  "  the  conjurer 
above  is  the  devil,  and  nothiu'  else.  I  must 
get  a  glass  o'  whiskey  ;  I'm  near  faintin'  ; 
I'm  as  wake  as  a  child  ;  my  strength's  gone, 
The  man,  or  the  devil,  or  whatsomever  he  is, 
knows  everv-thing,  and,  what  is  worse,  he 
tould  me  I  am  to  be  hanged  in  earnest." 

"  Fiiith,  Rody,  that  required  no  great 
knowledge  on  his  part ;  there's  not  a  man 
bore  but  could  have  tould  you  the  same 
thing,  and  thei'e's  none  of  us  a  conjurer." 

Rody,  however,  immediately  left  them  to 
discuss  the  matter  among  themselves,  and 
went,  thoi'oughly  crestfallen,  to  give  an  ac- 
count of  his  mission  to  Cacerine  CoUins,  who 
had  employed  him,  and  to  reassume  his  own 
clothes,  which,  indeed,  were  by  no  means 
fresh  from  the  tailor. 


I  The  last  individual  whose  interview  with 
the  conjurer  we  shall  notice  was  no  other 

'  tlian  Harry  "Woodward,  our  hero.     On  enr 

:  tering  he  took  his  seat,  and  looked  familiarly 

i  at  the  conjurer. 

'  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  there  was  no  recogni- 
tion ?  " 

"  How  could  there  ?  "  replied  the  other  • 
"  you  know  the  thing's  impossible ;  even 
without  my  beard,  nobody  in  the  town  or 
about  it  knows  my  face,  and  to  those  who 
see  me  in  character,  they  have  other  things 

'  to  think  of  than  the  perusal  of  my  features." 

j       "  The  giii  was  with  you  ?  " 

i  "  She  was,  and  I  feel  that,  unless  we  can  get 
Shaiox-na-Middogne  taken  off  by  some  means 
or  otlier,  your  life  will  not,  cannot,  be  safe." 
"  She  won't  betray  him,  then  ?  But  I  need 
not  ask,  for  I  have  pressed  her  upon  thai 
matter  before." 

"She  is  veiT  right  in  not  doing  so,"  re- 
phed  the  conjurer  ;  "  because,  if  she  did,  the 
consequence  would  be  destruction  to  herseh 
and  her  family.   In  addition  to  this,  however, 

\  I  don't  think  it's  in  her  power  to  betray  hhn. 

\  He  never  sleeps  more  than  one  night  in  the 
same  place  ;  and  since  her  recent  conduct  to 
him — I  mean  since  her  intimacy  with  you— 
he  would  place  no  confidence  in  her." 

"  He  certainly  is  not  aware  of  our  inti- 
macy." 

"  Of  course  he  is  not ;  you  would  soo). 
know  it  to  your  cost  if  he  wf^re.  The  place 
of  your  rendezvous  is  somewhat  too  neat 
civilization  for  him ;  you  should,  however, 
change  it ;  never  meet  twice  in  the  same 
place,  if  you  can." 

"  You  are  reaping  a  tolerably  good  harvest 
here,  I  suppose.  Do  they  ever  place  you  in 
a  difficulty  ?  " 

"  Difficulty  I  God  help  you  ;  there  is  not 
an  individual  among  them,  or  throughout 
the  whole  parish,  with  whose  persons,  circvmi- 
stances,  and  characters  I  am  not  acquainted  ; 
but  even  if  it  were  not  so,  I  could  make 
them  give  me  unconsciously  the  veiy  infor- 
mation they  want — returned  to  them,  of 
course,  in  a  new  shape.  I  make  them  state 
the  facts,  and  I  di-tiw  the  inferences  ;  noth- 
ing is  easier  ;  it  is  a  trick  that  every  impos- 
tor is  master  of.  How  do  3'ou  proceed  with 
^liss  Goodwin  ?  " 

"  That  matter  is  hopeless  by  fair  means — 

she's  in  love  with  that  d d  brother  ol 

mine." 

"  No  chance  of  the  property,  then  ?  " 
"  Not  as  affairs  stand  at  present ;  we  must, 
however,    maintain   our  intimacy ;  if  so,    J 
won't  despair  yet." 

"  But  what  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  If  shfl 
manies  your  brother  the  property  goes  to 
him — Mid  you  may  go  whistle." 


f94 


W/LLIAM  CAIiLETON'S  WORKS. 


"I  don't  give  it  np,  tlioucjb — I  bear  a 
brain  still,  T  think  ;  but  the  truth  is,  I  have 
not  completed  my  plan  of  operations.  What 
1  am  to  do,  I  know  not  yet  exactly.  If  I 
could  break  oft'  the  match  between  her  and 
my  brother,  she  might  probably,  through 
the  influence  of  her  parents  and  other  causes, 
be  persuaded  into  a  reluctant  marriage  with 
Harry  Woodward  ;  time,  however,  will  tell, 
and  I  must  only  work  my  way  through  the 
diiiiculty  as  well  as  I  can.  I  will  now  leave 
you,  and  I  don't  think  I  shall  be  able  to  see 
you  again  for  a  week  to  come." 

"  Before  you  go  let  me  ask  if  you  know  a 
vagabond  called  Eantiiig  Body,  who  goes 
about  through  the  country  living  no  one 
knows  how  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  know  him  ;  what  is  he  ?  " 

"  He's  nothing  except  a  paramour  of  Cat- 
erine  Collins's,  who,  you  know,  is  a  rival  of 
ours  ;  nobody  here  knows  anything  about 
him,  whilst  he,  it  appears,  knows  eveiy  one 
and  everything." 

"  He  would  make  a  good  conjurer,"  re- 
plied Woodward,  smiling. 

"If  the  fellow  could  be  depended  on,"  re- 
plied the  other,  "  he  might  be  useful  ;  in 
fact,  I  am  of  opinion  that  if  he  wished  he 
could  trace  Shawn-na-JIiddor/ue's  haunts. 
The  scoundrel  attempted  just  now  to  impose 
upon  me  in  the  dress  of  a  woman,  and,  were 
it  not  that  I  knew  him  so  well,  he  might  have 
got  my  beard  stripped  from  my  face,  and 
my  bones  broken  besides  ;  but  I  feel  confi- 
dent that  if  any  one  could  trace  and  seciu*e 
the  outlaw,  he  could — I  mean  with  proper 
assistance.     Think  of  this." 

"  I  shall  find  him  out,"  replied  Woodward, 
"  and  sound  him,  at  all  events,  and  I  think 
through  Caterine  Collins  I  may  possibly 
secvu'e  him  ;  but  we  must  be  cautious. 
Good-by  ;  I  wish  you  success  !  " 

After  which  he  passed  through  the  crowd, 
exclaiming, 

"A  wonderful  man — an  astonishing  mm 
— and  a  feai'ful  man  ;  that  is  if  he  6e  a  man, 
which  I  very  much  doubt." 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

ForUine-tfJIing. 

EvEE  since  the  night  of  the  bonfire  Wood- 
w^ard's  chai'acter  became  involved  more  or 
less  in  a  mj'stery  that  was  peculiar  to  the 
time  and  the  superstitions  of  the  period. 
That  he  possessed  the  Evil  Eye  was  whis- 
pered about ;  and  wliat  was  still  more 
strange,  it  was  not  Ids  wish  that  such  ru- 
*uors  should  be  suppressed.     Tliey  had  not 


yet,  however,  reached  either  Alice  Goodwit 
or  her  parents.  In  the  meantime  the  feel- 
ings of  the  two  famihes  were  once  more 
suspended  in  a  kind  of  neutral  opposition, 
each  awaiting  the  other  to  make  the  first 
advance.  Poor  Alice,  however,  appeared 
rather  declining  in  health  and  spirits,  for, 
notwithstanding  her  firm  and  generous  de- 
fence of  Charles  Lindsay,  his  brother,  to  a 
certain  extent,  succeeded  in  shaking  her 
confidence  in  his  attachment.  Her  parents 
frequently  asked  her  the  cause  of  her  appar- 
ent melancholy,  but  she  only  gave  them 
evasive  replies,  and  stated  that  she  had  not 
felt  herself  very  weU  since  Henry  Wood- 
ward's last  interview  with  her. 

They  now  ui'ged  her  to  take  exercise — 
against  which,  indeed,  she  always  had  a 
constitutional  repugnance — and  not  to  sit 
so  much  in  her  own  room  as  she  did ;  and 
in  order  to  comply  with  their  wishes  in  this 
respect,  she  forced  herself  to  wglk  a  couple 
of  hours  each  day  in  the  lawn,  where  she 
generally  read  a  boolf,  for  the  pui-pose,  if 
possible,  of  overcoming  her  habitual  melan- 
choly. It  was  upon  one  of  these  occasions 
that  she  saw  the  fortune-teller,  Caterine  Col-' 
lius,  approach  her,  and  as  her  spirits  were 
unusually  depressed  for  the  moment,  she 
felt  no  inclination  to  enter  into  an}'  conver- 
sation with  her.  Naturally  courteous,  how- 
ever, and  reluctant  to  give  offence,  she  al- 
lowed the  woman  to  advance,  especially  as 
she  could  perceive  from  the  earnestness  of 
her  manner  that  she  was  anxious  to  speak 
with  her. 

"  Well,  Cateiine,"  said  she,  "  I  hope  you 
are  not  coming  to  tell  my  fortune  to-day  ;  I 
am  not  in  sjDirits  to  hear  much  of  the  future, 
be  it  good  or  bad.  Will  you  not  go  up  to 
the  house  ?  They  will  give  you  something 
to  eat." 

"  Thank  you,  IMiss  Alice,  I  will  go  up  by 
and  by  ;  but  in  the  manetime,  what  fortune 
could  any  one  teU  you  but  good  fortune? 
There's  nothin'  else  before  you  ;  and  if  there 
is,  I'm  come  to  put  you  on  your  guard 
against  it,  as  I  will,  plaise  goodness.  1 
heard  what  I'm  goin'  to  mention  to  you  on 
good  autoiity,  and,  as  I  know  it's  true,  1 
think  it's  but  right  you  should  know  of  it,  too." 

Alice  immediately  became  agitated  ;  but 
mingled  with  that  agitation  was  a  natural 
wish — perhaps  it  might  be  a  pardonable  curi- 
osity, under  the  circumstances — to  hear  how 
what  the  woman  had  to  disclose  could  af- 
fect herself.  Being  nervous,  restless,  and 
depressed,  she  was  just  in  the  very  frame  oi 
mind  to  receive  such  an  imj^ression  as  might 
be  deeply  prejudicial  to  the  ease  of  her  heart 
— perhaps  her  happiness,  and  consequently 
her  healtb. 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


695 


"  Wliat  is  it  that  you  thiuk  I  should  know, 
Caterine  ?  " 

Caterine,  who  looked  about  her  furtively, 
as  if  to  satisfy  herself  that  there  was  no  one 
present  but  themselves,  said, — 

"  Now,  Miss  Goodwin,  everj'thing  depends 
on  whether  you'll  answer  me  one  question 
ti-uly,  and  you  needn't  be  afeard  to  spake  the 
truth  to  me." 

"  Is  it  concerning  myself?" 

"It  is.  Miss  Goodwin,  and  another,  too, 
but  principally  yourself." 

"  But  what  right  have  you,  Cateiine,  to 
question  me  ujjon  my  own  affairs  ?  " 

"  No  right,  miss  ;  but  I  wish  to  prevent 
you  fi'om  harm." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  good  ^\^shes,  Cate- 
rine ;  but  what  is  it  you  would  say  ?  " 

"  Is  it  true.  Miss  AUce,  that  you  and  ]\Ir. 
Woodward  are  coortin'  ?  "  i 

"It  is  not,  Caterine,"  replied  Alice,  utter-  | 
ing  the  tlisavowal  with  a  good  deal  of  earnest-  | 
ness  ;  "  there  is  no  truth  whatsoever  in  it ;  ; 
nothing  can  be  more  false  and  groimdless — 
[  wonder  how  such  a  rumor  could  have  got 
abroad  ;  it  ceiiainly  could  not  ftroceed  fi'om 
Mr.  Woodward." 

"  It  did  not,  indeed,  !Miss  ^Uice  ;  but  it  did 
from  his  brother,  who,  it  seems,  is  very  fond  ' 
of  him,  and  said  he  was  glad  of  it ;   but  in- 
deed, miss,  it  delights  my  heart  to  hear  that  ! 
there  is  no  truth  in  it.     ^Ir.  Woodward,  God  ' 
save  us  !  is  no  fit  husband  for  any  Christian 
woman."  j 

"  "Wliy  so?"  asked  Alice,  laboring  xmder  I 
some  vague  sense  of  alarm. 

"  AiMiy,  Heavenh-  Father !  jNEss  Alice, 
sure  it's  well  known  he  has  the  Evil  Eye  ; 
it's  in  the  family  upon  his  mother's  side." 

"  My  God  ! "  exclaimed  Alice,  who  became 
instantly  as  pale  as  death,  "  if  that  be  true, 
Caterine,  it's  shocking." 

"  True,"  replied  Caterine  ;  "  did  you  never  i 
observe  his  eyes  ?  " 

"  Not  particularly."  I 

"  Did  you  remark  that  they're  of  different  | 
colors  V    that  one  of  them  is  as  black  as  the 
devil's,  and  the  otlier  a  gi'ay  ?  " 

"I  never  observed  that,"  replied  Alice,  who 
really  never  hatl. 

"  Yes,  and  I  could  tell  you  more  than  that' 
about  him,"  proceeded  Caterine  ;  "  they  say 
he's  connected  wid  what's  not  good.  Sure, 
when  they  got  up  a  bontire  for  him,  doesn't 
aU  the  world  know  that  it  was  put  out  l)y  a 
shower  of  blood  ;  and  that's  a  proof  that 
he's  a  favorite  wid  the  devil  and  the  fairies."  , 

"I  believe,"  replied  Alice,  "that  there  is 
no  doubt  whatsoever  about  the  shower  of 
blood  ;  but  I  should  not  consider  that  fact 
as  proof  that  he  is  a  favorite  -o-ith  either  the 
devil  or  the  fairies. " 


"  Ay,  but  you  don't  know,  miss,  that  thafi 
the  way  Oieij  have  of  sho^vin'  it.  Then,  ever 
since  he  has  come  to  the  country,  Bet  Har- 
ramount,  the  witch,  in  the  shape  of  a  white 
hare,  is  come  back  to  the  neighborhood, 
and  the  Shawn-iihinne-dhuv  is  now  seen  about 
the  Haunted  House,  oftener  than  he  ever 
was.  It's  well  known  that  the  white  hare 
plays  about  !Mr.  Woodward  hke  a  dog,  and 
that  she  goes  into  the  Haunted  House,  too, 
every  night." 

"And  what  brought  you  to  tell  me  all 
this,  Caterine  ?  "  asked  Alice. 

"  Why,  miss,  to  put  you  on  your  guard  ; 
afraid  you  might  get  maiTied  to  a  man  that, 
maj'be,  has  sould  himself  to  the  devil.  It's 
well  known  by  his  father's  sanints  that  he's 
out  two  or  three  nights  in  the  week,  and  no- 
body can  tell  where  he  goes." 

"  Are  the  .  seiTants  your  authority  for 
that?" 

"  Indeed  they  are  ;  Barney  Casey  knows  a 
gi'eat  deal  about  him.  Now,  Miss  Alice,  you're 
on  your  guard  ;  have  nothing  to  do  wid  him 
as  a  sweetheart ;  but  above  all  things  don't 
fall  out  wid  him,  bekaise,  if  you  did,  as  sure 
as  I  stand  here  he'd  wither  you  oft'  o'  the 
earth.  And  above  all  things  again  watch  his 
eyes  ;  I  mane  the  black  one,  but  don't  seem 
to  do  so  ;  and  now  good-by,  miss  ;  I've  done 
my  duty  to  you." 

"But  about  his  brother,  Caterine?  He 
has  not  the  Evil  Eye,  I  hope  ?  " 

"All,  miss,  I  could  tell  you  something 
about  him,  too.  They're  a  bad  graft.,  these 
Lindsays  ;  there's  Mr.  Charles,  and  it's  whis- 
pered he's  goin'  to  make  a  fool  of  himself 
and  disgrace  his  family." 

"How  is  that,  Caterine  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  rightly  ;  I  didn't  hear  the 
particukirs  ;  but  I'll  be  on  the  watch,  and 
when  I  can  I'll  let  you  know  it." 

"Take  no  such  trouble,  Cateiine,"  said 
Alice  ;  "I  assure  you  I  feel  no  personal 
interest  whatsoever  in  any  of  the  family  ex- 
cept Miss  Lindsay.  Leave  me,  Caterine, 
leave  me  ;  I  must  finish  my  book  ;  but  I 
thank  you  for  your  good  ^^ishes.  Go  up, 
and  say  I  desired  them  to  give  you  your 
dinner." 

Alice  soon  felt  herseK  obliged  to  follow  ; 
and  it  was,  indeed,  with  some  ditficidty  she 
was  able  to  reach  the  house.  Her  heart  got 
deadly  sick  ;  an  extraordinary  weakness 
came  over  her  ;  she  became  alarmed,  friglit- 
ened,  distressed  ;  her  knees  tottered  under 
her,  and  she  felt  on  reaching  the  haU-door 
as  if  she  were  about  to  faint.  Her  imagina- 
tion became  disturbed  ;  a  heavy,  depressing 
gloom  descended  upon  her,  and  darkened  her 
flexible  and  unresisting  spirit,  as  if  it  were 
the  forebodings  of  some  terrible  calamity. 


0-96 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


The  diabolical  wretch  who  had  just  left  her 
took  cfure  to  perform  her  base  and  heartless 
task  with  double  effect.  It  was  not  merely 
the  information  she  had  communicated  con- 
cerning Woodward  that  affected  her  so 
deeply,  although  she  felt,  as  it  were,  in  the 
inmost  recesses  of  her  soul,  that  it  was  true, 
but  that  which  went  at  the  moment  with 
greater  agony  to  her  heart  was  the  allusion 
to  Charles  Lindsay,  and  the  corroboration  it 
afforded  to  the  truth  of  the  charge  which 
Woodward  had  brought,  with  so  much  appar- 
ent reluctance,  against  him — the  charge  of 
having  neglected  and  abandoned  her  for 
another,  and  that  other  a  person  of  low 
birth,  who,  by  relinquishing  her  virtue,  had 
contrived  to  gain  such  an  artful  and  selfish 
ascendancy  over  him.  How  could  she  doubt 
it  ?  Here  was  a  woman  ignorant  of  the  com- 
munication Woodward  had  made  to  her, — 
ignorant  of  the  vows  that  had  passed  between 
them,— who  had  heard  of  his  falsehood  and 
profligacy,  and  who  never  would  have  alluded 
to  them  had  she  not  been  questioned.  So 
far,  then.  Woodward,  she  felt,  stood  without 
blame  with  respect  to  his  brother.  And  how 
could  she  suspect  Caterine  to  have  been  the 
agent  of  that  gentleman,  when  she  knew  now 
that  her  object  in  seeking  an  interview  with 
herself  was  to  put  her  on  her  gaiard  against 
him  ?  The  case  was  clear  and,  to  her,  dread- 
ful as  it  was  clear.  She  felt  herself  now, 
however,  in  that  mood  which  no  sympathy 
can  alleviate  or  remove.  She  experienced  no 
wish  to  communicate  her  distress  to  any 
one,  but  resolved  to  preserve  the  secret  in 
her  own  bosom.  Here,  then,  was  she  left 
to  suffer  the  weight  of  a  twofold  affliction — 
%e  dread  of  Woodward,  with  which  Cater- 
ine's  intelligence  had  filled  her  heart,  feeble, 
and  timid,  and  credulous  as  it  was  upon  any 
subject  of  a  superstitious  tendency — and  the 
still  deeper  distress  which  weighed  her 
down  in  consequence  of  Charles  lindsay's 
treachery  and  dishonor.  Alas !  poor  Alice's 
heart  was  not  one  for  struggles,  niirtured 
and  bred  up,  as  she  had  been,  in  the  very 
wildest  spirit  of  superstition,  in  all  its  de- 
grading ramifications.  There  was  something 
in  the  imagination  and  constitution  of  the 
poor  girl  which  generated  and  cherished  the 
superstitions  which  prevailed  in  her  day. 
She  could  not  throw  them  off  her  mind,  but 
dwelt  upon  them  with  a  kind  of  fearful 
pleasure  which  we  can  understand  from  those 
which  operated  upon  our  own  fancies  in  our 
youth.  These  prepare  the  mind  for  the 
reception  of  a  thousand  fictions  concei-ning 
ghosts,  witches,  fairies,  apparitions,  and  a 
long  catalogue  of  nonsense,  equally  disgust- 
ing and  repugnant  to  reason  and  common  - 
sense.     It  is  not  surprising,  then,  that  poor 


Alice's  mind  on  that  night  was  filled  witL 
phantasms  of  the  most  feverish  and  excited 
description.  As  far  as  she  could,  however, 
she  concealed  her  agitation  from  her  parents, 
but  not  so  successfully  as  to  prevent  them 
from  perceiving  that  she  was  laboring  Tinder 
some  extraordinaiy  and  unaccountable  de- 
pression. This  unfortunately  was  too  true. 
On  that  night  she  experienced  a  series  of 
such  wild  and  frightful  visions  as,  when  she 
was  startled  out  of  them,  made  her  dread  to 
go  again  to  sleep.  The  white  hare,  the  Black 
Spectre,  but,  above  all,  the  fearful  expres- 
sion her  alarmed  fancy  had  felt  in  Wood- 
ward's eye,  which  was  riveted  upon  her,  she 
thought,  with  a  baleful  and  demoniacal 
glance,  that  pierced  and  prostrated  her 
spirit  with  its  malignant  and  supernatural 
power  ;  all  these  terrible  images,  \A\h.  fifty 
other  incoherent  chimeras,  flitted  before  the 
wretched  girl's  imagination  during  her  fever- 
ish slumbers.  Towards  morning  she  sank 
into  a  somewhat  calmer  state  of  rest,  but 
still  with  occasional  and  flitting  glimpses  of 
the  same  horrors. 

So  far  the  master-spirit  had  set,  at  least, 
a  portion  of  his  machineiy  in  motion,  in  ordei 
to  work  out  his  purposes  ;  but  we  shall  find 
that  his  designs  became  deeper  and  blacker 
as  he  proceeded  in  his  course. 

In  a  few  days  Alice  became  somewhat  re- 
lieved from  the  influence  of  these  tumultuous 
and  spectral  phantasms  which  had  run  riot 
in  her  terrified  fancy ;  and  this  was  princi- 
pally owing  to  the  circumstance  of  her  hav- 
ing prevailed  upon  one  of  the  maid-servants, 
a  girl  named  Bessy  Mangan,  Barney  Casey's 
sweetheart,  to  sleep  privately  in  her  room. 
The  attack  had  reduced  and  enfeebled  hei 
very  much,  but  still  she  was  slightly  im- 
proved and  somewhat  relieved  in  her  spirits. 
The  shock,  and  the  nervous  paroxysm  that 
accompanied  it,  had  nearly  passed  away,  and 
she  was  now  anxious,  for  the  sake  of  hei 
health,  to  take  as  much  exercise  as  she  could. 
Still— still — the  two  leading  thoughts  would 
recur  to  her — that  of  Charles's  treachery, 
and  the  terrible  gift  of  curse  possessed  by 
his  brother  Henry ;  and  once  more  he, 
heart  would  sink  to  the  uttermost  depths  of 
distress  and  terror.  The  supernatural,  how- 
ever, in  the  course  of  a  little  time,  pi*evailed, 
as  it  was  only  reasonable  to  suppose  it  wotdd 
in  such  a  temperament  as  hers ;  and  as 
her  mind  proceeded  to  struggle  with  the 
two  impressions,  she  felt  that  her  dread 
of  Woodward  was  gradually  gaining  upon 
and  absorbing  the  other.  Her  fear  of  him, 
consequently,  was  deadly  ;  that  terrible  and 
malignant  eye — notwithstanding  its  dark 
brilliancy  and  awful  beauty,  alas !  too,  sig- 
nificant of  its  power — was  constantly  befor* 


TIIK   EVIL    EYE :    OR,    THE  BLACK   SrECTRK 


697 


aer  imaj^nntion,  ^azinj,'  upon  her  with  a 
fixed,  determined,  and  mysterious  look,  ac- 
companied by  a  smile  of  triumph,  which 
deepened  its  natanify,  if  we  may  be  allowed 
to  coin  a  word,  at  every  glance.  It  was  not 
mere  antijjathy  she  felt  for  him  now,  but 
dread  and  hon'or.  How,  then,  was  she  to 
act  ?  She  had  pledged  herself  to  receive  his 
visits  upon  one  condition,  and  to  j^ermit  him 
to  continue  a  friendly  intimacy  altogether 
apart  from  love.  How,  then,  could  she 
violate  her  word,  or  treat  him  ^vith  rudeness, 
who  had  always  not  only  treated  her  with 
courtesy,  but  expressed  an  interest  in  her 
happiness  which  she  had  every  reason  to 
believe  sincere?  Tlius  was  the  poor  girl 
enttmgled  with  difficulties  on  every  side 
without  possessing  any  means  of  releasing 
herself  from  them. 

In  a  few  days  after  this  she  was  sitting  in 
the  drawing-room  when  Woodward  vmex- 
pectedly  entered  it,  and  saluted  her  with 
great  apparent  good  feeling  and  politeness. 
The  surjirise  caused  her  to  become  as  pale  as 
death  ;  she  felt  her  very  limbs  relax  with 
weakness,  and  her  breath  for  a  few  moments 
taken  away  from  her  ;  she  looked  upon  him 
with  an  expression  of  alarm  and  fear  which 
she  could  not  conceal,  and  it  was  with  some 
difficulty  that  she  was  at  length  enabled  to 
speak. 

"You  will  excuse  me,  sir,"  she  said,  "for 
not  rising  ;  I  am  very'  nervous,  and  have  not 
been  at  all  well  for  the  last  week  or  up- 
wards." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Goodwin,  I  am  very  sorry 
to  hear  this  ;  I  trust  it  is  only  a  mere  pass- 
ing indisposition  ;  I  think  the  complaint  is 
gener;d,  for  my  sister  has  also  been  ailing 
much  the  same  way  for  the  last  few  days. 
Don't  be  alarmed.  Miss  GoodAvin,  it  is  noth- 
ing, and  wont  signify.  You  should  mingle 
more  in  society  ;  you  keep  too  much  alone." 

"  But  I  do  not  relish  society  ;  I  never 
mingle  in  it  that  I  don't  feel  exliausted  and 
depressed." 

"  That  certainly  makes  a  serious  dififer- 
ence  ;  in  such  a  case,  then,  I  imagine  society 
would  do  you  more  harm  than  good.  I 
should  not  have  intruded  on  you  had  not 
your  mother  requested  me  to  come  up  and 
try  to  raise  your  spirits — a  pleasure  which  I 
would  gladly  enjoy  if  I  could." 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward," she  replied  ;  "I  hope  a  short  time 
will  remove  this  unusual  depression,  and  I 
must  only  have  a  little  patience." 

"  Just  so,  Miss  Goodwin  ;  a  little  time,  as 
you  say,  wiU  restore  you  to  yourself." 

Now  all  this  was  very  courteous  and  kind 
of  IMr.  Woodward,  and  might  have  raised  her 
epirits  were  it  not  for  the  eye.     From  the  i 


,  moment  he  entered  the  ajjartment  that 
dreaded  instrument  of  his  power  was  fixed 
upon  her  with  a  look  so  concentrated,  pierc- 
ing, and  intense,  that  it  gave  a  character  of 
abstraction  to  all  he  said.  In  other  words, 
^  she  felt  as  if  his  language  proceeded  out  of 
his  lips  unconsciously,  and  that  some  mys- 
terious purport  of  his  heart  emanated  from 
his  eye.  It  appeared  to  her  that  he  was 
thinking  of  something  secret  connected  with 
herself,  to  which  his  words  bore  no  reference 
whatsoever.  She  neither  knew  what  to  do 
nor  what  to  say  under  this  terrible  and  per- 
meating gaze  ;  it  was  in  vain  she  turned 
away  her  eyes  ;  she  knew — she  felt — that  his 
was  upon  her — that  it  was  drinking  up  her 
I  strength — that,  in  fact,  the  evil  intiuence  was 
mingling  with  and  debilitating  her  frame, 
I  and  operating  upon  all  her  faculties.  There 
'  was  still,  however,  a  worse  symptom,  and 
one  which  gave  that  gaze  a  significance  that 
appalled  her — tliis  wag  the  smile  of  triumph 
which  she  had  seen  playing  coldly  but  tri- 
umphantly about  his  lips  in  her  dreams. 
That  smile  was  the  feather  to  the  arrow  that 
pierced  her,  and  that  was  pierciug  her  at 
that  moment — it  was  the  cold  but  glittering 
glance  of  the  rattlesnake,  when  breaking 
down  by  the  poison  of  his  eyes  the  power  of 
resistance  in  his  devoted  victim. 

"  Mr.  Woodward,"  said  she,  after  a  long 
pause,  "  I  am  unable  to  bear  an  interview — 
have  the  goodness  to  withdraw,  and  when 
you  go  down-stairs  send  my  mother  up.  Ex- 
cuse me,  sir  ;  but  you  must  perceive  how 
verj'  ill  I  have  got  within  a  few  minutes." 

"I  regret  it  exceedingly,  Miss  Goodwin. 
I  had  something  to  mention  to  you  respect- 
ing that  unfortun  ite  brother  of  mine ;  but 
you  are  not  now  in  a  coi:dition  to  hear  any- 
thing unpleasant  and  distressing  ;  and,  in- 
deed, it  is  better,  I  think,  now  that  I  observe 
your  state  of  health,  that  you  should  not  even 
wish  to  hear  it." 

"  I  never  do  wish  to  hear  it,  sir  ;  but  have 
the  goodness  to  leave  me." 

"  I  trust  my  next  visit  will  find  you  better. 
Good-by,  Miss  Goodwin  !  I  shall  send  your 
mother  up." 

He  withdrew  very  much  after  the  etiquette 
of  a  subject  leaving  a  crowned  head — that  is, 
nearly  backwards  ;  but  when  he  came  to  the 
door  he  paused  a  moment,  turning  upon  her 
one  long,  diu'k,  inexplicable  gaze,  whilst  the 
muscles  of  his  hard,  stony  mouth  were 
dra\\Ti  back  with  a  smile  that  cont^iined  in  its 
expression  a  spirit  that  might  be  considered 
complacent,  but  which  .ilice  interpreted  as 
derisive  and  diabolical. 

"Mamma,"  said  she,  when  her  mother 
joined  her,  "  I  am  ill,  and  I  know  not  what 
to  do." 


698 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"1  know  you  are  not  well,  my  love,"  re- 
plied her  mother,  "but  I  hope  you're  not 
worse  ;  how  do  you  feel  ?  " 

"Quite  feeble,  utterly  without  strength, 
and  di-eadfully  depressed  and  alarmed." 

"  Alarmed,  Alley  !  ^^^ly,  what  could  alarm 
you  ?  Does  not  jVIr.  Woodward  always  con- 
duct himself  as  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  He  does,  ma'am  ;  but,  nevertheless,  I 
never  wish  to  see  him  again." 

"  "Why,  dear  me  I  Ahce,  is  it  reasonable 
that  you  should  give  way  to  such  a  prejudice 
against  that  gentleman?  Indeed  I  beheve 
you  absolutely  hate  him." 

"It  is  not  jDersonal  hatred,  mother  ;  it  is 
fear  and  terror.  I  do  not,  as  I  said,  hate 
the  man  personally,  because  I  must  say 
that  he  never  deserved  such  a  feeling  at  my 
hands,  but,  in  the  meantime,  the  sight  of  him 
sickens  me  almost  to  death.  I  am  not  aware 
that  he  is  or  ever  was  immoral,  or  guilty  of 
any  act  that  ought  to  expose  him  to  hatred  ; 
but,  notwithstanding  that,  my  impression, 
when  conversing  "with  him,  is,  that  I  am  in 
the  presence  of  an  evil  spirit,  or  of  a  man 
who  is  possessed  of  one.  Mamma,  he  must 
be  excluded  the  house,  and  forbidden  to 
visit  here  again,  otherwise  my  health  will 
be  destroyed,  and  my  \erj  life  placed  in 
danger." 

"  My  dear  Alice,  that  is  all  very  strange," 
replied  her  mother,  now  considerably 
alarmed  at  her  language,  but  stOl  more  so  at 
her  appearance  ;  "  why,  God  bless  me, 
child  !  now  that  I  look  at  you,  you  certainly 
do  seem  to  be  in  an  extraordinary  state.  You 
are  the  color  of  death,  and  then  you  are  aU 
trembhng  !     A\Tiy  is  this,  I  ask  again  ?  " 

"The  presence  of  that  man,"  she  replied, 
in  a  faint  voice  ;  "  his  presence  simply  and 
solely.  That  is  what  has  left  me  as  you  see 
me." 

"  WeU,  Alice,  it  is  very  odd  and  very  strange, 
and  it  seems  as  if  there  was  some  mysteiy 
in  it.  I  will,  however,  talk  to  yoiu'  father 
about  it,  and  we  will  hear  what  he  shall 
say.  In  the  meantime,  raise  your  spirits, 
and  don't  be  so  easily  alarmed.  You  are 
naturally  nervous  and  timid,  and  this  is 
merely  a  poor,  cowardly  conceit  that  has  got 
into  your  head  ;  but  your  own  good  sense 
wiU  soon  show  you  the  folly  of  yielding  to  a 
mere  fancy.  Amuse  yourself  on  the  spinet, 
and  play  some  brisk  music  that  %\ill  cheer 
your  spirits  ;  it  is  nothing  but  the  spleen." 

Woodward,  in  the  meantime,  having  ef- 
fected his  object,  and  satisfied  himself  of  his 
power  over  Alice,  pursued  his  way  home  in 
high  spirits.  To  his  utter  astonishment, 
however,  he  found  the  family  in  an  uproar, 
the  cause  of  which  we  wiU  explain.  His 
mother,  whose  temper   neither  she    herself 


nor  any  other  human  being,  unless  her  hus- 
band, when  pr'ovoked  too  far,  could  keep  un- 
der anything  like  decent  restraint,  had  got 
into  a  passion,  while  he,  Woodward,  was 
making  his  visit ;  and  while  in  a  blaze  of  re- 
sentment against  the  Good^Arius  she  dis- 
closed the  secret  of  his  rejection  by  Alice, 
and  dwelt  with  bitter  indignation  upon  the 
attachment  she  had  avowed  for  Charles — a 
secret  which  Heruy^  had  most  dishonorably 
intrusted  to  her,  but  which,  as  the  reader 
sees,  she  had  neither  temper  nor  principle 
to  keep. 

On  entering  the  house  he  found  his 
mother  and  step-father  at  high  feud.  The 
brows  of  the  latter  were  knit,  as  was  always 
the  case  when  he  found  himself  bent  upon 
mischief.  He  was  calm,  however,  which 
was  another  bad  sign,  for  in  him  the  old  ad- 
age was  completely  reversed,  "  Afler  a  storm 
comes  a  calm,"  whilst  in  his  case  it  uniform- 
ly j)receded  it. 

Woodward  looked  about  him  with  amaze- 
ment ;  his  step-father  was  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  parlor  fire,  holding  the  skirts  oi 
his  coat  divided  behind,  whilst  his  wife  stood 
opposite  to  him,  her  naturally  red  face  stUl 
flaming  more  deeply  with  a  tornado  of  in- 
dignation. 

"And  you  dare  to  tell  me  that  you'U  con- 
sent to  Charles's  marriage  "wdth  her  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  dare  to  tell  you  so. 
You  have  no  objection  that  she  should  marry 
yoiu'  son  Harry  there.  You  forgot  or  dis- 
sembled your  scorn  and  resentment  against 
her,  when  you  thought  you  could  make  a 
catch  of  her  property  :  a  very  candid  and 
disinterested  proceeding  on  your  part. 
WeU,  what's  the  consequence  ?  That's  all 
knocked  up  ;  the  girl  won't  have  him,  be- 
cause she  is  attached  to  his  brother,  and  be- 
cause his  brother  is  attached  to  her.  Now, 
that  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be,  and,  please 
God,  we'll  have  them  married.  And  I  now 
take  the  liberty  of  asking  you  both  to  the 
wedding." 

"  Lindsay,  you're  an  oftensive  old  dog, 
sir." 

"I  might  retort  the  compliment  by  chang- 
ing the  sex,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  laughing 
and  nodding  at  her,  with  a  face,  from  the 
nose  down,  rather  benevolent  than  other- 
wise, but  still  the  knit  was  between  the 
brows. 

"  Lindsaj',  you're  an  unmanly  villain,  and 
a  coward  to  boot,  or  you  wouldn't  use  such 
language  to  a  woman." 

"  Not  to  a  woman  ;  but  I'm  sometimes 
forced  to  do  so  to  a  termagant." 

"  What's  the  cause  of  aU  this  ?  "  inquired 
Woodward  ;  "  upon  my  honor,  the  language 
I  hear  is  very  siu-prising,  as  coming  fi'om  a 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


699 


justice  of  quorum  and  liis  lady.  Fie !  fie  ! 
I  am  ashamed  of  you  both.  In  what  did  it 
originate  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  Hai-ry,  she  has  told  us 
that  Alice  Goodwin,  in  the  most  decided 
maimer,  has  rejected  your  adtlresses,  and 
confided  to  you  an  avowal  of  her  attachment 
to  Charles  here.  Now,  when  I  heard  this,  I 
felt  highly  delighted  at  it,  and  said  we  should 
have  them  married,  and  so  we  sliall.  Then 
your  mother,  in  flaming  indignation  at  this, 
enacted  Vesu\'ius  in  a  blaze,  and  there  she 
stands  ready  for  another  eruption." 

"  I  wi.sh  you  were  in  the  bottom  of  Vesu- 
vius, Lindsay  ;  but  you  shall  not  have  your 
way,  notwithstjinding." 

"  So  I  am.  my  dear,  every  day  in  my  life. 
I  have  a  httle  volcano  of  my  own  here,  under 
the  very  roof  ^\■ith  me  ;  and  I  tell  that  vol- 
cano that  I  will  have  my  own  way  in  this 
matter,  and  that  this  marriage  must  take 
place  if  Alice  is  wilhng  ;  and  I'm  sure  she  is, 
the  dear  girl." 

"  Sir,"  said  Woodward,  addressing  his 
step-father  calmly,  "I  feel  a  good  deal  sur- 
prised that  a  tliinking  man,  of  a  naturally 
sedate  temper  as  you  are " 

"  Yes,  HariT,  I  am  so." 

"  Of  such  a  sedate  temper  as  you  are, 
should  not  recollecf  the  jjossibihty  of  my 
mother,  who  sometimes  takes  up  impres- 
sions hastily,  if  not  erroneously  —  as  the 
calmest  of  us  too  frequently  do — of  my  moth- 
er, I  say,  considerably  mistaking  and  uncon- 
sciously misrepresenting  the  circumstances 
I  mentioned  to  her." 

"  But  why  did  you  mention  them  exclu- 
sively to  her '? "  asked  CJiaries  ;  "  I  cannot 
see  your  object  in  conceahng  them  fi'om 
the  rest  of  the  family,  especially  from  those 
who  were  most  interested  in  the  knowledge 
of  them." 

"  Simply  because  I  had  nothing  actually 
decisive  to  mention.  I  principally  confined 
myself  to  my  own  inferences,  which  inifor- 
timately  my  mother,  with  her  eager  habit  of 
snatching  at  conclusions,  in  this  instance, 
mistook  for  facts.  I  shall  siitisfj'  you,  Charles, 
of  this,  and  of  other  matters  besides  ;  but 
we  will  require  time." 

"  I  assure  you,  Harry,  that  if  your  mother 
does  not  keep  her  temper  within  some 
reasonable  bounds,  either  she  or  I  shall  leave 
the  house — and  I  am  not  hkely  to  be  the 
man  to  do  so." 

"  This  house  is  mine,  Lindsay,  and  the 
property  is  mine — both  in  my  own  right ; 
and  you  and  your  family  may  leave  it  as  soon 
as  you  hke." 

"But  you  forget  that  I  have  property 
enough  to  support  myself  and  them  inde- 
pendently of  you." 


"Wherever  you  go,  my  dear  papa,"  said 
Maria,  bursting  into  tears,  "  I  will  accom- 
pany you.  I  admit  it  is  a  painful  determi- 
nation for  a  daughter  to  be  forced  to  make 
against  her  own  mother  ;  but  it  is  one  I 
should  have  died  sooner  than  come  to  if  she 
had  exer  treated  me  as  a  daughter." 

Her  good-natured  and  affectionate  father 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  My  own  darUng  ^Maria,"  said  he,  "  I 
could  forgive  your  motlier  all  her  domestic 
violence  and  outrage  had  she  acted  with 
the  affection  of  a  mother  towards  you.  She 
has  a  heart  only  for  one  individual,  and  that 
is  her  son  Harrj",  there." 

"  As  for  me,"  said  Charles,  "  wherever  my 
father  goes,  I,  too,  my  dear  ^Maria,  will  ac- 
company him." 

"  You  hear  that,  Harry,"  said  Mrs.  Lind- 
say ;  "  you  see  now  they  are  in  a  league — in 
a  conspiracy  against  your  happiness  and 
mine  ;  —  but  think  of  their  selfishness  and 
cunning — it  is  the  girl's  property  they  w;mt." 

"  Perish  the  proj^erty,"  exclaimed  Charles 
indignantly.  "  I  will  now^  mention  a  fact 
which  I  have  hitherto  never  breathed — Al- 
ice Goodwin  and  I  were,  I  may  say,  be- 
trothed before  ever  she  dreamed  of  possess- 
ing it ;  and  if  I  held  back  since  that  time,  I 
did  so  from  the  principles  of  a  man  of  honor, 
lest  she  might  imagine  that  I  renewed  our 
intimacy,  after  the  alienation  of  the  families, 
from  merceniu-y  motives." 

"You're  a  fine  fellow,  Charley,"  said  his 
father;  "you're  a  fine  fellow,  and  you  de- 
serve her  and  her  property,  if  it  was  ten 
times  what  it  is." 

"Don't  you  be  disheartened,  Harry,"  said 
his  mother ;  "I  have  a  better  wife  in  my 
eye  for  you — a  wife  that  will  bring  you  con- 
nection, and  that  is  Lord  Bilberry's  niece." 

"Yes,"  said  her  husband,  ironically,  "a 
man  with  fifty  thousand  acres  of  mountain. 
Faith,  Harry,  you  will  be  a  happy  man,  and 
may  feed  on  bilberries  aD  your  life  ;  but 
upon  little  else,  unless  you  can  pick  the  spare 
bones  of  an  old  maid  who  has  run  herself 
into  an  asthma  in  the  unsuccessful  sport  of 
husband-hunting." 

"  She  will  inherit  her  xmcle's  property, 
Lindsay." 

"  Yes,  she  will  inherit  the  heather  and  the 
bilbemes.  But  go  in  God's  name  ;  work 
out  that  project ;  there  is  nobody  here  dis- 
posed to  hinder  you.  Only  I  hope  you  will 
ask  us  to  the  wedding." 

"  Mother,"  said  Woodward,  affectionately 
taking  her  hand  and  giving  it  a  significant 
squeeze  ;  "  mother,  you  must  excuse  me  for 
what  I  am  about  to  say  " — another  squeeze, 
and  a  glance  which  i^he  very  well  understood 
— "  upon  my  honor,  mother,  I  must  give  my 


TOO 


WILLIAM   CAR  LET  ON' 8   WORKS. 


verdict  for  the  present " — another  squeeze — 
"against  you.  You  muat  be  kinder  to 
Chai-les  and  Maria,  and  j-ou  must  not  treat 
mi/  father  with  such  disrespect  and  harsh- 
ness. I  wish  to  become  a  mediator  and 
pacificator  in  the  family.  As  for  myself,  I 
.^are  not  about  property  ;  I  wish  to  marry 
'he  girl  I  love.  I  am  not,  I  trust,  a  selfish 
jian — God  forbid  I  should ;  but  for  the 
prf'.<e)it  " — another  squeeze — "  let  me  entreat 
you  all  to  forget  this  little  breeze  ;  urge 
iaothing,  precipitate  nothing ;  a  Uttle  time, 
perhaps,  if  we  have  patience  to  wait,  may 
restore  us  aU,  and  everything  else  we  are 
quan-eUing  about,  to  peace  and  happiness. 
Charles,  I  wish  to  have  some  conversation 
with  you." 

"Harry,"  said  Lindsay,  "I  am  glad  you 
have  spoken  as  you  did  ;  your  words  do  you 
credit,  and  your  conduct  is  manly  and  hon- 
orable." 

"I  do  believe,  indeed,"  said  his  unsus- 
pecting brother,  "  that  the  best  thing  we 
could  all  do  would  be  to  put  oru-selves  tmder 
his  guidance  ;  as  for  my  part  I  am  perfectly 
willing  to  do  so,  HaiTy.  After  hearing  the 
good  sense  you  "have  just  uttered,  I  think  you 
are  entitled  to  every  confidence  fi'om  us  all." 

"  You  overrate  my  abilities,  Charles  ;  but 
not,  I  hojDe,  the  goodness  of  an  afiectionate 
heai't  that  loves  you  all.  Charles,  come  with 
me  for  a  few  minutes  ;  and,  mother,  do  you 
also  expect  a  private  lecture  fi'om  me  by 
and  by." 

"Well,"  said  the  mother,  "I  suppose  I 
must.  If  I  were  only  spoken  to  kindly  I 
could  feel  as  kindly  ;  however,  let  there  be 
an  end  to  this  quarrel  as  the  boy  says,  and 
I,  as  Avell  as  Charles,  shall  be  guided  by  his 
advice." 

"Now,  Charles,"  said  he,  when  they  had 
go'Je  to  another  room,  "  you  know  what  kind 
of  a  woman  my  mother  is  ;  and  the  truth  is, 
until  matters  get  settled,  we  will  have  occa- 
sion for  a  good  deal  of  patience  with  her ; 
let  us,  therefore,  exercise  it.  Like  most  hot- 
tempered  women,  she  has  a  bad  memory, 
and  WTests  the  purport  of  words  too  fre- 
quently to  a  wrong  meaning.  In  the  account 
she  gave  you  of  what  occurred  between  Alice 
Goodwin  and  me,  she  entirely  did." 

"  But  what  did  occur  between  Alice  Good- 
win and  3'ou,  Harry  ?  " 

"  A  very  few  words  will  tell  it.  She  ad- 
mitted that  there  certainly  has  been  an  at- 
tachment between  you  and  her,  but — that — 
that — I  wiU  not  exactly  repeat  her  words, 
although  I  don't  say  they  were  meant  ofien- 
sively  ;  but  it  amounted  to  this,  that  she 
ttow  fiUed  a  different  position  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  ;  that  she  would  rather  tlis  matter 
Were  not  renewed  ;   that  if  her  mind  had 


changed,  she  had  good  reason  for  justifying 
the  change  ;  and  when  I,  finding  that  I  had 
no  chance  myself,  began  to  plead  for  you, 
she  hinted  to  me  that,  in  consequence  of  the 
feud  that  had  taken  place  between  the  fami- 
Hes,  and  the  slanders  that  my  mother  had 
cast  upon  her  honor  and  principles,  she  was 
resolved  to  have  no  further  connection  what- 
soever with  any  one  of  the  blood  ;  her  affec- 
tions were  not  nou)  her  own." 

"  Alas,  Harry  !  "  said  Charles,  "  how  few 
can  bear  the  effects  of  unexpected  prosperi- 
ty. "\\1ien  she  and  I  were  both  comparative- 
ly poor,  she  was  all  affection  ;  but  now  that 
she  has  become  an  heiress,  see  what  a  change 
there  is  !  Well,  Hai'ry,  if  she  can  be  fiiith- 
less  and  selfish,  I  can  be  both  resolute  and 
proud.  She  shall  have  no  further  trouble 
fi'om  me  on  that  subject ;  only  I  must  say,  I 
don't  envy  her  her  conscience." 

"  Don't  be  rash,  Charles — we  should  judge 
of  her  charitably  and  generously  ;  I  don't 
think  myself  she  is  so  much  to  blame. 
O'Connor  Fardour,  or  Farther,  or  whatever 
you  call  him " 

"  O,  Ferdora  !  " 

"  Yes,  Ferdora  ;  that  fellow  is  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it  all  ;  he  has  plied  her  well  during 
the  estrangement,  and  to  some  purpose.  I 
never  visit  them  that  I  don't  find  him  alone 
with  her.  He  is,  besides,  both  frank  and 
handsome,  with  a  good  deal  of  dash  and  in- 
sinuation in  his  address  and  manner,  and, 
besides,  a  good  property,  I  am  told.  But, 
in  the  meantime,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you  ; 
that  is,  if  you  think  you  can  place  confidence 
in  me." 

"  Every'  confidence,  my  dear  Harry,"  said 
Charles,  clasping  his  hand  warmly  ;  "  every 
confidence.  As  I  said  before,  you  shall  be 
my  guide  and  adriser." 

"  Thank  you,  Charles.  I  may  make  mis- 
takes, but  I  shall  do  all  for  the  best.  Well, 
then,  will  you  leave  O'Connor  to  me  ?  If 
you  do,  I  shall  not  promise  much,  because  I 
am  not  master  of  futvu'e  events  ;  but  this 
is  all  I  ask  of  you — yes,  there  is  one  thing 
more — to  hold  aloof  from  her  and  her  family 
for  a  time." 

"  After  what  you  have  told  me,  Harry,  that 
is  an  unnecessary  request  now  ;  but  as  for 
O'Connor,  I  think  he  ought  to  be  left  to  my- 
seK." 

"  And  so  he  shall  in  due  time  ;  but  I  must 
place  him  in  a  proper  position  for  you  first — 
a  thing  which  you  could  not  do  now,  nor 
even  attempt  to  do,  without  meanness.  Are 
you,  then,  satisfied  to  leave  this  matter  in 
my  hands,  and  to  remain  quiet  until  I  shall 
bid  you  act  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  Harry,  perfectly  ;  I  shall  b« 
guided  by  you  in  everything." 


tub:  evil   EYE;    OR,    THE   BLACh    SPECTRE. 


70J 


"  Well,  now,  Charley,  we  ■will  have  a 
double  triumph  soon,  I  hope.  All  is  not 
lost  that's  in  daufrer.  The  poor  girl  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  clique.  Priests  have  inter- 
fered. Her  parents,  you  know,  are  Cath- 
olics ;  so,  you  kn^w,  is  O'Connor.  Poor 
-ilice,  you  know,  too,  is  anything  but  ada- 
mant. And  now  I  vdW.  say  no  more  ;  but  in 
rer|uita.l  for  what  I  have  said,  go  and  send 
our  2)atient  mild  mamma,  to  me.  I  really 
must  endeavor  to  try  something  \vith  her,  in 
order  to  save  us  all  from  this  kind  of  life  she 
is  leading  us." 

"When  his  mother  entered  he  assumed  the 
eruperior  and  man  of  authority  ;  his  counte- 
nance exhibited  something  unpleasant,  and 
in  a  decisive  and  rather  authoritative  tone  he 
said, — 

"  Mother,  will  you  be  pleased  to  take  a 
seat  ?  " 

"  You  are  angry  with  me,  Harry — I  know 
you  are  ;  but  I  could  not  restrain  my  feelings, 
nor  keep  your  secret,  when  I  thought  of  their 
insolence  in  requiting  you — you,  to  whom  the 
proj^erty  would  and  ought  to  have  come " 

"  Pray,  ma'am,  take  a  seat." 

She  sat  down — anxious,  but  already  sub- 
dued, as  was  evident  by  her  manner. 

"I,"  proceeded  her  son,  "to  whom  the; 
property  would  and  ought  to  have  come —  ; 
and  I  to  whom  it  iciU  come " 

"  But  ai*e  you  siu-e  of  that  ?  "  I 

"  Not,  I  am  afi-aid,  while  I  have  such  a 
mother  as  you  are — a  woman  in  whom  I  can 
place  no  confidence  with  safety.  A\Tiy  did 
you  betray  me  to  this  sill}'  family  ?  " 

"  Because,  as  I  said  before,  I  could  not 
help  it ;  my  temper  got  the  better  of  me." 

"  Ay,  and  I  fear  it  "«ill  always  get  the  bet- 
ter of  you.  I  could  now  give  you  very'  agree- 
able information  as  to  that  property  and  the 
piece  of  curds  that  possesses  it ;  but  then,  as 
1  said,  there  is  no  placing  any  confidence  in 
a  woman  of  your  temper." 

"  If  the  property  is  concerned,  Harry,  you 
may  depend  your  life  on  me.  So  help  me, 
God,  if  ever  I  will  betray  you  again." 

"  WeU,  that's  a  solemn  asseveration,  and  I 
wiU  depend  on  it  ;  but  if  you  betray  me  to 
this  family  the  property  is  lost  to  us  and  our 
hell's  forever." 

"  Do  not  fear  me  ;  I  have  taken  the  oath." 

"  Well,  then,  Usten  ;  if  you  could  under- 
stand Latin,  I  would  give  you  a  quotation 
from  a  line  of  Virgil — 

'  Haeret  later!  lethalis  arundo.' 

The  girl's  doomed — subdued — overcome  ;  I 
am  in  the  process  of  killing  her."  ; 

"  Of  killing  her  !  My  God,  how  ?  not  by 
violence,  surely — that,  you  know,  would  not 
be  uafe." 


"I  know  that;  no — not  by  violence,  but 
by  the  power  of  this  dark  eye  that  you  see  ib 
my  head." 

"  Heavenly  Father  !  then  you  possess  it  ?  * 

"  I  do  ;  and  if  I  were  never  to  see  her  again 
I  don't  think  she  could  recover ;  she  will 
merely  wither  away  very  gently,  and  in  due 
time  will  disappear  icithout  Uaue — and  then, 
whose  is  the  property  ?  " 

"  As  to  that,  you  know  there  can  be  no 
doubt  about  it ;  there  is  the  will — the  stupid 
wiU,  by  which  she  got  it." 

"  I  shall  see  her  again,  however — nay,  in 
spite  of  them  I  shall  see  her  time  after  time, 
and  shall  give  her  the  Evil  Eye,  until  the 
scene  closes — until  I  attend  her  funeral." 

"  ]\Iy  mind  is  somewhat  at  ease,"  replied 
his  mother  ;  "  because  I  was  alarmed  lest  you 
should  have  had  recourse  to  any  process  that 
might  have  brought  you  within  the  opera- 
tion of  the  law." 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  point,  my 
dear  mother.  No  law  compels  a  man  to  close 
his  eyes  ;  a  cat,  you  know,  may  look  on  a 
king  ;  but  of  one  thing  you  may  be  certain — 
she  dies — the  victim  is  mine." 

"  One  thing  ix  certain,"  replied  his  mother, 
"  that  if  she  and  Charles  should  marry,  you 
are  ousted  from  the  property." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  such  a  con- 
tingency ;  I  have  taken  steps  which  I  think 
will  prevent  that.  I  speak  in  a  double  sense  ; 
but  if  I  find,  after  all,  that  they  are  hkely  to 
fail,  I  shall  take  others  still  more  decisive." 


CHAPTER  XHL 

Woodward  is  Discarded  from  Mr.  Ooodicin'$  Fam- 
ily—  Other  Particulars  of  Importance. 

The  reader  sees  that  Harrv'  Woodward, 
having  ascertained  the  mutual  afiiection  which 
subsisted  between  his  brother  and  Alice,  re- 
sorted to  such  measures  as  wei'e  likely  to 
place  obstructions  in  the  way  of  their  meet- 
ing, which  neither  of  them  was  likely  to  re- 
move. He  felt,  now,  satisfied  that  Charles, 
in  consequence  of  the  malignant  fabrications 
which  he  himself  had  palmed  upon  him  for 
truth,  would,  most  assuredly,  make  no  fur- 
ther attempt  to  renew  their  former  intimacy. 
When  -:yice,  too,  stated  to  him,  that  if  she 
married  not  Charles,  whether  he  proved 
worthy  of  her  or  otherwise,  she  would  never 
marry  another,  he  felt  that  she  was  uncon- 
sciously advancing  the  diabolical  plans  which 
he  was  projecting  and  attempting  to  cari-y 
into  eflfect.  If  she  died  without  marriage  oi 
without  issue,  the  property,  at  her  death,  ac- 
cording to  his  uncle's  will,  reverted,  as  W6 


702 


iVILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


have  said,  to  himself.  His  object,  therefore, 
was  to  expedite  her  demise  ■^ith  as  little  de- 
lay as  possible,  in  order  that  he  might  be- 
come master  of  the  patrimony.  With  this 
generous  principle  for  his  guide,  he  made  it 
a  point  to  \'isit  the  Goodwins,  and  to  see 
Alice  as  often  as  was  compatible  with  the 
ordinary  usages  of  society.  Had  Caterine 
Collins  not  put  the  unsuspecting  and  timid 
girl  on  her  guard  against  the  influence  of 
the  Evil  Eye,  as  possessed  by  Woodward, 
for  whom  she  acted  as  agent  in  the  business, 
that  poor  girl  would  not  have  felt  anything 
like  wiiat  this  diabohcal  piece  of  information 
occasioned  her  to  experience.  From  the 
moment  she  heard  it  her  active  imagination 
took  the  alarm.  An  unaccountable  terror 
seized  iipon  her  ;  she  felt  as  if  some  dark 
doom  was  impending  over  her.  It  was  in  a 
peculiar  degree  the  age  of  superstition  ;  and 
the  terrible  influence  of  the  Evil  Eye  was 
one  not  only  of  the  commonest,  but  the  most 
formidable  of  them  all.  The  dark,  signifi- 
cant, but  sinister  gaze  of  Harry  Woodward 
was,  she  thought,  forever  upon  her.  She 
could  not  withdraw  her  imagination  from  it. 
It  haunted  her  ;  it  was  fixed  upon  her,  ac- 
companied by  a  dreadful  smile  of  apparent 
courtesy,  but  of  a  mahgnity  which  she  felt 
as  if  it  penetrated  her  whole  being,  both  cor- 
poreal and  mental.  She  hurried  to  bed  at 
night  with  a  hope  that  sleep  might  exclude 
the  frightful  vision  which  followed  her  ;  but, 
alas !  even  sleep  was  no  security  to  her 
against  its  terrors.  It  was  now  that  in  her 
distempered  dreams  imagination  ran  riot. 
She  fled  from  him,  or  attempted  to  fly,  but 
feared  that  she  had  not  strength  for  the  ef- 
fort ;  he  followed  her,  she  thought,  and  when 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  in  order 
to  avoid  the  sight  of  him,  she  felt  him  seiz- 
ing her  by  the  wrists,  and  removing  her 
ai-ms  in  order  that  he  might  pour  the  malig- 
nant influence  of  that  terrible  eye  into  her 
very  heart.  From  these  scenes  she  gener- 
ally awoke  with  a  shiiek,  when  her  maid, 
Sarah  SulUvan,  who  of  late  slept  in  the  same 
room  with  her,  was  obliged  to  come  to  her 
assistance,  and  soothe  and  sustain  her  as 
well  as  she  could.  She  then  lay  for  hours 
in  such  a  state  of  terror  and  agitation  as 
cannot  be  described,  until  near  moraing, 
«rhen  she  generally  fell  into  something  like 
sound  sleep.  In  fact,  her  waking  moments 
were  easy  when  compared  with  the  persecu- 
tion Tt'hich  the  spirit  of  that  man  inflicted  on 
her  during  her  broken  and  restless  slumbers. 
The  dreadful  eye,  as  it  rested  upon  her, 
seemed  as  if  its  powerful  but  killing  expres- 
sion proceeded  from  the  heart  and  spirit  of 
some  demon  who  sought  to  wither  her  by 
slow  degrees  out  of  life  ;  aoid  she  felt  that  he 


was  succeeding  in  his  murderous  and  merci- 
less object.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
then,  that  she  dreaded  the  state  of  sleep 
more  than  any  other  condition  of  existence 
in  which  she  could  find  herself.  As  night, 
and  the  hour  of  retiring  to  what  ought  to 
have  been  a  refreshing  rest  returned,  her 
alarms  also  returned  with  tenfold  teiTor : 
and  such  was  her  apprehension  of  those 
fiend-like  and  nocturnal  visits,  that  she  en- 
treated Sarah  Sullivan  to  sleep  with  and 
awaken  her  the  moment  she  heard  her  groan 
or  shriek.  Oiu*  readers  may  perceive  that 
the  innocent  girl's  tenure  of  life  could  not  be 
a  long  one  under  such  strange  and  unexam- 
pled sufferings. 

The  state  of  her  health  now  occasioned 
her  parents  to  feel  the  most  serious  alarm. 
She  herself  disclosed  to  them  the  fearful  in- 
telligence which  had  been  communicated  to 
her  in  such  a  fi-iendly  spirit  by  Cateiine 
Collins,  to  wit,  that  Harry  Woodward  pos- 
sessed the  terrible  power  of  the  Evil  Eye, 
and  that  she  felt  he  was  attempting  to  kill 
her  by  it ;  adding,  that  from  the  state  of  her 
mind  and  health  she  feared  he  had  succeeded, 
and  that  certainly,  if  he  were  permitted  to 
continue  his  visits,  she  knew  that  she  could 
not  long  survive. 

"  I  remember  well,"  said  her  father,  "  that 
when  he  was  a  boy  of  about  six  or  seven 
he  was  called,  by  way  of  nickname,  Harry  na 
Suil  Gloir  ;  and,  indeed,  the  common  report 
always  has  been  that  his  mother  possesses 
the  e\dl  eye  against  cattle,  when  she  wishes 
to  injure  any  neighbor  that  doesn't  treat  her 
with  what  she  thinks  to  be  j^roper  and  be- 
coming respect.  If  her  son  Harry  has  the 
accursed  gift  it  comes  fi'oni  her  blood  ;  they 
say  there  is  some  old  story  connected  with 
her  family  that  accounts  for  it,  but,  as  I 
never  heax'd  it,  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"  I  agree  vsdtli  you,"  said  his  mfe  ;  "  if  he 
has  it  at  all,  he  may  thank  her  for  it.  There 
is,  I  fear,  some  bad  jDrinciple  in  her ;  for 
surely  the  fierceness  and  overbearing  spirit 
of  her  pride,  and  the  malignant  calumnies 
of  her  foul  and  scandalous  tongue,  can  pro- 
ceed from  nothing  that's  good." 

"Well,  Martha,"  observed  her  husband, 
"  if  the  devihsh  and  unaccoim  table  hatred 
which  she  bears  her  fellow-creatures  is 
violent,  she  has  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
— and  well  she  knows  it — that  it  is  returned 
to  her  with  compound  interest ;  I  question 
if  the  devil  himself  is  detested  with  such  a 
venomous  feeling  as  she  is.  Her  own  hus- 
band and  children  cannot  like  a  bone  in  her 
skin." 

"And  yet,"  replied  Alice,  "you  would 
have  made  this  woman  my  mother-in-laW ! 
Do  you  think  it  was  from  any  regard  to  U9 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


703 


Chat  she  came  here  to  propose  a  marriage 
between  her  sou  and  me  ?  No,  indeed,  dear 
papa,  it  was  for  the  pui-jjose  of  seeming  the 
property,  which  her  brother  left  me,  for  him 
who  would  othei'wise  have  inherited  it.  And 
do  you  imagine  for  a  moment  that  Harry 
Woodward  himself  ever  felt  one  emotion  of 
personal  aftection  for  me  ?  If  you  do  you 
are  quite  mistaken.  I  knew  and  felt  all  along 
— even  while  he  was  assuming  the  part  of  the 
lover — that  he  actually  hated,  not  only  me, 
but  every  one  of  the  family.  His  object  was 
the  property,  and  so  was  that  of  his  mother  ; 
but  I  absolve  all  the  other  members  of  the 
family  fi-om  any  knowledge  of,  or  pai'ticipa- 
tion  in,  their  schemes.  As  it  is,  if  you  wish 
to  see  yourselves  childless  you  will  allow  his 
visits,  or,  if  not,  you  vdW.  never  permit  his 
presence  under  this  roof  again.  I  fear, 
however,  that  it  is  now  too  late — you  see 
that  I  am  already  on  the  brink  of  the  grave, 
in  consequence  of  the  evil  influence  which 
the  dreadful  villain  has  gained  over  me,  and, 
indeed,"  she  added,  bursting  into  tears,  "I 
have,  at  this  moment,  no  hopes  of  recoveiy. 
My  strength,  both  bodily  and  mental,  is 
gone — I  am  as  weak  as  an  infant,  and  I  see 
nothing  before  me  bat  an  early  grave.  I 
have  also  other  soitows,  but  even  to  you  I 
will  not  disclose  them — perhaps  on  my  bed 
of  death  I  may." 

The  last  words  were  scarcely  uttered  when 
she  fainted.  Her  parents  were  di-eadfully 
alarmed — in  a  moment  both  were  in  tears, 
but  they  immediately  summoned  assistance. 
Sarah  Sulhvan  made  her  appeai'ance,  attend- 
ed by  others  of  the  servimts  ;  the  usual 
remedies  were  apphed,  and  in  the  course  of 
about  ten  or  twelve  minutes  she  recovered, 
and  was  weeping  in  a  paroxysm  bordering 
on  despair  when  Harry  Woodward  entered 
the  room.  This  was  too  much  for  the  un- 
fortunate gii'l.  It  seemed  hke  setting  the  ' 
seal  of  death  to  her  fate.  She  caught  a  ! 
glimpse  of  him.  There  was  the  mahgnant,  \ 
but  derisive  look — one  which  he  meant  to  ^ 
be  courteous,  but  which  the  bitter  feeling 
within  him  overshadowed  with  the  gloomy 
triumph  of  an  evil  spirit.  She  placed  her 
hands  over  her  eyes,  gave  one  loud  shriek, 
and  immediately  fell  into  strong  convul- 
sions, i 

•'  Good  heavens  ! "  exclaimed  Woodward, 
"  what  is  the  matter  with  Miss  Goodwin  ?   I 
am  sincerel}'-  sorry  to  see  this.     Is  not  her  | 
health  good  ?  " 

"Pray,  sir," replied  her  ftither,  "how  did 
you  come  to  obtrude  yourself  here  at  such  a 
moment  of  domestic  distress  ?  " 

""\i\Tiy,  my  dear  sir,"  repUed  Woodward, 

•*  of  course  you  must  know  that  I  was  ignor- 

tit  of  all  thia     The  hall- door  was  open,  as 


it  generally  is,  so  was  the  door  of  this  room, 
and  I  came  in  accordingly,  as  I  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  doing,  to  pay  my  respects  to  the 
family." 

"Yes,"  said  Mi*.  Goodwin,  "the  hall-dooi 
is  generull}'  open,  but  it  shall  not  be  so  in 
future.  Come  out  of  the  room,  ]Mr.  Wood- 
ward ;  your  presence  is  not  required  here." 

"O,  ceriainly,"  replied  Woodward,  "I  feel 
that ;  and  I  assure  you  I  would  not  by  any 
means  have  intruded  had  I  known  that  iliss 
Goodwin  was  unweU." 

"  She  is  unwell,"  responded  her  father  ; 
"  very  unwell ;  unwell  unto  death,  I  fear. 
And  now,  Mr.  "Woodward,"  he  proceeded, 
when  they  had  reached  the  hall,  "I  beg  to 
state  peremptorily  and  decidedly  that  all  in- 
timac}'  and  intercourse  between  you  and  our 
family  must  cease  from  this  hour.  You  risit 
here  no  more." 

"  This  is  very  strange  language,  Mr. 
Goodwin,"  rephed  the  other,  "  and  I  think, 
as  between  two  gentlemen,  I  am  entitled  to 
an  explanation.  I  received  the  permission  of 
yourself,  your  lady,  and  your  daughter  to 
visit  here.  I  am  not  conscious  of  having 
done  an3i:hing  unbecoming  a  gentleman, 
that  could  or  ought  to  deprive  me  of  a 
privilege  which  I  looked  upon  as  an  honor." 

"  Well,  then,"  rejilied  her  father,  "  look  into 
your  o-svn  conscience,  and  pei'haps  you  will 
find  the  necessary  explanation  there.  I  am 
master  of  my  own  house  and  my  own 
motions,  and  now  I  beg  you  instantly  to  with- 
draw, and  to  consider  this  your  last  risit 
here." 

"  May  I  not  be  permitted  to  call  to-mor- 
row to  inquire  after  i\Iiss  Goodwic'a  health  ?  " 

"Assuredly  nof" 

"Nor  to  send  a  messenger?" 

"By  no  means  ;  and  now,  sir,  withdraw  ; 
I  must  go  in  to  my  daughter,  till  I  see  what 
can  be  done  for  her,  or  whether  anything 
can  or  not." 

Harry  Woodward  looked  upon  him  stead- 
ily for  a  time,  and  the  old  man  felt  as  if  his 
very  strength  was  becoming  relaxed  ;  a  sense 
of  faintness  and  terror  came  over  him,  and, 
as  Woodward  took  his  departure  in  silence, 
the  father  of  Alice  began  to  abandon  all 
hopes  of  her  recovery.  He  himself  felt  the 
effects  of  the  mysterious  gaze  which  Wood- 
ward had  fastened  on  him,  and  entered  the 
room,  conscious  of  the  fatal  power  of  the 
Evil  Eye. 

Fit  after  fit  succeeded  each  other  for  the 
space  of,  at  least,  an  hour  and  a  half,  after 
which  thej'  ceased,  but  left  her  in  such  a 
state  of  weakness  and  terror  that  she  might 
be  said,  at  that  moment,  to  hover  between 
hfe  and  death.  She  was  earned  in  her  dis- 
tracted father's  arms  to  bed,  and  after  thev 


ro4 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOIiKIS. 


had  composed  her  as  well  as  they  could,  her 
father  said, — 

"  My  dai'ling  child,  you  may  now  summon 
strength  and  courage  ;  that  man,  that  bad 
man,  will  never  come  under  this  roof  again. 
I  have  finally  settled  the  point,  and  you 
have  nothing  further  now,  nor  anything 
worse,  to  dread  from  him.  I  have  given  the 
villiiin  his  nunc  dimittis  once  and  forever, 
and  you  will  never  see  him  more." 

"  But  I  fear,  papa,"  she  replied,  feebly, 
"  that,  as  I  said  before,  it  is  now  too  late.  I 
feel  that  he  has  killed  me.  I  know  not  how 
I  will  pass  this  night.  I  dread  the  houi's  of 
sleep  above  all  conditions  of  my  unhappy 
existence.  O,  no  wonder  that  the  entrance 
of  that  man-demon  to  our  house  should  be 
heralded  by  the  storms  and  hurricanes  of 
heaven,  and  that  the  terrible  fury  of  the 
elements,  as  indicative  of  the  Almighty's 
anger,  should  mark  his  introduction  to  our 
family.  Then  the  prodigy  which  took  place 
when  the  bonfires  were  lighted  to  welcome 
his  accursed  return — the  shower  of  blood  ! 
O,  may  God  support  me,  and,  above  all 
things,  banish  him  fi'om  my  dreams  !  Still,  I 
feel  some  rehef  by  the  knowledge  that  he  is 
not  to  come  here  again.  Yes,  I  feel  that  it 
relieves  me  ;  but,  alas  !  I  fear  that  even  the 
consciousness  of  that  cannot  prevent  the 
aA^-ful  impression  that  I  think  I  am  near 
death." 

"No,  darling,"  replied  her  mother,  "don't 
allow  that  thought  to  gain  upon  you.  We'll 
get  a  fairy-man  or  a  fairy-woman,  because 
they  know  the  best  remedies  against  eveiy- 
thing  of  that  kind,  when  a  common  leech  or 
chinirgeon  can  do  nothing." 

"  No,"  replied  her  father,  "  I  will  allow 
nothing  of  the  kind  under  this  roof.  It's 
not  a  safe  thing  to  have  dealings  with  such 
people.  We  know  that  the  Church  forbids 
it.  Perhaps  it's  a  witch  we  might  stumble 
on  ;  and  would  it  not  be  a  frightful  thing  to 
see  one  of  those  who  are  leagued  with  the 
devil  bringing  their  unconsecrated  breaths 
about  us  this  week,  as  it  were,  and,  perhaps, 
burned  the  next  ?  No,  we  will  have  a  regu- 
lar physician,  who  has  his  own  character,  as 
such,  to  look  to  and  support  by  his  honesty 
and  skill,  but  none  of  those  withered  classes 
of  hell  that  are  a  curse  to  the  country'." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Mrs.  Goodwin,  "  have 
your  own  way  in  it.  I  dare  say  you  are 
right." 

"  O,  don't  bring  any  fairy- worn  en  orfairj'- 
men  about  me,"  said  Alice.  "  The  very  sight 
of  them  would  take  away  the  little  life  I  have 
left." 

In  the  meantime  Harry  Woodward,  who 
had  a  variety  of  plans  and  projects  to  elabo- 
rate, foimd  himself,  as  every  villain  of  his 


kind  generally  does,  encompassed  by  doubt 
and  apprehension  of  their  failure.  The  reader 
will  understand  the  condition  of  his  heart 
and  feehngs  when  he  advances  further  in  this 
nari'ative.  Old  Lindsay,  who  was  of  a  manly 
and  generous  disposition,  felt  considerable 
surprise  that  all  intimacy  should  have  been 
discontinued  between  his  son  Charles  and 
Alice  Goodwin.  As  for  the  property  which 
she  now  possessed,  he  never  once  thought  of 
it  in  connection  with  their  former  affection 
for  each  other.  He  certainly  appreciated 
the  magnanimity  and  disinterestedness  of  his 
son  in  ceasing  to  urge  his  claims  after  she 
had  become  possessed  of  such  a  fortune  ; 
and  it  stnick  him  that  something  must  have 
been  ^NTong,  or  some  e\dl  agency  at  work, 
which  prevented  the  Goodwins  from  re- 
establishing their  former  intimacy  with 
Charles  whilst  they  seemed  to  court  that  of 
his  brother.  Here  was  something  strange, 
and  he  could  not  understand  it.  One  morn- 
ing, when  they  were  all  seated  at  breakfast, 
he  spoke  as  foUows  : — 

"  I  can't,"  he  said,  "  comprehend  the  con- 
duct of  the  Goodwins.  Their  davighter,  if 
we  are  to  judge  from  appearances,  has  dis- 
carded her  accepted  lover,  poor  Charles, 
here.  Now,  this  doesn't  look  well.  There 
seems  to  be  something  capricious,  perhaps 
selfish,  in  it.  Still,  knowing  the  goodness  of 
their  hearts,  as  I  do,  I  cannot  but  feel  that 
there  is  something  like  a  mystery  in  it.  I 
had  set  my  heart  upon  a  marriage  between 
Charles  and  Alice  before  ever  she  came  into 
the  property  bequeathed  to  her.  In  this  I 
was  not  selfish  certainly.  I  looked  only  to 
their  happiness.  Yes,  and  my  mind  is  still 
set  upon  this  mairiage,  and  it  shall  go  hard 
with  me  or  I  will  accomphsh  it." 

"  Father,"  said  Charles,  "  if  you  regard  or 
respect  me,  I  entreat  of  you  to  abandon  any 
such  project.  Ferdora  O'Connor  is  now  the 
favorite  there.  He  is  rich  and  I  am  poor ; 
no,  the  only  favor  I  ask  is  that  you  will  never 
more  allude  to  the  subject  in  my  hearing." 

"  But  I  •nill  allude  to  it,  and  I  wiU  de- 
mand an  explanation  besides,"  replied  Lind- 
say. 

"Father,"  observed  Harry,  "I  trust  that 
no  member  of  this  family  is  capable  of  an  act 
of  unparalleled  meanness.  I,  myself,  pleaded 
my  brother's  cause  with  that  heartless  and 
deceitful  girl  in  language  which  could  not  be 
mistaken.  And  what  was  the  consequence  ? 
Because  I  ventured  to  do  so  I  have  been  for- 
bidden to  visit  there  again.  They  told  me, 
without  either  preface  or  apology,  that  they 
will  have  no  further  intercourse  with  our 
family.  Ferdora  O'Connor  is  the  chosen 
man." 

"It   is  false,"  said  his   sister,    her   ejes 


•±iIE  EVIL   EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


705 


sparkling  with  indignation  as  she  spoke  ;  "it 
is  abominably  false  ;  and,  father,  you  are 
right ;  seek  an  explanation  from  the  Good- 
wins. I  feel  certiin  that  there  are  evil 
spirits  at  work." 

*'  I  shall,  my  dear  girl,"  replied  her  father  ; 
"  it  is  only  an  act  of  justice  to  them.  And 
if  the  matter  be  at  all  practicable,  I  shall 
have  Charles  and  her  married  still." 

"  Why  not  think  of  Harry  ?  "  said  his  wife  ; 
"as  the  person  originally  destined  to  re- 
ceive the  property,  he  has  the  strongest 
claim." 

"  You  Rj-e  talking  now  in  the  selfish  and 
accursed  principles  of  the  Avorld,"  replied 
Lindsay.  "  Charles  has  the  claim  of  her 
early  affection,  and  I  shall  urge  it." 

"Very  well,"  said  his  wife  ;  "  if  you  suc- 
ceed in  bringing  about  a  marriage  between 
her  and  Charles,  I  will  punish  both  you  and 
him  severely." 

"  As  how,  madam  ?  "  asked  her  husband. 

"  Are  you  aware  of  one  fact,  Lindsay  ?  " 

"I  am  aware  of  one  melancholy  fact,"  he 
rephed,  sarcastically. 

"  And,  pray,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Faith,"  he  rephed,  "that  I  am  your  hus- 
band " 

"  O,  yes — just  so — that  is  the  way  I  am 
treated,  children  ;  you  see  it  and  you  hear  it. 
But,  now,  listen  to  me  ;  3'ou  know,  Lindsay, 
that  the  prope-.ty  I  brought  you,  as  your  un- 
fortunate wife,  was  property  in  my  own 
right ;  you  know,  too,  that  by  our  marriage 
settlement  that  property  was  settled  on  me, 
with  the  right  of  devising  it  to  any  of  my 
children  whom  I  may  select  for  that  purpose. 
Now,  I  tell  you,  that  if  you  j^ress  this  mar- 
riage between  Charles  and  Alice  Goodwin,  I 
shall  take  this  property  into  my  own  hands, 
shall  make  my  will  in  favor  of  Harry,  and 
you  and  your  children  may  seek  a  shelter 
where  you  can  find  one." 

"  Me  and  my  children  !  ^liy,  I  believe 
you  think  you  have  no  children  but  Hany 
here.  Well,  you  may  do  as  you  like  with 
your  property  ;  I  am  not  so  poor  but  I  and 
my  children  can  live  upon  my  own.  This 
house  and  place,  I  grant  you,  are  yours,  and, 
as  for  mj'self,  I  am  willing  to  leave  it  to-day  ; 
a  life  of  exclusion  and  solitude  will  be  bet- 
ter than  that  which  I  lead  with  you." 

"  Papa,"  said  Maria,  thi'owing  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and  bursting  into  tears, 
"when  you  go  I  shall  go  ;  and  wherever  you 
may  go  to,  I  shall  accompany  you." 

"  Father,"  said  Charles,  in  a  choking  voice, 
and  grasping  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  "  if  you 
ieave  this  house  you  shall  not  go  alone. 
Neither  I  nor  Maria  shall  separate  ourselves 
fi'om  you.  We  will  have  enough  to  Hve  on 
with  comfort  and  decency  " 
23 


"Mother,"  said  Harry,  ri.sing  up  and  ap« 
proaching  her  with  a  face  of  significant  se- 
verity ;  "  mother,  you  have  forced  me  to  say 
— and  heaven  knows  the  pain  with  which  1 
say  it — that  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  Why 
will  you  use  langunge  that  is  calculated  to 
alienate  from  me  the  affections  of  a  brother 
and  sister  whom  I  love  with  so  much  tender- 
ne-Js?  I  trust  you  understand  me  when  1 
tell  3'ou  now  that  I  identify  myself  with  their 
feelings  and  objects,  and  that  no  sordid  ex- 
pectation of  your  property  shall  ever  in- 
duce me  to  take  up  your  quarrel  or  separate 
myself  from  them.  Dispose  of  your  prop- 
erty as  you  wish  ;  I  for  one  shall  not  earn 
it  by  sacrificing  the  best  affections  of  the 
heart,  nor  by  becoming  a  slave  to  such  a 
violent  and  indefensible  temper  as  yours. 
As  for  me,  I  shall  not  stand  in  need  of  your 
property — I  will  have  enough  of  my  own." 

They  looked  closely  at  each  other  ;  but 
that  look  was  sufficient.  The  cunning  mother 
thoroughly  understood  the  freemason  glance 
of  his  eye,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  Well,  I  see  I  am  abandoned  by  all  my 
children  ;  but  I  will  endeavor  to  bear  it.  I 
j  now  leave  you  to  yourselves — to  meditate 
!  and  put  in  practice  whatever  plot  you  please 
against  my  happiness.  Indeed,  I  know 
what  a  consolation  my  death  would  be  to 
you  all." 

She  then  withdrew,  in  accordance  with 
the  significant  look  which  Harry  gave  tow- 
ards the  door. 

"  Harry,"  said  Lindsay,  holding  out  his 
hand,  "j'ou  ai-e  not  the  son  of  my  blood,  but 
I  declare  to  heaven  I  love  you  as  well  as  if 
you  were.  Your  conduct  is  noble  and  gen- 
erous ;  ay,  and  as  a  natural  consequence, 
disinterested  ;  there  is  no  base  and  selfish 
principle  in  you,  my  dear  boy  ;  and  I  honor 
and  love  you  as  if  I  were  your  father  in  re- 
ahty." 

"  Hariy,"  said  Maria,  kissing  him,  "  I  re- 
peat and  feel  all  that  dear  papa  has  said." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  exclaimed  Chai'les,  "  and 
if  I  ever  entertained  any  other  feeling,  I  fling 
it  to  the  Avinds." 

"  You  all  oveiTate  me,"  said  Harry  ;  "  but, 
perhaps,  if  you  were  aware  of  my  private  re- 
monsti'ances  with  my  mother  upon  her  un- 
fortunate principles  and  temper,  you  would 
give  me  more  credit  even  than  you  do.  ^ly 
object  is  to  produce  peace  and  harmony  be- 
tween you,  and  if  I  can  succeed  in  that  I 
shall  feel  satisfied,  let  my  mother's  property 
go  where  it  may.  Of  coui'se,  you  must  now 
be  aware  that  I  separate  myself  from  her  and 
her  projects,  and  identify  myself,  as  I  said, 
with  you  all.  Still,  there  is  one  request  I 
have  to  make  of  you,  father,  my  dear  father, 
for  well  I  may  call  you  so  ;  and  it  is  that  you 


T06 


•WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


will  not,  as  an  independent  man  and  a  gentle- 
man, attempt  to  ui-ge  this  marriage,  on 
which  you  seem  to  have  set  your  heart,  be- 
tween Charles  and  Goodwin's  daughter.  You 
are  not  aware  of  what  I  know  upon  this  sub- 
ject. She  and  Ferdora  O'Connor  ai-e  about 
to  be  married  ;  but  I  will  not  mention  what 
I  could  mention  until  after  that  ceremony 
shall  have  taken  place." 

"  Well,"  said  his  sister,  "  you  appear  to 
speak  very  sincerely,  Harry,  but  I  know  and 
feel  that  there  is  some  'mistake  somewhere." 

"Harry,"  said  Lindsay,  "fi^om  what  has 
occui-red  this  morning,  I  shall  be  guided  by 
you.  I  will  not  press  this  mai-riage,  neither 
shall  I  stoop  to  seek  an  explanation." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  Harry.  "I  ad- 
vise you  as  I  do  because  I  would  not  wish  to 
see  our  whole  family  insulted  in  your  per- 
son." 

Maria  and  her  brother  Charles  looked  at 
each  other,  and  seemed  to  labor  under  a 
kstrange  and  somewhat  mysterious  feeling. 
The  confidence,  however,  with  which  Harry 
spoke  evidently  depressed  them,  and,  as 
they  entertained  not  the  slightest  susi^icion 
of  his  treachery,  they  left  the  apartment 
each  with  a  heav}"^  heart. 

Harry,  from  this  time  forward,  associated 
more  with  his  brother  than  he  had  done, 
and  seemed  to  take  him  more  into  his  con- 
fidence. He  asked  him  out  in  all  his  sport- 
ing expeditions ;  and  pi'oposed  that  they 
should  each  procure  a  shooting  dress  of  the 
same  color  and  materials,  which  was  accord- 
ingly done  ;  and  so  strongly  did  they  re- 
semble each  other,  when  dressed  in  them, 
that  in  an  inicertain  light,  or  at  a  distance, 
it  was  nearly  impossible  to  distinguish  the 
one  from  the  other.  In  fact,  the  brothers 
were  now  inseparable,  Harry's  object  being 
to  keep  Charles  as  much  under  his  eye  and 
control  as  possible,  from  an  apiDrehension 
that,  on  cool  reflection,  he  might  take  it 
into  his  head  to  satisfy  himself  by  a  personal 
interview  with  Alice  Goodwin  as  to  the 
incompi'ehensible  change  which  had  es- 
tranged her  affection  from  him. 

Still,  although  the  affection  of  those 
brothers  seemed  to  increase,  the  conduct  of 
Harry  was  full  of  mystery.  That  the  confi- 
dence he  placed  in  Charles  was  slight  and 
partial  admitted  of  no  doubt.  He  was  in  the 
nabit,  for  instance,  of  going  out  after  the 
family  had  gone  to  bed,  as  we  have  men- 
tioned before  ;  and  it  was  past  all  doubt 
that  he  had  been  frequently  seen  accompan- 
ied, in  his  midnight  rambles,  by  what  was 
known  in  the  neighborhood  as  the  Black 
Spectre,  or,  by  the  common  people,  as  the 
Shan-dhinne-dhiw,  or  the  dark  old  man. 
These  facts  invested  his  character,  which,  in 


spite  of  all  his  plausibility  of  manner,  waa 
unpopular,  with  something  of  great  dread, 
as  involving  on  his  part  some  unholy  asso- 
ciation with  the  evil  and  supernatural.  This 
was  peculiarl}-  the  age  of  superstition  and  of 
a  belief  in  the  connection  of  both  men  and 
women  with  diabolical  agencies  ;  for  suet 
was  the  creed  of  the  day. 

One  evening,  about  this  time,  Caterine 
Collms  was  on  her  way  home  to  Eathfillan, 
when,  on  crossing  a  piece  of  bleak  moor  ad- 
jacent to  the  town,  a  powerfnl  young  fellow, 
dressed  in  the  trais,  cloak,  and  barrad  of 
the  period,  started  up  from  a  clump  of  furze 
bushes,  and  addressed  her  as  follows: — 

"  Caterine,"  said  he,  "  are  you  in  a 
hurry  ?  " 

"  Not  particularly,"  she  replied  ;  "but  in 
God's  name,  Shawn,  what  brings  you  here  ? 
Are  you  mad  ?  or  what  tempts  you  to  come 
witliin  the  jaws  of  the  law  that  are  gaping 
for  3^ou  as  their  appointed  victim?  Don't 
you  know  you  are  an  outlaw  ?  " 

"  I  will  answer  your  first  question  first," 
he  rejDlied.  "  AMiat  tempted  me  to  come 
here?  Vengeance — deep  and  deadly  ven- 
geance. Vengeance  upon  the  villain  who 
has  ruined  Grace  Davoren.  I  had  intended 
to  take  her  life  first ;  but  I  am  an  Irishman, 
and  will  not  visit  upon  the  head  of  the  inno- 
cent girl,  whom  this  incarnate  devil  has 
tempted  beyond  her  strength,  the  crime  for 
which  he  is  accountable." 

"  Well,  indeed,  Sha^^^l,  it  would  be  only 
serving  him  right ;  but,  in  the  meantime, 
you  had  better  be  on  your  guai'd  ;  it  is  said 
that  he  fears  neither  God  nor  devil,  and 
always  goes  weU  armed  ;  so  be  cautious,  and 
if  you  take  him  at  all,  it  must  be  by  treach- 
ery." 

"No,"  said  the  outlaw,  indignantly^  "I'U 
never  take  him  or  any  man  by  treachery'. 
I  know  I  am  an  outlaw ;  but  it  was  the  mer- 
ciless laws  of  the  country,  and  their  injus- 
tice to  me  and  mine,  that  made  me  so  ;  I 
resisted  them  openly  and  like  a  man  ;  but, 
bad  as  I  am  supposed  to  be,  I  will  never 
stain  either  my  name  or  my  conscience  by 
an  act  of  cowardly  treacher}'.  I  will  meet 
this  dark  villain  face  to  face,  and  take  my 
revenge  as  a  brave  man  ought.  You  say  he 
goes  well  armed,  and  that  is  a  proof  that  he 
feels  his  own  guilt ;  yes,  he  goes  well  armed, 
you  say  ;  so  do  I,  and  it  will  not  be  the 
treacherous  murderer  that  he  will  meet,  but 
the  open  foe." 

"WeU,"  replied  Caterine,  "that  is  just 
like  you,  Shawn  ;  and  it  is  no  wonder  that 
the  women  were  fond  of  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  but  the  girl  that  was  dear- 
er to  me  a  thousand  times  than  my  own  life 
has  proved  faithless,  because  there  is  a  stain 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPEC  IRK 


70-< 


ni^on  my  name  —  a  stain,  but  no  crime, 
Caterine  ;  a  stain  made  by  the  law,  but  no 
crime.  Had  her  heart  been  loyal  and  true, 
she  would  have  loved  me  ten  times  more  in 
consequence  of  my  very  dis^'race — if  dis- 
gi-ace  I  ought  to  call  it ;  but  instead  of  that 
—but  waiir— O,  the  villain  !  WeU,  I  shall 
meet  him,  I  trust,  before  long,  and  then, 
Caterine,  ah,  then  !  " 

"  Well,  Shawn,  if  she  has  desarted  you, 
I  kiiow  one  that  loves  you  better  than  ever 
shs  did,  and  that  would  never  desart  you,  as 
Grace  Davoren  has  done." 

"  Ah,  Caterine,"  replied  the  outlaw,  sor- 
rowfuU/,  "  I  am  past  that  now  ;  my  heai't  is 
broke— T  could  never  love  another.  What 
proof  oi  truth  or  affection  could  any  other 
woman  give  me  after  the  treachery  of  her 
who  once  said  she  loved  me  so  well  ?  She 
said,  indeed,  some  time  ago,  that  it  was  her 
father  forced  her  to  do  it,  but  that  was 
after  she  hud  seen  him,  for  well  I  know 
she  often  told  me  a  different  storj'  before 
the  night  of  the  bonfire  and  the  shower  of 
blood.  Well,  Caterine,  that  shower  of  blood 
was  not  sent  for  nothing.  It  came  as  the 
prophecy  of  his  fate,  which,  if  I  have  hfe, 
will  be  a  bloody  one." 

"Shawn,"  re2olied  Caterine,  as  if  she  had 
not  paid  much  attention  to  his  words, 
"  Sliawn,  dear  Sha^vn,  there  is  one  woman 
who  woidd  give  her  life  for  your  love." 

*'  Ah,"  said  Shawn,  "  it's  aisily  said,  at  all  i 
events — aisily  said  ;  but  who  is  it  Caterine  ?  "  I 

"She  is  now  sjieaking  to  you,"'  she  re- I 
turned.  "  Shawn,  you  cannot  but  know  | 
that  I  have  long  loved  you  ;  and  I  now  tell  : 
you  that  I  love  you  still —ay,  and  a  thousand  ; 
times  more  than  ever  Grace  Davoren  did."      ! 

"  You  !  "   said  Sha^vn,  recoiling  with  in-  ! 
dignation  ;    "  is  it  you,  a  spy,  a  fortune-tell-  \ 
er,    a   go-between,    and,    if   all    be  true,  a  j 
witch  ;    you,  whose  life  and  character  would  i 
make  a  modest  woman  blush  to  hear  them 
mentioned  ?  Why,  the  ciu-se  of  heaven  upon  \ 
you  I    how  dare  you  think  of  proposing  such 
a  subject  to  me  ?     Do  you  think  because  I'm 
marked  by  the  laws  that  ray  heart  has  lost 
anything  of  its  honesty  and  manhood  ?   Be-  ' 
gone,  you  hardened   and  unholy  vagabond,  i 
and  leave  my  sight."  i 

"  Is  that  your  language,  Shawn  ?  "  I 

"  It  is  ;  and  what  other  lang-uage  could  any 
man  with  but  a  single  spark  of  honesty  and  j 
respect  for  himself  use  toward  you  ?    Be-  1 
gone,  I  say." 

"Yes,  I  will  begone  ;  but  perhaps  you  may  j 
live  to  rue  your  words  :  that  is  all."  j 

"  And,  perhaps,  so  may  you,"  he  replied.  | 
"Leave  my  sight.  You  are  a  disgi-ace  to  j 
the  name  of  w^oman."  i 

She   turned   upon  her  heel,  and  on  the  I 


instant  bent   her  steps  towards   Eathfillan 
House. 

"  Shawn-na-Middogue,"  she  said  as  she  Avent 
along,  "  you  talk  about  revenge,  but  wait  till 
you  know  what  the  revenge  of  an  insulted 
woman  is.  It  is  not  an  aisy  thing  to  know 
your  haunts  ;  but  I'll  set  them  upon  your 
trail  that  will  find  you  out  if  you  were  to 
hide  3'ourself  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  for 
the  woi'ds  you  used  to  me  this  night.  Dar 
manim,  I  will  never  rest  either  right  or  day 
until  I  see  you  swing  from  a  gibbet." 

Instead  of  proceeding  to  the  little  town 
of  KathfiUan,  she  changed  her  mind  and 
turned  her  steps  to  RathfiUan  House,  the 
residence,  as  our  readers  are  aware,  of  the 
generous  and  kind-hearted  !Mr.  Lindsay. 

On  an-iving  there  she  met  our  old  acquaint 
tance,  Barney  Casey,  on  the  way  from  the 
kitchen  to  the  stable.  Observing  that  she 
was  approaching  the  hall-door  with  the  evi- 
dent purpose  of  knocking,  and  feeling  satis- 
fied tliat  her  business  could  be  with  none  of 
the  family  except  Han:y,  he  resolved  to  have 
some  conversation  ^vith  her,  in  order,  if  j^os- 
sible,  to  get  a  glimpse  of  its  purjiort.  Not, 
indeed,  that  he  entertained  any  expectation 
of  such  a  result,  because  he  knew  the  craft 
and  secrecy  of  the  woman  he  had  to  deal 
with  ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  thought  that  he 
might  still  glean  something  significant  even 
by  her  equivocations,  if  not  by  her  very 
silence.  He  accordingly  turned  over  and 
met  her. 

"  Well,  Caterine,  won't  this  be  a  fine  night 
when  the  moon  and  stars  comes  out  to  show 
you  the  road  home  again  afther  you  manage 
the  afiair  you're  bent  on  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  am  I  bent  on  ?  "  she  replied, 
sharply. 

"  Why,  to  build  a  church  to-night,  wid  the 
assistance  of  Mr.  Harry  Woodward." 

"  Talk  with  resj^ect  of  your  masther's  step- 
son," she  rej^lied,  indignantly. 

"And  my  sweet  misthres.s's  sou,"  returned 
Barney,  significantly.  "A\niy,  Caterine,  1 
hope  you  vvon't  lift  me  till  I  f;ill  What  did 
I  say  disrespectful  of  him  ?  Faith,  I  only 
know  that  the  wondher  is  how  such  a  devil's 
scald  could  have  so  good  and  kind-hearted 
a  son,"  he  added,  disentangling  himself  from 
her  suspicions,  knowing  jjerfectly  well,  as  he 
did,  that  any  unfavorable  expression  he  might 
utter  against  that  vindictive  gentleman  would 
rao.st  assuredly  be  communicated  to  liim  with 
comments  much  stronger  than  the  text. 
This  would  only  throw  him  out  of  Harry's 
confidence,  and  deprive  liim  of  those  oppor- 
tunities of  probably  learning,  from  their 
casual  conversation,  some  tendency  of  his 
mysterious  movements,  especially  at  night ; 
for  that  he  was  enveloped  in  'Aystery  '^as  a 


?08 


WILLIAM  CABLETON'S  WORKS. 


fact  of  which  he  felt  no  doubt  whatsoever. 
He  accordingly  resolved  to  cancel  the  conse- 
quences even  of  the  equivocal  allusion  to  him 
which  he  had  made,  and  which  he  saw  at  a 
glance  that  Caterine's  keen  suspicions  had 
intei'preted  into  a  bad  sense. 

•'  So  you  see,  Katty,'"he  proceeded,  "  agra- 
machree  that  you  wor,  don't  Hft  me,  as  I 
said,  till  I  fall ;  but  what  harm  is  it  to  be 
fond  of  a  spree  wid  a  purty  girl  ?  Sure  it's 
a  good  man's  case  ;  but  I'll  tell  you  more  ; 
you  must  know  the  misthress's  wig  took  fire 
this  mornin',  and  she  was  within  an  inch  of 
bavin'  the  house  in  flames.  All,  it's  she  that 
blew  a  regular  breeze,  threatened  to  make 
the  masther  and  the  other  two  take  to  their 
travels  from  about  the  house  and  place,  and 
settle  the  same  house  and  place  upon  Mr. 
Harry." 

"  Well,  Barney,"  said  Caterine,  deeply  in- 
terested, "what  was  the  upshot?  " 

"  Wliy,  that  Masther  Harry — long  life  to 
him — parted  company  wid  her  on  the  spot ; 
said  he  would  take  part  wid  the  masther  and 
the  other  two,  and  tould  her  to  her  teeth 
that  he  did  not  care  a  damn  about  the  jDrojier- 
ty,  and  that  she  might  leave  it  as  a  legacy  to 
ould  Nick,  who,  he  said,  desarved  it  better  at 
her  hands  than  he  did." 

"  Well,  well,"  replied  Caterine,  "  I  never 
thought  he  was  such  a  fool  as  all  that  comes 
to.  Devil's  cui'e  to  him,  if  she  laves  it  to 
some  one  else  !  that's  my  compassion  for 
him." 

"  Well,  but,  Caterine,  what's  the  news  ? 
Wlien  Avill  the  sky  fall,  you  that  knows  so 
much  about  futurity  ?  " 

"  The  news  is  anything  but  good,  Barney. 
Tlie  sky  will  fall  some  Sunday  in  the  middle 
of  next  week,  and  then  for  the  lark-catching. 
But  tell  me,  Barney,  is  Mr.  Harry  within  ? 
because,  if  he  is,  I'd  thank  you  to  let  liim 
know  that  I  wish  to  see  him.  I  have  a  bit  of 
favor  to  ask  of  him  about  my  uncle  Solo- 
mon's cabin  ;  the  masther's  threatnin'  to  pull 
it  down."  . 

Now,  Barney  knew  the  assertion  to  be  a 
lie,  because  it  was  only  a  day  or  two  previous 
to  the  conversation  that  he  had  heard  Mr. 
Lindsay  express  hir-  intention  of  building  the 
old  herbalist  a  new  one.  He  kept  his  knowl- 
edge of  this  to  himself,  however. 

"  And  so  you  want  him  to  change  the  mas- 
ther's mind  upon  tlie  subject.  Faith  and 
you're  just  in  luck  after  this  mornin's  skirm- 
ish— skirmish  !  no  bedad,  but  a  field  day  it- 
self ;  the  masther  could  refuse  him  nothing. 
Will  I  say  what  you  want  him  for  ?  " 

"  You  may  or  you  may  not ;  but,  on  sec- 
ond thoughts,  I  think  it  will  be  enough  to 
say  simply  that  I  wish  to  spake  to  him  par- 
ticularly." 


"  Very  well,  Caterine,"  replied  Barney,  "  IH 
tell  him  so." 

In  a  few  minutes  Harry  joined  her  on  the 
lawn,  where  she  awaited  him,  and  the  follow- 
ing dialogue  took  place  between  them  : 

"  Well,  Caterine,  Casey  tells  me  that  you 
have  something  pai'ticular  to  say  to  me." 

"And  very  particular  indeed,  it  is,  Mr. 
Harry." 

"Well,  then,  the  sooner  we  have  it  the 
better  ;  pray,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"I'm  afeard,  Mx.  Woodward,  that  unless 
you  have  some  good  body's  blessin'  about 
you,  your  Ufe  isn't  worth  a  week's  pur- 
chase." 

"  Some  good  body's  blessing !  "  he  repliedt 
ironically  ;  "  well,  never  mind  that,  but  let 
me  know  the  danger,  if  danger  there  be  ;  at 
all  events,  I  am  well  prepared  for  it." 

"  The  danger  then  is  this — and  terrible  it 
is — that  born  devil,  Shawn-na-Middogue,  has 
got  hold  of  what's  goin'  on  between  you  and 
Grace  Davoi-en." 

"  Between  me  and  Grace  Davoren  ! "  he 
exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  well-feigned  aston- 
ishment. "  You  mean  my  brother  Charles. 
Why,  Caterine,  that  soft-hearted  and  soft- 
headed idiot,  for  I  can  call  him  nothing  else, 
has  made  himseK  a  perfect  fool  about  her, 
and  what  is  worst  of  aU,  I  am  afraid  he  will 
break  his  engagement  with  Miss  Goodwin, 
and  many  this  wench.  Me  !  why,  except 
that  he  sent  me  once  or  tvvdce  to  meet  her, 
and  apologize  for  his  not  being  able  to  keep 
his  appointment  with  her,  I  know  nothing 
whatsoever  of  the  unfortunate  girl,  unless 
that,  like  a  fool,  as  she  is,  it  seems  to  me 
that  she  is  as  fond  of  him  as  he,  the  fool,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  of  her.  As  for  my  part, 
I  shall  deliver  his  messages  to  her  no  more 
— and,  indeed,  it  was  wi'ong  of  me  ever  to 
do  so." 

The  moon  had  now  risen,  and  Caterine, 
on  looking  keenly  and  incredulously  into 
his  face,  read  nothing  thei'e  but  an  expres- 
sion of  aj)i3arent  sincerity  and  sorrow  for 
the  indiscretion  and  folly  of  his  brother. 

"Well,"  she  proceeded,  "in  spite  of  all 
you  teU  me  I  say  that  it  does  not  make  your 
danger  the  less.  It  is  not  your  brother  but 
yourself  that  he  suspects,  and  whether  right 
or  wrong,  it  is  upon  you  that  his  vengeance 
will  fall.'" 

"Well,  but,  Caterine,"  he  replied,  "could 
you  not  see  Shawn-na-Middogue  and  remedy 
that?" 

"How,  air?"  she  replied. 

"Why,  by  telling  him  the  truth,"  said 
the  far-sighted  villain,  "  that  it  is  my  bro- 
ther, and  not  I,  that  was  the  intriguer  with 
her." 

"  Is  that  generous  towards  your  brother, 


TUE  EVIL    EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


T09 


Ml.  Woodward?  No,  sir  ;  sooner  than  bring 
the  vengeance  of  such  a  person  as  Slmwni 
upon  him,  I  would  have  the  tongue  cut  out 
of  my  mouth,  or  the  right  arm  oft"  my 
body." 

"And  I,  Caterine,"  he  answered,  retriev- 
ing himself  as  weU  as  he  could  ;  "yes,  /  de- 
serve to  have  my  tongue  cut  out,  and  my 
right  arm  chojjped  oft',  for  what  I  have  said. 
O,  no ;  if  there  he  danger  let  me  run  the 
risk,  and  not  poor,  good,  kind-hearted 
Chai'les,  who  is  certainly  infatuated  by  this 
girl.  He  is  to  meet  her  t-o-morrow  night  at 
nine  o'clock,  in  the  little  clump  of  idders  be- 
low the  well,  but  I  shall  go  in  his  place — 
that  is,  if  I  can  prevail  upon  him  to  allow 
me — and  endeavor  once  for  all  to  put  an  end 
to  this  business  :  mark  that  I  said,  if  he  wiU 
allow  me,  although  I  scarcely  tliink  he  will. 
Now,  good-night,  and  many  thaulcs  for  your 
good  wishes  towards  myself  and  him.  Ac- 
cept of  this,  and  good-night  again."  As  he 
spoke  he  placed  some  money  in  her  unre- 
luct:mt  hand,  and  ret\u*ned  on  his  way 
home. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Shawn-na-Middogue  Stabs  Charles  Lindsay  in  Mis- 
take for  his  Brother. 

Shawn-na-Middogite,  though  uneducated, 
was  a  young  man  of  no  common  intellect. 
That  he  had  been  selected  to  head  the  out- 
laws, or  rappiirees,  of  that  day,  was  a  sulii- 
cient  proof  of  this.  After  parting  from 
Caterine  Colhns,  on  whom  the  severity  of 
his  language  fell  with  such  bitteraess,  he 
began  to  retiect  that  he  had  acted  with  gi-eat 
indiscretion,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  He  knew 
that  if  there  was  a  woman  in  the  barony  who, 
if  she  determined  on  it,  could  trace  him  to 
his  most  secret  haunts,  she  was  that  woman. 
He  saw,  too,  that  after  she  had  left  him,  evi- 
dently in  deep  indignation,  she  turned  her 
stojM  towai'ds  Rathtillan  House,  most  prob- 
ably with  an  intention  of  comnimiicatiug  to 
Harry  Woodward  tlie  strong  determinations 
of  vengeance  which  he  had  expi-essed  against 
him.  Here,  then,  by  want  of  temper  and 
common  policy,  had  he  created  two  fonnid- 
able  enemies  against  himself.  This,  he  felt, 
was  an  ovei^sight  for  which  he  could  scarcely 
foi'give  himself.  He  resolved,  if  possible,  to 
repaii-  the  en-orhe  had  committed,  and,  with 
this  object  in  view,  he  hung  about  the  place 
until  her  return  should  aftbrd  him  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  such  an  explanation  as 
might  soothe  her  into  good  humor  and  a 
more  friendly  feeling  towai'ds  him.  Na}-,  he 
«ven  determined  to  promise  her  mai-riage,  in 


order  to  disarm  her  resentment  and  avert 
the  danger  which,  he  knew,  was  to  be  appre- 
hended from  it.  He  accordingly  stationed 
himself  in  the  shelter  of  a  ditch,  along  which 
he  knew  she  must  pass  on  her  way  home. 
He  had  not  long,  however,  to  wait.  In  the 
course  of  half  an  hour  he  saw  her  approach, 
and  as  she  was  passing  him  he  said  in  a  low, 
confidential  voice, — 

"  Caterine  I  " 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  she  asked,  but  without 
exhibiting  any  symptoms  of  alarm. 

"  It's  me,"  he  repHed,  "Shawn." 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "and  what  is  that  to 
me  whether  it's  you  or  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  thought  over  our  discourse  a 
while  ago,  nnd  I'm  soriy  for  wh  it  I've  said  ; 
— will  you  let  me  see  you  a  part  of  the  way 
home  ?  " 

"I  Ciin't  prevent  you  fi-om  comin',"  she 
replied,  "if  you're  disposed  to  come — the 
way  is  as  fi'ee  to  you  as  to  me." 

They  then  proceeded  together,  and  our 
reiulers  must  gather  from  the  incidents 
which  are  to  follow  what  the  result  was  of 
Sha\vTi's  poUcy  in  his  convei'sation  with  her 
on  the  way.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  they 
parted  on  the  best  and  most  affectionate 
terms,  and  tliat  a  certain  smack,  veiy  deli- 
cious to  the  lips  of  Caterine,  was  heai'd  be  • 
fore  Shawn  bade  her  good-night 

Barney  Casey,  who  suspected  there  was 
something  in  the  wind,  in  consequence  of  the 
secret  interview  which  took  jjlace  between 
Caterine  Collins  and  Harry,  conscious  as  he 
felt  that  it  was  for  no  good  piupose,  watched 
that  worthy  gentleman's  face  with  keen  but 
quiet  observation,  in  the  hope  of  being  able 
to  draw  some  inference  from  its  expression. 
This,  liowever,  was  a  vain  task.  The  face 
was  impassable,  inscnitable  ;  no  symptom  of 
agitation,  alarm,  or  concealed  satisfaction 
could  be  read  in  it,  or  anything  else,  in 
short,  but  the  ordinary  expression  of  the 
most  perfect  indifterence.  Rirney  knew  his 
man,  however,  and  felt  aware,  from  former 
observations,  of  the  power  which  Woodward 
possessed  of  disguising  his  face  whenever  he 
wished,  even  under  the  influence  of  the 
strongest  emotions.  Accordingly,  notwitli- 
stauding  aU  this  indift'erence  of  manner,  he 
felt  that  it  was  for  no  common  purpose 
Caterine  Collins  sought  an  interview  with 
him,  and  with  this  impres.sion  on  his  miud 
he  resolved  to  watch  his  motions  closely. 

The  next  day  H:u-ry  and  Charles  went  out 
to  course,  accompiuiied  by  Barney  himself, 
who,  b}'  the  wa}',  observed  that  the  former 
made  a  point  to  bring  a  case  of  pistols  and  a 
dagger  \di\\  him,  which  he  concealed  so  as 
that  they  miglit  not  be  seen.  This  discovery 
was  the  result  of  Barney's  vigilance  and  sua* 


no 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORK^. 


picions,  for  when  Harry  was  prepared  to  fol- 
low his  brother,  who  went  to  put  the  dogs 
in  leash,  he  SJiid  : 

"Barney,  go  and  assist  Mr.  Charles,  and  I 
will  join  you  both  on  the  lawn." 

Barney  accordingly  left  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  after  him  ;  but  instead  of 
proceeding,  as  directed,  to  join  Charles,  he 
deliberately  jDut  his  eye  to  the  key-hole,  and 
saw  Harry  secrete  the  pistols  and  dagger 
about  his  person.  Each,  also,  brought  his 
gun  at  the  suggestion  of  Harry,  who  said, 
that  although  they  went  out  merely  to 
course,  yet  it  was  not  improbable  .^hat  they 
might  get  a  random  shot  at  the  grouse  or 
partridge  as  they  went  along.  Upon  all  these 
matters  Barney  made  his  comments,  al- 
though he  said  nothing  upon  the  subject 
even  to  Charles,  from  whom  he  scarcely  ever 
concealed  a  secret.  That  Harry  was  brave 
and  intrepid  even  to  rashness  he  knew  ;  but 
why  he  sliould  arm  himself  with  such  secrecy 
and  caution  occasioned  him  much  conjecture. 
His  intrigue  with  Grace  Davoren  was  begin- 
ning to  be  suspected.  Shmcn-na-Middogue 
might  have  heard  of  it.  Caterine  Collins 
was  one  of  AVoodward's  agents— at  least  it 
was  supposed  fi'om  their  frequent  interviews 
that  she  Avas,  to  a  certain  degi'ee,  in  his  con- 
fidence ;  might  not  her  request,  then,  to  see 
him  on  the  preceding  night  proceed  from  an 
anxiety,  on  her  part,  to  warn  him  against 
some  danger  to  be  apprehended  fi-om  that 
fearful  freebooter  ?  This  was  well  and  cor- 
rectly reasoned  on  the  part  of  Barney,  and, 
with  those  impressions  fixed  upon  his  mind, 
he  accompanied  the  two  brothers  on  the 
sporting  expedition  of  the  day. 

We  shall  not  dwell  upon  their  success, 
which  was  even  better  than  they  had  ex- 
pected. Nothing,  however,  occurred  to  ren- 
der either  pistols  or  dagger  necessary  ;  but 
Barney  observed  that,  on  their  return  home, 
Hai-ry  made  it  a  point  to  come  by  the  well 
where  he  and  Grace  Davoren  were  in  the 
habit  of  meeting,  and,  having  taken  his  bro- 
ther aside,  he  pointed  to  the  little  dark 
clump  of  alders,  which  skirted  a  small  grove, 
and,  having  whispered  something  to  him 
which  he  could  not  hear,  they  passed  on  by 
the  old,  broken  boreen,  which  we  have  de- 
scribed, and  reached  home  loaded  ANdth  game, 
but  without  any  particular  adventure.  Bai'- 
ney's  vigilance,  however,  was  still  awake,  and 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
why  Harr}'  had  armed  himself,  for  as  yet  he 
had  nothing  but  suspicion  on  which  to  rest. 
He  knew  that  whenever  he  went  out  at  night 
or  in  the  evening  he  always  went  armed  ; 
and  tliis  was  only  natural,  for  the  country 
was  in  a  dangerous  and  disturbed  state,  ow- 
ing, as  the   report  went,  to   the   outrages 


'  against  property  which  were  said  to  have 
I  been  committed  by  Shaion-na-Middogue  and 
his  rapparees.  During  his  sporting  excur- 
sions in  the  open  day,  however,  he  never 
j  knew  him  to  go  armed  in  this  manner  be- 
I  fore,  because,  on  such  occasions  he  had  al. 
j  ways  seen  his  pistols  and  dagger  hanging 
:  against  the  wall,  where  he  usually  kept  tliem, 
I  On  this  occasion,  however.  Woodward  went 
'  like  a  man  who  felt  apprehensive  of  some 
:  premeditated  violence  on  the  jiart  of  an 
I  enemy.  Judging,  therefore,  from  wh.at  he 
j  had  seen,  as  well  as  from  what  he  conjec- 
j  tured,  Barney,  as  we  said,  resolved  to  watch 
I  him  closely. 

I  In  the  meantime,  the  state  of  poor  Alice 
I  Goodwin's  health  was  deplorable.  The 
!  dreadful  image  of  Harry  AVoodward,  or, 
rather,  the  fi-ightful  power  of  his  satanic 
spirit,  fastened  upon  her  morbid  and  dis- 
eased imagination  with  such  force,  that  no 
effort  of  her  reason  could  shake  it  off.  That 
dreadfiil  eye  was  jjeri^etuall}'  upon  her  and 
before  her,  both  asleep  and  awake,  and,  lest 
she  might  have  any  one  point  on  which  to 
rest  for  comfort,  the  idea  of  Charles  Lindsay's 
attachment  to  Grace  Davoren  would  come 
over  her,  only  to  supersede  one  misery  by  in- 
troducing another.  In  this  wretched  state 
she  was  when  the  calamitous  circumstances, 
which  we  are  about  to  relate,  took  place. 

Barney  Casey  was  a  good  deal  engaged 
that  evening,  for  indeed  he  was  a  general 
servant  in  his  master's  family,  and  was  ex- 
pected to  put  a  hand  to,  and  supenntend, 
ever^-thing.  He  was,  therefore,  out  t)f  the 
way  for  a  time,  having  gone  to  Eathfiibn  on 
a  message  for  his  mistress,  whom  he  ciu'sed 
in  his  heart  for  having  sent  him.  He  lost 
little  time,  however,  in  discharging  it,  and 
was  just  on  his  return  when  he  saw  Harry 
Woodward  entering  the  old  boreen  we  have 
described ;  and,  as  the  night  was  rather 
dark,  he  resolved  to  ascertain — although  he 
truly  suspected — the  object  of  this  nocturnal 
adventure.  He  accordingly  dogged  him  at 
a  safe  distance,  and,  in  accordance  with  his 
suspicions,  he  found  that  Woodward  direct- 
ed his  steps  to  the  clump  of  alders  which  he 
had,  on  their  return  that  day,  pointed  out  to 
his  brother.  Here  he  (Barney)  ensconced 
himself  in  a  close  thicket,  in  order  to  watch 
the  event.  Woodward  had  not  been  many 
minutes  there  when  Grace  Davoren  joined 
him.  She  seemed  startled,  and  surprised, 
and  disappointed,  as  Casey  could  perceive- 
by  her  manner,  or  rather  by  the  tones  of  her 
voice  ;  but,  whatever  the  cause  of  her  dis- 
appointment niay  have  been,  there  was  little 
time  left  for  either  remonstrances  or  expla- 
nation on  the  part  of  her  lover.  Wliilst  ad- 
dressing her,  a  yoimg  and   powerful  ma» 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


711 


bouiided  foi-^NurJ,  tind,  braudislnng  a  lonpf 
dagger — the  dreaded  middogue — plunged  it 
into  his  body,  aud  ber  couipanion  fell  with  a 
groan.  The  act  was  rapid  as  lightning,  and 
the  moment  the  work  of  blood  and  ven- 
geance had  been  accomphshed,  the  young 
fellow  bounded  away  again  with  the  same 
speed  observable  in  the  rajiidity  of  his  ap- 
proach. Grace's  screams  and  shiieks  were 
loud  and  fearful. 

'•  Murdheiin'  villain  of  heU,"  she  shouted 
after  Shawn — for  it  was  he — "you  have 
killed  the  wrong  man — you  have  mvu'dered 
the  innocent.     This  is  his  brother." 

Barney  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment. 

"Heavenly  Father!"  he  exckiimed, 
shocked  aud  astoundedby  her  words,  "what 
means  this  ?    Is  it  Mr.  Charles  ?  " 

"  O,  3"es,"  she  rej^hed,  not  conscious  that 
in  the  alarm  and  terror  of  the  moment  she 
had  betrayed  herself,  or  rather  her  para- 
mour— "  innocent  Mr.  Charles  I'm  afeard  is 
murdhered  by  that  revengeful  villain  ,  and 
now,  B;u'ney,  what  is  to  be  done,  and  how 
will  we  get  assistance  to  bring  him  home  ? 
But,  cheerua  above !  what  will  become  of 
me!" 

"Mr.  Charles,"  said  Barney,  "is  it  pos- 
sible that  it  is  you  that  is  here  ?  " 

"I  am  here,  Barney,"  he  replied,  with  dif- 
ficulty, "  and,  I  fear,  mortally  ■\^'ounded." 

"  O,  God  forbid  !  "  replied  his  humble 
but  faithful  fi'iend.  "I  hope  it  is  not  so 
bad  as  you  think." 

"  Take  this  handkerchief,"  said  Charles, 
"  tie  it  about  my  breast,  and  tiy  and  stop 
the  blood.     I  feel  myself  getting  weak." 

This  Bai-ney  proceeded  to  do,  in  which 
operation  we  shall  leave  him,  assisted  by  the 
\infortunate  girl  who  was  indirectly  the 
means  of  biingiug  this  di'eadful  calamity 
upon  him. 

Sliau-n-na-Middogue  was  not  out  of  the 
reach  of  hearing  when  Grace  shouted  after 
him,  havmg  jDaused  to  ascertain,  if  possible, 
whether  he  had  done  his  work  effectually. 
That  Hai-ry  Woodward  was  Grace's  para- 
nioui",  he  knew ;  and  that  Chaiies  was  inno- 
cent of  that  guilt,  he  also  knew.  All  that 
Caterine  Colhns  had  told  him  on  the  preced- 
ing night  went  for  nothing,  because  he  felt 
that  Woodward  had  coined  those  falsehoods 
with  a  view  to  screen  himself  from  his 
(Shawn's)  vengeance.  But  in  the  meantime 
Grace's  words,  uttered  in  the  extremity  of 
lier  terror,  assured  him  that  there  had  been 
sou'e  mistake,  and  that  one  brother  might 
havs^;  come  to  explain  and  apologize  for  the 
absence  of  the  other.  He  consequently  crept 
back  within  hearing  of  then-  conversation, 
and  ascertained  with  regret  the  mistake  he 
4iad    committed.     ShaAvn,  at  night,  seldom 


went  unattended  by  sevend  of  his  gang,  and 
on  this  occasion  he  was  accompanied  b} 
about  a  dozen  of  them.  His  murderous 
mistake  occasioned  liim  to  feel  deep  sorrow, 
for  he  was  perl'e-'tly  well  acquainted  witb 
the  amiable  and  generous  character  which 
Charles  bore  amongst  his  father's  tenantiy. 
His  hfe  had  been,  not  only  inollen.sive.  but 
benevolent ;  whilst  that  of  liis  brother — 
short  as  was  the  time  since  his  return  to 
Ratlifillan  House — was  marked  by  a  very  li- 
centious profligacy, — a  profligacy  which  he 
attempted  in  vain  to  conceal.  Whilst  Grace 
Davoren  and  Casey  were  attempting  to 
staunch  the  blood  which  issued  from  the 
wound,  four  men,  despatched  by  Shawn  for 
the  puii^ose,  came,  as  if  alarmed  by  Grace's 
slu-ieks,  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  and, 
after  having  inquired  as  to  the  cause  of  its 
occurrence,  precisely  as  if  they  had  been  ig- 
norant of  it,  they  proposed  that  the  only 
thing  to  be  done,  so  as  to  give  him  a  chance 
for  life,  was  to  carry  him  home  without  a 
moment's  delay.  He  was  accoi'dingly  liaised 
upon  their  shoulders,  aud,  ^vith  moi-e  sym- 
pathy than  could  be  expected  from  such 
men,  Avas  bome  to  his  father's  house  in  ap- 
parently a  dying  state. 

It  is  unnecessiuy  to  attempt  any  description 
of  the  alarm  which  his  appearance  there  cre- 
ated. His  father  and  ^laria  were  distracted  ; 
even  his  mother  manifested  tokens  of  un- 
usual sorrow,  for  after  aU  she  was  his 
mother  ;  aud  nothing,  indeed,  could  sur}xas3 
the  sorrow  of  the  whole  family.  The  ser- 
vants were  all  in  tears,  .i-nd  nothing  but  sobs 
and  waiHngs  could  be  heard  throughout  the 
house.  Harry  Woodward  himself  put  his 
handkercliief  to  liis  eyes,  and  seemed  to  feel 
a  deep  but  subdued  soitow.  ^Medical  aid 
was  immediately  sent  for,  but  such  was  hia 
precarious  condition  that  no  ojjinion  could 
be  formed  as  to  his  ultimate  recoveiy. 

The  next  morning  the  town  of  Biithfiilan, 
and  indeed  the  parish  at  large,  were  in  a 
state  of  agitation,  and  tumult,  and  sorrow,  as 
soon  as  the  melancholy  catastrophe  had  be- 
come kno\Mi.  The  neighbora  and  tenants 
flocked  in  multitudes  to  learn  the  p:u'ticulars, 
and  ascertain  his  state.  About  eleven  o'clock 
Harry  mounted  his  horse,  and,  in  defiance 
of  the  interdict  that  had  been  laid  upon  him, 
proceeded  at  a  rapid  pace  to  !Mr.  Goodwin's 
house,  in  order  to  disclose — with  what  ob- 
ject the  reader  may  conjecture — the  melan- 
choly event  which  had  happened.  He 
found  Goodwin,  his  wife,  and  Sarah  Sulhvjiu 
in  the  parlor,  which  he  had  scarcely  entered 
when  ]\Ir.  Goodwin  got  up,  and,  approad.. 
ing  him  in  a  state  of  great  alarm  and  excilc- 
ment,  exclaimed, — 

"  Good  Heavens,    Mi*.    Woodward  1     can 


n2 


WILLIAM   CARLETON  'jS  WoRA>:>. 


this  dreadful  intelligence  whicli  we  have 
heard  be  true  ?  " 

"  O,  you  have  heard  it,  then,"  repHed 
Woodward.  "Alas  !  yes,  it  is  too  tnie,  and 
my  unfortunate  brother  lies  with  hfe  barely 
in  him,  but  without  the  slightest  hope  of  re- 
covery. As  for  myself  I  am  in  a  state  of 
absolute  distraction  ;  and  were  it  not  that  I 
possess  the  consciousness  of  having  done 
everything  in  my  power  as  a  friend  and  bro- 
ther to  withdraw  him  from  this  unfortunate 
intrigue,  I  think  I  should  become  fairly 
crazed.  Miss  Goodwin  has  for  some  time 
past  been  aware  of  my  deep  anxiety  upon 
this  veiy  subject,  because  I  deemed  it  a 
solemn  duty  on  my  part  to  let  her  know 
that  he  Lad  degraded  himself  by  this  low 
attachment  to  such  a  girl,  and  was  conse- 
quently utterly  unworthy  of  her  affection.  I 
could  not  see  the  innocence  and  purity  im- 
];(Osed  ujion,  nor  her  generous  confidence 
;)laced  on  an  unworthy  object.  This,  how- 
iver,  is  not  a  time  to  deal  harshly  by  him. 
ile  wiU  not  be  long  with  us,  and  is  entitled 
to  nothing  but  oui"  forbearance  and  sym- 
pathy. Poor  fellow  !  he  has  paid  a  heavy 
and  a  fatal  penalty  for  his  crime.  Alas,  my 
brother  !  cut  down  in  the  very  prime  of  hfe, 
when  there  was  still  time  enough  for  refor- 
mation and  repentance  !  O,  it  is  too  much  !  " 

He  turned  towards  the  window,  and,  put- 
ting Ids  handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  did  the 
pathetic  with  a  very  good  grace. 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Goodwin,  "  what  were 
the  exact  circumstances  under  which  the  de- 
plorable act  of  vengeance  was  committed  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  the  usual  thing,  Mrs.  Goodwin," 
replied  Harry,  attempting  to  clear  his  throat ; 
''  chey  met  last  night  between  nine  and 
ten  o'clock,  in  a  clump  of  alders,  near  the 
ivell  from  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  ad- 
joining hamlet  fetch  their  water.  The  out- 
law, Shaton-na-3Iiddogue,  a  rejected  lover  of 
the  girl's,  stung  with  jealousy  and  vengeance, 
suii^rised  them,  and  stabbed  my  unfortu- 
nate brother,  I  fear,  to  death." 

"  And  do  you  think  there  is  no  hope  ?  " 
she  added,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  "  O,  if  he 
had  only  time  for  repentance  !  " 

"  Alas !  madam,  the  medical  man  who  has 
seen  him  scarcely  holds  out  any  liope  ;  but, 
as  you  say,  if  he  had  time  even  to  repent, 
there  would  be  much  consolation  in  that." 

"  Well,"  observed  Goodwin,  his  eyes  moist 
with  tears,  "  after  this  day,  I  shall  never 
place  confidence  in  man.  I  did  imagine  that 
if  ever  there  was  an  individual  whose  heart 
was  the  source  of  honor,  truth,  generosity, 
disinterestedness,  and  affection,  your  brother 
C'harles  was  that  man.  I  am  confounded, 
an.  1  zed — imd  the  whole  thing  appears  to  me 
like   a  dream  ;  at   all   events,    thank    God, 


our  daughter  has  had  a  narrow  escape  oi 
him." 

"  Pray,  by  the  way,  how  is  IMiss  Good- 
win?"  asked  Harry  ;  "I  hope  she  is  recover- 
ing." 

"  So  far  from  that,"  replied  her  father, 
"  she  is  sinking  fast ;  in  truth  we  entertain 
but  little  hopes  of  her." 

"  On  the  occasion  of  my  last  -sdsit  here  you 
forbade  me  your  house,  Mr.  Goodwin,"  said 
Woodward  ;  "but  perhaps,  now  that  you  are 
aware  of  the  steps  I  have  taken  to  detach 
your  daughter's  affections  from  an  individual 
whom  I  knew  at  the  time  to  be  unworthy  of 
them,  you  may  be  jDre vailed  on  to  rescind 
that  stern  and  painful  decree." 

Goodwin,  who  was  kind-hearted  and  plac- 
able, seemed  rather  perplexed,  and  looked 
towards  his  wife,  as  if  to  be  guided  by  her 
decision. 

"W^ell,  indeed."  she  replied,  "I  don't 
exactly  know ;  jDerhaps  we  Avill  think  of 
it." 

"  No,"  replied  Sarah  Sullivan,  who  was 
toasting  a  thin  sHce  of  bread  for  Alice's 
breakfast.  "  No  ;  if  you  allov/  this  man  to 
come  about  the  place,  as  God  is  to  judge 
me,  3'ou  will  both  have  a  hand  in  your 
daughter's  death.  If  the  de-\dls  from  hell 
were  to  visit  here,  she  might  beai'  it ;  but  at 
the  present  moment  one  look  fi'om  that  man 
would  kill  her." 

This  remonstrance  decided  them. 

"  No,  Mr.  W^oodward,"  said  Goodvnn, 
"the  truth  is,  my  daughter  entertains  a 
strong  prejudice  against  3'ou — in  fact,  a  ter- 
ror of  you — and  iinder  these  circumstances, 
and  considering,  besides,  her  state  of  health, 
we  could  not  think  of  permitting  j'our  visits, 
at  least,"  he  added,  "until  that  prejudice  be 
removed  and  her  health  restored — if  it  ever 
shall  be.  We  owe  you  no  ill-will,  sir ;  but 
under  the  circumstances  we  cannot,  for  the 
present,  at  least,  allow  you  to  visit  us." 

"W'ell,"  rei^lied  Woodward,  "perhaps — 
and  I  sincerely  trust — her  health  will  be  re- 
stored, and  her  prejudices  against  me  re- 
moved, and  when  better  times  come  about  I 
shall  look  with  anxiety  to  the  privilege  of 
renewing  my  intimacy  with  you  all." 

"Perhaps  so,"  returned  ^h\  Goodwin, 
"  and  then  we  shall  receive  your  visits  with 
pleasure." 

Woodward  then  shook  hands  Avith  him 
and  his  wife,  and  wished  them  a  good  morn- 
ing. 

On  his  way  home  worthy  Suil  Balor  began 
to  entertain  reflections  upon  his  prospects  in 
hfe  that  he  felt  to  be  rather  agreeable.  Here 
was  his  brother,  whom  he  had  kindly  sent  tc» 
apologize  to  Grace  Davoren  for  the  impossi- 
bility from  illness  of  his  meeting  her  accord 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


713 


mg  to  their  previous  arrangement ;  yes,  we 
say  he  feigned  illness  on  that  evening,  and 
prevailed  on  the  unsuspecting  young  man  to 
go  in  his  stead,  in  order,  as  he  said,  to  give 
her  the  necessaiy  explanations  for  his  ab- 
sence. Charles  undertook  this  mission  the 
more  willingly,  as  it  was  his  tirm  inten  ion 
to  remonstrate  with  the  girl  on  the  impro- 
priety of  her  conduct,  in  continuing  a  secret 
and  guilty  intrigue,  which  must  end  only  in 
her  own  shame  and  ruin.  But  when  Hiu-ry 
deputed  him  upon  such  a  message  he  antici- 
pated the  very  event  which  had  occurred,  or, 
rather,  a  mor;?  fatal  one  still,  for,  desj^ite  his 
hopes  of  Alice  Goodwin's  ill  state  of  health, 
he  entertained  strong  ajjprehensions  that  his 
stepfather  might,  by  some  accidental  piece 
of  intelligence,  be  restored  to  his  original 
impressions  on  the  relative  i^osition  in  which 
she  and  Charles  stood.  An  interview  be- 
tween Mr.  Lindsay  and  her  might  cancel  all 
he  had  done ;  and  if  eveiy  obstruction 
which  he  had  endeavored  to  place  between 
their  union  were  removed,  her  health  might 
recover,  their  maniage  take  place,  and  then 
what  became  of  his  chance  for  the  pi'operty  ? 
It  is  true  he  had  managed  his  jolans  and 
speculations  with  great  ability.  Substituting 
Charles,  like  a  villain  as  he  was,  in  liis  own 
affair  with  Grace  Davoren,  he  contrived  to 
corroborate  the  falsehood  by  the  ti'agic  in- 
cident of  the  preceding  night.  Now,  if  this 
would  not  satisfy  Alice  of  the  truth  of  his 
own  f  ilsehood,  nothing  could.  That  Charles 
was  the  inlriganl  must  be  clear  and  palpable 
from  what  had  hnpi:)ened,  and  accordingly, 
after  taking  a  serious  review  of  his  own  in- 
iquity, he  felt,  as  we  said,  peculiarly  gTatified 
with  his  prosi:)ects.  Si  ill,  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  an  occasional  shadow,  not  proceeding 
from  any  consciousness  of  guilt,  but  from  an 
apprehension  of  disappointment,  would  cast 
its  deep  gloom  across  his  spirit.  With  such 
terrible  states  of  feeling  the  machinations  of 
giiilt,  no  matter  how  successful  its  progress 
may  be,  are  fi-om  time  to  time  attended  ; 
and  even  in  his  case  the  torments  of  the 
damned  were  httle  short  of  what  he  sutlered, 
from  a  dread  of  failure,  and  its  natural  con- 
sequences— an  exposure  which  would  bar 
liim  out  of  society.  Still,  his  earnest  expec- 
tation was  that  the  inteUigence  of  the  fate  of 
her  lover  would,  considering  her  feeble  state 
of  health,  eifectually  accomjilish  his  wishes, 
and  with  this  consoling  redection  he  rode 
home. 

His  great  anxiety  now  was,  his  alarm  lest 
his  brother  should  recover.  On  i-eaching 
BathliUan  House  he  proceeded  to  his  bed- 
room, where  he  found  his  sister  watohing. 

"My  dear  Maiia,"  said, he,  in  a  low  and 
«nobt  affectionate  voice,  "  is  he  better  ?  " 


"  I  hope  so,"  she  repHed,  in  a  voice 
equally  low  ;  "this  is  the  rirst  sleep  he  has 
got,  and  I  hope  it  will  remove  the  fever." 

"  Well,  I  will  not  stop,"  said  he,  "  but  do 
you  watch  him  carefully,  ^laria,  and  see  that 
he  is  not  disturbed." 

"O,  indeed,  HaiTv,  you  may  rest  assured 
that  I  shall  do  so.  Poor,  dear  Charles,  w^hat 
would  become  of  us  all  if  we  lost  him — and 
Alice  Goodwin,  too — O,  she  would  die.  Now, 
go,  dear  Harry,  and  leave  him  to  me." 

Harry  left  the  room  apparently  in  pro- 
found sorrow,  and,  on  going  into  the  parlor, 
met  Barney  Casey  in  the  hall. 

"  Barney,"  said  he,  "  come  into  the  parlor 
for  a  moment.  My  father  is  out,  and  my 
mother  is  upstau-s.  I  want  to  know  how 
this  atlair  hapi^ened  last  night,  and  how  it 
occurred  that  you  were  present  at  it.  It's  a 
bad  business,  Barney." 

"Devil  a  worser,"  replied  Baniey,  "ea- 
pecidly  for  poor  Mr.  Charles.  I  was  for- 
tunately goin'  dow-n  on  ni}-  kalie  to  the  family 
of  poor  disconsolate  Granua  (Grace),  Avhen, 
on  passing  the  clump  of  alders,  I  heard 
screams  and  shouts  to  no  end.  I  ran  to  the 
spot  I  heard  the  skirls  comin'  from,  and  there 
I  found  Mr.  Charles,  lyin'  as  if  dead,  and 
Grace  Davoren  with  her  hands  clasped  like  a 
mad  woman  over  him.  The  str-nge  men  then 
joined  us,  and  earned  him  home,  and  that's 
all  I  know  about  it." 

" But,  can  you  understand  it,  Barney?  As 
for  me,  I  cannot.  Did  Gracn  say  nothing 
during  her  alarm  ?  " 

"Di^•il  a  syllable,"  replied  Barney,  Mug 
without  remorse  ;  "  she  was  so  thundei'struck 
with  what  happened  that  she  -could  do  noth- 
ing nor  say  anything  but  ciT  "ut  and  scream 
for  the  bare  life  of  her.  Thoy  say  she  has 
disappeared  from  her  family,  and  that  no- 
body knows  where  she  has  gone  to.  I  was 
at  her  father's  to-day,  and  1  know  they  are 
searchin'  the  countrj-  for  her.  It  is  thought 
she  has  made  away  with  herwlf." 

"  Poor  Ch:u'les,"  exclaimed  )iis  brother, 
"what  an  unfortunate  busines^sit  has  tunied 
out  on  both  sides  I  I  thought  he  was 
attached  to  !JIiss  Goodwin  ;  but  it  would  ap- 
l^ear  now  that  he  was  decf  iving  her  all 
along." 

"  Well,  a\Ir.  Harry,"  replied  Baniey,  dryly, 
or  rather  with  some  severity,  **  you  see  what 
the  iipshot  is ;  treachery,  they  say,  seldom 
prosi^ers  in  the  long  run,  although  it  may 
for  a  while.  God  forgive  them  that  makes  a 
practice  of  it.  As  for  ]\Iaster  Charles,  I 
couldn't  have  dreamt  of  such  a  thing." 

"  Nor  I,  Barney.  I  know  not  what  to  say. 
It  perplexes  me,  from  whatever  poipt  I  look 
at  it.  At  all  events,  I  hope  he  may  reoover, 
and  if  he  does,  I  tiaist  he  will  conside?  wiiai 


114 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


nas  happened  as  a  warning,  and  act  upon 
better  principles.     May  God  forgive  liim  !  " 

And  so  ended  tlieir  dialogue,  little,  in- 
deed, to  the  satisfaction  of  Harry,  whom 
Barney  left  in  complete  ignorance  of  the 
significant  exclamations  by  which  Grace 
Davoren,  in  the  alarm  of  the  moment,  had 
betrayed  her  own  guilt,  by  stating  that 
Shawn-va-Middogue  had  stabbed  the  wrong 
man. 

Sarah  Sulhvan — poor,  thoughtless,  but 
affectionate  girl — on  repairing  with  the  thin 
toast  to  her  mistress's  bedroom,  felt  so  brim- 
ful of  tlae  disaster  which  had  befallen  Charles, 
that — now  believing  in  his  guilt,  as  she  did, 
and  with  a  hope  of  effectually  alienating 
Alice's  alTections  from  him — she  lost  not  a 
moment  in  communicating  the  melancholy 
intelligence  to  her. 

"  O,  Miss  Alice !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  have 
you  heard  what  has  happened?  O,  the  false 
and  treacherous  villain  !  Who  would  believe 
it?  To  la'^e  a  beautiful  lady  like  you,  and 
talie  up  with  sich  a  ^^.^lgar  vagabone  !  How- 
ever, he  has  suffered  for  it.  Shaivn-na-Mid- 
dogue  did  for  him." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Sarah  ?  "  said  her 
mistress,  much  alarmed  by  such  a  startling 
preface  ;  "  explain  yourself.  I  do  not  un- 
derstand you." 

"But  you  soon  %vill,  miss.  Shaivn-na- 
Middogue  found  IVIi".  Charles  Lindsay  and 
Grace  Davoren  together  last  night,  and  has 
stabbed  him  to  death  ;  life's  only  in  him  ; 
and  that's  the  gentleman  that  pretended  to 
love  3'ou.     Devil's  cure  to  the  villain  !  " 

She  paused.  The  expression  of  her  mis- 
tress's face  was  awful.  A  pallor  more  fright- 
ful than  that  of  death,  because  it  was  asso- 
ciated with  life,  overspread  her  countenance. 
Her  eyes  became  dim  and  dull ;  her  features 
in  a  moment  were  collapsed,  and  resembled 
those  of  some  individual  struck  by  paralysis 
—they  were  altogether  without  meaning. 
She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands,  like 
one  under  the  influence  of  strong  hysterical 
agony ;  she  laid  herself  back  in  bed,  where 
she  had  been  sitting  up  expecting  her  coffee, 
her  eyes  closed,  for  she  had  not  physical 
strength  even  to  keep  them  open,  and  with 
considerable  difficulty  she  said,  in  a  low  and 
scarcely  audible  voice, — "My  mother  !  " 

Poor  Sarah  felt  and  saw  the  mischief  she 
had  done,  and,  with  streaming  eyes  and  loud 
sobbings,  lost  not  a  moment  in  summoning 
jMrs.  Goodwin.  In  ti-uth  she  feared  that  her 
misti-ess  lay  dying  before  her,  and  was  im- 
mediately tortured  with  the  remorseful  im- 
pression that  the  thoughtless  and  indiscreet 
communication  she  had  made  was  the  cause 
of  her  death.  It  is  unneeessaiy  to  describe 
tlxe  terror  and  alarm  of  her  mother,  nor  of 


her  father,  when  he  saw  her  lyin^  as  it  were 
between  life  and  dissolution.  The  physician 
was  immediately  sent  for,  but,  notwithstand- 
ing all  his  remedies,  until  the  end  of  the 
second  day,  there  appeared  no  change  in 
her.  Towards  the  close  of  that  day  an  im 
provement  was  perceptible  ;  she  was  able  to 
speak  and  take  some  nourishment,  but  it 
was  observed  that  she  never  once  made  the 
slightest  allusion  to  the  disaster  which  had 
befallen  Charles  Lindsay.  She  sank  into  a 
habitual  silence,  and,  unless  when  forced  to 
ask  for  some  of  those  usual  attentions  which 
her  illness  required,  she  never  ventured  to 
indulge  in  conversation  on  any  subject 
whatsoever.  One  thing,  however,  struck 
Sarah  Sullivan,  which  was,  that  in  all  her 
startings,  both  asleep  and  awake,  and  in  all 
her  unconscious  ejaculations,  that  which 
appeared  to  press  upon  her  most  was  the 
unceasing  horror  of  the  Evil  Eye.  The 
name  of  Charles  Lindsay  never  escaped  her, 
even  in  the  feverish  agitation  of  her  dreams, 
nor  in  those  exclamations  of  teiTor  and 
alarm  which  she  uttered. 

"  O,  save  me  ! — save  me  from  his  eye — he 
is  killing  me  !  Yes,  Woodward  is  a  devil — 
he  is  killing  me— save  me — save  me  ! " 

T^'eU  had  the  villain  done  his  Avork  ;  and 
how  his  web  of  iniquity  was  woven  out  we 
shall  see. 

On  leaving  Barney,  that  worthy  gentle- 
man sought  his  mother,  and  thus  addressed 
her  : — 

"Mother,"  said  he,  apparently  much 
moved,  "  this  is  a  melanchoty,  and  I  trust 
in  heaven  it  may  not  turn  out  a  fatal,  busi- 
ness. I'm  afi'aid  poor  Charles's  case  is 
hopeless." 

"O,  may  God  forbid,  poor  boy!"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Lindsay;  "for,  although  he 
always  joined  his  father  against  me,  still  he 
was  in  other  respects  most  obhging  to  every 
one,  and  inoffensive  to  all." 

"  I  know  that,  and  I  am  sorry  that  this 
jade — and  she  is  a  handsome  jade,  they  say 
— should  have  gained  such  a  cursed  influ- 
ence over  him.  That,  however,  is  not  the 
question.  We  must  think  of  nothing  now 
but  his  recover}'.  The  strictest  attention 
ought  to  be  paid  to  him  ;  and  as  it  has  oc- 
curred to  me  that  there  is  no  female  under 
this  roof  who  understands  the  management 
of  a  sick  bed,  we  ought,  under  these  circum- 
stances, to  provide  a  nurse  for  him." 

"  Well,  indeed,  that  is  true  enough,  Hany, 
and  it  is  veiy  kind  and  considerate .  of  you 
to  think  of  it ;  but  who  will  we  get  ?  The 
women  here  are  very  ignorant  and  stupid." 

"  I  have  been  making  inquiries,"  he  replied, 
"  and  I  am  told  tltere  is  a  woman  in  Rathfil- 
Ian,  named  Collins,  niece  to  a  rehgious  herb 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


7U 


alist  or  herb  doctor,  who  jjossesses  much  ex- 
perieuce  in  that  way.  It  is  just  such  a  wo- 
man we  want." 

"  Well,  then,  let  her  come  ;  do  you  go 
and  engage  her  ;  but  see  that  she  will  not 
extort  dishonest  terms  from  you,  because 
there  is  nothing  but  fraud  and  knavery  among 
these  wretches." 

Harry  lost  little  time  in  securing  the  ser- 
vices of  Caterine  Collins,  who  was  that  veiy 
day  established  as  nux-se-tender  in  Chai'les 
Lindsay "s  sick  room. 

Alice's  Uluess  was  now  such  as  left  little 
expectation  of  her  recover}'.  She  was  stilted, 
and  with  good  reason,  to  be  in  a  condition 
absolutely  hopeless  ;  and  nothuig  could  ex- 
ceed the  regret  and  sorrow  which  were  felt 
for  the  benevolent  and  gentle  girl.  We 
say  benecolent,  because,  since  her  accession 
to  her  newly-acquired  proj^erty,  her  charities 
to  the  poor  and  distressed  were  bountiful 
and  generous,  almost  be^'ond  belief ;  and 
even  during  her  illness  she  constituted  her 
father  as  the  agent — and  a  willing  one  he 
was — of  her  beneficence.  In  fact,  the  sor- 
row for  her  approaching  death  was  deep  and 
general,  and  the  sympathy  felt  for  her  pa- 
rents such  as  rarely  occux's  in  hfe. 

Of  course  it  is  imnecessary  to  say  that  these 
tidings  of  her  hopeless  illness  did  not  reach 
the  Lindsays.  On  the  second  morning  after 
Harry's  visit  he  asked  for  a  private  inter- 
view with  his  mother,  which  was  accorded  to 
him. 

"Mother,"  said  he,  "you  must  pay  the 
Goodwins  another  visit —  a  visit,  m  u-k  you, 
of  symjjathy  and  condolence.  You  forget 
all  the  unpleasant  circumstances  that  have 
occurred  between  the  families.  You  forget 
e^'erything  but  your  anxiety  for  the  recovery 
of  poor,  dear  Alice."  I 

"But,"  replied  his  mother,  "I  do  not  wish 
to  go.  Wliy  should  I  go  to  express  a  sym-  { 
pathy  which  I  do  not  feel  ?  Her  death  is  1 
only  a  judicial  punishment  on  them  for  j 
having  inveigled  your  silh'  old  uncle  to  ; 
leave  them  the  property  which  would  have  ' 
otherwise  come  to  you  as  the  natui-al 
heir."  j 

"  Mother,"  said  her  dutiful  sou,  "  you  have 
a  nose,  and  beyond  that  nose  you  never  yet  | 
have  been  able  to  look  with  anything  like  | 
perspicuity.      If  you  don't  visit  them,  your  ! 
good-natured  noodle  of  a  husband  wdl,  and  I 
perhaps  the  result  of  that  visit  may  cut  us 
out  of  the  property  forever.     At  breakfast 
this   morning  you   Avill   propose   the   visit, 
which,  mark  you,  is  to  be  made  in  the  name 
and  on  behalf  of  all  the  family.     You,  con-  [ 
sequently,  being  the  deputation  on  this  oc-  i 
easion,  both  your  husband  and  Maria  will 
not  feel  themselves  called  upon  to  see  them,  i 


You  can,  besides,  say  that  her  state  of  health 
jTi-ecludes  her  from  seeing  any  one  out  ol 
her  own  family,  and  thus  all  risk  of  an  ex- 
planation will  be  avoided.  It  is  best  to  make 
everything  safe ;  but  that  she  can't  live  I 
know,  because  I  feel  that  my  power  and  in- 
fluence ai-e  upon  her,  and  that  the  force  of 
this  Evil  Eye  of  mine  has  killed  her.  I  told 
you  this  before,  I  think." 

"  Even  so,"  said  his  mother  ;  "  it  is  only 
what  I  have  said,  a  judicial  punishment  for 
their  villany.  Villany,  Harry,  never  pros- 
pers." 

"Egad,  my  dear  mother,"  he  replied,  "I 
know  of  nothing  so  pi'O.sperous :  look  tlurough 
life  and  you  will  see  the  villain  thrive  upon 
his  fi'aud  and  iniqmty,  where  the  honest 
man — the  man  of  integrity,  who  binds  him- 
self by  all  the  principles  of  what  are  called 
honor  and  morahty — is  elbowed  out  of  pros- 
perity by  the  knave,  the  SAvindler,  and  the 
hypocrite.  0,  no,  my  dear  mother,  the  two 
worst  passjDorts  to  indei^endence  and  ouccesa 
in  life  are  ti'uth  and  honesty." 

"W^ell,  Harry,  I  am  a  bad  logician,  and 
will  not  dispute  it  with  you  ;  but  I  am  far 
fi'om  weU,  and  I  don't  tliink  I  shall  be  able 
to  visit  iihem  for  two  or  thi'ee  davs  at 
least." 

"  But,  in  the  meantime,  express  youi-  in 
tention  to  do  so — on  behalf  of  the  family, 
mark  ;  assume  your  right  as  the  proprietor 
of  this  place,  and  as  its  representative,  and 
then  your  visit  will  be  considered  as  the 
visit  of  the  whole  family.  In  the  meantime, 
mark  me,  the  gii-1  is  dead.  I  have  accom- 
plished that  gi-atifying  event,  so  that,  after 
all,  your  visit*  will  be  a  mere  matter  of  form. 
When  you  reach  their  house  you  will  jDrob- 
ably  find  it  the  house  of  death." 

"And  then,"  replied  his  mother,  "the 
twelve  hunlred  a  year  is  yours  for  hfe,  and 
the  jiroperty  of  vour  chikU'en  after  you. 
Thank  God!" 

That  morning  at  breakfast  she  expressed 
her  determination  to  visit  the  Goodwins, 
making  it,  she  said,  a  visit  from  the  family 
in  general  ;  such  a  -sisit,  she  added,  ar,  might 
be  proper  on  their  (the  Lindsays)  part,  but 
yet  such  an  act  cf  neighborhood  that,  while 
it  manifested  sufficient  respect  for  them, 
would  preclude  all  hopes  of  any  futm'e  inter* 
course  between  them. 

]\Ir.  Lindsay  did  not  rehsh  this  much; 
but  as  he  had  no  particular  wish,  in  conse- 
quence of  Ch:u"les's  iUness,  to  ojjpose  her 
motives  in  makmg  the  ^^sit,  he  said  she 
might  manage  it  as  she  ^^-islled — he  would 
not  raise  a  fresh  breeze  about  it.  He  only 
felt  that  he  was  sincerely  son-y  for  the  loss 
which  the  Goodwins  were  about  to  experi* 
euce. 


fl6 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Banshee.-^Disappearance  of  Grace  Davoren. 

In  the  meantime  it  was  certainly  an  un- 
questionable fact  that  Grace  Davoren  had 
disappeared,  and  not  even  a  trace  of  her 
could  be  found.  The  unfortunate  girl, 
alarmed  at  the  tragic  incident  of  that  woful 
night,  and  impressed  with  a  belief  that 
Charles  Lindsay  had  been  murdered  by 
Shawn-na-Middogue,  had  betaken  herself  to 
some  place  of  concealment  which  no  search 
on  behalf  of  her  friends  could  discover.  In 
fact,  her  disappearance  was  involved  in  a 
mystery  as  deep  as  the  alarm  and  distress 
it  occasioned.  But  what  astonished  the 
public  most  was  the  fact  that  Charles,  whose 
whole  life  had  been  untainted  by  a  single  act 
of  impropriety,  much  less  of  profligacy, 
should  have  been  discovered  in  such  a 
heartless  and  unprincipled  intrigue  with 
the  daughter  of  one  of  his  father's  tenants, 
&n  innocent  girl,  who,  as  such,  was  entitled 
to  protection  rather  than  injur}'  at  his  hands. 

"Whilst  this  tumult  was  abroad,  and  the 
country  was  in  an  unusual  state  of  alarm 
and  agitation,  Harry  Woodward  took  mat- 
ters very  quietly.  That  he  seemed  to  feel 
deeply  for  the  imcertaiu  and  dangerous  state 
of  his  brother,  who  lay  suspended,  as  it 
were,  between  life  and  death,  was  evident 
to  every  individual  of  his  family.  He  fi'e- 
quently  took  Caterine  Collins's  place,  attend- 
ed him  personally,  with  siugailar  kindness 
and  affection,  gave  him  his  drinks  and  de- 
coctions with  his  ovn\  hand  ;  and,  when  the 
surgeon  came  to  make  his  dail}'  visit,  the 
anxiety  he  evinced  in  ascertaining  whether 
there  was  any  chance  of  his  recovery  was 
most  affectionate  and  exemplary.  Still,  as 
usual,  he  was  out  at  night ;  but  the  mystery 
of  his  whereabouts,  while  absent,  could  never 
be  penetrated.  On  those  occasions  he  al- 
ways went  armed — a  fact  which  he  never  at- 
tempted to  conceaL  On  one  of  these  nights 
it  so  happened  that  Barney  Casey  was  called 
upon  to  attend  at  the  wake  of  a  relation,  and, 
as  his  master's  family  were  apprised  of  this 
circumstance,  they  did  not  of  course  expect 
him  home  until  a  late  hour.  He  left  the 
wake,  however,  earlier  than  he  had  proposed 
to  do,  for  he  found  it  a  rather  duU  affair, 
and  was  on  liis  way  liome  when,  to  his 
astonishment,  or  rather  to  his  horror,  he 
saw  Harry  Woodward  —  also  on  his  way 
home — in  close  conversation  with  the  super- 
natural being  so  well  known  by  descrijDtion 
as  the  Shan-dhinne-dhnv,  or  Black  Spectre. 
Now,  Barney  was  half  cowardly  and  half 
brave — that  is  to  say,  had  he  lived  in  an  en- 
lightened age  he  woiild  have  felt  little  terror 


of  supernatural  appearances ;  but  at  the  period 

of  our  story  such  Avas  the  predominance  of 
a  belief  in  ghosts,  fairies,  evil  spirits,  and 
witches,  that  he  should  have  been  either 
less  or  more  than  man  could  he  have  shaken 
off"  the  prevailing  superstitions,  and  the 
gross  credulity  of  the  times  in  which  he 
lived.  As  it  was,  he  knew  not  what  to 
think.  He  remembered  the  character  which 
had  been  AvhisjDered  abroad  about  Hari-y 
Woodward,  and  of  his  intercourse  with  su- 
pei-natural  bemgs — he  was  known  to  possess 
the  Evil  Eye  ;  and  it  was  generally  under- 
stood that  those  who  happened  to  be  endowed 
with  that  accursed  gift  were  aided  in  the 
exercises  of  it  by  the  powers  of  darkness  and 
of  evil.  What,  then,  was  he  to  do  ?  There 
probably  was  an  opportunity  of  solving  the 
mystery  which  hung  around  the  midnight 
motions  of  Woodwai'd.  If  there  was  a 
spirit  before  him,  there  was  also  a  human 
being,  in  li%dng  flesh  and  blood — an  ac- 
quaintance, too  —  an  individual  whom  he 
personally  knew,  ready  to  sustain  him,  and 
afford,  if  necessary,  that  protection  which, 
under  such  jDeculiar  circumstances,  one  fel- 
low-creature has  a  right  to  expect  from 
another.  Now  Barney's  w^ay  home  led  him 
necessarily — and  a  painful  necessity  it  was — 
near  the  Haunted  House  ;  and  he  c/bserved 
that  the  jslace  where  they  stood,  for  they 
had  ceased  walking,  was  about  fifty  yards 
above  that  much  dreaded  mansion.  He 
resolved,  however,  to  make  the  plunge  and 
advance,  but  deemed  it  only  good  manners 
to  give  some  intimation  of  his  approach. 
He  was  now  ■\\ithin  about  twenty  yards  fi'om 
them,  and  made  an  attempt  at  a  comic  song, 
which,  however,  quivered  off  into  as  dismal 
and  cowardly  a  ditty  as  ever  proceeded  fi'om 
human  lips.  Harry  and  the  Spectre,  both 
startled  by  the  voice,  turned  round  to  ob- 
serve his  approach,  when,  to  his  utter  con- 
sternation, the  Shan-dhinne-dhiiv  sank,  as 
it  were,  into  the  earth  and  disappeared. 
The  hair  rose  upon  Barney's  head,  and  when 
Woodward  called  out : 

"  Who  comes  there  ?  " 

He  could  scarcely  summon  voice  enough 
to  reply  : 

"  It's  me,  sir,"  said  he  ;  "  Barney  Casey." 

"  Come  on,  Barney,"  said  Woodward, 
"  come  on  quickly  ;  "  and  he  had  scarcely 
spoken  when  Barne}'  joined  him. 

"Barney,"  said  he,  "I  am  in  a  state  of 
great  terror.  I  have  felt  ever  since  I  passed 
that  Haunted  House  as  if  there  was  an  evil 
spirit  in  my  company.  The  feeling  was  dread- 
ful, and  I  am  very  weak  in  consequence  of  it. 
Give  me  3'ou  arm." 

"But  did  you  see  nothing,  sir?"  said 
Barney  ;  "  didn't  it  become  visible  to  you  ?  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


717 


"  No,"  replied  the  other  ;  "  but  I  felt  as  if 
I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  supernatural 
being,  and  an  evil  one,  too." 

"  God  protect  us,  Mr.  Harry  !  then,  if  you 
didn't  see  it  I  did." 

"  You  did  !  "  replied  the  other,  startled  ; 
"  and  pray  what  was  it  like  ?  " 

"  Why,  a  black  ould  man,  sir ;  and,  by  all 
accounts  that  ever  I  could  hear  of  it,  it  was 
nothing  else  than  the  Shan-dhinne-dhii  o.  For 
God's  sake  let  us  come  home,  sir,  for  this, 
if  all  they  say  be  true,  is  unholy  and  eui-sed 
ground  we're  standin'  on." 

"And  where  did  it  disappeai'?"  asked 
Woodward,  leading  him  by  a  circuit  fi'om 
the  spot  where  it  had  vanished. 

"Just   over   there,   sii',"  replied   Barney, 
pointing    to   the    place.      "  But,    in   God's 
name,  let  us  make  for  home  as  fast  as  we  i 
can.     I'U  think  every  minute  an  hour  till  we 
get  safe  undher  our  own  roof." 

"Barney,"  said  W^oodward,  solemnly,  "I 
have  a  request  to  make  of  you,  and  it  is  this 
— the  common  report  is,  that  the  spirit  in 
question  folio svs  our  family — I  mean  by  my 
mother's  side.  Now  I  beg,  as  you  expect 
my  good  will  and  countenance,  that,  for  my 
Bake,  and  out  of  respect  for  the  family  in  gen- 
eral, you  will  never  breathe  a  syllable  of  what 
you  have  seen  this  night.  It  could  answer  no 
earthly  purpose,  and  would  only  send  abroad 
idle  and  unpleasant  rumoi-s  throughout  the 
country.     Will  you  promise  this  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  promise  it,"  reiDlied  Bai-ney  ; 
"  what  object  could  I  gain  by  repeatin'  it  ?  " 

"  None  whatsoever.  Well,  then,  be  silent 
on  the  subject,  and  let  us  reach  home  as  soon 
as  Ave  (!an." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  honest 
Barney's  feelings  as  they  went  along.  He 
imagined  that  he  felt  Harry's  arm  tremble 
within  his,  and  when  he  thought  of  the  re- 
ports concerning  the  evil  spirit,  and  its  con- 
nection Avith  Mrs.  Lindsay's  family,  his  sen- 
sations were  anything  but  comfortable.  He 
tossed  and  tumbled  that  night  for  hours  in 
his  bed  before  he  was  able  to  sleep,  and  when 
he  did  sleep  the  Shan-dhinne-dhnv  rendered 
his  dreams  feverish  and  frightful. 

Precisely  at  this  period,  before  Mrs.  Lind- 
say had  I'ecovered  from  her  indisposition, 
and  could  pay  her  intended  vis4  to  the 
Goodwins,  a  circumstance  occuri'ed  which 
suggested  to  Hariy  Woodward  one  of  the 
most  remorseless  and  satanic  schemes  that 
ever  was  concocted  in  the  heart  of  man.  He 
was  in  the  habit  occasionally  of  going  down 
to  the  kitchen  to  indulge  in  a  smoke  and  a 
piece  of  banter  with  the  servants.  One  even- 
ing, whilst  thus  amusing  himself,  the  conver- 
sation turned  upon  the  prevailing  supersti- 
tions of  the  day.     Ghosts,  witches,  wizards. 


astrologers,  fairies,  leprechauns,  and  all  that 
could  be  termed  supernatural,  or  even  relat- 
ed  to  or  aided  by  it,  were  discussed  at  con- 
siderable length,  and  with  eveiy  vai'iety  of 
feeling.  Amongst  the  rest  the  Banshee  was 
mentioned— a  spirit  of  whose  peculiar  office 
and  character  Woodward,  in  consequence  ot 
his  long  absence  fi'om  the  country,  was  com- 
pletely ignorant. 

"  The  Banshee  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  what 
kind  of  a  spirit  is  that  ?  I  have  never  heard 
of  it." 

"  Why,  sir,"  replied  Baniey,  who  was 
present,  "  the  Bansliee — the  Lord  prevent  us 
from  hearin'  her — is  always  the  forerimner 
of  death.  She  attends  only  certain  families 
— principally  the  ould  ^Milesians,  and  mostlj 
Catholics,  too  ;  although,  I  beheve,  it's  well 
knoAvn  that  she  sometimes  attends  Protes- 
tants whose  families  have  been  Catholics  or 
Milesians,  until  the  last  of  the  name  disaj)- 
pears.  So  that,  afther  all,  it  seems  she's  not 
over-scrupulous  about  religion." 

"  But  what  do  you  mean  by  attending  fam- 
ilies ?  "  asked  Woodward  ;  "  what  description 
of  attendance  or  service  does  she  render 
them  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  ^Ir.  Harrj', '  replied  Barney, 
"  anything  but  an  agreeable  attendance.  By 
goxty,  I  believe  every  family  she  follows  would 
be  very  glad  to  dispense  with  her  attendance 
if  they  could." 

"  But  that  is  not  answering  my  question, 
Casey." 

"  \Vhy,  sir,"  proceeded  Barney,  "111  an 
swer  it.  Whenever  the  family  that  she  fol* 
lows  is  about  to  have  a  death  in  it,  she  comes 
a  little  time  before  the  death  takes  place,  sits 
either  undher  the  wind}-  of  the  sick  bed  or 
somewhere  near  the  house,  and  wails  and 
cries  there  as  if  her  vei"}'  heart  would  break. 
They  say  she  generally  names  the  name  oi 
the  party  that  is  to  die  ;  but  there  is  no  case 
known  of  the  sick  person  ever  recoverin' 
afther  she  has  given  the  wanain'  of  death." 

"It  is  a  strange  ajid  wild  superstition," 
obseiwed  Woodward. 

"  But  a  very  true  one,  sir,"  replied  the 
cook;  "ever)'  one  knows  that  a  Banshee 
follows  the  Goodwin  family." 

"  What !  the  Goodvrins  of  Beech  Grove  ?  " 
said  HaiTv. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  the  cook  ;  "  they  lost 
six  children,  and  not  one  of  them  ever  died 
that  she  did  not  give  the  warnin'." 

"If  poor  Miss  Alice  heard  it,"  observed 
Barney,  "  and  she  in  the  state  she's  in,  she 
wouldn't  Hve  twenty-four  hours  afther  it." 

"According  to  what  you  say,"  observed 
Woodward,  "  that  is,  if  it  follows  the  family, 
of  cotirse  it  will  give  the  warning  in  her  cast 
also." 


718 


W/ZZIAJf  CARLETON'S   WORKS, 


"May  God  forbi(5/  ejaculated  the  cook, 
"  for  it's  herself,  the  darlin'  girl,  that  'ud  be 
the  bitther  loss  to  the  poor  and  destitute." 

This  kind  ejaculation  was  feiTently  echoed 
by  all  her  fellovr-senauts  ;  and  Harry,  hav- 
ing finished  his  jjii^e,  went  to  see  how  his 
brother's  wound  was  progressing.  He  found 
him  asleep,  and  Cateiine  Colhns  seated  knit- 
ting a  stocking  at  his  bedside.  He  beckoned 
her  to  the  lobby,  where,  in  a  low,  guarded 
voice,  the  following  conversation  took  place 
between  them  : 

"  Caterine,  have  you  not  a  niece  that  sings 
well  ?  Barney  Casey  mentioned  her  to  me 
as  possessing  a  fine  voice." 

"  As  sweet  a  voice,  sir,  as  ever  came  from 
a  woman's  hps  ;  but  the  poor  thing  is  dehcate 
and  sickl}',  and  I'm  afeai'd  not  long  for  this 
world." 

*'  Could  she  imitate  a  Banshee,  do  you 
think  ?  " 

"If  ever  woman  could,  she  could.  There's 
not  her  aquil  at  the  keene,  or  Iiish  ciy, 
livin' ;  she's  the  only  one  can  bate  myself  at 
it." 

"  Well,  Caterine,  if  you  get  her  to  go  to 
Mr.  Goodwin's  to-moiTOW  night  and  imitate 
the  cr}'  of  the  Banshee,  I  will  reward  her  and 
you  hberally  for  it.  You  are  ah-eady  well 
aware  of  my  generosity." 

"  Indeed  I  am,  Mr.  "Woodward  ;  but  if 
either  you  or  I  could  insure  her  the  wealth 
of  Europe,  we  couldn't  prevail  on  her  to  go 
by  herself  at  night.  Excei)t  by  moonhght 
she  wouldn't  venture  to  cross  the  street  of 
Ratlifillan.  As  to  her,  you  may  put  that  out 
of  the  question.  She's  very  handy,  hoAV- 
ever,  about  a  sick  bed,  a,nd  I  might  contrive, 
undlier  some  excuse  or  other,  to  get  her  to 
take  my  place  for  a  day  or  so.  But  here's 
your  father.     We  will  talk  about  it  again." 

She  then  returned  to  the  sick  room,  and 
Harry  met  Mr.  Lindsay  on  the  stairs  going 
up  to  inquire  after  Charles. 

"Don't  go  up,  sir,"  said  he;  "the  poor 
fellow,  thank  God,  is  asleep,  and  the  less 
noise  about  him  the  better." 

Both  then  returaed  to  the  parlor. 

About  eleven  o'clock  the  next  night  Sarah 
SuUivan  was  sitting  by  the  bedside  of  her 
mistress,  who  was  then,  fortunately  for  her- 
self, enjoying,  what  was  very  rare  with  her,  an 
undisturbed  sleep  after  the  teiTor  and  agita- 
tion of  the  day,  when  a  low,  but  earnest  and 
sorrowful  wailing  was  heard,  immediately,  she 
thought,  under  the  window.  It  rose  and 
feU  alternately,  and  at  the  close  of  every 
division  of  the  cry  it  pronounced  the  name 
of  Alice  Goodwin  in  tones  of  the  most 
pathetic  lamentation  and  woe.  The  natural 
heat  and  warmth  seemed  to  depart  out  of 
the  poor  girl's  body  ;  she  felt  like  an  icicle, 


and  the  cold  perspiration  ran  in  torrents 
from  her  face. 

"  My  darling  misthress,"  thought  she,  "  it's 
all  over  Avith  you  at  last.  There  is  the  sign 
— the  Banshee — and  it  is  well  for  yourself 
that  you  don't  hear  it,  because  it  would  be 
the  death  of  you  at  once.  However,  if  I 
committed  one  mistake  about  INIisthei 
Charles's  misfortime,  I  will  not  commit  an- 
other. You  shall  never  hear-  of  this  fi'om 
me." 

The  ciy  was  then  heard  more  distant  and 
indistinct,  but  stiU  loaded  with  the  same 
mournful  expression  of  death  and  son-ow  ; 
but  in  a  little  time  it  died  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  was  then  heard  no  more. 

Sarah,  though  she  had  judiciously  resolved 
to  keep  this  awful  intimation  a  secret  fi'om 
]Miss  Goodwin,  considered  it  her  duty  to 
disclose  it  to  her  parents.  We  shall  not 
dwell,  however,  upon  the  scene  which  occur- 
red on  the  occasion.  A  belief  in  the  existence 
and  office  of  the  Banshee  was,  at  the  jjeriod 
of  which  we  write,  almost  universally  held 
by  the  peasantry,  and  even  about  half  a  cen- 
tuiy  ago  it  was  one  of  the  strongest  dogmas 
of  popular  superstition.  After  the  grief  of 
the  parents  had  somewhat  subsided  at  this 
dreadful  intelligence,  Mr.  Goodwin  asked 
Sarah  Sullivan  if  his  daughter  had  heard  the 
wail  of  this  prophetic  spirit  of  death  ;  and 
on  her  answering  in  the  negative,  he  en- 
joined her  never  to  breathe  a  syllable  of  the 
circumstance  to  her  ;  but  she  told  him  she 
had  come  to  that  conclusion  herself,  as  she 
felt  certain,  she  said,  that  the  knowledge  of 
it  would  occasion  her  mistress's  almost  im- 
mediate death. 

"  At  all  events,"  said  her  master  ;  "  by  the 
doctor's  advice  we  shall  leave  this  place  to- 
moiTow  morning  ;  he  sajs  if  she  has  any 
chance  it  will  be  in  a  change  of  air,  of  so- 
cietj',  and  of  sceneiy.  Eveiything  here  has 
associations  and  recollections  that  ai'e  pain- 
ful, and  even  horrible  to  her.  If  she  is  capa- 
ble of  bearing  an  easy  joimiey  we  shall  set 
out  for  the  Spa  of  Ballyspellan,  in  the  coun- 
ty of  Kilkenny.  He  thinks  the  waters  of 
that  famous  spring  may  prove  beneficial  to 
her.  If  the  Banshee,  then,  is  anxious  to  ful- 
fil its  mission  it  must  foUow  us.  They  say 
it  alwry^  pays  thi-ee  visits,  but  as  yet  it  has 
paid  us  only  one." 

^Irs.  Lindsay  had  now  recovered  from  her 
slight  indisi^osition,  and  resolved  to  pay  the 
last  formal  visit  to  the  Goodwins, — a  visit 
which  was  to  close  all  future  intercourse  be- 
tween the  families  ;  and  our  readers  are  not 
ignorant  of  her  motives  for  this,  nor  how 
completely  and  willingly  she  was  the  agent 
of  her  son  Harr}''s  designs.  She  went  in  all 
her  pomp,  dressed  in  satins  and  brocades, 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


719 


and  attended  by  Barney  Casey  in  full  livery. 
Her  own  old  family  carriaj^e  had  been  swept 
of  its  dust  and  cobwebs,  and  put  into  requi- 
sition on  this  important  occiision.  At  lengfth 
they  reached  Beech  Grove,  and  knocked  at 
the  door,  which  was  opened  by  our  old  friend, 
Tom  Kennedy. 

"  My  p:ood  man,"  she  asked,  "are  the 
family  at  home  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am." 

"  Wliat !  not  at  home,  and  !Miss  Goodwin 
so  ill  ? — dying,  I  am  told.  Perhaps,  in  con- 
sequence of  her  health,  they  do  not  wish  to 
see  strangers.  Go  and  say  that  jMi*s.  Lind- 
say, of  Rxthfillan  House,  is  here." 

"Ma'am,  they  ju-e  not  at  home  ;  they  have 
left  Beech  Grove  for  some  time." 

"  Left  Beech  Grove  ! "  she  exclaimed  ;  "  and 
pray  where  are  they  gone  to?  I  thought 
Miss  Goodwin  was  not  able  to  be  removed." 

"It  was  do  or  die  with  her,"  replied  Tom. 
"The  doctor  said  there  was  but  one  last 
chance — change  of  air,  and  absence  from 
dangerous  neighbors." 

"  But  you  did  not  tell  me  where  they  are 
gone  to." 

"  I  did  not,  ma'am,  and  for  the  best  reason 
m  life — because  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know  !  A\Tiy,  is  it  possible 
they  made  a  secret  of  such  a  matter  ?  " 

"  Quite  possible,  ma'am,  and  to  the  back 
C  that  they  swore  ever}'  one  of  us  upon  the 
seven  gospels  never  to  tell  any  indi\'idual, 
man  or  woman,  where  thej-  went  to." 

"  But  did  they  not  tell  yourselves  ?  " 

"Devil  a  syllable,  ma'am." 

"  And  why,  then,  did  they  swear  you  to 
secrecy  ?  " 

•*  NVhy,  of  coui'se,  ma'am,  to  make  us  keep 
the  secret." 

"  But  why  swear  you,  I  ask  again,  to  keep 
a  secret  which  you  did  not  know  ?  " 

"  ^Vhy,  ma'am,  because  they  knew  that  in 
that  case  there  was  little  danger  of  our  com- 
\nittin'  parjury ;  and  because  every  saicret 
which  one  does  not  know  is  sure  to  be 
kept." 

She  looked  keenly  at  him,  and  added, 
"  I'm  inclined  to  think,  sirrali,  that  j'ou  are 
impertinent" 

"  Very  likely,  ma'am,"  replied  Tom,  with 
great  gravity.  "  I've  a  strong  notion  of  that 
myself.  My  father  before  me  was  impertin- 
ent, and  his  last  dying  words  to  me  were, 
'  Tom,  I  lay  it  as  a  last  injunction  upon  you 
to  keep  up  the  piinciples  of  our  family,  and 
always  to  show  notliiug  but  impertinence  to 
those  who  don't  deserve  respect.'  " 

With  a  face  scarlet  from  indignation  she 
immediately  ordered  her  carriage  home,  but 
before  it  had  arrived  there  the  intelligence 
from  another  souxce  had  reached  the  family, 


together  with  the  fact  that  the  Banshee  had 
been  heard  by  Mi*.  Goodwin's  servants  un- 
der ^liss  Alice's  window.  Such,  indeed,  was 
the  fact ;  and  the  report  of  the  circumstance 
had  spread  through  half  the  parish  before 
the  hour  of  noon  next  day.  • 

The  removal  of  Alice  sank  heavily  upon 
the  heart  of  Hany  "Woodward  ;  it  seemed  to 
him  as  if  she  had  gone  out  of  his  grasp,  and 
from  under  the*  influence  of  his  eye,  for,  by 
whatever  means  he  might  accomplish  it,  he 
was  resolved  to  keep  the  deadly  power  of 
that  eye  upon  her.  He  had  calculated  upon 
the  voice  and  prophetic  wail  of  the  Biinshee 
as  being  fatal  in  her  then  stjite  of  he;ilth  ;  or 
was  it  this  ominous  and  sujjeraatui-al  fore- 
boding of  her  dissolution  that  caused  them 
to  fly  fi'om  the  place  ?  He  reasoned,  as  the 
reader  ma}'  perceive,  upon  the  piinciple  of 
the  Banshee  being,  according  to  the  super- 
stitious notions  entertained  of  her,  a  real 
supei-natund  visitant,  and  not  the  unscrupu- 
lous and  diabohcal  imitiition  of  her  by  Cat- 
eriue  Collins.  Still  he  thought  it  barely 
possible  that  the  change  of  air  and  the 
waters  of  the  celebrated  spring  might  re- 
cover her,  notwithstanding  all  his  inhuman 
anticipations.  His  brother,  also,  according 
to  the  surgeon's  last  "report,  afforded 
hopes  of  convalescence.  A  kind  of  terror 
came  over  him  tliat  hio  plans  might  f;dl,  be- 
cause he  felt  almost  certain  that  if  Alice  and 
his  brother  both  recovered,  ^Ir.  Lindsay 
might,  or  rather  would,  mount  his  old  hob- 
by, and  insist  on  having  them  man^ied,  in 
the  teeth  of  all  opposition  on  the  part  of 
either  himself  or  his  mother.  Tliis  was  a 
gloomy  prospect  for  Ivim,  and  one  which  he 
could  not  contemplate  A\-ithout  falling  back 
uj)on  stni  darker  schemes. 

After  the  night  on  which  Bai-ney  Casey 
had  seen  him  and  the  Black  Spectre  together 
we  need  scarcely  say  that  he  watched  Barney 
closely,  nor  that  Bai'ney  watched  him  -nith 
as  keen  a  \'igilance.  "VMiatever  Woodwiird 
may  have  actually  felt  upon  the  subject  of 
the  apparition,  Barney  was  certainly  unde- 
cided as  to  its  reality  ;  or  if  there  existed 
any  bias  at  all,  it  was  in  favor  of  that  reahty. 
Why  did  Woodwai'd's  arm  tremble,  and  why 
did  the  man,  who  was  sui)posed  ignorant  of 
fear,  exliibit  so  much  terror  and  agitation  on 
the  occasion  ?  Still,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
appeared  to  be  a  conversation,  as  it  were, 
between  them,  and  a  familiai'ity  of  manner 
considerably  at  vjxriance  with  Woodward's 
version  of  the  circumstances.  Be  this  as  it 
might,  he  felt  it  to  be  a  subject  on  which 
he  could,  by  no  process  of  rea.soning,  come 
to  an^'thing  like  a  definite  conclusion. 

Woodward  now  determined  to  consult  his 
mother  as  to  the  plan  of  their  future  opera- 


720 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


tions.  The  absence  of  Alice,  and  the  possible 
chance  of  her  recovery,  rendered  it  necessary 
that  some  new  series  of  projects  should  be 
adopted  ;  but  although  several  had  occurred 
to  him,  he  had  not  yet  come  to  a  definite 
resolution  respecting  the  selection  he  would 
make.  With  this  view  he  and  his  conscien- 
tious mother  closeted  themselves  in  her 
X'oom,  and  discussed  the  state  of  affairs  in 
the  following  dialogue  : 

"Mother,"  said  he,  "this  escape  of  Miss 
Curds-and-whey  is  an  untoward  business. 
What,  after  all,  if  she  should  recover  ?  " 

"  Recover  ! "  exclaimed  the  lady  ;  "  why, 
did  you  not  assure  me  that  such  an  event 
■was  impossible — that  you  were  killing  her, 
and  that  she  must  die  ?  " 

"  So  1  still  think  ;  but  so  long  as  the  no- 
tion of  her  recovery  exists,  even  only  as  a 
di'eam,  so  certainly  ought  we  to  provide 
against  such  a  calamity." 

"Ah!  Harry,"  she  exclaimed,  "yon  may 
well  term  it  a  calamity,  for  such  indeed  it 
would  be  to  you." 

"  Well,  but  what  do  you  think  ought  to  be 
done,  my  dear  mother?  I  am  anxious  to 
have  both  your  adviee  and  oj^inion  upon  our 
^ature  proceedings.  Suppose  change  of  air 
— the  waters  of  that  damned  brimstone 
spring,  and  above  all  things,  the  confidence 
she  will  derive  from  the  consciousness  that 
she  is  removed  from  me  and  out  of  my 
reach — suppose,  I  say,  that  all  these  circum- 
stances should  produce  a  beneficial  effect 
upon  her,  then  how  do  I  stand  ?  " 

"  Why,  with  very  little  hope  of  the  prop- 
erty," she  replied  ;  "  and  then  what  tenacity 
of  life  she  has !  Why,  there  are  very  few 
girls  who  would  not  have  been  de'ad  long  ago, 
if  they  had  gone  through  half  what  she  has 
suffered.  Well,  you  wish  to  ask  me  how  I 
would  advise  you  to  act  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Well,  then,  you  have  heard  the  old  pro- 
verb :  It  is  good  to  have  two  strings  to  one's 
bow.  We  shall  set  all  consideration  of  her 
aside  for  a  time,  and  turn  our  attention  to 
another  object.  " 

"What  or  who  is  that,  mother?  " 

"  You  remember  I  mentioned  some  time 
ago  the  names  of  a  neighboring  nobleman 
and  his  niece,  who  lives  with  him.  The 
man  I  allude  to  icon  Lord  Bilberry,  but  is 
now  Earl  of  Cockletown.  He  was  raised  to 
this  rank  for  some  services  he  rendered  the 
government  against  the  tories,  who  had  been 
devastating  the  country,  and  also  against 
some  turbulent  papists  who  were  supposed 
to  have  privately  encouraged  them  in  their 
outrages  against  Protestant  life  and  projoer- 
ty.  He  was  a  daring  and  intrepid  man  when 
in  his  prime  of  Ufe,  and  appeared  to  seek 


danger  for  its  own  sake.     He  is  now  an  <^ 

man,  although  a  young  peer,  and  was  al- 
ways considered  eccentric,  which  he  is  to 
the  present  day.  Some  people  look  upon 
him  as  a  fool,  and  others  as  a  knave  ;  but  in 
balancing  his  claims  to  each,  it  has  never 
yet  been  determined  on  which  side  the  scale 
would  sink.  He  is  the  proprietor  of  a  little 
fishing  village  on  the  coast,  and  on  this  ac- 
count he  assumed  the  title  of  Cockletown  ; 
and  when  he  built  himself  a  mansion,  as  they 
term  it,  he  would  have  it  called  by  no  other 
name  than  that  of  Cockle  Hall.  It  is  ti-ue 
he  laughs  at  the  thing  himself,  and  considers 
it  a  good  joke." 

"  And  so  it  is,"  replied  her  son ;  "  but 
what  about  the  lady,  his  niece  ?  " 

"Why,  she  is  a  rather  interesting  per- 
son." 

"  Ahem !  person  !  " 

"Yes,  about  thirty-four  or  so ;  but  she 
will  inherit  his  property." 

"  And  have  you  any  notion  of  what  that 
may  amount  to  ? "  asked  her  calculating 
son. 

"  I  could  not  exactly  say,"  she  rej)lied ; 
"  but  I  believe  it  is  handsome.  A  great  deal 
of  it  is  mountain,  but  they  say  there  are 
large  portions  of  it  capable  of  being  re- 
claimed." 

"  But  how  can  the  estate  go  to  h^r  ?  " 

"  Simj^ly  because  there  is  no  other  heir," 
replied  his  mother  ;  "they  are  the  last  of 
the  family.     It  is  not  entailed." 

"  Thirty-four  !  "  ruminated  Woodward. 
"  Well,  I  have  seen  very  fine  girls  at  tloirty- 
four  ;  but  in  personal  appeai'ance  and  man- 
ner what  is  she  like  ?  " 

"Why,  perhaps  a  critical  eye  might  not 
call  her  handsome  ;  but  the  general  opinion 
on  that  point  is  in  her  favor.  Her  manners 
are  agreeable,  so  are  her  features  ;  but  it  is 
said  that  she  is  fastidious  in  her  lovers,  and 
has  rejected  many.  It  is  true  most  of  them 
were  fortune-hunters,  and  deserved  no  bet- 
ter success." 

"  But  what  do  you  call  me,  mother  ?  " 

"  Surely  not  a  fortune-hunter,  Harry.  Is 
not  there  your  granduncle's  large  property 
who  is  a  bachelor,  and  you  are  his  favor 
ite." 

"  But  don't  you  know,  mother,  that,  as  re- 
spects my  granduncle,  I  have  confided  that 
secret  to  you  already  ?  " 

"I  know  no  such  thing,  you  fool,"  she  re- 
plied, looking  at  him  with  an  expression  in 
her  odious  eyes  which  could  not  be  de- 
scribed;  "  I  am  altogether  ignorant  of  that 
fact  ;  but  is  there  not  the  twelve  hundred 
per  annum  which  reverts  to  you  on  the  de- 
mise of  that  dying  girl  ?  " 

"  True,  my  dear  mother,  true  ;  you  ai« 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


721 


right.  I  am  a  fool.  Of  course  I  never  told 
you  the  secret  of  my  disinheritance  by  the 
old  .scoundrel." 

'•  Ah,  Harry,  I  fe:u'  you  played  your  cards 
badly  there.  You  knew  he  was  religfious,  and 
yet  you  should  become  a  seducer  ;  but  why 
toulie  free  with  his  money  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Why,  because  he  kept  me  upon 
the  tight  curb  ;  but,  as  these  Tn:itters  are 
known  only  to  ourselves,  I  see  you  are  light. 
1  am  si  ill  to  be  considered  his  favorite — his 
heir — and  am  here  only  on  a  visit." 

"  AN'ell,  but,  Harry,  he  must  have  dealt 
liberally  with  you  on  your  departure  from 
him  ?  " 

"  He  !  Don't  you  know  I  Avas  obliged  to 
fiy  ? — to  take  French  leave,  I  assure  you.  I 
reached  Rathfillan  House  with  not  more  than 
twenty  pounds  in  my  pocket." 

"  But  how  does  it  happen  that  you  always 
appear  to  have  plenty  of  money  ?  " 

"  I\[y  dear  mother,  there  is  a  secret  there  ; 
but  it  is  one  which  even  you  shall  not  know, 
— or  cotr.e,  y :)u  i^hall  know  it.  Did  you  ever 
bear  of  a  certain  supernatural  being  which 
follows  your  family,  which  supernacural  being 
is  known  by  the  name  of  tlie  Black  Spectre, 
or  some  such  denomination  which  I  cannot 
remember?" 

"  I  don't  wish  to  hear  it  named,"  replied 
his  mother,  deejjly  agitated.  "  It  resembles 
the  Banshee,  and  never  appears  to  any  one 
of  our  family  excej^t  as  a  precursor  of  his 
death  by  violence*" 

AVooilward  started  for  a  moment,  and 
could  not  avoid  being  struck  at  the  coinci- 
dence Ot  the  same  mission  having  been  as- 
signed to  the  two  spirits,  and  he  reflected, 
with  an  impression  th;  t  was  anything  but 
agreeable,  upon  his  damnable  suggestion  of 
having  had  recourse  to  the  vile  agency  of 
Cateriue  Collins  in  enacting  the  said  Banshee, 
for  the  puriDose  of  giving  the  last  fital  blow 
to  the  almost  dying  Alice  Goodwin.  He 
felt,  and  he  had  reason  to  feel,  that  there 
was  a  mj'stery  about  the  Black  Si:)ectre, 
which,  for  the  life  of  him,  he  could  not 
fathom.  He  was,  however,  a  lirm  and  res- 
olute man,  and  after  a  moment  or  t'.vo's 
thought  he  declined  to  make  any  further 
disclosure  on  the  subject,  but  revei-ted 
to  the  general  topic  of  their  conveisa- 
tion. 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  he,  "  after  all,  your 
epeculition  may  not  be  a  bad  one  ;  but  pray, 
what  i«  the  ladv's  name  ?  " 

"Biddlc— Miss  Riddle.  She  is  of  the 
Clan-Riddle  family,  a  close  relation  to  the 
Nethersides  of  jMiddletown." 

"  And  a  devihsh  enigmaticiol  n.ame  it  is," 
replied  her  son,  "  as  ia  that  of  all  her  cou- 
Bections  " 


"  Yes,  but  they  were  always  close  and 
prudent  peojjle,  who  kept  their  opinions  to 
themselves,  and  wrought  their  way  in  the 
world  with  gi'eat  success,  and  without  givin« 
offence  to  any  party.  If  you  marr}'  her, 
Harry,  I  woukl  advise  you  to  enter  public 
life,  recommend  yourself  to  the  powers  that 
be,  and,  my  word  for  it,  you  stand  a  great 
chance  of  having  the  title  of  Cockletowii  re- 
vived in  your  person." 

"  AVell,  although  the  title  is  a  ridiculous 
one,  I  should  have  no  objection  to  it,  not-- 
withstanding  ;  but  there  wih  certainly  arise 
some  dilHculty  when  we  come  to  tlie  mar- 
riage settlements.  There  will  be  sharp  law- 
yers there,  whom  we  cannot  impose  upon ; 
and  you  know,  mother,  I  am  without  any 
ostensible  propeiiy." 

"Yes,  but  we  can  calculate  upon  the 
death  of  cunning  Alice,  who,  by  her  undue 
and  ll.igitious  intiueuce  over  your  uucle,  left 
you  so." 

"  Ay,  but  such  a  calculation  would  never 
do  either  with  her  uncle  or  the  lawyers.  I 
think  we  have  nothing  to  fall  back  upon, 
mother,  but  youi*  own  property.  If  you 
settle  that  upon  me  everything  will  go 
right." 

"  And  leave  myself  depending  upon  Liind- 
say  ?  No,  no,"  replied  this  sellish  and  penu- 
rious woman  ;  "  never,  Harry — never,  never  ; 
you  must  wait  until  I  die  for  ihat.  But  I 
can  tell  you  what  we  can  do  ;  let  us  entei 
upon  the  negotiation — let  us  say  for  the 
time  being  that  you  have  twelve  hundred 
a-year,  and,  while  the  business  is  proceeding, 
what  is  there  to  prevent  you  from  going  to 
recruit  your  healtli  at  Ballcyspell m.  and  kill 
out  Alice  Goodwin  there,  as  well  as  if  she 
remained  at  home?  By  this  plan,  before  the 
negotiations  are  closed,  you  will  be  able  to 
meet  !Miss  Riddle  with  twelve  hundred 
a-year  at  j'our  back.  Alice  Goodwin  !  O, 
how  I  hate  and  detest  her — ay,  as  I  do 
hell !  " 

"The  plan,"  replied  her  son,  "  is  an  excel- 
ler  '■  one.  We  will  commence  operations 
Willi  Lord  Cockletown  and  jNIiss  Riddle,  in 
the  first  place  ;  and  having  opened  nego- 
tiations, as  you  say,  I  shall  become  un- 
well, and  go  for  a  short  time  to  try 
what  efficacy  the  waters  of  Ballyspellan 
may  have  on  my  health — or  rather  on  my 
fortunes." 

"We  shall  visit  them  to-morrow,"  said 
the  motlter. 

"  So  be  it,"  replied  the  son  :  and  to  this 
resolution  they  came,  which  closed  the  above 
interesting  dialogue  between  them.  Y\'e  say 
interesting,  for  if  it  has  not  been  such  to 
the  reader,  it  was  so  at  least  to  them* 
selves. 


729 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOItKS. 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

Jt  Houae  of  Sorrow. — After  which  follows  a 
Courting  Scene. 

The  deep  sorrow  and  desolation  of  sjiirit 
Introduced  by  the  profligate  destroyer  into 
the  humble  abode  of  peace  and  innocence  is 
an  awful  thing  to  contemplate.  In  our 
chapter  headed  "The  Wake  of  a  Murderer  " 
we  have  attempted  to  give  a  picture  of  it. 
'The  age,  indeedj  was  one  of  licentiousness 
and  profligacy-.  The  reigning  monarch, 
Charles  the  Second^of  infamous  memoiy, 
had  set  the  iniqmtous  example  to  his  sub- 
jects, and  suiTounded  his  court  by  an  aristo- 
cratic crew,  who  had  scarcely  anj-thing  to 
recommend  them  but  their  imitation  of  liis 
vices,  and  this  was  always  a  passport  to  his 
favor,  whilst  virtue,  morality,  and  honor 
were  excluded  with  contemiDt  and  derision. 
In  fact,  the  corrupt  atmosphere  of  his  court 
carried  its  contagion  throughout  the  empire, 
until  the  seduction  of  female  innocence  be- 
came the  fashion  of  the  day,  and  no  man 
could  consider  himself  entitled  to  a  becom- 
ing position  in  society  who  had  not  distin- 
guished himself  by  half  a  dozen  criminal 
intrigues  either  with  the  wives  or  daughters 
of  his  acquaintances.  "VMien  we  contemplate 
for  a  moment  the  contrast  between  the  aban- 
doned court  of  that  royal  profligate,  and 
that  under  which  we  have  the  happiness  to 
live — the  one,  a  sty  of  infamy,  licentious- 
ness, and  corruption ;  the  other,  a  well, 
undefiled  of  puri:y,  virtue,  and  honor,  to 
whose  clear  rnd  unadulterated  waters  noth- 
ing equivocal,  or  even  questionable,  dares 
to  approach,  much  less  the  base  or  the  taint- 
ed— we  say  that,  on  instituting  this  com- 
parison and  contrast,  the  secret  of  that  love 
and  afl'ectionate  veneration  which  we  bear  to 
our  pure  and  highminded  Queen,  and  the 
pride  which  we  feel  in  the  noble  example 
which  she  and  her  Eoyal  Consort  have  set 
us,  requires  no  illustration  whatsoever.  The 
affection  and  gi-atitude  of  her  people  ire 
only  the  meed  due  to  her  virtues  and  to  tus. 
We  need  not  apologize  to  our  readers  for 
this  striking  contrast.  The  jDcriod  and  the 
subject  of  our  naiTative,  as  well  as  the 
melancholy  scene  to  which  we  are  about  to 
introduce  the  reader,  rendered  it  an  impos- 
sibility to  avoid  it. 

We  now  proceed  to  the  humble  homestead 
of  Torley  Davoren  ;  a  homestead  which  we 
have  already  described  as  the  humble  abode 
of  peace  and  happiness.  Barney  Casey,  who 
felt  anxious  to  know  from  the  parents  of 
Grace  Davoren  whether  any  trace  or  tidings 
of  her  had  been  heard  of,  went  to  pay  the 
heart-broken  family  a  visit  for  that  purpose. 


On  entering,  he  found  the  father  seated  al 
his  humble  hearth,  unshaven,  and  altogether 
a  man  careless  and  negligent  of  his  appear- 
ance. He  sat  with  his  hands  clasped  before 
him,  and  his  heavy  eyes  fixed  on  the  embers 
of  the  peat  fire  which  smouldered  on  the 
hearth.  The  mother  was  at  her  distafT,  and 
so  were  the  other  two  females — to  wit,  her 
grandmother  and  Grace's  sister.  But  the 
mother  !  gracious  heaven,  what  a  spu'it  of 
distress  and  misery  breathed  from  those 
hojDeless  and  agonizing  features !  There  was 
not  only  natural  sorrow  there,  occasioned  by 
the  disappearance  of  her  daughter,  but  the 
shame  which  resulted  from  her  fall  and  her 
infamy  ;  and  though  last  not  least,  the  terri- 
ble apprehension  that  the  haj)less  girl  had 
rushed  b}^  suicidal  means  into  the  presence 
of  an  ofiended  God,  "  unanointed,  unanel- 
ed,"  with  all  her  sins  ujjon  her  head.  Her 
clothes  were  hanging  from  the  branches  of  a 
large  burdock*  against  the  wall,  and  from 
time  to  time  the  father  cast  his  eyes  upon 
them  with  a  look  in  which  might  be  read  the 
hollow  but  terrible  expression  of  despair. 

Honest  Barney  felt  his  heart  deeply  moved 
by  all  this,  and,  sooth  to  say,  his  natural 
cheerfulness  and  lightness  of  sjiirit  complete- 
ly abandoned  him  at  the  contemplation  of 
the  awful  anguish  which  pressed  them  down. 
There  is  nothing  which  makes  such  a  coward 
of  the  heart  as  the  influence  of  such  a  scene. 
He  felt  that  he  stood  within  a  circle  of  mis- 
ery, and  that  it  was  a  solemn  and  serious  task 
even  to  enter  into  conversation  with  them. 
But,  as  he  had  come  to  make  friendly  inqui- 
ries about  the  unfortunate  girl,  he  forced  him- 
self to  break  this  pitiable  but  terrible  silence 
of  despair. 

"  I  know,"  said  he,  with  a  diffident  and 
melancholy  spirit,  "  that  it  is  j^ainful  to  you 
aU  to  make  the  inquiries  that  I  wish  to  make ; 
but  still  let  me  ask  you  if  you  have  got  any 
account  of  her?" 

The  mother's  heart  had  been  bursting — 
pent  ujD  as  it  were — and  this  allusion  to  her 
withdrew  the  floodgates  of  its  soitow  ;  she 
spread  out  her  arms,  and  rising  up  ap- 
proached her  husband,  and  throwing  them 
about  his  neck,  exclaimed,  in  tones  of  the 
most  penetrating  grief, — 

"  O,  Torley,  Torley,  my  husband,  was  she 
not  our  dearest  and  oui'  best  ?  " 

The  husband  embraced  her  with  a  flood  of 
tears. 

"  She  was,"  said  he,   "  she  was."    But  im- 

*  The  branches  of  the  burdock,  when  it  is  cut, 
trimmed,  and  seasoned,  are  used  by  the  humble 
classes  to  hang  their  clothes  upon.  They  grow  up- 
wards towards  the  top  of  the  stalk,  and,  in  con- 
sequence of  this,  are  capable  of  sustaining  the 
heaviest  garment. 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


723 


mediately  looking  ui^ow  her  sister  Dora,  be 
said,  "Dora,  come  here — bring  Dora  to 
me,"  and  his  wife  went  over  and  brought  her 
to  him. 

"  O,  Dora  dear,"  said  he,  "I  love  you. 
But,  dai'ling,  I  never  loved  you  as  I  loved 
her." 

"But  was  /ever  jealous  of  that,  father?" 
repHed  Dora,  with  tears.  "  Didn't  we  all 
love  her  ?  and  diJ  any  one  of  you  love  her 
more  than  myself?  Wasn't  she  the  pride  of 
the  whole  family  ?  But  I  didn't  care  about 
her  disgrace,  father,  if  we  had  her  liack  with 
us.  She  might  repent ;  and  if  she  did,  every- 
one would  forgive  their  favorite — for  sure 
she  was  every  one's  favorite  ;  and  above  all, 
God  would  forgive  her." 

"I  loved  her  as  thecoi'e  of  my  heart,"  said  j 
the   grandmother  ;    "  but  you    spoiled   her 
yourselves,  and  indulged  her  too  much  in 
di'ess  and  everything  she  wished  for.     Had 
you  given  her  less  of  her  own  way,  and  kept 
her  more  from  dances  and  merry-makings,  ' 
it  might  be  better  for  yoiu-selves  and  her  to- 
day ;  still,  I  grant  you,  it  was  hard  to  do  it 
— for  who,  mavrone,  could  refuse  her  any- 
thing ?     O  !  God  sees  my  heai-t  how  I  pity 
you,  her  father,  and  you,  too,  her  mother,  ' 
above  all.     But,  Torley,  dear,  if  we  only  had 
her — if  we  only  had  her  back  again  safe  with 
us — then  what  daiiing  Dora  says  might  be  : 
true,  and  her  repentance  would  wash  away 
lier  shame — for  eveiy  one  loved  her,  so  that  i 
they  wouldn't  judge  her  harshly."  I 

"  I  can  bear  witness  to  that,"  said  Barney  ; , 
"as  it  is,  every  one  pities  her,  and  but  very 
few  blame  her.  It  is  all  set  down  to  her  in-  i 
nocence  and  want  of  experience,  ay,  and  her 
youthful  years.  No  ;  if  you  could  only  find  ; 
her,  the  shame  in  regard  of  what  I've  said  j 
woiild  not  be  laid  heavily  upon  her  by  the  i 
people."  I 

"  O,"  exclaimed  her  father,   starting  up,  : 
"  O,  Granua,  Granua,  my  heart's  hfe  !  where 
are  you  from  us  ?    Was  not  your  voice  the 
music  of  our  hearth  ?     Did  not  your  hght 
laugh  keep  us  cheerful   and   happy?     But 
where  are  you  now?    O,  will  no  one  bring 
me  back  my  daughter  ?    "\\'liere  is  my  child  ? 
she  that  was  the  hght — the  breakin'  of  the  : 
summer  momin'  amongst  us  !     But   wait ; 
they  say  the  villain   is  recoveriu'  that  de- 
stroyed her — weU — he  may  recover  from  the 
blow  of  Shaicn-na-JIiddogue,  but  he  will  get 
a  blow  from  me  that  he  won't  recover  from.  ; 
I  will  imitate  Morrissy — and  will  welcome  j 
his  fate."  I 

"Aisy,   Torley,"   said   Casey;    "hould  in 
a  httle.     You  are  spakin'  now  of  Masther  . 
Charles?"  i 

"  I  am,  the  villain !  waxn't  they  found  to-  ' 
gether?"  I 


"  I  have  one  question  to  ask  ycu,"  pro* 
ceeded  Barney,  "  and  it  is  this — when  did 
you  see  or  spake  with  Shawn-na-MuIdogue  ?  * 

"  Not  since  that  unfortunate  night." 

"  W^ell,  ixll  I  can  tell  you  is  this— that 
Masther  Charles  had  as  much  to  do  with  the 
niin  of  your  daughter  as  the  king  of  Jerusa- 
lem. Take  my  word  for  that.  He  is  not  the 
stuff  that  such  a  vilkiiu  is  made  of,  but  I  sus- 
pect who  is." 

"And  who  do  you  suspect,  Barney?" 

"I  say  I  only  suspect  ;  but,  so  long  as  it 
is  only  suspicion,  I  will  mention  no  names. 
It  wouldn't  be  right ;  and  for  that  reason  I 
will  wait  until  I  have  betther  information. 
But,  after  all,"  he  proceeded,  "maybe  noth- 
ing wi'ong  has  happened." 

The  mother  shook  her  head  :  "I  know  to 
the  contraii-y,"  she  rephed,  "  and  intended 
on  that  very  night  to  bring  her  to  an  account 
about  her  appearance,  but  I  never  had  the 
opportunity." 

The  father  here  wrung  his  hands,  and  hia 
groans  were  dreatlful. 

"  Could  you  see  Shawn-na-Middogue  ?  " 
asked  B;u'ney. 

"No," replied  Davoren  ;  "he,  too,  hasdis- 
api^eared  ;  and  although  he  is  hunted  hke  a 
bag-fox,  nobody  can  find  either  hilt  or  hair 
of  him." 

"  Might  it  not  be  possible  that  she  is  with 
him  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

"  No,  Barney,"  replied  her  mother,  "  we 
know  Shawn  too  weB  for  that.  He  knows 
how  we  loved  her,  and  what  we  would  suffer 
by  her  absence.  Shiiwn,  thougli  driven  to  be 
an  outlaw*  has  a  kind  heart,  and  would  never 
allow  us  to  suffer  what  we  are  sufferin'  on 
her  account.  O,  no  !  we  know  Shawn  too 
well  for  that." 

"Well,"  rephed  Baniey,  meditatively, 
there's  one  thing  I'm  inclined  to  think:  that 
whoever  was  the  means  of  biinging  .shame 
and  disgrace  upon  poor  Granua  will  get  a 
touch  of  his  middogue  that  won't  fail  as  the 
firet  did.  Sha^Ti  now  knows  his  man,  and, 
with  the  help  of  God,  I  hope  he  won't  miss 
his  next  blow.  I  must  now  go  ;  and  before 
I  do,  let  me  teU  you  that,  as  I  said  before, 
^Miisther  Chai-les  is  as  innocent  of  the  sh;nne 
brought  upon  poor  Grunua  as  the  king  oi 
Jerusalem." 

There  is  a  feeling  of  deep  but  silent  sorrow 
which  v.eighs  down  the  spirit  after  the  death 
of  some  beloved  incUvidual  who  is  taken 
away  from  among  the  fimiily  circle.  It 
broods  upon,  and  casts  a  shadow  of  the  most 
profound  gloom  over  the  bereaved  heai-t ; 
but  let  a  pei"son  who  knew  the  deceased,  and 
is  capable  of  feehng  a  sincere  and  fiiLiiiUy 
sympathy  for  the  siu'vivors,  enter  into  thia 
circle  of  sorrow ;  let  him  or  her  dwell  upoi? 


T24 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


the  memory  of  tlie  departed ;  then  that 
silent  and  pent-up  grief  bursts  out,  and  the 
clamor  of  lamentation  is  loud  and  vehement. 
it  was  so  upon  this  occasion.  "When  Barney 
rose  to  take  his  departure,  a  low  murmur  of 
gi-ief  assailed  his  ears  ;  it  gi-adually  became 
more  loud  ;  it  increased  ;  it  burst  into  irre- 
pressible \iolence — they  wejDt  aloud  ;  they 
iiew  to  her  clothes,  which  hung,  as  we  said, 
motionless  upon  the  stalk  of  burdock  against 
tlie  wall  ;  they  kissed  them  over  and  over 
again  ;  and  it  was  not  until  Barney,  now 
deeply  affected,  succeeded  in  moderating 
theii-  sorrow,  that  these  strong  and  im- 
passioned paroxysms  were  checked  and  sub- 
dued into  something  hke  reasonable  grief. 
Having  consoled  and  pacified  them  as  far  as 
it  was  in  his  power,  he  then  took  his  depar- 
tiu-e  under  a  feeling  of  deep  regret  that  no 
account  of  the  unfortunate  giii  had  been  ob- 
tained. 

The  nest  day  IMrs.  Lindsay  and  Harry  pre- 
pared to  pay  the  important  visit.  As  before, 
the  old  family  carriage  was  furbished  up, 
and  the  lady  once  more  enveloped  in  her 
brocades  and  satins.  Harry,  too,  made  it  a 
point  to  appear  in  his  best  and  most  becom- 
ing habiliments  ;  and,  truth  to  tell,  an  exceed- 
ingly handsome  and  well-made  3'ouug  fellow 
he  was.  The  dress  of  the  day  displayed  his 
manly  and  well-proportioned  limbs  to  the 
best  advantage,  whilst  his  silver-hilted  sword, 
in  addition  to  the  general  richness  of  his  cos- 
tume, gave  him  the  manner  and  appearance 
of  an  accornphshed  cavaher.  Barney's  Uvery 
was  also  put  a  second  time  into  requisition, 
and  the  coachman's  cocked  hat  was  freshly 
crimped  for  the  occasion. 

"  Is  it  true,  mother  ?  "  inquired  Harry,  as 
they  went  along,  "  that  this  old  noodle  has 
built  his  residence  as  much  after  the  shape 
of  a  cockle-shell  as  was  possible  to  be  accom- 
phshed  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  true,  as  you  wiU  see,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"But  what  could  put  such  a  ridiciJous 
absurdity  into  his  head  ?  " 

"  Because  he  thought  of  the  name  before 
the  house  was  built,  and  he  got  it  built 
simply  to  suit  the  name.  '  There  is  no  use,' 
said  he,  *  in  calling  it  Cockle  Hall  unless  it 
:esembles  a  cockle  ; '  and,  indeed,  when  you 
see  it,  you  will  admit  the  resemblance." 

" Egad,"  said  her  son,  "I  never  di-eamed 
ithat  fate  was  likely  to  cramp  me  in  a  cockle- 
shell. I  dare  say  there  is  a  touch  of  sublim- 
ity about  it.  The  associations  are  in  favor 
of  it." 

"No,"  replied  his  mother,  "but  it  has 
plenty  of  comfort  and  convenience  about  it. 
The  pliuL  was  his  own,  and  he  contrived 
tc   make   it,   notwithstanding  its  ludicrous 


shape,  one  of  the  most  agreeable  residbucefr 
in  the  country.  He  is  a  blunt  humorist, 
who  drinks  a  good  deal,  and  instead  oi  feel- 
ing offence  at  his  manner,  which  is  lather 
rough,  you  will  please  him  best  by  answer- 
ing him  exactly  in  his  owni  spirit." 

"lam  glad  you  gave  me  this  hint,"  said 
her  son  ;  "I  like  that  sori  of  thing,  and  it 
will  go  hai'd  if  I  don't  give  him  as  good  as 
he  brings." 

"In  that  case."  repHed  the  mother,  "the 
chances  will  be  ten  to  one  in  your  favor. 
Seem,  above  all  things,  to  like  his  manner, 
because  the  old  fool  is  vain  of  it,  and  noth- 
ing gratifies  him  so  much." 

"  But  about  the  niece  ?  "What  is  the  cua 
there,  mother?" 

"The  cue  of  a  gentleman,  Harry — of  a 
weU-bred  and  respectful  gentleman.  You 
may  humor  the  old  fellow  to  the  top  of  his 
bent ;  but  when  you  become  the  gentleman 
with  her,  she  will  not  misinterpret  your 
manner  with  her  uncle,  but  will  look  upon 
the  transition  as  a  mark  of  deference  to  her- 
self. And  now  you  have  your  instructions : 
be  careful  and  act  upon  them.  JNIiss  Riddle 
is  a  girl  of  sense,  and,  they  say,  of  feeling  ; 
and  it  is  on  this  account,  I  believe,  that  she  is 
so  critical  in  scrutinizing  the  conduct  and  in- 
tellect of  her  lovers.  So  there  is  my  last 
hint." 

"  Many  thanks,  my  dear  mother  ;  it  will,  1 
think,  be  my  own  fault  if  I  fail  wdth  either 
uncle  or  niece,  supported  as  I  shall  be  by 
your  eloquent  advocacy." 

On  arriving  at  Cockle  HaU,  Harry,  on  look- 
ing out  of  the  carriage  window,  took  it  for 
gTanted  that  his  mother  had  been  absolutely 
bantering  him.  "  Cockle  Hall  !  "  he  ex- 
clramed  :  "why,  curse  the  hall  I  see  here, 
good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  "SMiat  did  you 
mean,  mother?     Were  you  only  jesting?" 

"Keep  quiet,"  she  replied,  "and  above 
aU  things  don't  seem  sui-prised  at  the  appear- 
ance of  the  j)lace.  Look  precisely  as  if  you 
had  been  in  it  ever  since  it  was  built." 

The  afipearance  of  Cockle  Hall  was,  in- 
deed, as  his  mother  had  very  proj^erly  in- 
formed him,  ludicrous  in  the  extreme.  It 
was  built  on  a  siu'face  hollowed  out  of  a  high 
bank,  or  elevation,  with  which  the  roof  of  it 
was  on  a  level.  It  was,  of  course,  circular 
and  flat,  and  the  roof  drooj^ed,  or  slanted 
off  towards  the  rear,  precisely  in  imitation  of 
a  cockle-shell.  There  was,  however,  a  com- 
plete deceptio  visus  in  it.  To  the  eye,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  peculiarity  of  its  position,  it 
appeared  to  be  \evy  low^  which,  in  point  of 
fact,  was  not  exactly  the  case,  for  it  consisted 
of  two  stories,  and  had  comfortable  and  ex- 
tensive apartments.  There  was  a  paved 
space  wide  enough  for  two  caniages  to  pasy 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


725 


edch  other,  which  separated  it  from  the  em- 
bankment that  surrounded  it.  Altogether, 
when  taken  in  connection  with  the  ori^i^nul 
idea  of  its  construction,  it  was  a  difficult 
thing  to  look  at  it  without  mirth.  On  enter- 
ing the  tli'a wing-room,  which  Harry  did 
alone — for  his  mother,  having  seen  Miss 
Riddle  in  the  pai'lor,  entered  it  in  order  to 
have  a  preliminaiy  chat  ^^•ith  her — her  son 
found  a  person  inside  dressed  in  a  pair  of 
red  plush  breeches,  white  stockings  a  good 
deal  soiled,  a  yellow  long-flapiDed  waistcoat, 
and  a  wig,  with  a  cue  to  it  which  extended 
down  the  whole  length  of  his  back, — evi- 
dently a  servant  in  dirty  livery.  There  was 
something  dega<jce  and  rather  impudent  in 
his  maimer  and  ajipearance,  which  Harry 
considered  as  in  good  keei)ing  with  all  he  had 
heai'd  of  tliis  eccentric  nobleman.  like  mas- 
ter like  man,  thought  he. 

"Well,"  said  the  senaut,  looking  hardly 
at  him,  "  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  You  be  cui'sed,"  rej^lied  Harry  ;  "don't 
be  impertinent ;  do  you  think  I'm  about  to 
disclose  my  business  to  you,  3-ou  despicable 
menial  ?  Why  don't  you  get  your  stockings 
washed  ?  But  if  you  wish  to  know  what  I 
want,  I  want  j'our  master." 

The  butler,  footman,  or  whatever  he  might 
have  been,  fixed  a  keen  look  upon  him,  ac- 
companied b}'  a  gi'in  of  deiision  that  made 
the  visitor's  gorge  rise  a  good  deal. 

"  My  master,"  said  the  other,  "  is  not  un- 
der this  roof.     What  do  you  tliink  of  that  ?  " 

"  You  mean  the  old  cockle  is  not  in  his 
shell,  then,"  replied  Hany. 

"  Come,"  said  the  other,  with  a  chuckle  of 
enjoyment,  "  curse  me,  but  that's  good. 
Who  ar(;  you  ? — what  are  you  ?  You  ju'e  in 
good  feathers — only  give  an  account  of  your- 
self." 

Harry  was  a  keen  observer,  but  was  con- 
siderably aided  by  what  he  had  heard  fi-om 
his  mother.  The  rich  rings,  however,  Avhich 
he  saw  sparkling  on  the  lingers  of  what  he 
had  conceived  to  be  the  butler  or  footman, 
at  once  satisfied  him  that  he  was  then  ad- 
dressing the  worthy  nobleman  himself.  In 
the  meantime,  having  made  this  discovery,  he 
resolved  to  act  the  farce  out. 

"  Wliy  should  I  give  an  account  of  myself 
to  you,  you  cui'-sed  old  sot? — you  di'ink, 
eirrah  :  I  can  read  it  in  your  face." 

"  I  say,  give  an  account  of  j'ourself ;  what's 
your  business  here  ?  " 

"Come,  then,"  repUed  Harr^-,  "as  you 
appear  to  be  a  comical  old  scoundrel,  I  don't 
care,  for  the  joke's  sake,  if  I  do.  I  am 
coming  to  court  j\Iiss  Riddle,  ridiculous  old 
Cockletown's  niece." 

"  Why  are  you  coming  to  court  her  ?  " 

"Because  I  understand  she  will  have  a 


I  good   fortune   after   old   Cockle   takes    his 

i  dejjarture." 

!  "  Eh,  confound  me,  but  that's  odd  ;  why, 
you  ai'e  a  devilish  queer  fellow.  Did  j'ou 
ever  see  Lord  Cockletown  ?  " 

I  "  Not  I,"  rephed  Harry  ;  "  nor  I  don't  care 
a  curse  whether  I  do  or  not,  provided  I  had 

;  his  niece  secure." 

j      "  Did  you  ever  see  the  niece  ?  " 

"  Don't  annoy  me,  siiTah.  No,  I  didn't ; 
neither  do  I  care  if  I  never  did,  provided  I 
secure  old  Cockle's  money  and  property.  If 
it  could  be  so  managed,  I  would  prefer  being 
married  to  her  in  the  dark." 

,      The  old  peer  walked  two  or  three  times 

'  thx-ough  the  room  in  a  kind  of  good-humored 
perplexity,  niising  his  wig  and  scratching  his 
head  under    it,    and    suiweying  Woodward 

I  from  time  to  time  with  a  serio-comic  expres- 
sion. 

"  Of  course  you  are  a  profligate,  for  that 

;  is  the  order  of  the  day  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  I  am,"  replied  Harry. 

I      "Any  intrigues — eh  ?  " 

!  "  Indeed,"  rephed  the  other,  puUing  a  long 
face,  "  I  am  ashamed  to  answer  you  on  that 
subject.     Litrigues  !     I  regret   to  say  only 

■  half  a  dozen  yet,  but  my  prospects  in  that 
du'ection  ai*e  good." 

"Have  you  fought  ?   Did  j'ou  ever  commit 
murder  ?  " 
I      "  It  can  scarcely  be  called  by  that  name. 

■  It  was  in  tavern  brawls  ;  one  was  a  rascally 
cockleman,  and  the  other  a  rascally  oyster- 

,  man." 

!  "  How  did  you  manage  the  oysterman  ^ 
With  a  knife,  eh?" 

"  No,   siiTali ;  with  my  sword  I  did  him 
open." 
I      "  Have   you    anv    expectation    of    being 
t  hanged  ?  " 

!  "  A\Tiy,  according  to  the  Hfe  1  have  led,  I 
think  there  is  every  probability  that  I  may 
reach  that  honorable  position." 

The  old  peer  could  bear  this  no  longer. 
He  burst  out  into  a  loud  laugh,  which  lasted 
,  upwards  of  two  minutes. 

"Faith,"  said  Hanw,  "if  you  had  such  a 
prosjject  before  you,  I  don't  think  you  would 
consider  it  such  a  laughing  matter." 

"  Curse  you,  sir,  do  you  know  who  I 
am  ?  " 

"  Cui-se  yourself,  sir,"  rephed  the  oth  : 
"no,  I  don't ;  how  should  I,  when  I  nev^r 
saw  you  before  ?  " 

"Sir,  /am  Lord  Cockletown." 
"  And,  sir,  I  am  Harry  Woodwai'd,  son- 
favorite  son — to  !Mrs.  Lindsay  of  Rathfillan 
House." 

"  ^^^lat !  are  you  a  son  of  that  old  fagot  ?  " 
"  Her  favorite  son,    as  I  said  ;  that  old 
fagot,  sir,  is  my  mother." 


726 


xVlJ^LIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


"  Ay,  but  wlio  was  your  father  ?  "  asked 
his  lordship;  with  a  grin,  "for  that's  the 
rub." 

"  Tliat  U  the  rub,"  said  Woodward,  laugh- 
ing ;  "how  the  devil  can  I  tell  ?  " 

"Good  again,"  said  his  lordship;  "con- 
found me  but  you  are  a  queer  one.  I  tell 
you  what,  I  like  you." 

"  I  don't  care  a  curse  whether  you  do  or 
not,  provided  your  niece  does." 

"  Ai-e  you  the  fellow  that  has  been  abroad, 
and  retui'ned  home  lately  ?  " 

"I am  the  \ery  fellow,"  replied  Woodward, 
with  a  ludicrous  and  good-humored  empha- 
sis upon  the  vford  fellow. 

"  There  was  a  bonfire  made  for  you  on 
your  return  ?  " 

"There  was,  my  lord." 

"  And  there  fell  a  shower  of  blood  ujDon 
that  occasion  ?  " 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  my  lord." 

"Well,  you  are  a  strange  fellow  altogether. 
I  have  not  for  a  long  time  met  a  man  so 
much  after  my  own  heart." 

"  That  is  because  our  disiDOsitions  resem- 
ble each  other.  If  I  had  the  chance  of  a 
peerage,  I  would  be  as  original  as  your  lord- 
ship in  the  selection  of  my  title  ;  but  I  trust 
I  shall  be  gratified  in  that,  too  ;  because,  if 
I  marry  your  niece,  I  will  enter  into  public 
life,  make  m^-self  not  only  a  laseful,  but  a 
famous  man,  and,  of  course,  the  title  of 
Cockleto%Mi  wiU  be  revived  in  mj^  person, 
and  will  not  perish  with  you.  No,  my  lord, 
should  I  marry  your  niece,  jour  title  shall 
descend  with  your  blood,  and  there  is  some- 
thing to  console  you." 

"  Come,"  said  the  old  peer,  "  shake  hands. 
Have  3'ou  a  capacity  for  public  business  ?  " 

"  I  was  bom  for  it,  my  lord.  I  feel  that 
fact ;  besides,  I  have  a  generous  ambition  to 
distinguish  myself." 

"Well,"  said  the  peer,  "we  will  talk  ail 
that  over  in  a  few  days.  But  don't  you  ad- 
mit that  I  am  an  eccentric  old  fellow  ?  " 

"ibid  doesn't  your  lordship  admit  that  I 
am  an  eccentric  young  fellow  ?  " 

"Ay,  but,  harkee,  Mr.  Woodward,"  said 
the  peer,  "  I  always  sleep  with  one  e_ye  open." 

"And  I,"  replied  Harry,  "sleep  with  both 
eyes  open." 

"  Come,  confound  me,  that  beats  me,  j'ou 
must  get  on  in  life,  and  I  will  consider  your 
pretensions  to  my  niece." 

At  this  moment  his  mother  and  Miss  Pad- 
dle entered  tlie  drawing-room,  which,  not- 
withstanding the  comical  shape  of  the  man- 
sion, was  spacious,  and  admirably  furnished. 
]Miss  Riddle's  Christian  name  was  Thonias- 
ina ;  but  her  eccentric  uncle  never  called  her 
by  any  otlier  appellation  than  Tom,  and  oc- 
casicnally  Tommy. 


"  Mrs.  Lindsay,  uncle,"  said  the  girl,  in 
troducing  her. 

"  Eh  ?  Mi's.  Lindsay  !  O  !  how  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Lindsay?  How  is  that  tmfoi-tunata 
devil,  your  husband  ?  " 

Now  Mrs.  Lindsay  was  one  of  those  wo- 
men who,  whenever  there  v/as  a  selfish  ob- 
ject in  view,  could  not  only  suppress  her 
feelings,  but  exhibit  a  class  of  them  in  dii-ect 
opposition  to  those  she  actiially  felt. 

"  Why  unfortunate,  my  lord?"  she  asked, 
smiling. 

"  Why,  because  I  am  told  he  plays  second 
fiddle  at  home,  and  a  devilish  deal  out  of 
tune  too,  in  general.  You  pla}'  first,  ma'am  ; 
but  they  say,  notwithstanding,  that  there's 
a  plentiful  lack  of  harmony  in  your  con- 
certs." 

'■  Ah,"  she  replied,  "your  lordship  must 
still  have  your  joke,  I  perceive  ;  but,  at  aU 
events,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  in  such  spirits." 

"Well,  you  may  thank  your  son  for  that. 
I  say,  Tom,"  he  added,  addressing  his  niece, 
"he's  a  de^dhsh  good  fellow  ;  a  queer  chap, 
and  I  like  him.  Woodward,  this  is  Tom 
Riddle,  my  niece.  This  scamjD,  Tom,  is  that 
woman's  son,  Mr.  Woodward.  He's  an  ac- 
complished youth  :  I'll  be  hanged  if  he  isn't. 
I  asked  him  how  many  intrigues  he  has  had, 
and  he  replied,  with  a  dolorous  face,  only 
half  a  dozen  yet.  He  only  committed  two 
murders,  he  says  ;  and  when  I  asked  him  if 
he  thought  there  v/as  anj  probability  of  his 
being  hanged,  he  replied  that,  from  a  re- 
view of  his  past  life,  and  what  he  contem- 
plated in  the  future,  he  had  little  doubt  of 
it." 

Harry  Woodward  was  indeed,  a  most  con- 
summate tactician.  From  the  moment  Jlisa 
Riddle  entered  tlie  room,  his  air  and  manner 
became  that  of  a  most jjolislied  gentleman; 
and  after  bowing  to  her  when  introduced, 
he  cast,  from  time  to  lime,  a  glance  at  her, 
which  told  her,  by  its  significance,  tliat  he 
had  only  been  gratifying  her  uncle  by  inlay- 
ing into  his  whims  and  eccentricities.  In 
the  meantime  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Lindsay 
bounded  with  delight  at  the  progress  which 
she  saw,  by  the  complacent  spirit  of  the  old 
l^eer,  honest  and  adroit  Harry  had  made  ia 
his  good  opinion. 

"Miss  Riddle,"  said  he,  "his  lordship  and 
I  have  been  bantering  each  other  ;  but  al- 
though I  considered  myself  what  I  may  term 
an  able  hand  at  it,  yet  I  find  I  am  no  match 
for  him." 

"  Well,  not  exactly,  I  believe,"  replied  hia 
lordship  ;  "  but,  notwithstanding,  you  ai'6 
one  of  the  best  I  have  met." 

"  "\\'Tiy,  my  lord,"  replied  Woodward,  "I 
like  the  thing  ;  and,  indeed,  I  never  knew 
any  one  fond  of  it  who  did  not  possess  a 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


721 


good  heart  and  a  cantliJ  disposition  ;  so, 
you  see,  my  lord,  there  is  a  coinphment  for 
each  of  us." 

"  Yes,  Woodward,  and  we  both  deserve  it." 

"I  trust  Mr.  Woodward,"  observed  his 
niece,  "  tliat  \o\x  don't  practise  your  abihties 
jis  a  banterer  upon  oiu*  sex." 

"  Never  I  Miss  Riildle  ;  tliat  would  be  un- 
j;enorous  and  uu manly.  There  is  nothing' 
due  to  your  sex  but  respect,  and  tliat,  you 
know,  is  incompatible  with  banter.  Tlie  wit 
that  could  wantonly  sport  with  the  modesty 
of  woman  degenerates  into  impudence  and 
insult ; "  and  he  accompanied  the  words 
with  a  low  and  graceful  bow. 

This  young  fellow,  thought  IMiss  Eiddle, 
is  a  gentleman. 

"  Yes,  but,  Mr.  Woodwaixl,  we  sometimes 
require  a  bantering  ;  and,  what  is  more,  a 
remonstrance.  We  are  not  perfect,  and 
surely  it  is  not  the  part  of  a  fiiend  to  over- 
look our  foibles  or  our  errors." 

"  Tra^,  !Miss  Riddle,  but  it  is  not  by  ban- 
tering tliey  will  be  reclaimed.  A  friendly 
remonstrance,  delicately  conveyed,  is  one 
thing,  but  the  buflfoonery  of  a  banter  is  an- 
other." 

"^^^lat's  that?"  said  the  peer,  "buf- 
foonery !  I  deny  it,  su',  there  is  no  buffoon- 
ery in  banter." 

"  Not,  my  lord,  when  it  occurs  between 
gentlemen,"  replied  Woodward,  "but  you 
know,  \nth  the  ladies  it  is  a  different  thing." 

"  Ay,  well,  that's  not  bad  ;  a  proper  dis- 
tinction. I  tell  you  what.  Woodward,  you 
are  a  clever  fellow  ;  and  I'm  not  sure  but  I'll 
advocate  your  cause  with  Tom  there.  Tom, 
he  tells  me  he  is  coming  to  court  you,  and 
he  says  he  doesn't  care  a  tig  about  either  of 
us,  provided  he  could  secure  your  fortune. 
Ay,  and,  what's  more,  he  says  that  if  you 
and  he  are  married,  he  hopes  it  vnW.  be  in 
the  dark.     "\\li;it  do  you  think  of  that  now  ?  " 

Miss  Riddle  did  not  blush,  nor  affect  a 
bur.?t  of  indignation,  but  she  said  what 
pleased  both  Woodward  and  his  mother  far 
better. 

"Well,  uncle,"  she  replied,  calmly,  "even 
if  he  did  say  so,  I  believe  he  only  expressed 
in  words  what  most,  if  not  all,  of  my  former 
lovei's  actually  felt,  but  were  too  cautious  to 
acknowledge." 

"  I  tnist,  Miss  Riddle,"  said  Hany,  smil- 
ing graciously,  "  that  I  am  neither  so  silly 
nor  so  stupid  as  to  defend  a  jest  by  anything 
like  a  serious  apology.  You  will  also  be 
pleased  to  recollect  that,  as  an  argument  for 
my  success,  I  admitted  two  munlers,  half  a 
dozen  intrigues,  and  the  lively  prospect  of 
being  hanged.  The  deuce  is  in  it,  if  these 
ire  not  strong  qualifications  in  a  lover,  espe- 
aally  in  a  lover  of  yours.  Miss  Riddle." 


The  reader  sees  that  the  peer  was  anything 
but  a  match  for  Woodward,  who  contrived, 
and  with  perfect  success,  to  turn' all  his  jocu- 
lar attacks  to  his  o\vn  account. 

Miss  Riddle  smiled,  for  the  truth  was  that 
Harry  began  to  risf;  rapidly-  in  her  good  opin- 
ion. His  sprightliness  was  gentlemanly  and 
agreeable,  iuid  hecontrived,besides,  to  assume 
the  look  and  air  of  a  man  who  only  indulged 
in  it  in  compliment  to  her  uncle,  and,  of 
course,  indu-ectly  to  herself,  witli  whom,  it 
was"^  but  natural,  he  should  hope  to  make 
him  an  advocate.  Still  the  expression  of  his 
countenance,  as  he  managed  it,  appeared  to 
her  to  be  that  of  a  profound  and  serious 
tliinker — one  whose  feelings,  when  engaged, 
were  lil^ely  to  retain  a  sti'ong  hold  of  his 
heart.  That  he  should  model  his  features 
into  such  an  expression  is  by  no  means 
strange,  when  we  reflect  with  what  success 
hypocrisy  can  stamp  upon  them  all  those 
traits  of  character  for  which  she  wishes  to 
get  credit  from  the  world. 

"  Come,  Tom,"  said  his  lordship,  "  it's 
time  for  luncheon  ;  we  can't  allow  our  friends 
to  go  without  refreshments.  I  say.  Wood- 
ward, I'm  a  hospitable  old  fellow  ;  did  you 
ever  know  that  before  ?  " 

"I  have  often  heard  it,  my  lord,"  replied 
the  otlier,  "and  I  hope  to  have  stiU  better 
proof  of  it."  This  was  uttered  with  a  sigm- 
ticant,  but  respectful  glance,  at  the  niece, 
who  was  by  no  means  displeasc^l  at  it. 

"Ay!  ay!"  s:ud  his  lordship,  laughing, 
"  the  proof  of  the  j^udding  is  in  the  eating. 
Well,  you  shall  have  an  opportunity,  and 
soon,  too  ;  you  appear  to  be  a  blunt,  honest 
fellow  ;  and  hang  me  but  I  like  you." 

Miss  Riddle  now  went  out  to  oixler  in  the 
refreshments,  but  not  without  feeling  it 
strange  how  her  un(;le  and  herself  should 
each  contemplate  Woodward's  cliaracter  in 
so  different  a  light — the  uncle  looking  upon 
him  as  a  blunt,  honest  fellow,  whilst  to  her 
lie  appeai-ed  as  a  man  of  sense,  and  a  perfect 
gentleman  Such,  however,  was  the  depth 
of  his  hypoci'i>iy,  that  he  succeeded  at  once 
in  pleasing  lioth.  and  in  deceiving  both. 

"  Well,  Woodward,  what  do  you  think  ol 
Tom  ?  "  asked  his  lordshii>. 

"  AMiy,  my  lord,  that  she  is  an  admirable 
and  lovely  girl." 

"  Well,  you  are  right,  sir  ;  Tom  is  an  ad- 
mirable girl,  and  loves  her  old  uncle  as  if  he 
was  her  father,  or  maybe  a  gi'eat  deal  better ; 
she  will  have  all  I  am  worth  when  I  pop  off, 
so  there's  something  for  you  to  think 
upon." 

"  No  man,  my  lord,  capable  of  appreciat- 
ing her  could  think  of  anything  but  her 
self." 

"  WTiat !  not  of  her  property  ?  " 


f2S 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"  Property,  my  lord,  is  a  very  secondary 
subject  AN-hen  taken  into  consideration  with 
the  merits  of  the  lady  herself.  I  am  no  ene- 
my to  i^roperty,  and  I  admit  its  imjjortance 
as  an  element  of  happiness  when  reasonably 
applied,  but  I  am  neither  sordid  nor  selfish  ; 
and  I  know  how  little,  after  all,  it  contributes 
to  domestic  enjoyment,  unless  accompanied 
by  those  virtues  which  constitute  the  charm 
of  connubial  life." 

"Confound  me  but  you  must  have  got 
that  out  of  a  book,  Woodward." 

"Out  of  the  best  book,  my  lord — the 
book  of  life  and  observation." 

"  Why,  curse  it,  you  are  talking  philoso- 
phy', though." 

"  Only  common  sense,  my  lord." 

His  lordship,  who  was  walking  to  and  fro 
in  the  room,  turned  abruptly  round,  looked 
keenly  at  him,  and  then,  addressing  Mrs. 
Lindsay,  siid, — 

"Wiiy,  upon  my  soul,  Mrs.  Lindsay,  we 
must  try  and  do  something  with  this  fellow  ; 
he'll  be  lost  to  the  world  if  we  don't.  Come, 
I  say,  we  inust  make  a  public  man  of  him." 

"  To  become  a  public  man  is  his  own  am- 
bition, my  lord."  replied  Mrs.  Lindsay ; 
"and  although  I  am  his  mother,  and  may 
feel  prejudiced  in  his  favor,  still  I  agree  with 
your  lordship  that  it  is  a  pity  to  see  such 
abilities  as  his  iinemployed." 

'•  Well,  inadam,  we  shall  consider  of  it. 
What  do  you  think.  Woodward,  if  we  made 
a  bailiff  of  you  ?  " 

At  this  moment  Miss  Riddle  entered  the 
room  just  in  time  to  hear  the  question. 

"  The  very  thing,  my  lord ;  and  the  first 
capture  I  shoiild  make  would  be  Sliss  Rid- 
dle, your  fair  niece  here." 

"  Curse  me,  biit  the  fellow's  a  cat,"  said 
the  peer,  laughing.  "Throw  him  as  you 
will,  he  always  falls  upon  his  legs.  What 
do  you  think,  Tom  ?  Curse  me  but  your 
suitor  here  talked  philosophy  in  3'our  ab- 
sence." 

"  Only  common  sense.  Miss  Riddle,"  said 
Harr}'.  "  Philosophy,  it  is  said,  excludes 
feeling  ;  but  that  is  not  a  charge  which  I 
ever  heard  brought  against  common  sense." 

"I  am  an  enemy  neither  to  philosophy  nor 
common  sense,"  replied  his  niece,  "  because  I 
think  neither  of  them  incompatible  with  feel- 
ing ;  but  I  certainly  prefer  connnon  sense." 

'•  There's  luncheon  announced,"  said  the 
peer,  rubbing  his  hands,  "  and  that's  a  devil- 
ish deal  more  comfortable  than  either  of 
them.  Come,  Mrs.  Lindsay ;  Woodward, 
take  Tom  with  you." 

They  then  descended  to  the  dining-room, 
where  the  conversation  was  lively  and  amus- 
ing, the  humorous  old  peer  furnishing  the 
greater  proportion  of  the  mirth. 


"Mrs.  Lindsay,"  said  he,  as  they  were 
preparing  to  go,  "I  hope,  after  all,  that 
this  clever  son  of  yours  is  not  a  fortune- 
hunter." 

"  He  need  not  be  so,  my  lord,"  replied  his 
mothei',  "and  neither  is  he.  He  himself 
will  have  a  liajadsome  property." 

"  Will  have.  I  would  rather  you  wouldn't 
speak  in  the  future  tense,  though.  Wood- 
ward," he  added,  addressing  that  gentleman, 
"  remember  that  I  told  you  that  I  aleep  with 
one  eye  open." 

"  If  you  have  any  doubts,  my  lord,  on 
this  subject,"  replied  W^oodward,  "you may 
imitate  me  :  sleep  with  both  open." 

"  Aj,  as  the  hares  do,  and  devil  a  bit 
they're  the  better  for  it ;  but,  in  the  mean: 
time,  what  property  have  yovi,  or  will  you 
have  ?  There  is  nothing  like  coming  to  the 
point." 

"  My  lord,"  replied  Woodward,  "  I  respect 
Miss  Riddle  too  much  to  enter  upon  such  a 
topic  in  her  presence.  You  must  excuse  me, 
then,  for  the  present ;  but  if  you  wish  for 
precise  information  on  the  subject,  I  refer 
you  to  my  mother,  who  will,  upon  a  future 
occasion — and  I  trust  it  will  be  soon — aftbrd 
you  every  satisfaction  on  this  matter." 

"  Well,"  replied  his  lordship,  "  that  is  fair 
enough — a  little  vague,  indeed  —  but  no 
matter,  your  mother  and  I  will  talk  about 
it.  Li  the  meantime  you  are  a  devilish 
clever  fellow,  and,  as  I  said,  I  like  3'ou  ;  but 
still  I  will  suffer  no  fortune-hunter  to  saddle 
himself  upon  my  projDerty.  I  repeat  it,  I 
sleejD  with  one  eye  open.  I  will  be  happy 
to  see  you  soon,  IVIr.  Woodward  ;  but  re- 
member I  will  be  determined  on  this  sub- 
ject altogether  by  the  feelings  of  my  niece 
Tom  here.  " 

"I  have  already  said,  my  lord,"  replied 
Woodward,  "  that,  except  as  a  rational  ele- 
ment in  domestic  happiness,  I  am  indiffer- 
ent to  the  consideration  or  influence  of 
property.  The  prevailing  motives  with  me 
are  the  personal  charms,  the  character,  and 
the  well-known  virtues  of  your  niece.  It 
is  painful  to  me  to  say  even  this  in  her 
presence,  but  your  lordship  has  forced  it 
from  me.  However,  I  trust  that  Miss  Riddle 
understands  and  will  pardon  me." 

"Mr.  Woodward,"  ^he  observed,  "you 
have  said  nothing  unbecoming  a  gentleman  ; 
nothing  certainly  but  that  which  you  could 
not  avoid  saying." 

After  the  usual  forms  of  salutation  at 
jDarting,  Harry  and  his  mother  entered  the 
old  caiTiage  and  proceeded  on  their  way 
home. 

"  Well,  Harry,"  said  his  mother,  "  what  do 
you  think  ?  " 

"A  hit,"  he  repUed  ;    "a  Lit  with  both, 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


729 


but  especially  -with  the  niece,  who  certainly  ' 
is  a  fine  g"irl.  K  there  is  to  be  any  oppo- 
sition, it  will  be  with  that  comical  old  buf- 
foon, her  uncle.  He  says  he  sleeps  with  one 
eye  open,  and  I  believe  it.  You  told  me  it 
could  not  be  determined  whether  he  was 
more  fool  or  knave  ;  but,  from  all  I  have 
seen  of  him,  the  devil  a  bit  of  fool  I  can  per- 
ceive, but,  on  the  contrary,  a  great  deal  of 
the  knave.  Take  my  word  for  it,  old  Cockle- 
town  is  not  to  be  imposed  upon."  , 

"  Is  there  no  likelihood  of  that  wi-etch, 
Alice  Goodwin,  dving  ?  "  said  his  mother. 

"That  is  a  case  I  must  take  in  hand,"  | 
returned  the  son.  "I  shall  *^o  to Ballyspellan  ! 
and  put  an  end  to  her.  After  that  we  can  ' 
meet  old  Cockletown  with  courage.  I  feel 
that  I  am  a  favorite  with  his  niece,  and  she,  j 
you  must  have  perceived,  is  a  favoi*ite  with  | 
him,  and  can  manage  him  as  she  wishes,  and  ! 
that  is  one  great  point  gained — indeed,  the 
greatest."  ! 

"No,"  replied  his  mother,  "the  greatest  '' 
is  the  death  of  Alice  Goodwin."  ! 

"  Be  quiet,"  said  her  worthy  son  ;  "  that  ; 
shall  be  accompUshed." 


CHAPTER  XVn. 


Description  of  the  Original  Tory. 
Sicearing. 


■  Tlieir  Manner  of 


We  have  introduced  an  Irish  outlaw,  or 
tory,  in  the  person  of  Shaivn-na-Middogue, 
and,  as  it  may  be  necessary  to  aifoi'd  the 
reader  a  clearer  insight  into  this  subject,  we 
shall  give  a  short  sketch  of  the  cliaracter  and 
habits  of  the  wild  and  lawless  class  to  which 
he  belonged.     The  tirst  description  of  those 
savage  banditti  that  has  come  down  to  us 
with  a  distinct  and  characteiistic  designation,  ' 
is  known  as  that  of  the  wild  band  of  tories 
who  overran  the  South  and  West  of  Ireland 
both  before   the   Revolution   and   after  it.  i 
The  actual   signification  of  the  word  torif, 
though  now,  and  for  a  long  time,  the  appel- 
lative of  a  political  party,  is  scarcely  known 
except  to  the  Irish  scholar  and  historian. 
The  term  proceeds  from  the  Irish  noun  toir, 
a  pursuit,  a  chase  ;  and  from  that  comes  its 
cognate,  toiref,  a  person  chased,  or  pursued 
— thereby  meaning  an  oxdlmv,  from  the  fcict 
that  the  individuals  to  whom  it  was  fii*st  ap- 
pUed  were  such  as  had,  by  their  murders  I 
and  robberies,  occasioned  themselves  to  be  i 
put  beyond  the  protection  of  all  laws,  and,  ; 
consequently,    were  considered   outlaws,   or 
iories,  and  liable  to  be  shot  down  without  | 
the   intervention  of  judge  or  jury,  as  they  1 
often  were,  wherever  they  could  be  seen  or  j 


apprehended.  We  believe  the  word  first  as- 
sumed its  distinct  character  in  the  wars  of 
Cromwell,  as  apphed  to  the  wild  freebooters 
of  Ireland. 

Tory-hunting  was  at  one  time  absolutely 
a  pastime  in  IreLmd,  in  consequence  of  this 
desperate  body  of  people  having  proved  the 
common  enemy  of  every  class,  witliout  refer- 
ence to  either  I'eUgious  or  political  distinction. 
We  all  remember  the  old  nursery  song, 
which,  however  simple,  is  very  significant, 
and  affords  us  an  excellent  illustration  of 
theii"  unfortunate  condition,  and  the  places 
of  their  usual  reti'eat. 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  story  ahoat  Johnny  Magrory, 
Who  went  to  the  icjod  and  shot  a  tory  ; 
I'll  tell  you  another  about  bis  brother, 
Who  went  to  the  woo<l  and  shot  auotuer." 

From  this  it  is  evident  that  the  tories  of 
the  time  of  Cromwell  and  Charles  the  Second 
were  but  the  hueal  descendants  of  the 
thievish  wood  kernes  mentioned  by  Sjjenser, 
or  at  least  the  inheritors  of  theii'  habits. 
Defoe  attributes  the  establishment  of  the 
word  in  England  to  tlie  infamous  Titus 
Gates. 

"  There  was  a  meeting,"  says  he  "  (at 
which  I  was  present),  in  tlae  city,  upon  the 
occasion  of  the  discovery  of  some  attempt  to 
stifie  the  evidence  of  the  witnesses  (about 
the  Popish  plot),  and  tampering  with  Bed- 
low  and  Stej^hen  Dugdale.  Among  the  dis- 
course Mr.  Bedlowsaid  'he  had  letters  fx-ora 
L'eland  ;  that  there  were  some  tories  to  be 
brought  over  hither,  who  were  privately  to 
murder  Dr.  Gates  and  the  said  Bedlow.'  The 
doctor,  whose  zeal  was  very  hot,  could  never 
hear  any  man  after  this  talk  against  the  plot, 
or  against  the  witnesses,  but  he  thought  he 
was  one  of  the  tories,  and  called  almost  every 
man  who  oppo.sed  him  in  his  discourse  a 
tory — till  at  last  the  word  became  popultir." 

Hume's  account  of  it  is  not  very  much 
diflferent  from  this. 

"  The  court  pai-ty,"  says  he,  "  reproached 
their  antagonists  with  their  afiinity  to  the 
fanatical  conventiclei's  of  Scotland,  who  were 
known  by  the  name  of  \Miig3.*  The  cpuutr_> 
party  found  a  resemblance  between  the 
courtiers  and  the  Popish  banditti  in  Ireland, 
on  whom  the  appellation  of  tory  was  afiixed. 
And  after  this  manner  these  foolish  terms 
of  reproach  came  into  public  and  genei-ai 
use." 

It  is  evident,  from  Irish  history,  that  the 


*  The  word  whig  is  taken  from  the  fao^,  that  in 
Scotland  it  was  ajiplied  to  milk  that  had  become 
»imr  ;  and  to  this  day  milk  that  has  lost  its  sweet- 
ne.<5S  is  termed  by  the  Scotch,  and  their  descendants 
in  the  north  of  Ireland,  whigged  milk. 


730 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


original  tones,  politically  speaking,  belonged 
to  no  party  whatever.  They  were  simply 
thieves,  robbers,  and  murderers  on  theii-  own 
account.  Every  man's  hand  was  against 
them,  and  certainly  their  hands  were  against 
every  man.  The  fact  is,  that  in  consequence 
of  the  predatory  nature  of  Iiish  warfare, 
which  plundered,  burned,  and  devastated 
as  it  went  along,  it  was  impossible  that 
thousands  of  the  wretched  Ii'ish  should  not 
themselves  be  di-iven  by  the  most  cruel  neces- 
sity, for  the  preservation  of  their  hves  and  of 
those  of  their  families,  to  become  thieves  and 
plunderers  in  absolute  self-defence.  Their 
habitations,  such  as  they  were,  having  been 
destroyed  and  laid  in  ruins,  they  were  neces- 
sarily driven  to  seek  shelter  in  the  woods, 
caves,  and  other  fastnesses  of  the  country, 
from  which  they  issued  forth  in  desj)erate 
hordes,  armed  as  well  as  the}'  could,  to  rob 
and  to  plunder  for  the  very  means  of  life. 
Goaded  by  hunger  and  distress  of  every' 
kind,  those  formidable  and  ferocious  "  wood 
kernes "  only  joaid  the  country  back,  by  in- 
flicting on  it  that  plunder  and  devastation 
which  they  had  received  at  its  hands. 
Neither  is  it  surprising  that  they  should 
make  no  distinction  in  their  depredations, 
because  they  experienced,  to  their  cost,  that 
no  "hosting,"  on  either  or  any  side,  ever 
made  a  distinction  with  them.  Whatever 
hand  was  upi3ermost,  whether  in  tlie  sangui- 
nary' struggles  of  tlieir  riv;d  chiefs,  or  in  those 
between  the  Irish  and  English,  or  Anglo- 
Irish,  the  result  was  the  same  to  them.  If 
they  were  not  robbed  or  burned  out  to-day, 
they  might  be  to-morrow  ;  and  under  such 
circumstances  to  what  purpose  could  the}'  be 
expected  to  exercise  industrious  or  laborious 
habits,  when  they  knew  that  they  might  go 
to  bed  in  comfort  at  night,  and  rise  up 
beggars  in  the  morning  ?  It  is  easy  to  see, 
then,  that  it  was  the  lawless  and  turbulent 
state  of  the  country  that  reduced  them  to 
such  a  mode  of  life,  and  drove  them  to  make 
repi'isals  upon  the  property  of  others,  in  the 
absence  of  any  safe  or  systematic  way  of  liv- 
ing. There  is  no  doubt  that  a  principle  of 
revenge  and  retaliation  animated  their  pro- 
ceedings, and  that  they  stood  accountable 
for  acts  of  great  cruelty  and  murder,  as  M'ell 
ns  of  robbery.  The  consequence  necessarily 
was,  that  they  felt  themselves  beyond  the 
protection  of  all  law,  and  fearfully  distinct 
in  the  ferocity  of  their  character  fi-om  the 
more  civilized  poi^ulation  of  the  country, 
which  waged  an  exterminating  warfare 
against  them  under  the  sanction  and  by  the 
assistance  of  whatever  government  existed. 

It  was  about  the  year  1689  that  they 
began  to  assume  or  to  be  characterized  by  a 
different  designation — we  mean  that  of  rap- 


parees  ;  so  called,  it  is  said,  from  the  fact  ol 
their  using  the  half  pike  or  short  rapier, 
although,  for  our  part,  we  are  inclined  to 
think  that  they  were  so  termed  fi-om  the 
word  rapio,  to  plunder,  which  strikes  us  as 
the  most  appropriate  and  obvious.  At  all 
events  it  is  enough  to  say  that  the  tories 
were  absorbed  in  the  rapparees,  and  their 
name  in  Ireland  and  Great  Britain,  except 
as  a  political  class,  was  forgotten  and  lost  in 
that  of  the  rapparees,  who  loHg  sm-vived 
them. 

BaiTiey  Casey  was,  as  the  reader  must 
have  perceived,  a  young  fellow  of  good  sense 
and  very  acute  observation.  He  had  been, 
since  an  early  period  of  his  j'outh,  domesti- 
cated in  the  family  of  I\Ir.  Lindsay,  who 
respected  him  highly  for  his  attachment  and 
integrity.  He  had  a  brother,  however,  who, 
with  his  many  good  qualities,  was  idle  and 
headstrong.  His  name  was  Michael,  and, 
sooth  to  say,  the  wild  charm  of'rrn-ee bboter's 
life,  in  addition  to  his  own  indisposition  to 
labor  for  his  living,  were  more  than  the  weak 
materials  of  his  character  could  resist.  He 
consequently  joined  Shawn-na-Middogue  and 
his  gang,  and  preferred  the  dangerous  and 
licentious  life  of  a  robber  and  plunderer  to 
that  of  honesty  and  labor — j^recisely  as  many 
men  connected  with  a  seafaring  Hfe  prefer 
the  habits  of  the  smuggler  or  the  pirate  to 
those  of  the  more  honorable  or  legitimate 
profession.  Poor  Barne}'  exerted  all  his  in- 
fluence with  his  brother  with  a  hope  of  res- 
cuing  him  from  the  society  and  habits  of  hia 
dissolute  companions,  but  to  no  purj)ose.  It 
was  a  life  of  danger  and  excitement — of  jDlana 
and  projects,  and  changes,  and  chases,  and 
unexjiected  encounters — of  retaliation,  and, 
occasionally,  the  most  dreadful  revenge. 
Such,  however,  was  the  state  of  society  at 
that  time,  that  those  persons  who  had  con- 
nected themselves  with  these  desperate  out- 
laws were  by  no  means  afraid  to  pay  occa- 
sional visits  to  their  own  relatives,  and  from 
time  to  time  to  hold  communication  \\i\h. 
them.  Nay,  not  only  was  this  the  fact,  but, 
what  is  still  more  strange,  many  persons 
who  were  related  to  individuals  connected 
with  this  daring  and  unmanageable  class 
were  in  the  habit  of  attending  their  nightly 
meetings,  sometimes  for  the  purpose  of  pre- 
venting a  robbery,  or  of  setting  a  family 
whom  they  wished  to  suffer. 

One  night,  during  this  j^eriod  of  our  nar- 
rative, Barney's  brother  contrived  to  have  a 
secret  interview  with  him  for  the  purj^ose  of 
communicating  some  information  to  him 
which  had  reached  his  ears  from  Shawn-nO' 
Middogue,  to  the  effect  that  Caterine  ColUns 
had  admitted  to  him  (Shawn),  ujDon  his 
promise  of  marrying  her — a  promise  made 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE^ 


731 


only  for  the  puii:)ose  of  gettLn<:j  into  her  con- 
fidence, and  mukin{^  her  useful  as  an  agent 
to  his  designs — that  she  knew,  she  said,  that 
it  was  not  his  brother  Charles  who  had 
brought  unfortunate  Grace  Davoren  to  ruin, 
but  Harry  Woodward,  and,  she  added,  when 
it  was  too  late,  she  suspected  something 
from  his  manner,  of  his  intention  to  send 
Charles,  on  that  disastrous  night,  in  his 
stead.  But  Shawn,  who  knew  Caterine  and 
her  connections  well,  recommended  Michael 
Casey  to  apprise  his  brother  that  he  couid 
not  keeji  too  sharp  an  eye  uix)n  the  move- 
ments of  both,  but,  above  all  things,  to  try 
and  induce  him  to  Bel  Woodward  in  such  a 
way  that  he  could  repair  the  blow  upon  him, 
which,  in  mistake,  he  had  dealt  to  his  inno- 
cent brothci".  Now,  although  Banie}'  almost 
detested  Woodward,  yet  he  was  incapable  of 
abetting  vShawn's  designs  upon  Hiiil  Jinlor. 

"No,"  said  he  to  his  brother,  "I  would 
die  first.  It  is  true  I  do  not  like  a  bone  in 
his  body,  but  I  will  never  lend  myself  to 
such  a  cowardly  act  as  that ;  besides,  from 
all  I  know  of  Shawn,  I  did  not  think  he 
would  stoop  to  murder." 

"Ay,  but  think  of  our  companions,"  re- 
plied his  brother,  "  and  think  too,  of  what  a 
nc'tion  they  have  of  it.  Sliawn,  however,  is 
a  tiilTerent  man  fx-om  most,  if  not  all,  of  them 
— and  he  saj's  he  was  urged  on  by  a  fit  of 
fury  when  he  found  the  man,  that  he  thought 
tho  destroyer  of  Grace  Davoren,  speaking  to 
h*i'  in  such  a  lonely  and  suspicious  place. 
It  -,vas  his  intention  to  have  bidden  him  to 
8t^rnd  on  his  guard  and  defend  himself,  but 
je:r  lousy  and  revenge  overcame  him  at  the 
mnraent,  and  he  stiiick  the  blow.  Thank 
God  that  it  failed  ;  but  you  may  take  my 
word  that  the  next  won't— because  Shawn 
now  swears,  that  without  preface  or  apology, 
or  one  moment's  warning,  he  will  stab  him 
to  the  heart  wherever  he  can  meet  him." 

"It's  a  bad  life,"  replied  Bame}',  "that 
Shawn's  leading  ;  but,  poor  fellow,  he  and 
his  resaved  hard  treatment — their  house  and 
place  torn  down  and  laid  in  ruins,  and  in- 
stead of  protection  from  government,  tliey 
found  themselves  proclaimed  outlaws,  ^^^lat 
could  he  and  they  do?  But,  Michael,  it 
was  a  diiierent  thing  with  you.  Our  family 
were  comfortable — too  much  so,  indeed,  for 
you  ;  you  got  idle  habits  and  a  distaste  for 
work,  and  so,  i-ather  than  settle  down  to  in- 
dustry, you  should  join  them." 

"  Ay,  and  so  would  you,  if  you  knew  the 
life  we  lead." 

"  That  might  be,"  replied  his  brother,  "  if 
I  didn't  happen  to  think  of  the  death  you 
die." 

"  As  to  that,"  said  INIichael,  "  we  have  all 
made  up  our  minds ;  shooting  and  hanging 


%vill  get  nothing  out  of  i.s  but  the  death« 
laugh  at  our  enemies." 

"Ay,  enemies  of  your  'J^vn  miking,"  said 
Barney  ;  "  but  as  to  the  'ieath-iaugh  on  tha 
gallows,  remember  that  that  is  at  your  own 
expense.  It  will  be  wha*;  we  call  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  mouth,  I  tlunk.  But  in  regard 
of  these  nightly  meetiugs  of  yoiu^,  I  would 
have  no  objection  to  see  one  of  them.  Do 
you  think  I  would  be  allowed  to  join  you  for 
an  hour  or  two,  that  I  might  hear  and  see 
what  you  say  and  do  ?  " 

"  You  may,  Baniey  ;  but  you  know  it  isn't 
eveiy  one  that  would  get  that  jDrivilege  ;  but 
i  in  ordher  to  make  sure,  111  spake  to  Shawn 
about  it.  Leave  is  light,  they  say  ;  and  as 
he  knows  you're  not  hkely  to  turn  a  spy 
upon  our  hands,  I'm  certain  he  won't  have 
any  objection."' 

"When  and  where  will  you  meet  next?" 
asked  Barney. 

"  On  the  very  spot  where  Shawn  struck 
his  middogue  into  the  body  of  Masther 
Charles,"  replied  his  brother.  "Shawn  has 
some  oath  of  revenge  to  make  against  Wood- 
ward, because  he  suspects  that  the  villain 
knows  where  poor  Granua  Davoren  is." 

"Well,  on  that  subject  he  may  take  his 
own  coor.se,"  repUed  Barney  ;  "but  as  for  me, 
^Michael,  I  neither  care  nor  will  think  of  the 
murdher  of  a  fellow-cratore,  no  matther 
how  wicked  he  may  be,  especially  when  I 
know  that  it  is  planned  for  him.  As  a  man 
and  a  Christian,  I  cannot  lend  myself  to  it, 
and  of  coorse — but  this  is  between  ourselves 
— I  will  put  Mr.  Woodward  on  his  guai'd." 

Those  were  noble  sentiments,  considering 
the  wild  and  licentious  jieriod  of  which  we 
wi'ite,  and  the  dreadfully  low  estimate  at 
which  human  life  was  then  held. 

"Act  as  you  like,"  replied  Michael ;  "but 
this  I  can  t«ll  you,  and  this  I  do  tell  you, 
that  if,  for  the  safety  of  this  villain,  you  take 
a  single  step  that  may  bring  Shawn-na-Mid- 
dnrjue  into  danger,  if  you  were  my  brother 
ten  times  over  I  will  not  prevent  him — 
Shawn  I  mean — from  letting  loose  his  ven- 
geance ujjon  you.  No,  nor  upon  Eathfillan 
House  and  all  that  it  contains,  you  among 
the  number." 

"  I  will  do  nothing,"  replied  Barney,  firm- 
ly, "  to  bring  Shawn  or  any  of  you  into 
danger  ;  but  as  sure  as  I  have  a  Christian 
soiU  to  be  saved,  and  my  life  in  my  body,  I 
will,  as  I  said,  put  IMr.  Hany  'SA'oodward 
upon  his  pfuard  against  him.  So  now,  if 
you  think  it  proper  to  let  me  be  present  at 
your  meeting,  knowing  what  you  know,  I 
will  go,  but  not  otherwise." 

"I  feel,  Baniey,"  said  his  brother.  "  that 
my  mind  is  much  hardened  of  late  by  the 
society  I  keep.     I  remember  when  I  thought 


732 


WILLIAM   CARLETOJ^'S  WORKS. 


murder  as  horiible  a  thing  as  you  do,  but 
now  it  is  not  so.  The  planning  and  the 
plotting  of  it  is  considered  only  as  a  good 
joke  among  us." 

"But  wliy  don't  you  lave  them,  then?" 
said  Barney.  "  The  pious  principles  of  our 
father  and  mother  were  never  such  as  they 
practise  and  preach  among  you.  Why  don't 
you  lave  them,  I  say  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know,"  rephed  Michael,  "  that 
that  step  would  be  my  death  warrant  ?  Once 
we  join  them  we  must  remain  with  them, 
let  what  may  happen.  No  man  laving  them, 
unless  he  gets  clear  of  the  countiy  alto- 
gether, may  expect  more  than  a  week's  lease 
of  life  ;  in  general  not  so  much.  They  look 
upon  him  as  a  man  that  has  been  a  spy 
among  them,  and  who  has  left  them  to 
make  his  peace,  and  gain  a  fortune  fi-om 
goverimient  for  betra}dng  them  ;  and  you 
know  how  often  it  has  happened." 

"It  is  too  ti-ue,  Michael,"  replied  his  bro- 
;  ther,  "  for  unfortunately  it  so  happens  that, 
I  whether  for  good  or  evil,  Irishmen  can 
never  be  got  to  stand  by  each  other.  Ay,  it 
is  tnie — too  true.  In  the  meantime  call  on 
me  to-morrow  with  hberty  from  Shawn  to 
attend  your  meeting,  and  we  wiU  both  go 
there  together." 

"Very  weU,"  replied  his  brother,  "I  mil 
do  so." 

The  next  night  was  one  of  tolerably  clear 
moonlight ;  and  about  the  hour  of  twelve  or 
one  o'clock  some  twenty  or  twenty-five  out- 
laws were  assembled  immediately  adjoining 
the  spot  where  Charles  Lindsay  was  so 
severely  and  dangerously  wounded.  The  ajD- 
pearance  of  those  men  was  singular  and 
striking.  Tbeir  garbs,  we  need  scarcely  in- 
form our  readers,  Avere  different  from  those  of 
the  present  day.  Many — nay,  most,  if  not  all 
of  them,  were  bitter  enemies  to  the  law,  which 
rendered  it  penal  for  them  to  wear  theii- 
glibs,  and  in  consequence  most  of  those 
present  had  them  in  fiiU  perfection  around 
their  heads,  over  which  was  worn  the  barrad 
or  Irish  cap,  which,  however,  was  then  be- 
ginning to  fall  into  desuetude.  There  was 
scarcely  a  man  of  them  on  whose  counten- 
ance was  not  stamped  the  expression  of  care, 
inward  suffering,  and,  as  it  would  seem,  the 
recollection  of  some  giief  or  sorrow  which 
had  befallen  themselves  or  their  families. 
There  was  something,  consequently,  deter- 
mined and  utterly  reckless  in  their  faces, 
■which  denoted  them  to  be  men  who  had  set 
at  defiance  both  the  world  and  its  laws. 
They  all  wore  the  tr\nH,  the  brogue,  and 
beneath  the  cloaks  which  covered  them  were 
concealed  the  celebrated  Irish  skean  or  mid- 
dogue,  so  that  at  the  first  glance  they  pre- 
sented the  appearance  of  men  who  were  in  a 


peaceful  garb  and  unarmed.  The  persons  oi 
some  of  them  were  powerful  and  admirably 
symmetrical,  as  could  be  guessed  from  their 
well-defined  outlines.  They  arranged  them- 
selves in  a  kind  of  circle  around  Shaicn-na- 
Middogue,  who  stood  in  the  centre  as  their 
chief  and  leader.  A  spectator,  however, 
could  not  avoid  obsening  that,  owing  to  the 
peculiarity  of  their  costume,  which,  in  conse- 
quence of  their  exclusion  from  society,  not 
to  mention  the  poverty  and  hardship  which 
they  were  obliged  to  suffer,  their  appearance 
as  a  body  was  wild  and  almost  savage.  In 
their  countenances  was  blended  a  twofold 
expression,  comjDosed  of  ferocity  and  des- 
pair. They  felt  themselves  excommunicated, 
whether  justly  or  not,  from  the  world  and  its 
institutions,  and  knew  too  well  that  society, 
and  the  laws  by  which  it  is  regulated  and 
protected,  were  hunting  them  like  beasts  of 
prey  for  their  destruction.  Perhaps  they 
deserved  it,  and  this  consideration  may  still 
more  strongh^  account  for  their  fierce  and 
relentless-looking  aspect.  There  is,  in  the 
meantime,  no  doubt  that,  however  wild,  fero- 
cious, and  savage  they  may  have  aj^peared, 
the  strong  and  terrible  hand  of  injustice  and 
oppression  had  much,  too  much,  to  do  with 
the  crimes  which  they  had  committed,  and 
which  drove  them  out  of  the  pale  of  civihzed 
life.  Altogether  the  spectacle  of  their  ap- 
pearance there  on  that  night  was  a  melan- 
choly, as  well  as  a  fearful  one,  and  ought  to 
teach  statesmen  that  it  is  not  by  oppressive 
laws  that  the  heart  of  man  can  be  improved, 
but  that,  on  the  contrary,  when  those  who  pro- 
ject and  enact  them  come  to  reaj)  the  harvest 
of  their  poUcy,  they  uniformly  find  it  one  of 
\iolence  and  crime.  So  it  has  been  since 
the  world  began,  and  so  it  wiU  be  so  long  as 
it  lasts,  unless  a  more  genial  and  humane 
principle  of  legislation  shall  become  the  gen- 
eral system  of  managing,  and  consequently, 
of  improving  society. 

"Now,  my  friends,"  said  Shaion-na-Mid- 
dogue,  "you  all  know  why  we  are  here.  Un- 
foi'tunate  Granna  Davoren  has  disapjDeared, 
and  I  have  brought  you  together  that  we 
may  set  about  the  task  of  recovering  her, 
whether  she  is  living  or  dead.  Even  her 
heart-broken  parents  would  feel  it  a  con- 
solation to  have  her  corpse  in  order  that  they 
might  give  it  Christian  Ijurial.  It  will  be  a 
shame  and  a  disgrace  to  us  if  she  is  not 
found,  as  I  said,  living  or  dead.  Will  you 
all  promise  to  rest  neither  night  nor  day  till 
she  is  found  ?  In  that  case  swear  it  on  your 
skeans." 

In  a  moment  every  skean  was  out,  and, 
with  one  voice,  they  said,  "  By  the  contents 
of  this  blessed  iron,  that  has  been  sharpened 
for  the  heai'ts  of  oui-   oppressors,  we  will 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTliE. 


733 


never  rest,  either  by  night  or  by  day,  till  we 
find  her,  living  or  dead  " — every  man  then 
crossed  himself  and  kissed  his  skean — "and, 
what  is  UKn-e,"  they  added,  "  we  wiW.  tiike 
vengeance  upon  the  villain  that  ruined  her." 

"  Hould,'  said  Shawn  ;  "  do  you  know 
•who  he  is  ?  " 

"By  aU  accounts,"  they  i*eplied,  "the 
man  that  you  stiaick." 

"No.'"  exclaimed  Shawn,  "I  struck  the 
wrong  man  ;  and  poor  Granua  was  right 
when  she  screamed  out  that  I  had  murdered 
the  innocent.  But  now,"  he  added,  "  why 
am  /  here  among  you  ?  I  will  tell  you,  al- 
though I  suppose  the  most  of  you  know  it 
already:  it  was  good  find  generous  iVIr. 
Lindsay's  she-devil  of  a  wife  that  did  it ; 
and  it  was  her  he-devil  of  a  son,  Harry 
Woodward,  that  ruined  Gnmuji  Davoi'en. 
iMy  mother  happened  to  say  that  she  was  a 
heartless  and  tyrannical  woman,  that  she 
hid  the  Evil  Eye,  and  tliat  a  devil,  under  the 
name  of  Shan-dhinnt'-dhac,  belonged  to  her 
family,  and  put  her  up  to  every  kind  of 
■wickedness.  This,  which  was  only  the  com- 
mon report,  reached  her  ears,  and  the  conse- 
quence was  that  because  we  were  behind  in 
the  rent  only  a  single  g;ile,  she  sent  in  her 
baDififs  without  the  knowledge  of  her  hus- 
band, who  was  from  home  at  the  time,  and 
left  neither  a  bed  under  us  nor  a  roof  over 
us.  At  all  events,  it  is  well  for  her  that  she 
is  a  woman  ;  but  she  has  a  son  born  in  her 
own  image,  so  far,  at  least,  as  a  bad  heart  is 
concerned ;  that  son  is  the  destroyer  of 
Granua  Davoreu  ;  but  not  a  man  of  you 
must  raise  his  hand  to  him  :  he  must  be  left 
to  my  vengeance.  Caterine  Collins  has  told 
me  much  more  about  him,  but  it  is  useless  to  ; 
mention  it.  The  Evil  Spirit  I  spoke  of,  the 
Slian-dhinne-dhuc,  and  he  have  been  often 
seen  together  ;  but  no  matter  for  that ;  he'll 
find  the  same  spirit  badly  able  to  protect 
him  ;  so,  as  I  said  before,  he  must  be  left  to 
my  vengeance." 

"  You  mentioned  Caterine  Collins  ?  "  said 
one  of  them.  "  Caterine  has  friends  here, 
Shawn.     What  is  your  opinion  of  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  obsened  another,  "  she  has  friends 
here  ;  but,  then,  she  has  enemies  too  ;  men 
who  have  a  good  right  to  hate  the  gi-oimd 
she  wallcs  on." 

"  Whatever  my  opinion  of  Caterine  Collins 
may  be,"  said  Shawn,  "I  will  keep  it  to  my- 
self; I  only  sxy,  that  the  man  who  injiu-es 
her  is  no  fiiend  of  mine.  Isn't  she  a 
woman  ?  And,  surely,  we  are  not  to  quar- 
rel with,  or  injure  a  defenceless  woman." 

By  this  piece  of  poUcy  Shawn  gained  con- 
siderable advantage.  His  pui-pose  was  to 
preserve  such  an  ascendency  over  that  cun- 
ning and  treacherous  woman  as  might  ena- 


ble him  to  make  her  useful  in  working  out 
his  own  designs,  his  object  being,  not  only 
on  that  account,  but  for  the  sake  of  his  own 
personal  s^ifety,  to  stand  well  with  both  her 
friends  and  her  enemies. 

Other  matters  were  discussed,  and  plans 
of  vengeance  proposed  and  assented  to,  the 
details  of  which  would  alYord  our  readers 
but  slight  gi-atitication.  iVfter  their  jirojects 
had  been  ai-ranged,  this  wild  and  savage,  but 
melancholy  group,  dispersed,  and  so  inti- 
mately were  they  acquainted  with  the  intri- 
cacies of  cover  and  retreat  which  then  char- 
actei-ized  the  surface  of  the  country,  that  in 
a  few  minutes  they  seemed  rather  to  have 
vanished  hke  spectres  than  to  have  disap- 
peai'ed  like  living  men.  Shawn,  however, 
remained  behind  in  order  to  hold  some  pri- 
vate convei-satiou  \vith  Barney  Casey, 

"Baniey,"  said  he,  "I  wish  to  speak  to 
you  about  that  villain  WoodwcU'd.' 

"I  don't  at  all  doubt,"  replied  this  honest 
and  manly  peasant,  "  that  he  is  a  villain  : 
but  at  the  same  time,  Shawn,  you  must  re- 
member that  I  am  not  a  torj',  and  that  I  will 
neither  aid  nor  assist  you  in  your  designs  of 
murdher  upon  him.  I  received  betther 
principles  from  my  fsither  and  the  mother 
who  bore  me  ;  and  indeed  I  think  the  same 
thing  may  be  said  of  yourself,  Shawm.  Still 
and  all,  there  is  no  doubt  but  that,  unhke  that 
seK-willed  brother  of  mine,  you  had  heavy 
provocation  to  join  the  life  you  did." 

"  Well,  Baniey,"  replied  Shawn,  in  a  mel- 
ancholy tone  of  voice,  "  if  the  same  oppres- 
sions were  to  come  on  us  again,  I  think  I 
would  take  another  course.  My  die,  how- 
ever, is  cast,  and  I  must  abide  by  it.  What 
I  wanted'  to  say  to  you,  however,  is  this  • — 
You  are  livin'  in  the  same  house  with  Wood- 
ward ;  keep  your  eye  on  him — watch  him  well 
and  closely  ;  lie  is  plotting  evil  for  somebody." 

"  "Whv,"  said  Bainev,  "  how  do  you  know 
that?"  " 

"  I  have  it,"  repHed  Shawn,  "  from  good 
authority.  He  has  paid  three  or  four  mid- 
night visits  to  Sol,  the  herb  docthor,  and 
you  know  that  a  gi-eater  old  scoundrel  than 
he  is  doesn't  breathe  the  breath  of  hfe.  It 
has  been  long  suspected  that  he  is  a  poisoner, 
and  they  say  that  in  spite  of  the  j^overty  he 
takes  on  him,  he  is  rich  and  full  of  money. 
It  can  be  for  no  good,  then,  that  Woodward 
consults  him  at  such  unseasonable  hours." 

"  Ay  ;  but  who  the  devil  could  he  tliuik  of 
poisoning ?"  said  Barney.  "I  see  nobody 
he  could  wish  to  poison." 

"Maybe,  for  all  that,  the  deed  is  done," 
replied  Sha^vn.  "  ^Vhere,  for  instance,  is 
unfortunate  Granua?  Wlio  can  tell  that  he 
hasn't  dosed  her  ?  " 

"  I  beheve  him  villain  enough  to  do  it,"  re 


734 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


'umed  the  other  ;  "  but  still  I  don't  think  he 
did.  He  was  at  home  to  my  own  knowledge 
the  night  she  disappeared,  and  could  know 
.-othing  of  what  became  of  her.  I  think 
chat's  a  sm-e  case." 

"Well,"  said  Shawn,  "it  may  be  so;  but 
in  the  manetime  his  stolen  visits  to  the  ould 
herb  docthor  are  not  for  nothing.  I  end, 
then,  as  I  began — keep  your  eye  on  him  ; 
watch  him  closely — and  now,  good  night." 

These  hints  were  not  thrown  away  upon 
Barney,  who  was  naturally  of  an  obsei"V'ant 
turn  ;  and  accordingly  he  kept  a  stricter  eye 
than  ever  ujDon  the  motions  of  Harry  Wood- 
ward. This  accomplished  gentleman,  like 
eveiy  villain  of  his  class,  was  crafty  and  se- 
cret in  everything  he  did  and  said  ;  that  is 
to  say,  his  ol^ject  was  always  to  lead  those 
with  whom  he  held  intercourse,  to  draw  the 
wi'ong  inference  from  his  words  and  actions. 
Even  his  mother,  as  the  reader  will  learn, 
was  not  in  his  full  confidence.  Such  men, 
however,  are  so  completely  absorbed  in  the 
management  of  their  own  plans,  that  the  la- 
tent principle  or  motive  occasionally  becomes 
apparent,  without  any  consciousness  of  its 
exhibition  on  their  part.  Barney  soon  had  an 
opportunity  of  suspecting  this.  His  brother 
Charles,  after  what  appeared  to  be  a  satisfac- 
tory convalescence,  began  to  relapse,  and  a 
fresh  fever  to  set  in.  The  first  person  to  com- 
municate the  melancholy  intelligence  to  Wood- 
ward happened  to  be  Barne}'  himself,  who, 
on  meeting  him  early  in  the  mornmg,  said, — 

"I  am  sorry.  Mr.  Woodward,  to  tell  you 
that  Masther  Charles  is  a  great  deal  worse  ; 
he  spent  a  bad  night,  and  it  seems  has  got 
very  fevei-ish." 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction — short  and  transi- 
ent, but  which,  however,  was  too  significant 
to  be  misunderstood  by  such  a  sagacious 
observer  as  Barney — flashed  across  his  coun- 
tenance— but  only  for  a  moment.  He  re- 
composed  his  features,  and  assuming  a  look 
expressive  of  the  deepest  sorrow,  said, — 

"  Good  heavens,  Casey,  do  you  tell  me  that 
my  poor  brother  is  worse,  and  we  all  in  such 
excellent  spirits  at  what  we  considered  his 
certain  but  gradual  recovery  ?  " 

"He  is  much  worse,  sir  ;  and  the  masther 
this  morning  has  strong  doubts  of  hisrecov- 
er}^  He's  in  gi-eat  afiiiction  about  him,  and 
so  are  they  all.  His  loss  would  be  felt  in 
the  neighborhood,  for,  indeed,  it's  he  that 
was  well  beloved  by  all  who  knew  him." 

"He  certainly  was  a  most  amiable  and  af- 
fectionate young  fellow,"  said  Woodward, 
"  and,  for  my  part,  if  he  goes  from  us 
through  the  means  of  that  murdering  blow,  I 
shall  hunt  Shawn -na-Middocjue  to  the  death." 

"  Will  you  take  a  fi-iend's  advice  ? "  re- 
pUed  Barney  :  ""  we  all  of  us  wish,  of  coorse, 


to  die  a  Christian  death  upon  our  beds,  that 
we  may  think  of  the  sins  we  have  committed, 
and  ask  the  pardon  of  our  Saviour  and  in- 
thersessor  for  them.  I  say,  then,  if  you 
wish  to  die  such  a  death,  and  to  have  time 
to  repent  of  your  sins,  avoid  coming  across 
Shawn-na-Middogue  above  all  men  in  the 
world.  I  tell  you  this  as  a  fi-iend,  and  now 
you're  warned." 

Woodwaixl  paused,  and  his  face  became 
black  with  a  spirit  of  vengeance. 

"  How  does  it  happen,  Casey,"  he  asked, 
"  that  you  are  able  to  give  me  such  a  warn- 
ing ?  You  must  have  some  particular  infor- 
mation on  the  subject." 

"  The  only  information  I  have  on  the  sub- 
ject is  this — that  you  are  set  down  among 
most  peojDle  as  the  man  who  destroyed 
Grace  Davoren,  and  not  your  brother  ;  Shavm 
believes  this,  and  on  that  account,  I  say,  it 
will  be  well  for  you  to  avoid  him.  He  be 
lieves,  too,  that  you  have  her  concealed 
somewhere — although  I  don't  think  so  ;  but 
if  you  have,  Mr.  Woodward,  it  would  be  an 
act  of  gi-eat  kindness— an  act  becomiu'  both 
a  gentleman  and  a  Christian — to  restore  the 
unfortunate  girl  to  her  parents." 

"  I  know  no  more  about  her  than  you  do, 
Casey.  How  could  I?  Perhaps  my  poor 
brother,  when  he  is  capable  of  it,  may  be 
able  to  afibrd  us  some  information  on  the 
subject.  As  it  is  I  know  nothing  of  it,  but 
I  shall  leave  nothing  undone  to  recover  her 
if  she  be  alive,  or  if  the  thing  can  be  accom- 
plished. In  the  meantime  all  I  can  think  of 
is  the  relapse  of  my  poor  brother.  Until  he 
gets  better  I  shall  not  be  able  to  fix  my  mind 
upon  anything  else.  What  is  Grace  Davoren 
or  Shaivn-im-Middogue — the  accursed  scoun- 
drel— to  me,  so  long  as  my  dear  Charles  is 
in  a  state  of  danger?" 

"Now,"  said  he,  when  they  parted  "now 
to  work  earth  and  hell  to  secure  Shaivn-na- 
Middogue.  He  has  got  my  secret  concerning 
the  girl  Davoren,  and  I  feel  that  while  he  is 
at  .large  I  cannot  be  safe.  There  is  a  reward 
for  his  head,  whether  alive  or  dead,  but  that 
I  scorn.  In  the  meantime,  I  shall  not  lose 
an  hour  in  getting  together  a  band  who  Avill 
scour  the  countiy  along  with  myself,  until 
we  secure  him.  After  that  I  shall  be  at  per- 
fect liberty  to  work  out  my  plans  without 
either  fear  of,  or  danger  from,  this  murder- 
ing: ruffian." 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

The  Toir,  or  Tory  Hunt. 

Harry  Woodw-ivrd  now  began  to  apprehend 
that,  as  the  reader  sees,  either  his  star  or  that 
of  Shawn-na-Middogue  must  be  in  the  ascen- 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


735 


dant.  He  accordinj^ly  set  to  work  with  all 
his  skill  and  craft  to  seciu-e  his  person  and 
offer  him  up  as  a  victim  to  the  oiitruj^jed  laws 
of  his  counti-y,  and  to  a  <^oveniment  that  had 
set  a  price  upon  his  head,  as  the  leader  of 
the  outlaws  ;  or,  wluit  came  nearer  to  his 
wish,  either  to  shoot  him  down  with  his  own 
hand,  or  have  him  shot  by  tliose  who  were 
on  tlie  alert  for  such  persons.  The  tirst  in- 
dividual to  whom  he  applied  upon  the  sub- 
ject was  his  benevolent  step-father,  who  he 
knew  was  a  magistrate,  and  whose  duty  was 
to  have  the  wretched  class  of  whom  we 
write  arrested  or  shot  as  best  they  might. 

'"Sir,"  said  he,  "Itliink  after  what  has  be- 
fallen my  dear  brother  Charles  that  this 
mxu'dering  villain,  Shaicn-na-^Iiddofjue,  who 
is  at  the  head  of  the  tories  and  outlaws, 
ought  to  be  shot,  or  taken  up  and  handed 
over  to  government." 

"Why,"  asked  Mr.  Lindsay,  "what  has 
happened  in  connection  with  Shawn-na-Mid- 
dogne  and  your  brother? " 

"  Why,  that  it  was  fi'om  his  hand  he  re- 
ceived the  woimd  that  may  be  his  death. 
That,  I  think,  is  sufficient  to  make  you  exert 
yourself  ;  and  indeed  it  is,  in  my  opinion, 
both  a  shame  and  a  scandal  that  the  subject 
lias  not  been  taken  up  with  more  energy  by 
the  magistracy  of  the  country." 

"But  who  can  tell,"  replied  Lindsay, 
"  whether  it  was  Shawn-na-Middofjue  that 
stabbed  Charles  ?  Charles  himseK  does  not 
know  the  individual  who  stabbed  him." 

"  The  language  of  the  girl,  I  think,"  rephed 
Woodward,  "might  indicate  it.  He  was 
once  her  lover " 

"  But  she  named  nobody,"  repUed  the 
other  ;  "  and  as  for  lovers,  she  had  enough  of 
them.  If  Shawn-na-Middogue  is  an  outlaw 
MOW,  I  know  who  made  him  so.  I  remember 
when  there  wasn't  a  better  conducted  boy  on 
vour  mothers  property.  He  was  a  credit  to 
uis  family  and  the  neighborhood  ;  but  they 
Vere  turned  out  in  my  absence  by  your  un- 
feehng  motlier  there,  Harry ;  and  the  fine 
^'oung  fellow  had  nothing  else  for  it  but  the 
life  of  an  outlaw.  Confound  me  if  I  can 
much  blame  him." 

"  Thank  you,  Lindsay,"  rephed  his  \6ie  ; 
*  as  kind  as  ever  to  the  woman  who  brought 
fou  that  property.  But  you  forget  what 
the  young  scoundrel's  mother  said  of  me — 
do  you  ?  that  I  had  the  Evil  Eye,  and  that 
there  was  a  familiar  or  devil  connected  with 
me  and  my  family  ?  " 

"  Egad  !  and  I'm  much  of  her  opinion," 
replied  her  husband  ;  "  and  if  she  said  it,  I 
give  you  my  honor  it  is  only  what  every  one 
who  knows  you  says,  and  what  I,  who  know 
vQu  best,  say  as  well  as  they.  Begone, 
madam — leave  ihe  room  ;  it  was  3'our  damn- 


ed oppression  made  the  boy  a  tory.  Begone, 
I  say — I  will  bear  with  yoirr  insolence  no 
longer." 

He  stood  up  as  he  spoke — his  eye  flashed, 
and  the  stamp  of  his  foot  made  the  floor 
shake.  jMi-s.  Lindsay  knew  her  husband 
well,  and  without  a  single  syllable  in  reply 
she  arose  and  left  the  room. 

"  Harry,"  proceeded  his  stepfather,  "  I 
shall  take  no  jiroceedings  against  that  un- 
fortunate young  man — tory  though  he  be  ;  I 
would  resign  my  magistracy  sooner.  Do  not, 
therefore,  count  on  me. " 

"  Well,   sir,"   said  he,   with   a  calm   but 
black  expression  of  countenance,  "I  will  not 
enter  into  domestic  quarrels  ;  but  I  am  my 
;  mother's  son." 

(  "  You  are,"  replied  Lindsay,  looking  close- 
j  ly  at  him — "  and  I  regi'et  it.  I  do  not  hke 
I  the  expression  of  your  face — it  is  bad  ;  worse 
'  I  have  seldom  seen." 

"Be  that  exjjression  what  it  may,  sir,"  re- 
j  plied  Woodwai'd,  "  by  the  heavens  above  me 
I  I  shall  rest  neither  night  nor  day  until  I  jjut 
an  end  to  Shaion-na-Middogue." 

"  In  the  meantime  you  shall  have  no  as- 
sistance from  me,  Harzy  ;  and  it  iU  becomes 
youi'  mother's  son — the  woman  whose  crueU 
ty  to  the  family  made  him  what  he  is — to 
attempt  to  hunt  him  down.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  tell  you  as  a  fiiend  to  let  him  pass ; 
the  young  man  is  despei'ate,  and  his  venge- 
ance, or  that  of  his  followers,  may  come  on 
you  when  you  least  expect  it.  It  is  not  liis 
death  that  will  secure  you.  If  he  dies 
through  your  means,  he  will  leave  those  be- 
hind him  who  will  afford  you  but  short  space 
to  settle  your  last  account." 

"Be  the  consequences  what  they  may," 
replied  Woodwai-d,  "  either  he  or  I  shall 
faU." 

He  left  the  room  after  expi*essing  this  de- 
termination, and  his  step-father  said, — 

"  I'm  afraid,  jNIaria,  we  don't  projDerly 
understand  jMaster  Harry.  I  am  much  trou- 
bled by  what  has  occiu'red  just  now.  I  ff^r 
he  is  a  hyjDOcrite  in  morals,  and  mthou  r,  a 
single  atom  of  honorable  principle.  L'id 
you  obsei've  the  expression  of  his  fa^.e? 
Curse  me  if  I  think  the  devil  himself  hai*  so 
bad  a  one.  Besides,  I  have  heai-d  something 
about  him  that  I  don't  hke — sometljjng 
which  I  am  not  going  to  mention  to  you  ; 
but  I  say  that  in  future  we  must  bewart;  of 
him." 

"  I  was  sorry,  papa,  to  see  the  expression 
of  his  face,"  replied  Maria  ;  "it  was  f'iarful ; 
and  above  all  things  the  expression  ot  his 
eye.  It  made  me  feel  weak  wheuefer  he 
turned  it  on  me." 

"  Egad,  and  it  had  something  of  tbe  aame 
effect  on  myself,"  replied  her  fattier-     *  There 


730 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


is  some  damned  expression  in  it  that  takes 
away  one's  strenj^tli.  Well,  as  I  said,  we 
must  beware  of  him." 

Woodward's  next  step  was  to  pay  a  visit 
to  Lord  Cockletown,  who,  as  he  had  gained 
his  Title  in  consequence  of  his  success  in 
tory-hunting,  and  capturing  the  most  trouble- 
some and  distinguished  outlaws  of  that  day, 
Was,  he  thought,  the  best  and  most  experi- 
enced person  to  whom  he  could  apply  for 
infcu-mation  as  to  the  most  successful  means 
of  accomplishing  his  object.  He  accordingly 
waited  on  his  lordship,  to  whom  he  thought, 
very  naturalh',  that  this  exploit  would  recom- 
mend him.  His  lordship  was  in  the  garden, 
where  Woodward  found  him  in  hobnailed 
shoes,  digging  himself  into  what  he  called 
his  daily  perspirations. 

"  Don't  be  surprised,  Mr.  Woodward," 
said  he,  "  at  my  emplojinent ;  I  am  taking 
my  every-day  sweat,  because  I  feel  that  I 
could  not  drink  as  I  do  and  get  on  without 
it.  WeU,  what  do  you  want  with  me  ?  Is  it 
anything  about  Tom  ?  Egad,  Tom  says  she 
rather  likes  you  than  otherwise  ;  and  if  you 
can  satisf}'^  me  as  to  property  settlements, 
and  all  that,  I  won't  stand  in  j^our  way  ;  but, 
in  the  meantime,  what  do  you  want  with  me 
now  ?  If  it's  Tom's  affair,  the  state  of  your 
property  comes  first." 

"  No,  my  lord,  I  shall  leave  all  dealings 
of  business  between  you  and  my  mother. 
This  is  a  different  affair,  and  one  on  which  I 
wish  to  have  your  lordship's  advice  and 
dii'ection." 

"  Ay,  but  what  is  it  ?  Confound  it,  come 
to  the  point." 

"  It  is  a  tory-hunt,  my  lord." 

"Who  is  the  tory,  or  who  are  the 
tories?  Come,  I'm  at  home  here.  What's 
your  plan  ?  " 

"Why,  simple  pui'suit.  We  have  the  posse 
comitatua." 

"  The  2)osse  comitat  us  ! — the  posse  devil; 
what  do  the  tories  care  about  the  posse  comi- 
tatus  ?     Have  j'ou  bloodhounds  ?  " 

"No,  my  lord,  but  I  think  we  can  procure 
them." 

"Because,"  proceeded  his  lordship,  "to 
go  hunt  a  tory  without  bloodhounds  is  like 
looking  for  your  grandmother's  needle  in  a 
bottle  of  straw." 

"  I  am  thankful  to  your  lordship  for  that 
hint,"  replied  Harry  Woodward  ;  "  but  the 
truth  is,  I  have  been  almost  since  my  infancy 
out  of  the  country,  and  am,  consequently, 
verj'  ignorant  of  its  usages." 

"  What  particular  tory  are  you  going  to 
himt  ?  " 

"  A  fellow  named  Shawn-na-Middogue." 

"Ah!  Shawn-na-Middogue,  youv  mother's 
victim  ?    Don't  hunt  him.     If  you're  wise 


you'U  keep  your  distance  fi'om  that  young 
fellow.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Woodward,  there 
will  be  more  danger  to  yourself  in  the  hunt 
than  there  will  be  to  liim.  It's  a  well-known 
fact  that  it  was  your  mother's  severity  to  his 
family  that  made  a  tory  of  him  ;  and,  as  I 
said  before,  I  would  strongly  recommend 
5'ou  to  avoid  him.  How  many  bloodhounds 
have  you  got  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  think  we  can  muster  haK  a 
dozen." 

"Av,  but  do  you  know  how  to  hunt 
them  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  I  suppose  we  may  de- 
pend upon  the  instinct  of  the  dogs." 

"  No,  sir,  you  may  not,  lanless  to  a  very- 
limited  extent.  Those  tories  alwaj's,  ^hen 
pursued  by  bloodhounds,  go  down  the  wind 
whenever  it  is  possible,  and,  consequently, 
leave  very  little  trail  behind  them.  Your 
object  will  be,  of  course,  to  hunt  them  against 
the  wind  ;  they  will  consequently  have  little 
chance  of  escajDe,  unless,  as  they  are  often  in 
the  habit  of  doing,  they  administer  a,  sop." 

"  Wliat  is  a  sop,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  A  piece  of  raw  beef  or  mutton,  kept  for 
twenty -four  hours  under  the  armpit  until  it 
becomes  saturated  with  the  moisture  of  the 
body  ;  after  this,  administer  it  to  the  dog, 
and  instead  of  attacking  he  will  follow  j'ou 
over  the  world.  The  other  sop  resorted  to 
by  these  fellows  is  the  middogue,  or  skean, 
and,  as  they  contrive  to  manage  its  applica- 
tion, it  is  the  surer  of  the  two.  Should  you 
like  to  see  Tom  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably,  my  lord.  I  intended 
before  going  to  have  requested  the  honor  oi 
a  short  interview." 

"  Ay,  of  course,  to  make  love.  Well,  J 
teU  you  that  Tom,  hke  her  uncle,  has  her 
wits  about  her.  Go  up,  then,  you  will  find 
her  in  the  withdrawing-room  ;  and  listen — I 
desire  that  you  wiU  tell  her  of  your  tory- 
hunting  project,  and  ask  her  opinion  upon 
it.  Now,  don't  forget  that,  because  I  will 
make  inquiries  about  it." 

Woodward  certainty  found  her  in  what 
was  then  termed  the  withdrawing-room. 
She  was  in  the  act  of  embroideiing,  and  re- 
ceived him  with  much  courtesy  and  kindness. 

"I  hope  your  mother  and  family  are  all 
well,  Mr.  Woodward,"  she  said  ;  "  as  for  your 
sister  Maria  she  is  quite  a  stay-at-home. 
Does  she  ever  visit  any  one  at  all  ?  " 

"Very  rarely,  indeed,  Miss  Riddle  ;  but  I 
think  she  will  soon  do  herself  the  pleasure 
of  calling  upon  you." 

"  I  shall  feel  much  obliged,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward. From  what  I  have  heard,  and  the 
little  I  have  seen  of  her,  a  most  amiable  girL 
You  have  had  a  chat  ^vith  my  kind-hearted, 
but  eccentric  uncle  ?  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OB,    THE  BLACK  SPECTBjl. 


7Z1 


"  I  have  ;  and  lie  imposed  it  on  me  as  a 
condition  that  I  should  mention  to  you  an 
entei^prise  on  which  I  am  bent." 

"  Aji  enterprise  !     Pray,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  a  tory-hunt ;  I  am  going  to  hunt 
down  Shawn-na-Middofjuc,  as  he  is  called, 
and  I  think  it  will  be  rendeiing  the  country 
a  service  to  get  rid  of  him." 

Miss  Riddle's  face  got  pale  as  ashes  ;  and 
she  looked  earnestly  and  solemnly  into 
Woodward's  /face. 

"]VIr.  Woodward,"  said  she,  "would  you 
oblige  me  with  one  simple  request  ?  Do  not 
hunt  down  Shawn-na-Middogue :  my  tmcle 
and  I  owe  him  our  lives." 

"  How  is  that.  Miss  Eiddle  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  know  that  my  uncle  was  a 
tory  hiuiter  ?  " 

"  I  have  certainly  heard  so,"  replied 
Woodward  ;  "  and  I  am,  besides,  aware  of 
it  from  the  admirable  instructions  which  he 
gave  me  concerning  the  best  method  of  hunt- 
ing them  down." 

"  Yes,  but  did  he  encoiu'age  you  in  your 
determination  of  hvinting  down  Shawn-na- 
Middogue  1 " 

"  No,  certainly  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  ad- 
vised me  to  pass  him  by — to  have  nothing  to 
do  with  him." 

"  Did  he  state  his  reasons  for  giving  you 
such  advice  ?  " 

"  He  mentioned  something  with  reference 
to  certain  legal  proceedings  taken  by  my 
mother  against  the  family  of  Shawn-na-Mid- 
dogue. But  I  presume  my  mother  had  her 
own  rights  to  vindicate,  and  beyond  tliat  I 
know  nothing  of  it.  He  nearly  stabbed  my 
brother  to  death,  and  I  will  leave  no  earthly 
means  unattempted  to  shoot  the  villain  down, 
or  other\vise  secvu'c  him." 

"  Well,  you  are  aware  tliat  my  uncle  was 
the  most  successful  and  celebrated  tory-hunt- 
er  of  his  day,  and  rendered  important  ser- 
vices to  the  government  in  that  capacity 
—  services  which  have  been  liberally  re- 
warded." 

"I  am  aware  of  it.  Miss  Riddle." 

"  But  you  are  not  aware,  as  I  am,  that  this 
same  Shawn-na-Middogue  saved  my  uncle's 
life  and  mine  on  the  night  before  last  ?  " 

"How  could  I,  Miss  Riddle  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  fact,  though,  and  I  beg  you  to 
mark  it ;  and  I  trust  that  if  you  respect 
my  uncle  and  myself,  you  will  not  engage 
in  this  ci-uel  and  inhuman  expedition." 

"But  3'our  uncle  mentioned  nothing  of 
this  to  me.  Miss  Riddle." 

"  He  does  not  know  it  yet.  I  have  been 
all  yesterday  thinking  over  the  circumstance, 
with  a  view  of  getting  his  lordship  to  inter- 
fere with  the  government  for  this  unfor- 
tunate youth  ;  but  I  felt  myself  placed  in 
24 


circumstances  of  great  difficulty  and  deli- 
cacy with  respect  to  your  family  and  oura 
I  hope  you  understand  me.  Mi'.  Woodward. 
I  allude  to  the  circumstances  which  forced 
him  to  become  an  outlaw  and  a  toiy,  and  ib 
struck  me  that  my  uncle  could  not  urge  any 
application  in  his  favor  without  adverting  to 
them." 

"  O,  Miss  Riddle,  if  you  feel  an  interest 
in  his  favor,  he  shall  experience  no  molesta- 
tion from  me." 

"  The  only  interest  which  I  feel  in  him  ia 
that  of  humanity,  and  gi-atitude,  Mr.  Wood- 
ward ;  but,  indeed,  I  should  rather  say 
that  the  gratitude  should  not  be  common 
to  a  man  who  saved  my  uncle's  life  and 
mine." 

"  And  i^ray  may  I  ask  how  that  came 
about?  At  aU  events  he  has  made  me  his 
fiiend  forever." 

"  My  uncle  and  I  were  returning  home 
from  dinner, — we  had  dined  at  Squire 
Da\vson's, — and  on  coming  to  a  lonely  jjart 
of  the  road  we  found  oiu'  carriage  surround- 
ed by  a  party  of  the  outlaws,  who  shout- 
ed out,  '  This  is  the  old  tory-hunter,  who 
got  his  wealth  and  title  by  persecuting  us. 
and  now  we  will  pa}' him  home  for  all,'  'Ay. 
observed  another,  '  and  his  niece  is  \Wth  him, 
and  we  will  have  her  off  to  the  mountains.' 
The  carriage-  was  immediately  surrounded, 
and  I  know  not  to  what  an  extent  their  vio- 
lence and  revenge  might  have  proceeded, 
when  Shawn  same  bounding  among  them 
with  the  air  of  a  man  who  possessed  authority 
over  them. 

"  *  Stop,'  said  he  ;  'on  this  occasion  they 
must  go  free,  and  on  every  occasion.  Lord 
Cockletowni,  let  him  be  what  he  may  before, 
is  of  late  a  good  landlord,  and  a  friend  to 

the  people.     His  niece,  too,  is '  He  then 

compHmented  me  upon  some  trifling  acts  oi 
kindness  I  had  paid  to  his  family  when — 
hem — ahem — in  fact,  when  they  stood  much 
in  need  of  it." 

This  was  a  delicate  evasion  of  any  allusion 
to  the  cruel  conduct  of  his  mother  towards 
the  outlaw's  f  imily. 

"  When,"  she  went  on,  "  he  had  succeeded 
in  restraining  the  meditated  violence  of  the 
tories,  he  approached  me — for  they  had  al- 
ready dragged  me  out,  and  indeed  it  was  my 
screaming  that  brought  him  with  such  haste 
to  the  spot.  'Now,  Miss  Riddle,'  said  he, 
in  a  low  whisper  which  my  uncle  covdd  not 
hear,  '  one  good  act  deserves  another ;  you 
were  kind  to  my  family  when  they  stood 
sorely  in  need  of  it.  You  and  your  uncle 
are  safe,  and,  what  is  more,  will  be  safe  :  I 
will  take  care  of  that ;  but  forget  Shaum-na 
Middogu(\  the  outlaw  and  tory,  or  if  ever  you 
mention  his  name,  let   it   be  in  a  spirit  oi 


73S 


yiLLTAM   CARLETON'8  WORKS. 


mere}'  and  forgiveness.'  jVIt.  Woodward,  you 
will  not  hunt  down  this  generous  young 
man  ?" 

"  I  would  as  soon  hunt  down  my  father, 
Miss  Riddle,  if  he  were  aUve.  I  tinist  you 
ion't  imagine  that  I  can  be  insensible  to 
3uch  noble  conduct." 

"I  do  not  think  you  are,  Mr.  "Woodward  ; 
and  I  hope  you  will  allow  the  unfortunate 
jouth  to  remain  unmolested  until  my  uncle, 
to  whom  I  shall  mention  this  circumstance 
this  day,  may  strive  to  have  him  restored  to 
society." 

We  need  scarcely  assure  our  readers  that 
Woodward  pledged  himseK  in  accordance 
with  her  wishes,  after  which  he  went  home 
and  prepared  such  a  mask  for  his  face,  and 
such  a  disguise  of  di-ess  for  his  person,  as, 
when  assumed,  rendered  it  impossible  for 
any  one  to  recognize  him.  Such  was  the 
spirit  in  which  he  kept  his  promise  to  Miss 
Riddle,  and  such  the  honor  of  every  word 
that  proceeded  from  his  hypocritical  lips. 

In  the  meantime  the  preparations  for  the 
chase  were  made  with  the  most  extraordinary 
energy  and  caution.  Woodward  had  other 
persons  engaged  in  it,  on  whom  he  had  now 
made  up  his  mind  to  devolve  the  conse- 
quences of  the  whole  proceedings.  The  sher- 
iff and  thepo.ss'e  comitatus,  together  with  as- 
sistance from  other  quarters,  had  all  been 
engaged  ;  and  as  some  vague  intelligence  of 
Shawn-) la-Middog lies  retreat  had  been  ob- 
tained. Woodward  proceeded  in  comiDlete 
disguise  before  daybreak  with  a  party,  not 
one  of  whom  was  able  to  recognize  him, 
well  armed,  to  have  what  was,  in  those  days, 
called  a  toiy-hunt. 

The  next  morning  was  dark  and  gloomy. 
Gray,  hea\'y  mists  lay  upon  the  mountain- 
tops,  from  which,  as  the  light  of  the  rising 
sun  fell  upon  them,  they  retreated  in  broken 
masses  to  the  valleys  and  lower  grounds  be- 
neath them.  A  cold,  chilly  aspect  lay  upon 
the  surface  of  the  earlh,  and  the  white  mists 
that  had  descended  from  the  mountain-tops, 
or  were  dra^\^l  up  from  the  gi'ound  by  the 
influence  of  the  sun,  were,  although  more 
condensed,  beginning  to  get  a  warmer  look. 

Notwithstanding  the  secrecy  with  which 
this  eutei*prise  was  projected  it  had  taken 
wind,  and  many  of  those  who  had  suffered 
by  the  depredations  of  the  tories  were  found 
joining  the  band  of  ^Dui'suers,  and  many 
others  who  were  friendly  to  them,  or  who 
had  relations  among  them,  also  made  their 
appearance,  but  contrived  to  keep  somewhat 
aloof  from  the  main  body,  though  not  at 
such  a  distance  as  might  seem  to  render 
them  suspected  ;  their  object  being  to  afford 
whatever  assistance  they  could,  with  safety 
to   themselves   and   without  incurring   any 


suspicion  of  affinity  to  the  anfortunate 
toi-ies. 

The  country  was  of  intricate  passage  and 
full  of  thick  woods.  At  this  distance  of 
time,  now  that  it  is  cleai-ed  and  cultivated, 
our  readers  could  form  no  conception  of  its 
appearance  then.  In  the  fastnesses  and  close 
brakes  of  those  woods  lay  the  liiding-places 
and  retreats  of  the  tories  —  "  the  wood 
kernes  "  of  Spenser's  day.  A  torj'-hunt  at 
that  time,  or  at  any  time,  was  a  pastime  of 
no  common  danger.  Those  ferocious  and 
determined  banditti  had  little  to  render  life 
desirable.  They  consequently  set  but  a  slight 
value  upon  it.  The  result  was  that  the  j)ur- 
suits  after  them  by  foreign  soldiers,  and 
other  persons  but  slightly  acquainted  with 
the  country,  generally  ended  in  disaster  and 
death  to  several  of  the  pursuers. 

On  the  morning  in  question  the  tory- 
hunters  literally  beat  the  woods  as  if  they 
had  been  in  the  pui'suit  of  game,  but  for  a 
considerable  time  ■\\ith  little  effect.  Not  the 
appearance  of  a  single  tory  was  anywhere 
visible ;  but,  notwithstanding  this,  it  so 
hajDjDened  that  some  one  of  their  enemies 
occasionally  dropped,  either  dead  or  wound- 
ed, by  a  shot  from  the  intricacies  and  covers 
of  the  woods,  which,  ujion  being  searched 
and  examined,  afforded  no  trace  whatsoever 
of  those  who  'did  the  mischief.  This  was 
harassing  and  provocative  of  vengeance  to 
the  m.ilitary  and  such  wretched  police  as 
existed  in  that  day.  No  search  could  dis- 
cover a  single  trace  of  a  tory,  and  many  of 
those  in  the  piu'suit  were  obhged  to  with- 
draw from  it — not  unreluctantly,  indeed — 
in  order  to  bear  back  the  dead  and  wounded 
to  the  town  of  Rathlillan. 

As  they  were  entering  an  open  space  that 
lay  between  two  wooded  enclosures,  a  white 
hax-e  started  across  their  path,  to  the  iitter 
consternation  of  those  who  were  in  pursuit. 
Woodward,  now  disguised  and  in  his  mask, 
had  been  for  a  considerable  time  looking  be- 
hind him,  but  this  circumstance  did  not 
escape  his  notice,  and  he  felt,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  startled  at  her  second  apj^earance.  It 
reminded  him,  however,  of  the  precautions 
which  he  had  taken  ;  and  he  looked  back 
fi'om  time  to  time,  as  we  have  said,  in  expec- 
tation of  something  appertaining  to  the  pur- 
suit.    At  length  he  exclaimed, — 

"  Wliere  are  the  pai-ty  with  the  blood- 
hounds ?  Wliy  have  they  not  joined  us  and 
come  up  with  us  ?  " 

"  They  have  started  a  wolf,"  reiDlied  one  of 
them,  "and  the  dogs  are  after  him;  and 
some  of  them  have  gone  back  upon  the  trail 
of  the  wounded  men." 

"  Return  for  them,"  said  he  ;  "  without 
theii'  assistance  we  can  never  find  the  trail 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


739 


of  these  accursed  tories ;  but,  above  all,  of 
67w  ?  on  -na-Middufj  ue." 

In  due  time  the  dogs  were  brought  up, 
but  the  trails  were  so  various  that  they  sep- 
arated mostly  into  single  hunts,  and  went  at 
such  a  rapid  speed  that  they  were  lost  in 
the  woods. 

At  length  two  of  tliem  who  came  up 
first,  gave  tongue,  and  the  body  of  pursuers 
concentrated  themselves  on  the  newly-dis- 
covered trail,  keeping  as  close  to  the  dogs  as 
they  could.  Those  two  had  quartered  the 
woods  and  returned  to  the  party  again  when 
thej'  fell  upon  the  slot  of  some  unfortunate 
victim  who  had  recently  escaped  fi'om  the 
place.  The  pursuit  now  became  energetic 
and  full  of  interest,  if  we  could  forget  the 
melancholy  and  murderous  fact  that  the 
game  pursued  were  human  victims,  who  had 
nothing  more  nor  less  to  expect  from  their 
pursuers  than  the  savage  wolves  which  then 
infested  the  forests — a  price  having  been 
laid  upon  the  heads  of  each. 

After  some  time  the  p;u*ty  arrived  at  the 
outskirts  of  the  wood,  and  an  individual  was 
seen  bounding  along  in  the  direction  of  the 
mountains — the  two  dogs  in  full  pursuit  of 
him.  The  noise,  the  animation,  and  the  tu- 
mult of  the  pursuit  were  now  astounding, 
and  rang  long  and  loud  over  the  surface  of 
the  excited  and  awakened  neighborhood, 
whilst  the  ■v\T.ld  echoes  of  their  inhuman  en- 
joyment were  giving  back  their  tenible  re- 
sponses fi'om  the  hills  and  valleys  ai'ound 
them.  The  shouting,  the  lU'ging  on  of  the 
dogs  by  ferocious  cries  of  encouragement, 
were  loud,  incessant,  and  full  of  a  spirit 
wiiich,  at  this  day,  it  is  terrible  to  reliect 
ui:)on.  The  whole  countiy  was  alive  ;  and 
the  loud,  vociferous  agitation  which  disturbed 
•it,  resembled  the  influence  of  one  of  those 
storms  which  lash  the  quiet  sea  into  mad- 
ness. Fresh  crowds  joined  them,  as  we 
have  said,  and  the  tumult  still  became  louder 
and  stronger.  In  the  meantime,  Shawn-iia- 
Middogue's  case- — it  was  he — became  hope- 
less— for  it  was  the  speed  of  the  fleetest 
runner  that  ever  hved  to  that  of  two  power- 
ful bloodhounds,  animated,  as  they  were,  by 
thou*  ferocious  instincts.  Indeed,  the  inter- 
est of  the  chase  was  heightened  by  the  man- 
ner and  conduct  of  the  dogs,  which,  when 
they  came  upon  the  trail  of  the  indiridual, 
in  question,  yelped  aloud  with  an  ecstatic 
dehght  that  gave  fi'esh  courage  to  the  vocif- 
erous band  of  pvu'suers. 

"^\Tio  can  that  man  be?"  asked  one  of 
them;  "he  seems  to  have  wings  to  his 
feet." 

"By  the  sacred  Hght  of  day,"  exclaimed 
another,  "it  is  no  other  than  the  famous 
Shaum-na-Middogue    himseli     I  know  him 


well  ;  and  even  if  I  did  not,  who  could  mis- 
take him  by  his  speed  of  foot  ?  " 

"  Is  that  he  ?  "  said  the  mask  ;  "  then  fifty 
pounds  in  addition  to  the  government  re- 
ward to  the  man  who  will  shoot  him  down, 
or  secure  him,  hving  or  dead  :  ouh"  let  him 
be  taken." 

Just  then  four  or  five  persons,  friends  of 
course  to  the  unfortunate  outlaw,  came  in 
before  the  dogs  across  the  trail,  in  conse- 
quence of  which  the' animals  became  puzzled, 
and  lost  considerable  time  in  regaining  it, 
whilst  Shawn,  in  the  meantime,  was  fast 
making  his  way  to  the  mountains. 

The  rewiU'd,  however,  oliered  by  the  man 
in  the  black  mask — for  it  was  a  black  one — 
accelerated  the  speed  of  the  pursuers,  be- 
tween whom  a  competition  of  tenible  energy 
and  action  arose  as  to  which  of  them  should 
seciu'e  the  pubhc  rewai'd  and  the  premium 
that  were  oflered  for  his  blood.  Shawn, 
however,  had  been  evidently  exhausted,  and 
sat  down  considerably  in  advance  of  them, 
on  the  mountain  side,  to  take  breath,  in  or- 
der to  better  the  chance  of  effecting  his  es- 
cape ;  but  whilst  seated,  panting  after  his 
race,  the  dogs  gained  rapidly  upon  him. 
Having  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and 
looked  keenly  down — for  he  had  the  sight 
of  an  eagle — the  approach  of  the  dogs  did 
not  seem  at  all  .to  alarm  him. 

"  Ah,  thank  God,  they  will  have  him 
soon,"  said  the  mask,  "  and  it  is  a  pity  that 
we  cannot  give  them  the  reward.  Who  owns 
those  noble  dogs  ?  " 

"  You  wiU  see  that  verv'  soon,  sir,"  replied 
a  man  beside  him  ;  "  3'ou  will  see  it  very 
soon — you  may  see  it  now." 

As  he  uttered  the  words  the  dogs  sprang 
upon  Shawn,  wagged  their  tails  as  if  in  a 
state  of  most  ecstatic  dehght,  and  began  to 
caress  him  and  lick  his  face. 

"  Finn,  my  brave  Finn !  "  he  exclaimed, 
patting  him  affectionately,  "  and  is  this  you  ? 
and  Oonah,  my  dai-ling  Oouah,  did  the  vil- 
lains think  that  my  best  fi-iends  would  pur- 
sue vie  for  my  blood?  Come  now,"  said  he, 
"follow  me,  and  we  will  lead  them  a  chase." 

During  this  brief  rest,  however,  four  of  the 
most  active  of  his  pursuers,  who  knew  what 
is  called  the  lie  of  the  country-,  succeeded,  by 
passing  thi'ough  the  skirt  of  the  wood  in  a 
direction  where  it  was  impossible  to  observe 
them,  in  coming  up  behind  the  spot  where 
he  had  sat,  and  consequently,  when  he  and 
his  dogs,  or  tliose  which  had  been  once  his, 
ascended  its  flat  summit,  the  four  men 
pounced  upon  him.  Four  against  one 
would,  in  ordinary  cases,  be  fearful  odua ; 
but  Sba%\-n  knew  that  he  had  two  stan'^h 
and  faithful  fi-icnds  to  support  him.  Quick 
as  hghtning  his  middogue  was  into  one  ot 


740 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


their  hearts,  and  ahnost  as  quickly  were  two 
more  of  them  seized  by  the  throats  and 
dragged  down  by  the  jDowerful  animals  that 
defended  him.  The  fourth  man  was  as 
rapidly  despatched  by  a  single  blow,  whilst 
the  dogs  were  HteraUy  teai'ing  out  the 
throats  of  their  victims.  In  the  course  of 
about  ten  minutes,  what  between  Shawn's 
middogue  and  the  terrible  fangs  and 
strength  of  those  dreadful  animals,  the  four 
men  lay  there  four  corpses.  Shawn's  danger, 
however,  notwithstanding  his  success,  was 
only  increasing.  His  pursuers  had  now 
gained  upon  him,  and  when  he  looked 
ai'ound  he  found  himself  hemmed  in,  or 
neai'ly  so.  Speed  of  foot  was  everything  ; 
but,  what  was  worst  of  all,  with  reference  to 
his  ultimate  esca^je,  foui*  other  dogs  were 
making  theii-  way  up  the  mountains — dogs 
to  which  he  was  a  stranger,  and  he  knew 
right  well  that  they  would  hunt  him  with 
all  the  deadly  instincts  of  blood.  They  were, 
however,  far  in  the  distance,  and  he  felt 
httle  apprehension  fi'om  ihem.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  he  bounded  off  accomjDanied  by  his 
faithful  fi'iends,  and  not  less  than  twenty 
shots  were  fired  after  him,  none  of  which 
touched  him.  The  number  of  his  pursuers, 
dogs  included,  almost  made  his  heart  sink  ; 
and  would  have  done  so,  but  that  he  was 
probably  desperate  and  reckless  of  Hfe.  He 
saw  himself  elmost  encompassed  ;  he  heard 
the  bullets  whistHng  about  him,  and  per- 
ceived at  a  glance  that  the  chances  of  his 
escape  were  a  thousand  to  one  against  him. 
"With  a  rapid  sweep  of  his  eye  he  marked 
the  locality.  It  also  was  all  against  him. 
There  was  a  shoreless  lake,  abrupt  and  deep 
to  the  very  edge,  except  a  shp  at  the  oppo- 
site side,  lying  at  his  feet.  It  was  oblong, 
but  at  each  end  of  it  there  was  nothing  hke  a 
pass  for  at  least  two  or  three  miles.  If  he 
could  swdm  across  this  he  knew  that  he  was 
safe,  and  that  he  could  do  so  he  felt  certain, 
provided  he  escaped  the  bullets  and  the  dogs 
of  the  pursuers.  At  all  events  he  dashed 
down  and  plunged  in,  accompanied  by  his 
faithful  attendants.  Shot  after  shot  was 
sent  after  him  ;  and  so  closely  did  some  of 
them  reach  him,  that  he  was  obhged  to  dive 
and  swim  under  water  from  time  to  time,  in 
order  to  save  himself  from  their  aim.  The 
stx'ange  bloodhounds,  however,  which  had 
entered  the  lake,  were  gaining  rapidly  on 
him,  and  on  looking  back  he  saw  them  with- 
in a  dozen  yards  of  him.  He  was  now,  how- 
ever, beyond  the  reach  of  their  bullets,  un- 
less it  might  be  a  longer  shot  than  ordinary, 
but  the  four  dogs  were  upon  him,  and  in 
the  extremity  of  despair  he  shouted  out, — 
"  Finn  and  Oonah,  won't  you  .save  me i  " 
Shame  upon  the  friendship  and   attach- 


ment of  man  !  In  a  moment  two  of  the  most 
powerful  of  the  strange  dogs  were  in  some- 
thing that  resembled  a  death  struggle  with 
his  brave  and  gallant  defenders.  The  other 
two,  however,  were  upon  himself ;  but  by  a 
stab  of  his  middogxie  he  despatched  one  oi 
them,  and  the  other  he  pressed  under  water 
until  he  was  di'owned. 

In  the  meantime,  whilst  the  four  other 
dogs  were  fighting  fm-iously  in  the  water, 
Shawn,  having  felt  exhausted,  was  ob- 
hged to  lie  on  his  back  and  float,  in  order 
to  regain  his  strength. 

A  little  before  this  contest  commenced, 
the  black  mask  and  a  number  of  the  pur- 
suing party  were  standing  on  the  edge  of 
the  lake  looking  on,  conscious  of  the  impos- 
sibility of  theii"  interference. 

"  Is  there  no  stout  man  and  good  S"\vim- 
mer  present,"  exclaimed  the  mask,  "who 
wiU  earn  the  fifty  poimds  I  have  offered  for 
the  capture  of  that  man  ?  " 

"Here  am  I,"  said  a  powerful  young  fel- 
low, the  best  swimmer,  mth  the  exception 
of  Shaivn-na-Middogue,  in  the  i^rovince.  "  I 
am  like  a  duck  in  the  water  ;  but  upon  my 
sowl,  so  is  he.  If  I  take  him,  you  will  give 
me  the  fifty  pounds  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably  ;  but  you  know  you  will 
have  the  government  reward  besides." 

"  WeU,  then,  here  goes.  I  cannot  bring 
my  carbine  with  me  ;  but  even  so — we  will 
have  a  tug  for  it  "uith  my  skean." 

He  thi-ew  off  his  coat  and  barrad,  and 
immediately  plunged  in  and  swam  \nth  as- 
tonishing raj^idity  towards  the  spot  where 
Shawn  and  the  dogs— the  latter  still  engag- 
ed in  their  ferocious  contest — were  in  the 
lake.  Shawn  now  had  regained  considerable 
strength,  and  was  about  to  despatch  the 
enemies  of  his  brave  defenders,  when,  on 
looking  back  to  the  spot  on  the  margin  of 
the  lake  where  his  pursuers  stood,  he  saw 
the  powerful  young  swimmer  within  a  few 
yards  of  him.  It  was  well  for  him  that  he 
had  regained  his  strength,  and  such  was  his 
natural  courage  that  he  felt  rather  gratified 
at  the  appearance  of  only  a  single  individual. 

''  Shaion-na-Middogue,"  said  the  young  fel- 
low, "  I  come  to  make  you  a  prisoner.  WiU 
you  fight  me  fairly  in  the  water  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  hunted  outlaw — a  tory,"  replied 
Shawn,  "  and  will  fight  you  the  best  way  I 
can.  If  we  were  on  firm  earth  I  would  fight 
you  on  your  owti  tei'ms.  If  there  is  to  be  a 
fight  between  us,  remember  that  you  are 
fighting  for  the  government  reward,  and  I 
for  my  life." 

"  WiU  you  fight  me,"  said  the  man,  "  with- 
out using  your  middogue  ?  " 

"  I  saw  you  take  a  skean  from  between 
yoiir    teeth    as  I    turned    round,"  repHed 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


741 


vSLawn,  "  and  I  know  now  that  you  are  a 
villain  and  a  treacherous  ruffian,  who  would 
take  a  cowardly  advantage  of  me  if  you 
could." 

The  fellow  made  a  plunge  at  Shawn,  who 
was  somewhat  taken  by  sui-prise.  They  met 
and  grappled  in  the  water,  and  the  contest 
between  them  was,  probably,  one  of  the 
fiercest  and  most  original  that  ever  occurred 
between  man  and  man.  It  was  distinctly  visi- 
ble to  the  spectators  on  the  shore,  and  the 
interest  which  it  excited  in  them  can  sc  irce- 
ly  be  described.  A  terrible  grapple  ensued, 
but  as  neither  of  them  wished  to  die  by 
drowning,  or,  in  fact,  to  die  under  such 
peculiar  circumstances  at  all,  there  was  a  de- 
gree of  caution  in  the  contest  which  required 
gi'eat  skill  and  power  on  both  sides.  Not- 
withstanding this  caution,  however,  still, 
when  we  consider  the  unsubstantial  element 
on  which  the  battle  between  them  raged — 
for  rage  it  did — there  were  frightful  alterna- 
tives of  i^lunging  and  sinking  between  them. 

Shawn's  opponent  was  the  stronger  of  the 
two,  but  Sha\vn  possessed  in  activity  what 
the  other  possessed  in  strength.  The  waters 
of  the  lake  were  agitated  by  their  struggles 
and  foamed  white  about  them,  whilst,  at 
the  same  time,  the  four  bloodhounds  tear- 
ing each  other  beside  them  added  to  the 
agitation.  Shawn  and  his  opponent  clasped 
each  other  and  frequently  disappeared  for  a 
very  brief  sj^ace,  but  the  necessity  to  breathe 
and  rise  to  the  air  forced  them  to  relax  the 
grasps  and  seek  the  surface  of  the  water  ;  so 
was  it  with  the  dogs.  At  length,  Shawn, 
feehng  that  his  middogue  had  got  entangled 
in  his  dress,  which  the  water  had  closely 
contracted  about  it,  rendering  it  difficult, 
distracted  as  he  was  by  the  contest,  to  ex- 
tricate it,  turned  round  and  swam  several 
strokes  from  his  enemy,  who,  however,  pur- 
sued him  with  the  ferocity  of  one  of  the 
bloodhounds  beside  them.  This  ruse  was  to 
enable  SIkuvu  to  disengage  his  middogue, 
which  he  did.  In  the  meantime  this  expe- 
dient of  Shawn's  afforded  his  opponent  time 
to  bring  out^his  skean, — two  weapons  which 
differed  very  little  except  in  name.  They 
once  more  approached  one  another,  each 
with  the  ai-med  hand  up, — the  left, — and  a 
fiercer  and  more  terrible  contest  was  re- 
newed. The  instability  of  the  element,  how- 
ever, on  which  they  fought,  prevented  them 
fi'om  using  their  weapons  \di\\  effect.  At 
all  events  they  jjlayed  about  each  other,  offer- 
ing and  warding  off  the  blows,  when  Shawn 
exclaimed, — having  grasped  his  opponent 
with  his  right  arm, — 

"  I  am  tired  of  this  ;  it  must  be  now  sink 
or  s^^'im  between  us.  To  die  here  is  better 
than  to  die  on  the  gallows." 


As  he  spoke  both  sank,  and  for  about  luili 
a  minute  became  invisible.  The  spectators 
from  the  shore  now  gave  them  both  over  for 
lost  ;  one  of  them  only  emerged  with  the 
fatal  middogue  in  his  hand,  but  his  oppon- 
ent ajipeared  not,  and  for  the  best  reason  in 
the  world  :  he  was  on  his  way  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  lake.  Shawn's  exhaustion  after 
such  a  struggle  now  rendered  his  situation 
hopeless.  He  was  on  the  point  of  going 
down  when  he  exclaimed  : 

"  It  is  all  in  vain  now  ;  I  am  sinking,  and 
me  so  near  the  only  slij)  that  is  in  the  lake. 
Finn  and  Oonah,  save  me  ;  I  am  drown- 
ing." 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  lips 
when  he  felt  the  two  faithful,  powerful,  and 
noble  animals,  one  at  each  side  of  him — see- 
ing as  they  did,  his  sinking  state — seizing 
him  by  his  dress,  and  dragging  him  forward 
to  the  shjD  we  have  mentioned.  M'ith  great 
difficulty  he  got  upon  land,  but,  having  done 
so,  he  sat  down  ;  and  when  his  dogs,  in  the 
gambols  of  their  joy  at  his  safety,  caressed 
him,  he  wept  like  an  infant — this  proscribed 
outlaw  and  tory.  He  was  now  safe,  how- 
ever, and  his  pursuers  returned  in  a  spirit  of 
sullen  and  bitter  disapjjointment,  finding 
that  it  was  useless  to  continue  the  hunt  any 
longrer. 


CHAPTER  XDL 

Plans  and  Negotiations. 

We  have  already  said  that  Woodward  was 

a  man  of  personal  coui-age,  and  without  fear 
of  anything  either  living  or  dead,  yet,  not- 
withstanding all  this,  he  felt  a  terror  of 
Shaicn-na-Middogue  which  he  could  not 
overcome.  The  escape — the  extraordinary 
escape  of  that  celebrated  young  tory — de- 
pressed and  vexed  him  to  the  heart.  He 
was  conscious,  however,  of  his  own  villany 
and  of  his  conduct  to  Grace  Davoren,  whom 
Shawn  had  loved,  and,  as  Shakespeare  saj's, 
"  conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all."  One 
thing,  however,  afforded  him  some  consola- 
tion, which  was  that  his  disguise  prevented 
him  from  from  being  known  as  the  principal 
penson  engaged  in  the  attempt  to  hunt  do^vn 
the  outlaw.  He  knew  that  after  the  solemn 
pi'omise  he  had  given  Miss  Riddle,  any 
knowledge  on  her  pai't  of  his  participation 
in  the  pursuit  of  that  generous  but  unfor- 
tunate 3'oung  man  would  have  so  completely 
sunk  him  in  her  oj^inion,  as  jm  individiuU 
profes.sing  to  be  a  man  of  honor,  that  she 
wovild  have  treated  his  proposrds  with  con- 
tempt, and  rejected  him  with  disdain.  At 
all  events,  his  chief  object  now  was  to  lose 


r42 


WILLI  AM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


no  time  in  prosecuting  his  suit  with  her. 
For  this  purpose  he  urged  his  mother  to  pay 
Lord  Cockle  town  another  visit,  in  order  to 
make  a  formal  proposal  for  the  hand  of  his 
niece  in  his  name,  with  a  view  of  bringing  the 
matter  to  an  issue  wdth  as  little  delay  as  might 
be.  His  brother,  who  had  relapsed,  was  in 
a  very  precarious  condition,  but  still  slightly 
on  the  recovery,  a  circumstance  which  filled 
him  with  alarm.  He  only  went  out  at  night 
occasionally,  but  still  he  went  out,  and,  as 
before,  did  not  return  until  about  twelve, 
but  much  more  frequently  one,  two,  and 
sometimes  thi'ee  o'clock.  Nobody  in  the 
house  could  understand  the  mystery-  of  these 
midnight  excursions,  and  the  servants  of  the 
family,  who  were  well  aware  of  them,  began 
to  look  on  him  with  a  certain  undefined  ter- 
ror as  a  man  whose  unaccountable  move- 
ments were  associated  with  something  that 
was  evil  and  supernatm-al.  They  felt  occa- 
sionally that  the  jDower  of  his  eye  Avas  dread- 
ful ;  and  as  it  began  to  be  whispered  about 
that  it  was  by  its  evil  influence  he  had 
brought  Alice  Goodwin  to  the  very  verge  of 
the  grave  for  the  purpose  of  getting  at  the 
property,  which  was  to  revert  to  him  in  case 
she  should  die  without  issue,  there  was  not 
one  of  them  who,  on  meeting  him,  either  in 
or  about  the  house,  would  run  the  risk  of 
looking  him  in  the  face.  In  fact,  they  ex- 
perienced that  kind  of  fear  of  him  which  a 
person  might  be  si;pposed  to  feel  in  the  case 
of  a  spirit ;  and  this  is  not  surprising  when 
we  consider  the  period  in  which  they  lived. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  his  mother  got  up  the 
old  cari'iage  once  more  and  set  out  on  her 
journey  to  Cockle  Hall — her  head  filled  with 
many  an  iniquitous  design,  and  her  heart 
with  fraud  and  deceit.  On  reachmg  Cockle 
Hall  she  was  ushered  to  the  withdrawing- 
room,  where  she  found  his  lordship  in  the 
self-same  costume  which  we  have  already  de- 
scribed. Miss  Eiddle  was  in  her  own  room, 
so  that  she  had  the  coast  clear — which  was 
precisely  what  she  wanted. 

"  Well,  ]\Irs.  Lindsay,  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
How  do  you  do,  madam  ?  Is  your  son  with 
you?  "  he  added,  shaking  hands  with  her. 

"  No,  my  lord." 

"  O  !  an  embassadress,  then  ?  " 

"Something  in  that  capacity,  my  lord." 

"  Then  I  must  be  on  my  sharps,  for  I  am 
told  you  are  a  keen  one.  But  tell  me— do 
you  sleep  with  one  eye  open,  as  I  do  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,"  she  replied,  laughing, 
"  I  sleep  as  other  people  do,  with  both  eyes 
shut." 

"  Well,  then,  what's  your  proposal  ? — and, 
mark  me,  I'm  wide  awake." 

"  By  all  accounts,  my  lord,  you  have  sel- 
dom been  otherwise.     How  could  you  have 


played  your  cards  so  well  and  so  succassfullj 
if  you  had  not  ?  " 

"  Come,  that's  not  bad — ^just  what  I  ex- 
pected, and  I  like  to  deal  with  clever  people. 
Did  you  put  yourself  on  the  whetstone  be- 
fore you  came  here  ?     I'U  go  bail  you  did." 

"  If  I  did  not  I  would  have  httle  chance 
in  dealing  with  your  lordship,"  replied  Mr& 
Lindsay. 

"  Come,  I  hke  that,  too  ; — well  said,  and 
nothing  but  the  ti-uth.  In  fact  it  will  be 
diamond  cut  diamond  between  us — eh  ?  " 

"  Precisely,  my  lord.  You  will  find  me  as 
sharp  as  your  lordship,  for  the  hfe  of  you." 

"  Come,  confound  me,  I  hke  that  best  of 
all — a  touch  of  my  own  candor  ; — we're  kin- 
dred sjDirits,  INIrs.  Lindsay," 

"  I  think  so,  my  lord.  We  should  have 
been  man  and  wife." 

"  Egad,  if  we  had  I  shouldn't  have  played 
second  fiddle,  as  I'm  told  poor  Lindsay 
does  ;  however,  no  matter  about  that — even 
a  good  second  is  not  so  bad.  But  now 
about  the  negotiations  —  come,  give  a  speci- 
men of  your  talents.  Let  us  come  to  the 
point." 

"  WeU,  then,  I  am  here,  my  lord,  to  pro- 
pose, in  the  name  of  my  son  Woodward, 
for  the  hand  of  Miss  Eiddle,  3'our  niece." 

"  I  see  ;  no  regard  for  the  property  she  is 
to  have,  eh  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  me  a  fool,  my  lord  ?  Do 
you  imagine  that  any  one  of  common  sense 
would  or  should  overlook  such  an  element 
between  parties  who  propose  to  maiTy  ? 
Whatever  my  son  may  do — who  is  deeply 
attached  to  Miss  Eiddle — I  am  sure  I  do 
not,  nor  will  not,  overlook  it ;  you  may  rest 
assured  of  that,  my  lord." 

Old  Cockleto-RTi  looked  keenly  at  her,  and 
their  eyes  met ;  but,  after  a  long  and  steady 
gaze,  the  eyes  of  the  old  peer  quailed,  and  he 
felt,  when  put  to  an  encounter  with  hers,  that 
to  which  was  attriljuted  such  extraordinary 
influence.  There  sparkled  in  her  steady 
black  orb  a  venomous  exultation,  mingled 
with  a  spirit  of  strong  and  contemj)tuous  de- 
rision, which  made  the  eccentric  old  noble- 
man feel  rather  uncomfortable.  His  eye  fell, 
and,  considering  his  age,  it  was  decidedly  a 
keen  one.  He  fidgeted  upon  the  chair — he 
coughed,  hemmed,  then  looked  about  the 
room,  and  at  length  exclaimed,  rather  in  a 
soliloquy, — 

"  Second  fiddle  !  egad,  I'm  afraid  had  we 
been  man  and  wife  I  should  never  have  got 
beyond  it.  Poor  Lindsay !  It's  confound- 
edly odd,  though." 

"  Well,  j\Irs.  Lindsay — ahem — pray  pro- 
ceed, madam  ;  let  us  come  to  the  pi'oper- 
ty.  How  does  your  son  stand  in  that  re- 
spect ?  " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


743 


"  He  will  have  twelve  hundred  a  year,  my 
ford."  I 

"  I  told  you  before,  Mrs.  Lindsay,  that  I 
don't  like  the  future  tense — the  present  for 
me.     What  has  he  ?  " 

"  It  can  scai'cely  be  called  the  future  tense, 
my  lord,  wliich  you  seem  to  abhor  so  much. 
Nothing  stands  between  him  and  it  but  a 
dyinj,'  ^vcV 

"  How  is  that,  madam  ?  " 

"  Why.  my  lord,  his  Uncle  Hamilton,  my 
brother,  ]ia<l  a  daughter,  an  only  child,  who 
died  of  decline,  as  liei  mother  before  her 
did.  Tliis  foolish  child  was  inveigled  into  an 
unaccountable  aftection  for  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  Goodwin — a  deep,  designing,  artful  girl 
— who  contrived  to  gain  a  complete  ascen- 
dency over  both  fatlier  and  daughter.  For 
months  before  my  niece's  death  this  cunning 
girl,  prompted  by  her  designing  family,  re- 
mained at  her  sick  bed,  tended  her,  nursed 
her,  and  would  scarcely  allow  a  single  indi- 
vidual to  approach  her  except  herself.  In 
shoi't,  slie  gained  such  an  undue  and  ini- 
quitous influence  over  both  parent  and 
child,  that  her  diabohcal  object  was  accom- 
plished." 

"  Diabolical !  Well,  I  can  see  notliing  dia- 
bolical in  it,  for  so  far.  Affection  and  sym- 
pathy on  the  one  hand,  and  gratitude  on  the 
other — that  seems  mvich  more  like  the  thing. 
But  proceed,  madam." 

'"Wliy,  my  poor  brother,  who  became 
silly  and  enfeebled  in  intellect  by  the  loss  of 
his  child,  was  prevailed  on  by  Miss  Good- 
win and  her  family  to  adopt  her  as  his 
daugliter,  and  by  a  series  of  the  most  artful 
and  selfish  manoeuvres  they  succeeded  in  get- 
ting the  poor  imbecile  and  besotted  old 
man  to  make  a  will  in  her  favor  ;  and  the 
consequence  was  that  he  left  her  twelve 
hundred  a  year,  both  to  her  and  her  issue, 
should  she  marry  and  have  any ;  but  in  case 
she  should  have  no  issue,  then,  after  her 
death,  it  was  to  revert  to  my  son  Wood- 
ward for  whom  it  was  originally  intend- 
ed by  my  brother.  It  was  a  most  un- 
principled and  shameful  transaction  on  the 
part  of  these  Goodwins.  Providence,  how- 
ever, would  seem  to  have  punished  them 
for  their  iniquity,  for  ^liss  Goodwin  is  dN^ing 
— at  least,  beyond  all  hope.  The  proj^erty, 
of  course,  wiU  soon  be  in  my  son's  posses- 
sion, where  it  ought  to  have  been  ever  since 
his  xmcle's  deatli.  Am  I  not  right,  then,  in 
calculatmg  on  that  property  as  his  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  circumstances  you  speak  of  are  ■ 
recent ;  I  remember  them  well  enough,  j 
There  was  a  lawsuit  about  the  will  ?  "  I 

"There  was,  my  lord." 

"  And  the  instrument  was  proved  strictly  ! 
leiral and  valid?" 


"  The  suit  was  certainly  determined  against 
us." 

"  111  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Lindsay ;  I  am 
certain  that  I  myself  would  have  acted  pre- 
cisely as  your  brother  did.  I  know  the 
Goodwins,  too,  and  I  know,  besides,  that 
they  are  incapable  of  reverting  to  either 
fraud  or  undue  influence  of  any  kind.  AH 
that  you  have  told  me,  then,  is,  with  great 
resj^ect  to  you,  nothing  but  mere  rigmarole. 
I  am  sorr}',  however,  to  hear  that  the  daugh- 
ter, poor  girl,  is  d^ing.  I  hope  in  God  she 
wdl  recover." 

"There  is  no  earthly  probability — nay, 
possibility  of  it — which  is  a  stronger  word 
— I  know,  my  lord,  she  will  die,  and  that 
very  soon." 

"You  know,  madam!  How  the  deuce 
can  you  know?  It  is  all  in  the  hands  of 
God.  I  hope  she  will  Uve  to  enjoy  her  prop- 
erty." 

"  My  lord,  I  visited  the  girl  in  her  illness, 
and  life  was  barely  in  her  ;  I  have,  besides, 
the  opinion  of  the  physician  who  attended 
her,  and  of  another  who  was  called  in  to  con- 
sult upon  her  state,  and  both  have  informed 
me  that  her  recovery  is  hopeless." 

"  And  what  opinion  does  your  son.  Wood- 
ward, entertain  uj^on  the  subject  ?  " 

"  One,  my  lord,  in  complete  keeping  ^^•ith 
his  generous  character.  He  is  as  anxious 
for  her  recovery  as  your  lordship." 

"  Well,  I  hke  that,  at  all  events ;  it  is  a 
good  point  in  him.  Yes,  I  Hke  that — but,  in 
the  meantime,  here  are  you  calculating  upon 
a  contingency  that  may  never  happen.  The 
calculation  is,  I  gi'ant,  not  overl)urdeued 
with  delicacy  of  feeling  ;  but  still  it  may 
proceed  from  anxiet}'  for  the  settlement  and 
welfare  of.  your  son.  Not  an  improbable 
thing  on  the  p;u*t  of  a  mother,  I  gi'ant 
that." 

"  Well,  then,  my  lord,"  asked  !Mrs.  Lind- 
say, "what  is  to  be  done?  Come  to  tlie 
point,  as  you  veiy  properly  say  yourself." 

"  In  the  first  place  bring  me  the  written 
opinions  of  those  two  doctors.  They  ought 
to  know  her  state  of  health  best,  and  whether 
she  is  likely  to  recover  or  not.  I  know  I  am 
an  old  scoundrel  in  entering  into  a  matrimo- 
nial negotiation  upon  a  principle  so  inhuman 
as  the  poor  lady's  death  ;  but  still,  if  lier  de- 
mise is  a  certain  thing,  I  don't  see  why  men 
of  the  world  should  not  avtul  themselves  of 
such  a  circumstance.  Now.  I  wish  to  see 
poor  Tom  settled  before  I  die  ;  and,  above 
all  things,  united  to  a  gentleman.  Your  son 
Woodward,  JL's.  Lindsay,  is  a  gentleman, 
and  what  is  more,  I  have  reason  to  believe 
Tommy  likes  him.  She  speaks  well  of  him, 
and  there  is  a  great  deal  in  that ;  because  I 
know  that  if  she  di.shked  him  she  would  not 


r44 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKiS. 


conceal  the  fact.  She  has,  occasionally, 
much  of  her  old  uncle's  bluntness  about  her, 
and  will  not  say  one  thing  and  think  another  ; 
unless,  indeed,  when  she  has  a  design  in  it, 
and  then  she  is  inscrutable." 

"  My  own  opinion  is  this,  my  lord  :  let  my 
son  wait  upon  Miss  Riddle — let  him  propose 
for  her — and  if  she  consents,  why  the  mar- 
riage settlements  may  be  drawn  up  at  once 
and  the  ceremony  performed." 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  rephed.  "  That  won't 
do.  I  wiU  never  marry  oflf  poor  Tommy  up- 
on a  speculation  which  may  never  after  aU 
be  realized.  No,  no — I'm  awake  there  ;  but 
rU  tell  you  what — produce  me  those  letters 
from  the  physician  or  physicians  who  attend- 
ed her  ;  then,  should  Tom  give  her  consent, 
the  settlements  may  be  drawn  uj),  and  they 
can  he  unsigned  until  the  gM  dies — and 
then  let  them  be  mai'ried.  Curse  me,  I'm 
an  old  scoundrel  again  ;  however,  as  to  that 
the  whole  world  is  nothing  but  one  gi'eat 
and  universal  scoundrel,  and  it  is  nothing 
but  to  see  Tom  the  wife  of  a  gentleman  in 
feehng,  manoers,  andbeaiing,  that  I  consent 
even  to  this  conditional  arrangement." 

"Well,"  rejDlied  the  lady,  "be  it  so  ;  it  is 
as  much  as  either  of  us  can  do  under  the 
circumstances. " 

•"  Ay,  and  more  than  we  ought  to  do.  I 
never  was  without  a  conscience  ;  but  of  all 
the  iDoor  pitiful  scoundrels  of  a  conscience 
that  ever  existed,  it  was  the  greatest.  But 
why  should  I  blame  it  ?  It  loved  me  too 
well ;  for,  after  some  gentle  rebukes  when  I 
was  about  to  do  a  rascally  act,  it  quietly 
withdrew  all  opposition  and  left  me  to  my 
own  "«-ill." 

"  Ah,  we  aU  know  you  too  weU,  my  lord, 
to  take  your  own  report  of  your  own  char- 
acter. However,  I  am  glad  that  matters 
have  proceeded  so  far.  I  shall  do  what  your 
lordship  wishes  as  to  the  opinions  of  the 
medical  men.  The  lawv-ers,  with  om-  assis- 
tance, will  manage  the  settlements." 

"  Yes  ;  but  this  arrangement  must  be  kept 
a  secret  fi-om  Tom,  because  if  she  knew  of  it 
she  would  knock  up  the  whole  project." 

"  She  shall  not  from  me,  my  lord." 

"  Nor  fi-om  me,  I  promise  you  that.  But 
now  for  another  topic.  I  am  glad  your  son 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  dreadful  chase  of 
that  unfortunate  tihan-n-na-Middogue ;  he 
pledged  his  honor  to  Tom  that  he  would 
rather  protect  than  injure  him." 

"So,  my  lord,  he  would,  ever  since  his 
conversation  with  IMiss  Eiddle  on  the  sub- 
ject." 

This,  indeed,  was  very  honestly  said,  inas- 
much as  it  was  she  herself  who  had  furaished 
him  with  the  mask  and  other  of  the  dis- 
guises. 


"  WeU,  I  think  so  ;  and  I  believe  him  to 
be  a  gentleman,  certainly.  This  unfortunate 
tory  saved  Tom's  life  and  mine  the  othei 
night ;  but,  independently  of  that,  Mrs. 
Lindsay,  no  son  of  you7->t  should  have  any 
thing  to  do  in  his  pursuit  or  capture.  You 
understand  me.  It  is  my  intention  to  try 
what  I  can  do  to  get  him  a  pardon  from 
government,  and  rescue  him  fi-om  the  wild 
and  lawless  Hfe  he  is  leading." 

IMi's.  Lindsay  merely  said, — 

"  If  my  son  Woodward  could  render  you 
any  assistance,  I  am  sure  he  would  feel  great 
pleasvu-e  in  doing  so,  notwithstanding  that 
it  was  this  same  Shaicn-na-Middogue  who, 
perhaps,  has  miirdered  his  brother,  for  he  is, 
by  no  means  out  of  danger." 

"  "VMiat — he  ?  Shaivn-na-Middogue  !  Have 
you  an}'  proof  of  that  ?  " 

"  Not  positive  or  legal  proof,  my  lord,  but 
at  least  a  strong  moral  certainty.  However, 
it  is  a  subject  on  which  I  do  not  wish  to 
speak." 

"  By  the  way,  I  am  veiy  stupid  ;  but  no 
wonder.  When  a  man  approaches  seventy 
he  can't  be  expected  to  remember  everything. 
You  will  excuse  me  for  not  inquiring  after 
your  son's  health  ;  how  is  he  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  Ave  know  not  what  to 
say  ;  neither  does  the  doctor  who  attends 
him — the  same,  by  the  way,  who  attended 
Miss  Goodwin.  At  present  he  can  say  neither 
yes  or  no  to  his  recovery." 

"  No,  nor  will  not  as  long  as  he  can  ;  I 
know  those  gentry  Avell.  Curse  the  thing 
on  earth  frightens  one  of  them  so  much  as 
any  appearance  of  convalescence  in  a  patient. 
I  had  during  my  hfe  about  half  a  dozen  fits  of 
illness,  and  whenever  they  found  that  I  was 
on  the  recoveiy,  they  always  contrived  to 
throw  me  back  with  their  damned  nostrums, 
for  a  month  or  six  weeks  together,  that  they 
might  squeeze  all  they  could  out  of  me.  O, 
devilish  rogues  !  devilish  rogues  !  " 

IMi'S.  Lindsay  now  asked  to  see  his  niece, 
and  the  peer  said  he  would  send  her  down, 
after  which  he  shook  hands  with  her,  and  once 
more  cautioned  her  against  alluding  to  the  ar- 
rangement into  which  they  had  entered  touch- 
ing the  matrimonial  affixirs  ah'eady  discussed. 
It  is  not  our  intention  to  give  the  conversation 
between  the  two  ladies,  which  was,  indeed, 
not  one  of  long  duration.  ]\ifs.  Lindsay 
simply  stated  that  she  had  been  deputed  by 
her  son,  Woodward,  to  have  the  honor  of 
making  a  projDosal  in  his  name  to  her  uncle, 
in  which  proj^osal  she,  IVIiss  Riddle,  was  deep- 
ly concerned,  but  that  her  son  himself  would 
soon  have  the  greater  honor  of  pleading  his 
own  cause  with  the  fair  object  of  his  most 
enthusiastic  aftection.  To  this  Miss  Riddle 
said  neither  yes  nor  no  ;  and,  after  a  further 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


745 


cliat  upon  indififerent  topics,  the  matron  took 
her  departure,  much  satisfied,  however,  with 
the  ajjparent  suavity  of  the  worthy  peer's 
fair  niece. 

It  matters  not  how  hard  and  iniquitous  the 
hearts  of  mothers  may  be,  it  is  a  difficult 
thinpf  to  extinguish  in  them  the  sacred  prin- 
ciple of  maternal  affection.  ^Irs.  Lindsay, 
dui'iug  her  son  Cliarles's  illness,  and  whilst 
laboring  under  the  apprehension  that  she 
was  about  to  lose  him,  went  to  his  sick  room 
after  lier  return  from  Lord  Cockletown's,  and, 
finding  he  was  but  slightly  improving, — if 
improving  at  all, — she  felt  hex-self  much 
moved,  and  asked  him  how  he  felt. 

"Luleed,  my  dear  mother,"  he  rephed,  "I 
can  scarcely  say  ;  I  hai'dly  know  whether  I 
am  better  or  worse." 

Harry  was  in  the  room  at  the  time,  having 
gone  up  to  ascertain  his  condition. 

"  O,  come,  Charles,"  said  she,  "  you  were 
always  an  affectionate  sou,  and  you  must 
strive  and  recover.  K  it  may  give  you 
strength  and  hope,  I  now  tell  you  that  the 
projjerty  which  I  intended  to  leave  to  Harry 
here,  I  shall  leave  to  you.  Harry  will  not 
require  it ;  he  will  be  well  off — much  better 
than  you  imagine.  He  will  have  back  that 
twelve  hundred  a  year  when  that  puny  girl 
dies.  She  is.  probably,  dead  by  this  time, 
and  he  will,  besides,  become  a  wealthy  man 
by  marriage." 

*'  But  I  think,  my  dear  mother,  that  Harry 
has  the  best  claim  to  it ;  he  is  your  first- 
born, and  your  eldest  son." 

"  He  will  not  require  it,"  repUed  his 
motlier  ;  "  he  is  about  to  be  man-ied  to  ^liss 
Riddle,  the  niece  of  Lord  Cockletown." 

*'Ai"e  you  quite  sure  of  that,  mother?" 
asked  Harry,  with  a  brow  as  black  as  mid- 
night. 

"  There  is  an  arrangement  made,"  she 
replied  ;  "  the  marriage  settlements  are  to 
be  drawn  up,  but  left  unsigned  until  the 
death  of  Alice  Goodwin." 

Charles  here  gave  a  groan  of  agony, 
which,  for  the  life  of  him,  he  could  not 
suppress. 

"  She  will  not  die,  I  hope,"  said  he  ;  "  and, 
mother,  as  for  the  property,  leave  it  to 
Harry.  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  change 
your  contemplated  arrangements  on  my  ac- 
count, even  should  I  recover." 

"  Yes,  Charles,  but  I  will — only  contrive 
and  hve  ;  you  are  my  son,  and  as  sure  as 
I  have  life  you  will  be  heir  to  my  property." 

"  But  Maria,  mother,"  replied  the  gener- 
ous   young    man  ;    "  Maria "    and     he 

looked  imploringly  and  affectionately  into 
her  face. 

"  Maria  will  have  an  ample  portion  ;  I  have 
taken  care  of  that.      I  will  not  leave   my 


property  to  those  who  are  strangers  to  my 
blood,  as  a  son-in-law  must  be.  No,  Charley 

j  you  shall  have  m}'  property.     As  for  Harry, 

I  as  I  said  before,  he  won't  stand  in  need  of 

I  it." 

I      "  Of  course  you  saw  Miss  Riddle  to-day, 

I  mother  ?  "  asked  Han-v. 

I      "  I  did." 

I  "Of  course,  too,  you  mentioned  the  matter 
to  her  ?  " 

I       •'  To  be  sure  I  did." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"Why,   I   think  she  acted  just  as  every 

I  dehcate-minded  gii'l  ought.      I  told  her  you 

i  would  have  the  honor  of  proposing  to  her- 
self in  person.     She  heard  me,  and  did  not 

i  utter  a  syllable  either  for  or  against  you. 
What  else  should  any  lady  do  ?  You  would 
not  have  her  jump  at  you,  woidd  you? 
Nothing,  however,  could  be  kinder  or  more 
gracious  than  the  reception  she  gave  me." 

"  Certainly  not,  mother ;  to  give  her 
consent  before  she  was  sohcited  would  not 
be  exactly  the  thing  ;  but  the  uncle  is  will- 
iug?" 

"  Upon  the  conditions  I  said  ;  but  his  niece 
is  to  know  nothing  of  these  conditions  :  so  be 
cautious  when  you  see  her." 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  replied  Harry  ; 
"  I  have  been  thinking  our  last  interview 
over  ;  but  it  strikes  me  there  is,  notwith- 
standing her  courtesy  of  manner,  a  hard, 
dry  air  about  her  which  it  is  difficult  to 
penetrate.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  it  were  no 
easy  task  to  ascertain  whether  she  is  in  jest 
or  earnest.  Her  eye  is  too  calm  and  reflect- 
ing for  my  taste." 

"  But,"  rephed  his  mother,  "  those,  surely, 
are  two  good  qualities  in  any  woman,  es- 
pecially in  her  whom  you  expect  to  become 
your  wife." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  he;  "but  she  is  not 
my  wife  yet,  my  dear  mother." 

"I  ^\-ish  she  was,  HaiTV,"  observed  his 
brother,  "  for  by  all  accounts  she  is  an  ex- 
cellent girl,  and  remarkable  for  her  charity 
and  humanity  to  the  poor." 

His  mother  and  Hany  then  left  the  room, 
and  both  went  to  her  o\rw  apartment,  where 
the  following  conversation  took  place  be- 
tween them  : 

"Harry,"  said  she,  "I  hope  you  are  not 
angi-y  at  the  detei*mination  I  expressed  to 
leave  my  property  to  Chai'les  should  he  re- 
cover ?  " 

"^^^ly  should  I,  my  dear  mother?"  he 
rephed  ;  "  your  property  is  your  own,  and 
of  course  you  may  leave  it  to  whomsoevei 
you  wish.  At  all  events,  it  will  remain  in 
your  own  family,  and  won't  go  to  strangers, 
like  that  of  my  scoundrel  old  uncle." 

"Don't  speak  so,  Harrj-,  of  my  brother. 


r46 


WILLIAM  CAIiLETON'S  WORKS. 


silly,  besotted,  and  overreached  he  was  when 
he  acted  sis  he  did  ;  but  he  never  was  a 
scoundrel,  Harry." 

"Well,  well,  let  that  pass,"  replied  her 
son  ;  "but  the  question  now  is,  What  am  I 
to  do  ?  What  step  should  I  first  take  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"Why,  I  mean  whether  should  I  start 
directly' for  Bally spellan  and  put  this  puling 
girl  out  of  pain,  or  go  m  a  day  or  two  and 
put  the  question  at  once  to  Miss  Kiddle, 
against  whom,  somehow,  I  feel  a  strong  an- 
tipathy." 

"Ah,  Harry,  that's  your  grandfather  all 
over  ;  but,  indeed,  our  family  were  fuU  of 
strong  antipathies  and  bitter  resentments. 
^^^ly  do  you  feel  an  antipathy  against  the 
gii-r?  " 

"  Who  can  account  for  antipathies,  moth- 
er? I  cannot  account  for  this." 

"  And  perhaps  on  her  part  the  poor  girl 
is  attached  to  you." 

"WeU,  but  you  have  not  answered  my 
question.  How  am  I  to  act  ?  WTiich  step 
should  I  take  first — the  quietus  of  '  curds-and- 
whey,'  or  the  courtship  ?  The  sooner  matters 
come  to  a  conclusion  the  better  I  A\'ish,  if 
possible,  to  know  what  is  before  me  :  I  can- 
not bear  uncertainty  in  this  or  anything 
else." 

"  I  scarcely  know  how  to  advise  you,"  she 
replied  ;  "  both  steps  are  of  the  deepest  im- 
portance, but  certainly  which  to  take  first  is 
a  necessary  consideration.  I  am  of  opinion 
that  our  best  plan  is  simply  to  take  a  day  or 
two  to  think  it  over,  after  which  we  will 
compare  notes  and  come  to  a  conclusion  : " 
and  so  it  was  determined. 

We  need  scarcely  assure  our  readers  that 
honest  and  affectionate  Bame^y  Casey  felt  a 
deep  interest  in  the  recovery  of  the  generous 
and  kind-hearted  Charles  Lindsay,  nor  that 
he  allowed  a  single  day  to  pass  without 
going,  at  least  two  or  three  times,  to  ascer- 
tain whether  there  was  any  appearance  of  his 
convalescence.  On  the  day  following  that  on 
which  Mrs.  Lindsay  had  declared  the  future 
disposition  of  her  property  he  went  to  see 
Charles  as  usual,  when  the  latter,  after  hav- 
ing stated  to  him  that  he  felt  much  better, 
and  the  fever  abating,  he  said, — 

"  Casey,  I  have  rather  strange  news  for 
you." 

"Be  it  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  sir,"  re- 
pUed  Barney,  "you  could  tell  me  no  news 
that  would  plaise  me  half  so  much  as  that 
there  is  a  certainty  of  your  gettin'  well 
again." 

"Well,  I  think  there  is,  Barney.  I  feel 
much  better  to-day  than  I  have  done  for  a 
long  while — but  the  news,  are  you  not  anx- 
ious to  hear  it  ?  " 


"Why,  I  hope  I'U  hear  it  soon,  Masthei 
Charles,  especially  if  it's  good  ;  but  if  it's 
not  good  I'm  jack-indifferent  about  it." 

"  It  is  good,  Barney,  to  me  at  least,  but 
not  so  to  my  brother  Woodwai'd." 

Barney's  ears,  if  possible,  opened  and  ex- 
panded themselves  on  hearing  this.  To 
him  it  was  a  double  gratification  :  first,  be- 
cause it  was  favorable  to  the  invalid,  to 
whom  he  was  so  sincerely  attaclied  ;  and  sec- 
ondly, because  it  was  not  so  to  Woodward, 
whom  he  detested. 

"  My  mother  yesterday  told  me  that  she 
has  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  me  all  her 
property  if  I  recover,  instead  of  to  Harry, 
for  whom  she  had  originally  intended  it." 

Barney,  on  hearing  this  intelligence,  was 
commencing  to  dance  an  Irish  jig  to  his  own 
music,  and  would  have  done  so  were  it  not 
that  the  dehcate  state  of  the  patient  pre- 
vented him. 

"  Blood  ahve,  Masther  Charles  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, snapping  his  fingers  in  a  kind  of 
wild  triumph,  "what  are  you  lying  there 
for  ?  Bounce  to  your  feet  like  a  two-year 
ould.  O,  holy  Moses,  and  Melchisedek  the 
divine,  ay,  and  Solomon,  the  son  of  St. 
Pether,  in  all  his  glory,  but  that  is  news  !  " 

"  She  told  my  bi'other  Woodward,  face 
to  face,  that  such  was  her  fixed  determine 
tion." 

"  Good  again  ;  and  what  did  he  say?  " 

"  Nothing  pai'ticular,  but  that  he  was 
glad  it  was  to  stay  in  the  family,  and  not  go 
to  strangers,  like  our  uncle's — alluding,  of 
course,  to  his  will  in  favor  of  dear  Ahce 
Goodwin." 

"  Ay,  but  how  did  he  look  ?  "  asked  Bar- 
ney. 

"I  didn't  observe,  I  was  rather  in  pain  at 
the  time  ;  but,  from  a  passing  glimjise  I  got, 
I  thought  his  countenance  darkened  a  httle  ; 
but  I  may  be  mistaken." 

"  Well,  I  hoj)e  so,"  said  Barney.  "  I  hope 
so — but — well,  I  am  glad  to  find  you  are 
betther,  Masther  Charles,  and  to  hear  the 
good  piece  of  fortune  you  have  mentioned. 
I  trust  in  God  your  mother  will  keep  her 
word — that's  all." 

"As  to  myself,"  said  Charles,  "  I  am  indif- 
ferent about  the  property  ;  all  that  presses 
upon  my  heart  is  my  anxiety  for  IVIiss  Good- 
%\Tja's  recovery." 

"Don't  be  alai-med  on  that  account,''  said 
Casey  !  "  they  say  the  waters  of  Bally  spellan 
would  bring  the  dead  to  life.  >'.ow,  good- 
by,  Masther  Charles  ;  don't  be  cast  down — 
keep  up  your  spirits,  for  something  tells  me 
that's  there's  luck  before  you,  and  good 
luck,  too." 

After  leaving  him  Barney  began  to  rumi- 
nate.    He  had  remarked  an  extraordinai7 


TUB  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


r47 


change  in  the  countenance  and  deportment 
of  Harn'  Woodward  during  the  evening  be- 
fore and  the  earher  part  of  that  day.  The 
pUiusible  serenity  of  his  manner  was  replaced 
by  unusual  gloom,  and  that  abstraction 
which  is  produced  by  deep  and  absorbing 
thought.  He  seemed  so  completely  wrapped 
up  in  constant  meditation  upon  some  partic- 
ular subjcrt,  that  he  absolutely  forgot  to 
guard  himself  against  observation  or  re- 
mark, by  liis  usual  artifice  of  manner.  He 
walked  alone  in  the  garden,  a  thing  he  was 
not  accustomed  to  do  ;  and  during  these 
walks  he  would  stop  and  pause,  then  go  on 
slowly  and  musingly,  and  stop  and  pause 
again.  Barney,  as  we  have  said  before,  was 
a  keen  obsen'er,  and  having  watched  him 
from  a  remote  comer  of  the  garden  in  whicli 
he  was  temporarily  engaged  among  some 
flowers,  he  came  at  once  to  the  conclusion 
that  Woodward's  mind  was  burdened  with 
something  which  hea\'ily  depressed  his 
spirits,  and  occupied  his  whole  attention. 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  Barney,  "the  villain  is 
brewing  mischief  for  some  one,  but  I  wiU 
watch  his  motions  if  I  should  pass  sleepless 
nights  for  it.  He  requires  a  sharji  eye  after 
him,  and  it  will  go  hard  with  me  or  I  shall 
know  what  his  midnight  wanderings  mean  ; 
but  in  the  meantime  I  must  keep  calm  and 
quiet,  and  not  seem  to  watch  him." 

Whilst  Barney,  who  was  unseen  by  Wood- 
ward, having  been  separated  from  him  by  a 
fruit  hedge  over  which  he  occasionally  peep- 
ed, indulged  in  this  soliloquy,  the  latter,  in 
the  same  deep  and  moody  meditation,  ex- 
tended his  walk,  his  brows  contracted,  and 
dark  as  midnight. 

"  The  damned  hag,"  said  he,  speaking  un- 
consciously aloud,  "  is  this  the  attection 
which  she  professed  to  bear  me  ?  Is  this 
the  proof  she  gives  of  the  preference  which 
she  often  expressed  for  her  favorite  son  ? 
To  leave  her  proi:)erty  to  that  misei^able 
milksop,  my  half-brother  !  What  devil  could 
have  tempted  her  to  this?  Not  Lindsaj-, 
certainly,  for  I  know  he  would  scom  to  ex- 
ercise am'  control  over  her  in  the  disposition 
of  her  property,  and  as  for  Maria,  I  know 
she  would  not.  It  must  then  have  been  the 
milksop  liimself  in  some  puling  fit  of  pain 
or  illness ;  and  ably  must  the  beggarly 
knave  have  managed  it  when  he  succeeded 
in  changing  the  stem  and  flinty  heart  of 
Such  a  she-devil.  Yes,  unquestionably  that 
must  be  the  tnie  meaning  of  it ;  but,  be  it 
so  for  the  present ;  the  future  is  a  different 
question.  My  plans  are  laid,  and  I  wiU  put 
them  into  operation  according  as  circmstan- 
ces  may  guide  me." 

Whatever  those  plans  were,  he  seemed  to 
have  completed  them  in  his  own  mind.   The 


dai-kness  departed  from  his  brow  ;  his  face 
assumed  its  usual  expression  ;  and,  having 
satisfied  himself  by  the  contemplation  of  his 
future  course  of  action,  he  walked  at  his  usual 
pace  out  of  the  garden. 

"Egad,"  thought  Barney,  "I'm  half  a 
prophet,  but  I  can  say  no  more  than  I've 
said.  There's  mischief  in  the  ^vind ;  but 
whether  agjiinst  Masther  Charles  or  his 
mother,  is  a  puzzle  to  me.  Wliat  a  dutiful 
son,  too !  A  she-devil !  Well,  upon  my 
sowl,  if  he  weren't  her  son  I  could  forgive 
him  for  thai,  because  it  hits  her  off'  to  a  hair 
— but  fi-om  the  lips  of  a  son  !  O,  the  blast- 
ed scoundrel !  Well,  no  matther,  there's  a 
shiiiij  pair  of  eyes  upon  him  ;  and  that's  all  1 
can  say  at  present." 

When  the  medical  attendant  called  that 
day  to  see  his  patient  he  found,  on  examin- 
ing Charles,  and  feeUng  his  pulse,  that  he 
was  decidedly  and  rapidly  on  the  recovery. 
On  his  way  down  stairs  he  was  met  by  Wood- 
wai'd,  who  said,^ 

"  Well,  doctor,  is  there  any  chance  of  my 
dear  brother's  recover}-  ?  " 

"  It  is  beyond  a  chance  now,  !Mr.  Wood- 
wai'd  ;  he  is  out  of  danger  ;  and  although 
his  convalescence  will  be  slow,  it  wiU  be 
sure." 

"  Thank  God,"  said  the  cold-blooded  hyp- 
ocrite ;  "  I  have  never  heard  intelligence 
more  gratifying.  My  mother  is  in  the  \vith- 
drawing-room,  and  desired  me  to  s-iy  that 
she  wishes  to  speak  with  you.  Of  course  it 
is  about  my  brother  ;  and  I  am  glad  that 
you  can  make  so  favorable  a  report  of  him." 

On  going  down  he  found  ^Ii*s.  Lindsay 
alone,  and  having  taken  a  seat  and  made  his 
daily  report,  she  addressed  him  as  follows  : 

"  Doctor,  you  have  taken  a  great  weight 
off  my  mind  by  your  account  of  my  son's 
cei*tain  recovery." 

"  I  can  say  with  confidence,  as  I  have  al- 
ready said  to  his  anxious  brother,  madam, 
that  it  is  certain,  although  it  AviU  be  slow. 
He  is  out  of  danger  at  last.  The  woimd  is 
beginning  to  cicatiize,  and  generates  laudable 
2)t()i.  His  fever,  too,  is  gone  ;  but  he  isvei-y 
weak  still, — quite  emaciated, — and  it  -will 
require  time  to  place  him  once  more  on  his 
legs.  Still,  the  gi*eat  fixct  is,  that  his  recov- 
ery is  certain.  Nothing  unless  agitation  of 
mind  can  retard  it ;  and  I  do  not  see  any* 
thing  which  can  occasion  that." 

"  Nothing,  indeed,  doctor  ;  but,  doctor,  1 
wish  to  .speak  to  you  on  another  subject 
You  have  been  attending  Miss  Goodwin  dur- 
ing her  veiT  sti-ange  juid  severe  illness.  Yon 
have  visited  her,  too,  at  Bally spellan." 

"I  liave,  madam.  She  went  thei-e  by  mj 
directions." 

How  long  is  it  since  you  have  seen  her  ?  " 


748 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


"1  saw  her  tliree  days  ago." 

"  And  how  was  she  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  beyond  hope,  madam.  She 
is  certainl}'  not  better,  and  I  can  scai'cely  siiy 
she  is  worse,  because  worse  she  cannot  be. 
The  comjDlaint  is  on  her  mind  ;  and  in  that 
case  we  all  know  how  difficult  it  is  for  a  phy- 
sician to  minister  to  a  mind  diseased." 

"You  think,  then,  she  isj^ast  recoveiy?" 

"  Indeed,  madam,  I  am  certain  of  it,  and 
I  deeply  regi'et  it,  not  only  for  her  own  sake, 
but  for  that  of  her  heart-broken  parents." 

"My  deal'  doctor — O,  by  the  way,  here  is 
youi'  fee  ;  do  not  be  surjDrised  at  its  amount, 
for,  although  your  fees  have  been  regularly 

paid " 

•  "And  hberally,  madam." 

"Well,  in  consequence  of  the  favorable 
apd  gratifying  report  which  you  have  this 
day  made,  you  must  pardon  an  affectionate 
mother  for  the  compensation  which  she  now 
offers  you.  It  is  far  beneath  the  value  of 
your  skill,  jour  anxiety  for  my  son's  recoveiy, 
and  the  punctuality  of  your  attendance." 

"What!  fifty  pounds,  madam!  I  cannot 
accept  it,"  said  he,  exhibiting  it  in  his  hand 
as  he  spoke. 

"  0,  but  you  must,  my  dear  doctor  ;  nor 
shall  the  liberality  of  the  mother  rest  here. 
Come,  doctor,  no  remonstrance  ;  put  it  in 
yoiu'  pocket,  and  now  hear  me.  You  say 
Miss  Goodwin  is  past  all  hope.  W^ould  you 
have  any  objection  to  wiite  me  a  short  note 
stating  that  fact?" 

"  How  could  I.  madam  ?  "  replied  the  good- 
natirred,  easy  man,  who,  of  course,  could 
never  dream  of  her  design  in  asking  him  the 
question.  Still,  it  seemed  singular  and  un- 
usual, and  quite  out  of  the  range  of  his  ex- 
peiience.  This  consideration  startled  him 
into  reflection,  and  something  hke  a  curios- 
it}'  to  ascertain  why  she,  who,  he  felt  aware, 
was  of  late  at  bitter  feud  with  Miss  Good- 
win and  her  family — the  cause  of  which  was 
well  knoAvn  throughout  the  country— should 
wish  to  obtain  such  a  document  from  him. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam  ;  pray,  may  I  inquire 
for  what  purpose  you  ask  me  to  furnish  such 
a  document  ?  " 

"  V/hy,  the  truth  is,  doctor,  that  there  are 
secrets  in  aU  fmiilies,  and,  although  this  is 
not,  strictly  speaking,  a  secret,  yet  it  is  a 
thing  that  I  should  not  wish  to  be  mentioned 
out  of  doors." 

"  Madam,  you  cannot  for  a  moment  do 
me  such  injustice  as  to  imagine  that  I  am 
capable  of  violating  professional  confidence. 
I  consider  the  confidence  you  now  repose  in 
me,  in  tlie  capacity  of  your  family  physician, 
as  coming  under  that  head." 

"  You  will  have  no  objection,  then,  to 
write  the  note  I  ask  of  you  ?  " 


"  Certainly  not,  madam." 

"  But  there  is  Dr.  Lendrum,  who  joined 
you  in  consultation  irTmy  soil's  case,  as  well, 
I  believe,  as  in  ]\Iiss  Goodwin's.  Do  you 
think  you  could  get  him  to  write  a  note  to 
me  in  accordance  with  youi'S  ?  Sjaeak  to  him, 
and  teU  him  that  I  don't  thinlc  he  has  been 
sufficiently  remunerated  for  his  trouble  in 
the  consiiltations  you  have  had  with  him 
here." 

"I  shall  do  so,  madam,  and  I  think  he  mil 
do  himself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  the 
course  of  to-morrow." 

Both  doctors  could,  with  a  very  good  con- 
science, furnish  ]\Ii-s.  Lindsay  with  the  opin- 
ions which  she  requii-ed.  She  saw  the  other 
medical  gentleman  on  the  following  day,  and, 
after  handing  him  a  handsome  douceur,  he 
felt  no  hesitation  in  corroborating  the  opinion 
of  his  brother  physician. 

Having  procured  the  documents  in  ques- 
tion, she  transmitted  them,  enclosed  in  a 
letter,  to  Lord  Cockleto^vn,  stating  that  her 
son  Woodward,  who  had  been  seized  by  a 
pleuritic  attack,  would  not  be  able,  she 
feared,  to  pay  his  intended  visit  to  Miss 
Riddle  so  soon  as  he  had  expected  ;  but,  in 
the  meantime,  she  had  the  honor  of  enclosing 
him  the  documents  she  alluded  to  on  the 
occasion  of  her  last  visit.  And  this  she  did 
with  the  hope  of  satisfying  his  lordship  on 
the  subject  they  had  been  discussing,  and 
with  a  further  hope  that  he  might  become 
an  advocate  for  her  son,  at  least  until  he 
should  be  able  to  plead  his  own  cause  with 
the  lady  herself,  which  nothing  but  indispo- 
sition j)revented  him  fi'om  doing.  The  doc- 
tor, she  added,  had  ad^dsed  him  to  try  the 
waters  of  the  Sjm  of  Ballyspellan  for  a  short 
time,  as  he  had  little  doubt  that  they  would 
restore  him  to  jDerfect  health.  She  sent  her 
Jove  to  dear  Miss  Riddle,  and  hoj^ed  ere  long 
to  have  the  j^leasure  of  clasping  her  to  her 
heai't  as  a  daughter. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Woodward's  Visit  to  Ballyspdlan. 

After  a  consultation  with  his  mother  our 
worthy  hero  prepared  for  his  journey  to  this, 
once  celebrated  Spa,  v>^hich  possessed  even 
then  a  certain  local  celebrity,  that  subse- 
quently widened  to  an  ampler  range.  The 
little  village  was  filled  with  invahds  of  all 
classes  ;  and  even  the  farmers'  houses  in  the 
vicinity  were  occupied  with  individuals  in 
quest  of  health.  The  family  of  the  Good- 
wins, however,  were  still  in  deep  affliction 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


749 


although  Alice,  for  the  last  few  days,  was 
progresaing  favorably.  Still,  such  was  her 
weakness,  that  she  was  unable  to  walk  un- 
less supported  by  two  persons,  usually  her 
maid  and  her  mother  or  her  father.  The 
terrible  influence  of  the  Evil  Eye  had  made 
too  deep  and  deadly  an  impression  ever,  she 
feared,  to  be  effaced  ;  for,  idthough  removed 
from  Woodward's  blighting  gaze,  that  eye 
was  perpetually  upon  her,  thi'ough  the 
medium  of  her  strong  but  diseased  imagina- 
tion. And  who  is  there  who  does  not  know 
how  strongly  the  force  of  imagination  acts  ? 
On  this  subject  she  had  now  become  a  per- 
fect h>-pochondriac.  She  could  not  shake  it 
off,  it  haunted  her  night  and  day  ;  and  even 
the  influence  of  society  could  scarcely  banish 
the  dread  image  of  that  mysterious  and  fear- 
ful look  for  a  moment. 

Tlie  society  at  Ballysijellan  was,  as  the 
society  in  such  places  usually  is,  veiT  much 
mixed  and  heterogeneous.  !Many  gentry 
were  there — gentlemen  attempting  to  repair 
constitutions  broken  do%\*n  by  dissipation 
and  profligac}' ;  and  ladies  afflicted  with  a 
disease  peculiar,  in  those  days,  to  both  sexes, 
called  the  i^pleen — a  malady  which,  under 
that  name,  has  long  since  disappeared,  and 
is  now  kno%vn  by  the  title  of  nervous  afl^c- 
tion.  There  was  a  large  public  room,  in 
imitation  of  the  more  celebrated  English 
watering-places,  where  the  more  respectable 
portion  of  the  company  met  and  became 
acquainted,  and  where,  also,  balls  and  din- 
ners were  occasionally  held.  Not  a  wreck  of 
this  edifice  is  now  standing,  although,  down 
to  the  days  of  Swift  and  Delany,  it  possessed 
con.siderable  celebrity,  as  is  evident  from  the 
ingenious  verses  written  by  his  friend  to  the 
Dean  upon  this  subject. 

The  principal  individuals  assembled  at 
it  on  this  occasion  were  Squire^  Manifold, 
whose  complaint,  as  was  evident  by  his 
three  chins,  consisted  in  a  rapid  tendency 
to  obesity,  which  his  physician  had  told 
him  might  be  checked,  if  he  could  prevail 
on  himself  to  eat  and  drink  with  a  less  glut- 
tonous appetite,  and  take  more  exercise. 
He  had  ah'eady  had  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  and 
it  was  the  apprehension  of  another,  with 
which  he  was  threatened,  that  brought  him 
to  the  Spa.  The  next  was  Parson  Topertoe, 
whose  great  enemy  was  the  gout,  brought 
oi),  of  course,  by  an  ascetic  and  apostolic 
life.  The  third  was  Captiun  Culverin,  whose 
constitution  had  suffered  severely  in  the 
wars,  but  wliich  he  attempted  to  rein\'igor- 
ate  by  a  course  of  hard  drinking,  in  which 
he  found,  to  his  cost,  that  the  remedy  was 
worse  than  the  disease.  There  were  also  a 
great  variety  of  others,  among  whom  were 
severaj  ■widows  whose  healthy  complexions 


\  were  anything  but  a  justification  for  theii 
'  presence  there,  especially  in  the  character 
'  of  invalids.  ^Ir.  Good\vin,  his  wife,  and 
j  daughter,  we  need  not  enumerate.  They 
'  lodged  in  the  house  of  a  respectable  farmer, 
who  lived  convenient  to  the  ^illage,  where 
\  they  found  themseh-es  exceedingly  snug  and 
comfortable.  In  the  next  house  to  thern 
lodged  a  Father  Mulrenin,  a  friar,  who,  al- 
though he  atferxdecftferroom  and  drank  the 
waters,  was  an  admirable  specimen  of  comic 
humor  and  robust  health.  There  was  also 
a  ^liss  Rosebud,  accompanied  by  her  mother, 
a  bloommg  widow,  who  had  married  old 
Roae^d,  a  wealthy  bachelor,  when  he  was 
near  sixty.  The  mother's  complaint  was 
1  also  the  spleen,  or  vapoi"S ;  indeed,  to  tell 
the  truth,  she  was  moved  by  an  unconquer- 
able Jiiid  heroic  detennination  to  repLtce 
poor  old  Rosebud  by  a  second  husband. 
The  last  whom  we  shall  enumerate,  although 
not  the  least,  was  a  very  remai-kable  char- 
acter of  that  day,  being  no  other  than 
Cooke,  the  Pythagorean,  from  the  county  of 
Waterford.  He  held,  of  course,  the  doc- 
trines of  Pytlui;j;oraSj  and  beheved  in  the 
transmigration  of  souls.  He  lived  uix)n  a 
vegetable  diet,  and  wore  no  clothing  which 
had  been  tixken  or  made  fi'om  the  wool  or 
skins  of  animals,  because  he  knew  that  tliey 
must  have  been  killed  before  these  exucia 
could  be  apphed  to  human  use.  His  di'ess, 
consequently,  during  the  inclemency  of  win- 
,  ter  and  the  heats  of  summer,  consisted  alto- 
gether of  linen,  and  even  his  shoes  were  o! 
vegetable  fabric.  Our  readers,  con.sequently, 
,  need  not  feel  suqorised  at  the  complaint  ol 
the  philosopher,  which  was  a  chronic  and 
most  excniciating  rheumatism  that  njcked 
every  bone  in  has  Pythagorean  body.  He 
was,  however,  like  a  certain  distinguished 
teetotaller  and  peace  preserver  of  our  own 
city  and  our  own  da}^  a  mild  and  benevolent 
man,  whose  monomania  affected  nobody  but 
himself,  and  him  it  did  affect  through  every 
bone  of  his  body.  He  was  attended  by  hia 
own  servants,  especially  by  his  own  cook — 
for  he  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  considemble 
rank  in  the  country — in  order  that  he  could 
rely  upon  their  fidehty  in  seing  that  notliing 
contrary  to  his  princijjles  might  be  foisted 
upon  him.  He  had  his  carriage,  in  which  he- 
drove  out  everj'  day,  and  into  which  and  out 
of  which  his  senauts  assisted  him  We  need 
scarcely  assure  our  readers  that  he  wis  the 
lion  of  the  place,  or  that  no  individu;^.  there 
excited  either  so  much  interest  or  cuiiusity. 
Of  the  many  others  of  vai-ious,  but  sul>ordi- 
nate  classes  we  shall  not  speak.  "Wealtliy 
farmers,  pi-ofessional  men,  among  whom, 
however,  we  cannot  omit  Counsellor  Puzzle- 
.  well,  who,  by  the  way,  had  one  eye  upon 


750 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


Miss  Rosebud  and  another  upon  the  comely 
widow  herself,  together  with  several  minor 
grades  dov.-n  to  the  very  paupers  of  society, 
were  all  there. 

About  this  period  it  was  resolved  to  have 
a  dinner,  to  be  followed  by  a  ball  in  the  lat- 
ter part  of  the  evening.  This  was  the  pro- 
ject of  Squire  ^Manifold,  whose  jDhysician  at- 
tended him  like,  or  very  unlike,  his  shadow, 
for  he  was  a  small  thin  man,  with  sharp  eyes 
and  keen  features,  and  so  slight  that  if  put 
into  the  scale  against  the  shadow  he  would 
scarcely  weigh  it  up.  The  squii'e's  wife, 
who  was  a  crijDple,  insisted  that  he  should  ac- 
company her  husband,  in  order  to  see  that 
he  might  not  gorge  himself  into  the  apo- 
plectic fit  with  which  he  was  threatened. 
His  first  had  a  pecuHar  and  melancholy, 
though,  to  spectators,  a  ludicrous  effect  upon 
him.  He  was  now  so  stu23id,  and  made  such 
blunders  in  conversation,  that  the  comic 
effect  of  them  was  ii'resistible  ;  especially  to 
to  those  who  were  not  aware  of  the  cause  of 
it,  but  looked  upon  the  whole  thing  as  his 
natural  manner.  He  had  been,  ever  since 
his  arrival  at  the  accui'sed  Spa,  kept  by  Doc- 
tor Doohttle  iipon  short  commons,  both  as 
to  food  and  drink  ;  and  what  with  the  effect 
of  the  waters,  and  severe  pui-gatives  admin- 
istered by  the  doctor,  he  felt  himself  in  a 
state  little  short  of  piu-gatory  itself.  The 
meagi'e  regimen  to  which  he  was  so  merci- 
lessly subjected  gave  him  the  appetite  of  a 
shark.  Indeed,  the  bill  of  fare  prescribed 
for  him  was  scarcely  sufficient  to  sustain  a 
boy  of  twelve  years  of  age.  In  consec[uence 
of  this  he  had  got  it  into  his  head  that  the 
season  was  a  season  of  famine,  and  on  this 
calamitous  disi^ensation  of  Providence  he 
kept  harping  fi-om  morning  to  night.  The 
idea  of  the  dinner,  however,  was  hailed  by 
them  aU  as  a  very  agreeable  project,  for 
which  the  squire,  who  only  thought  of  the 
opportunity  it  would  give  himself  to  enjoy  a 
surfeit,  was  highly  compHmented.  It  was 
to  be  in  the  shape  of  a  modern  table  d'hote : 
every  gentleman  was  to  pay  for  himself  and 
such  of  his  party  as  accompanied  him  to  it. 
Even  the  Pythagorean  rehshed  the  proposal, 
for  although  pecuhar  in  his  opinions,  he  was 
sufficiently  liberal,  and  too  much  of  a  gen- 
tleman, to  quarrel  \n.i\\  those  who  differed 
from  him.  j\Ir.  Goodwin,  too,  was  a  con- 
senting party,  and  mentioned  the  subject  to 
Alice  in  a  cheerful  sj^irit,  and  with  a  hope 
that  she  might  be  able  to  rally  and  attend  it. 
She  promised  to  do  so  if  she  could  ;  but 
said  it  chiefly  depended  on  the  state  of 
health  in  which  she  might  find  herself.  In- 
deed, if  ever  a  beautiful  and  interesting  girl 
was  to  be  pitied,  she,  most  unquestionably, 
was  an  object  of  the  deepest   compassion. 


It  was  not  merely  what  she  had  to  suffet 
from  the  Evil  Eye  of  the  demon  Woodward, 
but  from  the  fact  which  had  reached  her  eara 
of  what  she  considered  the  profligate  con- 
duct of  his  brother  Charles,  once  her  be- 
trothed lover.  This  latter  reflection,  associ" 
ated  with  the  probabihty  of  his  death,  when 
joined  to  the  terrible  malady  which  Wood- 
ward had  inflicted  on  her,  may  enable  our 
readers  to  perceive  what  the  poor  girl  had  to 
suffer.  Still  she  told  her  father  that  she 
would  be  present  if  her  health  permitted 
her,  "  especially,"  she  added,  "  as  there  was 
no  possibility  of  Woodward  being  among 
the  guests." 

"  AMay,  my  dear  child,"  said  her  father, 
"  what  could  put  such  an  absurd  apprehen- 
sion into  your  head  ?  " 

"Because,  j^apa,  I  don't  think  he  will  ever 
let  me  out  of  his  power  tmtil  he  kills  me.  I 
don't  think  he  will  come  here  ;  but  I  di-ead 
to  return  home,  because  I  fear  that  if  I  do 
he  will  obtiTide  himself  on  me ;  and  I  feel 
that  another  gaze  of  his  eye  would  occasion 
my  death." 

"I  would  call  him  out,"  replied  the  father, 
"  and  shoot  him  hke  a  dog,  to  which  honest 
and  faithful  animal  it  is  a  sin  to  compare  the 
villain." 

"  And  then  I  might  be  left  fatherless ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "  O,  pajDa,  promise  me  that 
you  never  will  have  recourse  to  that  dread- 
ful alternative." 

"  But  my  darling,  I  only  said  so  upon  the 
supjDosition  of  your  death  by  him." 

"  But  mamma  !  " 

"Come,  come,  Alice,  get  up  your  spirits, 
and  be  able  to  attend  this  dinner.  It  will 
cheer  you  and  do  you  good.  We  have  been 
discussing  soajD  bubbles.  Give  up  thinking 
of  the  scoundrel,  and  you  will  soon  feel  your- 
self well  enough.  In  about  another  month 
we  will  start  for  Killarney,  and  see  the  lakes 
and  the  magnificent  scenery  by  which  they 
are  surrounded." 

"  Well,  dear  jDapa,  I  shall  go  to  this  din- 
ner if  I  am  at  all  able  ;  but  indeed  I  do  not 
expect  to  be  able.'' 

In  the  meantime  every  preparation  was 
made  for  the  forthcoming  banquet.  It  was 
to  be  on  a  large  scale,  and  many  of  the 
neighboring  gentry  and  their  families  were 
asked  to  it.  The  knowledge  that  Cooke, 
the  Pythagorean,  was  at  the  Well  had  tr.ken 
wind,  and  a  strong  curiosity  had  gone  abroad 
to  see  him.  This  eccentric  gentleman's  ap- 
pearance was  exceedingly  original,  if  not 
startling.  He  was,  at  least,  six  feet  two,  but 
so  thin,  fleshless,  and  attenuated,  that  he  re- 
sembled a  living  skeleton.  This  was  the 
more  strange,  inasmuch  as  in  his  earlier 
days  he  had  been   robust   and   stout,  ap- 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


751 


preaching  even  to  corpulency.  His  dress 
was  .IS  remarkable  as  his  person,  if  not  more 
BO.  It  consi.sted  of  bleached  hnen,  and  was 
exceed iagly  white  ;  and  so  particuhu*  was  he 
in  point  of  cleanliness,  that  he  put  on  a  fresh 
dress  every  day.  He  wore  a  pair  of  long 
pantaloons  that,  unfortunately  for  his  sym- 
metry, adhered  to  his  legs  and  thighs  as 
closely  as  the  skin  ;  and  as  the  aforesaid  legs 
and  thighs  were  skeletonic,  nothing  could  be 
more  ludicrous  than  his  appeai-ance  in  them. 
His  vest  was  equally  close  ;  and  as  the  hang- 
ing cloak  which  he  wore  over  it  did  not 
reach  far  enough  down  his  back,  it  was  im- 
possible to  view  him  behind  ^s'ithout  con- 
vulsive laughter.  His  shoes  were  made  of 
some  description  of  foreign  bark,  which  had 
by  some  chemical  process  been  tanned  into 
toughness,  and  on  his  head  he  wore  a  tur- 
ban of  linen,  made  of  the  same  material  . 
which  furnisiied  his  other  garments.  Alto-  I 
gether,  a  more  ludicrous  fignire  could  not  be  ' 
seen,  especiidly  if  a  person  happened  to  ' 
stand  behind  him  when  he  bowed.  Not- 
withstanding all  this,  however,  he  possessed 
the  manners  and  bearing  of  a  gentleman  ; 
the  only  thing  remai-kable  about  him,  beyond 
what  we  have  described,  being  a  pecuhar 
wildness  of  the  eyes,  accompanied,  however, 
by  an  iinquestionable  expression  of  great 
benignity.  i 

We  leave  the  company  at  the  Well  prepar- 
ing for  the  forthcoming  dinner  and  return  to 
Rathtillan  House,  where  Harry  Woodward  is 
making  arrangements  for  his  jom*ney  to 
Ballyspellan,  which  now  we  believe  goes  by 
the  name  of  Johnstown.  Under  every  cir- 
cumstance of  his  life  he  was  a  plotter  and  a 
plannei',  and  had  at  all  times  some  private 
speculation  in  view.  On  the  present  occasion, 
in  addition  to  his  murderous  design  upon 
]Miss  Goodwin,  he  resolved  to  become  a  wife- 
hunter,  for,  being  well  acquainted,  as  he  was, 
with  the  tone  and  temper  of  Eughsh  society 
at  its  most  celebrated  watering  places,  and  i 
the  matrimonial  projects  and  intrigues  which  ' 
abound  at  them,  he  took  it  for  granted  that 
he  might  stand  a  chance  of  making  a  suc- 
cessful hit  with  a  view  to  matrimony.  One 
thing  struck  him,  however,  which  was,  that ; 
he  had  no  horse,  and  could  not  go  there 
mounted,  as  a  gentleman  ought.  It  is  true  ' 
his  step -father  had  several  horses,  but  not 
one  of  them  beyond  the  character  of  a  com- 
mon hack.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to  pur- 
chase a  becoming  nag  for  his  journey,  and 
with  this  object  he  called  upon  a  neighboi-ing 
fai'mer,  named  Muiray.  who  possessed  a 
ver^'  beautiful  animal,  rising  four,  and  which 
he  learned  was  to  be  di.sposed  of,  ! 

"Mr.    Murraj',"   Siiid  he,    " I  understand  | 
you  have  a  young  horse  for  sale."  I 


"I  have,  sir,"  rephed  Murray;  "and  • 
better  piece  of  flesh  is  not  in  the  country  he 
stands  in." 

"  Could  I  see  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir,  and  try  him,  too.  He  is 
not  flesh  and  bone  at  all.  sir — devil  a  thing 
he  is  but  quicksilver.  Here,  Paudeen,  sad- 
dle Brien  Boro  for  this  gentleman.  You 
won't  require  wings,  Mr.  Woodward  ;  Brien 
Boro  will  show  you  how  to  fly  without 
them." 

"  Well,"  rephed  Woodward,  "  trial's  all ; 
but  at  any  rate,  I'm  willing  to  prefer  good 
flesh  and  bone  to  quicksilver." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  horse  was  brought 
out,  saddled  and  bridled,  and  Woodward, 
who  certainly  was  an  excellent  horseman, 
mounted  him  and  tried  his  paces. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Murray,  "how  do  you 
like  him '? " 

"I  like  him  weU,"  said  Woodwaid.  "His 
temper  is  good,  I  know,  by  his  docihty  to 
the  bit." 

"Yes,  but  you  haven't  tried  him  at  a 
ditch  ;  foUow  me  and  I'll  show  you  as  pretty 
a  one  as  ever  a  horse  cx'ossed,  and  you  mny 
take  my  word  it  isn't  every  horse  could  cross 
it.  You  have  a  good  firm  seat,  sir  ;  and  I 
know  you  wiU  both  do  it  in  sjxjrtsman-like 
style." 

Having  reached  the  ditch,  which  certainly 
was  a  rasper,  Woodward  reined  round  the 
animal,  who  crossed  it  like  a  swallow. 

"Now,"  said  Murray,  "unless  you  wish  to 
ride  half  a  mile  in  order  to  get  back,  you 
must  cross  it  again." 

This  was  accordingly  done  in  admirable 
style,  both  by  man  and  horse ;  and  Wood- 
ward, having  ridden  him  back  to  the  fann- 
yard,  dismounted,  highly  satisfied  with  the 
animal's  action  and  powers. 

"Now,  !Mr.  Murray,"  said  he,  "what's  his 
price  ?  "        ""'' 

"  Fifty  guineas,  sir  ;  neither  more  nor  lesa" 

"Say  thirty  and  well  deal" 

"  I  don't  want  money,  sir,"  rephed  the 
sturdy  farmer,  "  and  I  won't  part  ^-ith  the 
horse  under  his  value.  I  will  get  \7hat  J  ask 
for  him." 

"  Say  thirty-five." 

"  Not  a  cross  imder  the  roimd  half  hun- 
dred ;  and  I'm  glad  it  is  not  your  mother 
that  is  bu\'ing  him." 

"  ^^^ly  so  ?  "  asked  Woodward  ;  and  his  eye 
darkly  sparkled  with  its  miilignant  influence. 

"  Why,  sir,  because  if  I  didn't  sell  him  to 
her  at  her  ovm  terms,  he  would  be  worth 
vers'  httle  in  a  few  days  afterwards." 

The  observation  was  certainly  an  offensive 
one,  especially  when  made  to  her  son. 

"Wil  you  take  forty  for  him? "asked 
Woodward,  coolly. 


752 


WILLIAM  CAB  LET  O  If' S  WORKS. 


"Not  a  penny,  sir,  under  what  I  said. 
You  ai-e  clearly  a  good  judge  of  a  horse,  IVIr. 
Woodward,  and  I  wonder  that  a  gentleman 
like  you  Avould  oifer  me  less  than  I  ask,  be- 
cause you  cannot  but  know  that  it  is  under 
his  value." 

"  I  will  give  no  more,"  rephed  Woodward  ; 
"  so  there  is  an  end  to  it.  Let  me  see  the 
horse's  eyes." 

He  placed  liimself  before  the  animal,  and 
looked  steadily  into  his  eyes  for  about  five 
minutes,  after  which  he  said, — 

"I  think,  jMr.  Murray,  you  would  have 
acted  more  prudently  had  you  taken  my 
offer.     I  bade  you  full  value  for  the  horse." 

To  Murray's  astonishment  the  animal  be- 
gan to  tremble  excessively  ;  the  pers^Dira- 
tion  was  seen  to  flow  from  him  in  torrents  ; 
he  appeared  feeble  and  collapsed  ;  and 
seemed  scarcely  able  to  stand  on  his  Hmbs, 
which  were  shaking  as  if  with  terror  under 
him. 

"Why,  ]Mi\  Mm-ray,"  said  Woodward, 
"  I  am  veiy  glad  I  did  not  buy  him  ;  the 
beast  is  ill,  and  will  be  for  the  dogs  of  the 
neighborhood  in  three  days'  time." 

"  Until  the  last  five  minutes,  sir,  there 
wasn't  a  sounder  horse  in  Europe." 

"Look  at  him  now,  then,"  said  Wood- 
ward; "do  you  call  that  a  sound  horse? 
Take  him  into  the  stable  ;  before  the  ex- 
pii-ation  of  thi'ee  days  you  will  be  flaying 
him." 

His  words  were  prophetic.  In  three  days' 
time  the  fine  and  healthy  animal  was  a  car- 
cass. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  fai-mer,  when  he  saw  the 
horse  Ijang  dead  before  him,  "  this  fellow  is 
his  mother's  son.  From  the  time  he  looked 
into  the  horse's  eyes  the  j)oor  beast  sank  so 
rapidly  that  he  didn't  pass  the  third  day 
ahve.  And  there  are  fifty  guineas  out  of  my 
pocket.  The  curse  of  God  on  him  wherever 
he  goes !  " 

Woodward  j)^ovided  himself,  however, 
with  another  horse,  and  in  due  time  set  out 
for  the  Spa  at  BaUyspellan. 

The  dinner  was  now  fixed  for  a  certain 
day,  and  Squire  Manifold  felt  himself  in 
high  spiiits  as  often  as  he  could  recollect 
the  circumstance — which,  indeed,  was  but 
rarely,  the  worthy  epicure's  memory  having 
nearly  abandoned  him.  Topertoe,  of  the 
gout,  and  he  were  old  acquaintances  and 
companions,  and  had  spent  many  a  merry 
night  together  —  both,  as  the  proverb 
has  it,  being  tarred  with  the  same  stick. 
Topertoe  was  as  great  a  glutton  as  the 
other,  but  without  his  desperate  voracity 
in  food,  whilst  in  drink  he  equalled  if  he 
did  not  surpass  him.  Manifold  would  have 
forgotten  every  thing  about  the  dinner  had 


he  not  from  time  to  time  been  reminded  of 
it  by  his  companion. 

"  Manifold,  we  will  have  a  great  day  ov 
Thursday." 

"  Great !  "  exclaimed  Manifold,  who  in 
addition  to  his -other  stupidities,  was  a» 
deaf  as  a  post;  "great — eh?  What  size 
wHl  it  be  ?  " 

"  What  size  will  it  be  ?  WTiy,  confoimd 
it,  man,  don't  you  know  what  I'm  saying  ?  " 

No,  I  don't— yes,  I  do — you  ai-e  talking 
aboiit  something  great.  O,  I  know  now — 
your  toe  you  mean — where  the  gout  lies. 
They  say,  it  begins  at  the  great  toe,  and  goes 
up  to  the  stomach.  I  suppose  Alexander 
the  Great  was  gouty  and  got  his  name  from 
that." 

"I'm  talking  of  the  great  dinner  we're 
to  have  on  Thursday,"  shouted  Toj)ertoe. 
"  We'll  have  a  splendid  feed  then,  my  fa- 
mous old  trencherman,  and  I'll  take  care  that 
Doctor  Doolittle  shall  not  stint  you." 

"  There  won't  be  any  toast  and  water — 
eh?" 

"  Devil  a  mouthful ;  and  we  are  to  have 
the  celebrated  Cooke,  the  Pythagorean." 

"  Ay,  but  is  he  a  good  cook  ?  " 

"  He's  the  celebrated  Pythagorean,  I  tell 
you." 

"  Pythagorean — what's  that  ?  I  thought 
you  said  he  was  a  cook.  Does  he  under- 
stand venison  properly  ?  O,  good  Lord ! 
what  a  hfe  I'm  leading  !  Toast  and  water — 
toast  and  water.  But  it's  all  the  result  of 
this  famine.  And  yet  they  know  I'm  wealthy. 
I  say,  what's  this  your  name  is  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  that — an  old  acquaintance. 
Hell  and  torments  !    what's  this  ?    0  !  " 

"  The  weather's  pleasant,  Topertoe.  I  say, 
Toj^ertoe,  what's  this  your  name  is  ?  " 

"  O  !  O  !  "  exclaimed  Topertoe,  who  felt  one 
or  two  desperate  twinges  of  his  prevailing 
malady  ;  "  curse  me.  Manifold,  but  I  think  I 
would  exchange  with  you  ;  your  complaint 
is  an  easy  one  compared  to  mine.  You  are 
a  mere  block,  and  will  pop  off  without  pain, 
instead  of  being  racked  like  a  soul  in  per- 
dition as  I  am." 

"  Your  soul  in  perdition — weU  I  suppose 
it  will.  But  don't  groan  and  scream  so — you 
ai'e  not  there  yet ;  when  you  are  you  will 
have  plenty  of  time  to  groan  and  scream. 
As  for  myself,  I  \\dll  be  likely  to  sleep  it  out 
there.  I  think,  by  the  way,  I  had  the  plea- 
sure of  knowing  you  before  ;  your  face  is 
famihar  to  me.  What's  this  you  call  the 
man  that  attends  sick  people  ?  " 

"  A  doctor.  O  !  O !  Hell  and  torments  1 
what  is  this  ?    Yes,  a  doctor.     O  !    O  !  " 

"  Ay,  a  doctor.  Confound  me,  but  I  think 
my  head's  going  around  like  a  top.  Yes,  a 
— a — a — a   doctor.     Well,  the   doctor   says 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


753 


that  I  and  Parson  Topertoe  led  a  nice  life  of 
it — one  a  glutton  and  the  other  a  drunkard. 
Do  you  know  Topertoe  ?  Because  if  you 
don't  I  do.  He  is  a  damned  scoundrel,  and 
squeezed  his  tithes  out  of  the  people  with 
pincers  of  blood." 

"  Manifold,  your  gluttony  has  brought  you 
to  a  fine  pass.     Are  you  alive  or  not  V  " 

"  Eh  ?  Curse  all  dry  toast  and  water ! 
But  it's  all  the  consequence  of  this  year  of 
famine.     Pra}-,  sir,  what  do  you  eat  ?  " 

"  Beef,  mutton,  venison,  fowl,  ham,  turbot, 
salmon,  black  sole,  with  all  the  projier  and 
corresponding  sauces  and  condiments." 

"  O  Lord !  and  no  toast  and  water,  beef 
tea,  and  oatmeal  gruel  ?  Heavens  !  how  I 
wish  this  year  of  famine  was  j^ast.  It  Mill 
be  the  death  of  me.  I  say,  what's  this  your 
name  is  ?  Your  face  is  familiar  to  me  some- 
how. Could  you  aid  me  in  jioisoning  the — 
the — what  you  call  him — ay,  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more  easily  done,  my  dear 
Manifold.  Contrive  to  let  him  take  one  of 
his  own  doses,  and  he's  done  for." 

"Wouldn't  ratsbane  do?  I  often  think 
he's  a  rat." 

"In  face  and  eyes  he  certainly  looks  very 
like  one." 

"Are  you  aware,  sir,  that  my  wife's  a 
cripple?  She's  paralvzed  in  her  lower 
limbs." 

"  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  that  melancholy 
fact." 

"Are  you  aware  that  she's  jealous  of 
me?" 

"  No,  not  that  she's  jealous  of  you  now  ; 
but  perfectly  aware  that  she  had  good  cause 
to  be  so." 

"  Ay,  but  the  devil  of  it  is  that  the  pa- 
ralysis you  sj)eak  of  never  reached  her 
tongue." 

"  /  speak  of — 'twas  yourself  spoke  of  it." 

"She  sent  me  here  because  it  happens 
to  be  a  yeai"  of  famine — what  is  commonly 
called  a  hard  season — and  she  stitched  the 
little  blasted  doctor  to  me  that  I  might  die 
legitimately  under  medical  advice,  isn't  that 
very  like  murder — isn't  it  ?  " 

"Ah,  my  dear  fi'iend,  thank  God  that  you 
are  not  a  parson,  having  a  handsome  wife  and 
a  handsome  curate,  with  the  gout  to  supj^ort 
you  and  keep  you  comfortable.  You  would 
then  feel  that  there  are  other  twinges  worse 
than  those  of  the  gout." 

"  Ay,  but  is  there  anything  wrong  about 
your  head  ?  " 

"Heaven  knows.  About  a  twelvemonth 
ago  I  felt  as  if  there  were  two  sprouts  bud- 
ding out  of  my  forehead,  but  on  putting 
up  my  hand  I  could  feel  nothing.  It  was  as 
smooth  as  ever.  It  must  have  been  hji^o- 
chondriasis.     The  curate,  though,  is  a  hand- 


j  some  dog,  and,  like  yourself,  it  waa  my  wife 
)  sent  me  here." 

"la  your  wife  a  cripple?" 

"  Faith,  anything  but  that." 

"How  is  her  tougue?  No  paralysis  in 
that  quai'ter  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  she  is  calm  and  soft- 
spoken,  and  perfectly  sweet  and  angelic  in 
her  manner." 

"But  was  it  in  consequence  of  the  famine 
she  sent  you  here  ?  Toast  and  water ! — toast 
and  water !    O  Lord  !  " 

This  dialogue  took  place  in  INIanifold's 
lodgings,  where  Topertoe,  Jiided  by  a  crutch 
and  his  servant,  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting 
him.  To  Manifold,  indeed,  this  was  a  penal 
settlement,  in  consequence  of  the  reasons 
which  we  have  akeady  stated. 

The  Pythagorean,  as  well  as  Topertoe,  was 
also  occasionally  forced  to  the  use  of  crutches  • 
and  it  was  certainly  a  strange  and  remarkable 
thing  to  witness  two  men,  each  at  the  extreme 
point  of  social  indulgence,  and  each  depart- 
ing from  reason  and  common- sense,  suffer- 
ing fi'om  the  consequences  of  their  respec- 
tive errors  ;  Manifold,  a  most  voracious  fel- 
low, knocked  on  the  head  by  an  attack  of 
apoplexy,  and  Cooke,  the  jihilosopher,  suf- 
fering the  tortures  of  the  damned  from  a 
most  violent  rheumatism,  produced  bj'  a 
monomania  which  compelled  him  to  decliu* 
the  simple  enjoyment  of  reasonable  food  an  A 
dress.  Cooke's  monomania,  however,  was  a 
rare  one.  In  Blackivood's  Magazine  there  ap- 
peared, several  years  ago,  an  admirable  wri- 
ter, whose  name  we  now  forget,  under  the 
title  of  a  modern  Pj'thagorean  ;  but  that  was 
merely  a  «o/?i  de  guerre,  adopted,  probably, 
to  excite  a  stronger  interest  in  the  perusal 
of  his  productions.  Here,  however,  was  a 
man  in  whom  the  principle  existed  upon 
what  he  considered  rational  and  philosophic 
grounds.  He  had  gotten  the  philosophicjxl 
blockhead's  crotchet  into  his  head,  anl  car- 
ried the  principle,  in  a  practical  point  of 
view,  much  further  than  ever  the  old  fool 
himseK  did  in  his  life. 


CHAPTEE  XXL 


1^  Dinner  at  BaMyspeUan — The  Appearance  tf 
Woodward. —  Valentine  Oreatrakes. 


The  Tliursday  appointed  for  the  dinner  at 
length  arrived.  The  little  village  was  all 
alive  with  stir  and  bustle,  inasmuch  as  for 
several  months  no  such  important  event  had 
taken  place.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  gala  day  ;  and 
the  poorer  inhabitants  crowded  about  the 


754 


WILLIAM  CARLETOj^'S  WORKS. 


inn  to  watcli  the  guests  arriving,  and  the 
paupers  to  soUcit  their  alms.  Twelve  or  one 
was  then  the  usual  hour  for  dinner,  but  in 
consequence  of  the  large  scale  on  which  it 
was  to  take  place  and  the  unusual  prepara- 
tions necessary,  it  was  not  until  the  hour  of 
two  that  tLe  guests  sat  down  to  table.  Some 
of  the  principal  names  we  have  already  men- 
tioned— all  the  males,  of  course,  invalids — 
but,  as  we  have  said,  there  were  a  good 
number  of  the  surrounding  gentry,  their 
wives  and  daughters,  so  that  the  fete  was 
expected  to  come  off  with  gi-eat  eclat.  Toper- 
toe  was  dressed,  as  was  then  the  custom,  in 
full  canonical  costume,  with  his  silk  cassock 
and  bands,  for  he  was  a  doctor  of  divinity  ; 
and  Manifold  was  habited  in  the  usual  dress 
of  the  day — his  fiolling  coUar  exhibiting  a 
neck  whose  thickness  took  away  all  surprise 
as  to  his  tendency  to  apoplexy.  The  lengthy 
figure  of  the  unsubstantial  Pythagorean  was 
cased  in  Hnen  garments,  almost  snow-white, 
through  which  his  anatomy  might  be  read 
as  distinctly  as  if  his  li^-ing  skeleton  was 
naked  before  them.  IVIi-s.  Rosebud  was 
blooming  and  expanded  into  full  flower, 
whilst  Miss  Rosebud  was  just  in  that  inter- 
esting state  when  the  leaves  are  apparently 
in  the  act  of  bursting  out  and  besto^ving 
their  beauty  and  fragrance  on  the  gratified 
senses  of  the  beholder.  Dr.  DooHttle,  who 
was  a  regular  wag — indeed  too  much  so  ever 
to  succeed  in  his  profession — entered  the 
room  with  his  three-cocked  hat  under  his 
arm,  and  the  usual  gold-headed  cane  in  his 
hand  ;  and,  after  saluting  the  company, 
looked  about  after  Manifold,  his  patient. 
He  saluted  the  Pythagorean,  and  compli- 
mented him  upon  his  j)hilosophy,  and  the 
healthful  habits  engendered  by  a  vegetable 
diet,  and  so  primitive  a  linen  dress— a  di-ess, 
he  said,  which,  in  addition  to  its  other  ad- 
vantages, ought  to  be  generally  adopted,  if 
only  for  the  sake  of  its  capacity  for  showing 
off  the  symmetry  of  the  figure.  He  was  him- 
self a  warm  admirer  of  the  principle,  and 
begged  to  have  the  honor  of  shaking  hands 
with  the  gentleman  who  had  the  courage  to 
cany  it  out  against  aU  the  prejudices  of  a 
besotted  world.  He  accordingly  seized  the 
philosopher's  hand,  which  was  then  in  a 
desperately  rheumatic  state,  as  the  little 
scoundrel  well  knew,  and  gave  it  such  a 
squeeze  of  respect  and  admiration  that  the 
Pythagorean  emitted  a  yell  which  astonished 
and  alarmed  the  whole  room. 

"Death  and  torture,  sir — why  did  you 
squeeze  my  rheumatic  hand  in  such  a 
manner  ? " 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Cooke — respect  and 
admiration  for  your  principles." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  will  thank  you  to  express 


what  you  may  feel  in  plain  language,  feut  not 
in  such  damnable  squeezes  as  that." 

"  Pardon  me,  again,  sir  ;  I  was  ignorant 
that  the  rheumatism  was  in  your  hand  ;  you 
know  I  am  not  your  physician  ;  perhaps  if  1 
were  you  could  bear  a  friendly  shake  of  it 
without  all  that  agony.  I  very  much  regret 
the  pain  I  unconsciously,  and  from  motives 
of  the  highest  I'espect,  have  put  you  to." 

"  It  is  gone — do  not  mention  it,"  said  the 
benevolent  phHosoi^her.  "Perhaps  I  may 
try  your  skill  some  of  these  days." 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  Doolittle,  "  that  I 
am  forcing  ^Ir.  Manifold  here  to  avail  him- 
self of  your  sj'stem — a  simj^le  vegetable  diet." 

"  O  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  Manifold,  in  a  so- 
liloquy— for  he  was  perfectly  unconscious  of 
what  was  going  on — "  toast  and  water,  toast 
and  water  !  That  and  a  season  of  famine — 
what  a  i^rospect  is  before  me  !  Doolittle  is 
a  rat,  and  I  will  hire  somebody  to  give  him 
ratsbane.  Nothing  but  a  vegetable  diet,  and 
be  hanged  to  him !  ^\Tiat's  ratsbane  an 
ounce  ? " 

"  You  hear,  su',"  said  Doolittle,  addressing 
the  Pythagorean  ;  "  you  perceive  that  I  am 
adopting  your  system  ?  " 

"  jMr.  Doolittle,"  replied  Cooke,  "from 
this  day  forth  you  are  vay  physician — I  in- 
trust you  with  the  management  of  my  rheu- 
matism ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  I  think  the 
room  is  derilishly  cold." 

Captain  Culverin  now  entered,  swathed 
up,  and,  as  was  evident,  somewhat  tipsy. 

"  Eh !  confound  me,  philosopher,  your 
hand,"  he  exclaimed,  putting  out  his  own  to 
shake  hands  with  him. 

"I  can't,  sir,"  rejshed  Cooke;  "I  am  af- 
flicted with  rheumatism.  You  seem  luiweU, 
captain  ;  but  if  you  gave  up  spirituous 
liquors — such  as  wine  and  usquebaugh — ^you 
would  find  yourself  the  better  for  it.". 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  ?  "  asked  Mani- 
fold. "At  all  events  Doohttle's  a  rat.  A 
vegetable  diet,  a  year  of  famine,  toast,  and 
water— O  Lord  ! " 

Dinner,  however,  came,  and  the  Httle  wag- 
gish doctor  could  not,  for  the  life  of  him, 
avoid  his  jokes.  Cooke's  dish  of  vegetables 
was  placed  for  him  at  a  particular  part  of  the 
table  ;  but  the  doctor,  taking  Manifold  by 
the  hand,  j)laced  him  in  the  philosopher's 
seat,  whom  he  afterwards  set  before  a  mag- 
nificent sirloin  of  beef — for,  truth  to  speak, 
the  Httle  man  acted  as  a  kind  of  master  of 
the  ceremonies  to  the  company  at  Bally- 
spellan. 

"^^^Iat's  this?"  exclaimed  Maniifold. 
"  Perdition  !  here  is  nothing  but  a  dish  of 
asparagus  before  me  !  What  kind  of  treat- 
ment is  this  ?  Were  we  not  to  have  a  great 
dinner,  Topertoe  ?    Alexander  the  Great  1 " 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPJi.CTLiE. 


755 


"And  who  placed  me  before  a  sirloin  of 
beef?"  asked  the  philosopher;  "I,  who  fol- 
low the  ijrincijjles  of  the  Great  Pythagorean. 
I  am  nearly  sick  already  with  the  fume  of  it. 
Good  heavens !  a  sirloin  of  beef  before  a 
vegetaiian." 

Of  course  Manifold  and  the  philosopher 
exchanged  places,  and  the  dinner  proceeded. 
Ml',  and  Mrs.  Goodwin  were  present,  but 
Alice  was  unable  to  come,  although  anxious 
to  do  so  in  order  to  obhge  her  parents.  It 
is  unnecessary-  to  describe  the  gastric  feats 
of  Manifold  and  Topertoe.  The  voracity  of 
the  former  was  astonishing,  nor  was  tint -of 
the  latter  much  less  ;  and  when  the  dishes 
were  removed  and  the  tables  cleared  for 
their  compotations,  the  faces  of  both  gentle- 
men appeared  as  if  they  were  about  to  ex- 
plode. The  table  was  now  supphed  with 
eveiy  variety  of  liquor,  and  the  conversation 
began  to  assume  that  convivial  tone  peculiar 
to  such  assemblies.  The  little  doctor  was 
placed  between  jNIanifold  and  the  Pythago- 
rean, who,  by  the  way,  was  exceedingly 
short-sighted  ;  and  on  the  other  side  of  him 
sat  Parson  Topertoe,  who  seemed  to  feel 
something  like  a  reprieve  from  his  gout. 
When  the  liquor  was  placed  on  the  table, 
after  dinner,  the  Pythagorean  got  to  his  feet, 
filled  a  large  glass  of  water,  and  taking  a 
gulp  of  it,  leaving  it  about  half  full,  he  pro- 
ceeded as  follows : 

"  Gentlemen :  considering  the  state  of 
morals  in  our  imfortunate  country,  arising 
as  it  does  from  the  use  of  intoxicating 
hquors  and  the  flesh  of  animals,  I  feel  my- 
self called  upon  to  impress  upon  the  con- 
sciences of  this  respectable  auditoiy  the 
necessity  of  studying  the  admirable  princi- 
ples of  the  great  philosopher  whose  simplic- 
ity of  life  in  food  and  drink  I  humbly  en- 
deavor to  imitate.  Modern  society,  my 
friends,  is  all  wrong,  and,  of  course,  is  pro- 
ceeding upon  an  erroneous  and  pernicious  sys- 
tem— tliat  of  eating  tlie  flesh  of  animals  and 
indulging  in  the  use,  or  rather  the  abuse,  of 
liquors,  that  heat  the  blood  and  intoxicate 
the  brain  into  the  indulgence  of  passion  and 
the  commission  of  crime." 

Here  the  little  doctor  threw  a  glass  of 
usquebaugh — now  called  whiskey — into  the 
half-emptied  cup  which  stood  before  Cooke. 

"  A  vegetable  diet,  gentlemen,  is  that 
which  was  appointed  for  us  by  Providence, 
and  water  lilie  this  our  di-ink.  And,  indeed, 
water  like  this  is  delicious  drink.  The  Spa 
of  Ballyspellan  stands  imrivalled  for  strength 
and  flavor,  and  its  capacity  of  exhilarating 
the  animal  spirits  is  extraordinary.  You  see, 
gentlemen,  how  copiously  I  drink  it ;  ser- 
vant, till  my  glass  again — thank  you." 

In  the  meantime,  and  before  he  touched 


it,  the  doctor  whipped  another  glass  of 
whiskey  into  it — an  act  which  the  Pytha- 
gorean, who  was,  as  we  have  saiel,  unusually 
tall,  and  kept  his  eye  upon  the  compimy, 
could  neither  suspect  nor  see. 

"It  has  been  ignorantly  said  that  the, 
structui'e  of  the  human  mouth  is  an  argu- 
ment against  me  as  to  the  quality  of  oui' 
food,  and  that  the  gi'owth  of  gi-apes  is  a 
proof  that  wine  was  ordained  to  be  drank  by 
men.  It  is  perfectly  well  known  that  a  man 
may  eat  a  bushel  of  grajies  without  getting 
drunk  ;  because  the  jjure  vegetable  possesses 
no  intoxicating  power  any  more  than  the 
water  which  I  am  now  di-inking — and  deli- 
cious water  it  is  !  " 

Here  the  doctor  dug  his  elbow  into  the  fat 
ribs  of  To])ertoe,  whose  face,  in  the  mean- 
time, seemed  in  a  blaze  of  indignation. 

"  I  teU  you  wliat,  philosopher,  curse  me 
but  you  are  an  intidel." 

"I  have  the  honor,  sir,"  he  replied,  "to 
be  an  infidel — as  every  philosoplier  is.  The 
truth  of  what  I  am  stating  to  you  has  been 
tested  by  philosophers,  and  it  has  been  as- 
certained that  no  quantity  of  grapes  eaten 
by  an  individual  could  make  him  drunk." 

The  doctor  gave  the  parson  another  dig, 
and  winked  at  him  to  keej)  quiet. 

"  Sii*,"  said  the  jDarson,  unable,  however, 
to  restrain  himself,  "confound  me  if  ever  ] 
heard  such  intidel  opinions  ex2:)ressed  in  my 
life.  Damn  your  philosophy' ;  it  is  cursed 
nonsense,  and  nothmg  else." 

"A  vegetable  diet,"  proceeded  Cooke,  "is 

a  guarantee  for  health  and  long  life O 

Lord  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  this  accursed  rheu- 
matism will  be  tlie  death  of  me." 

"  Wliat  is  he  saying  V  "  asked  Manifold. 

"He  is  talking  philosophy,"  replied  the 
doctor,  Avith  a  comic  grin,  "  and  recommend- 
ing a  vegetable  diet  and  pure  Avater." 

"  A  devilish  scoundrel,"  said  iManifold. 
"  He's  a  rat,  too.  Doolittle's  a  rat ;  but  I'll 
poison  him  ;  yes.  I'D  dose  him  with  ratsbane, 
and  then  I  can  eat,  drink,  and  swill  awny.  la 
the  i:)hilosopher's  wife  a  crijiijle  ?  " 

"He  has  no  wife,"  replied  Doolittle. 

"  And  what  the  devil,  then,  is  he  a  philos- 
opher for  ?  "What  on  earth  challenges  philos- 
ojihy  in  a  husband  so  much  as  a  wife, — es 
peciaUy  if  she's  a  cripple  and  has  the  use  oJ 
her  tongue  ?  " 

"Not  being  a  maiTie<l  man  myseK,"  replied 
the  doctor,  "  I  can  give  you  no  information 
on  the  subject ;  or  nitlier  I  could  if  I  would  . 
but  it  would  not  be  for  \o\\y  comfort : — ask 
Manifold." 

"  Ay ;  but  he  says  there's  something 
wi'ong  about  his  head—  s^jrouts  pressing  up, 
or  something  that  way.  Ask  INIrs.  Rosebud 
will  she  hob  or  nob  with  me.    !^li*s.  Koaebud.' 


756 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WOBKS 


he  proceeded,  addressing  the  widow,  "  hob 
or  nob  ?  " 

Mi-s.  Rosebud,  knowing  that  he  was  noth- 
ing more  nor  less  than  a  gouty  old  parson, 
bowed  to  him  veiw  coldly,  but  accepted  his 
challenge,  notwithstanding. 

"Mrs.  Rosebud,"  he  added,  "what  kind 
of  a  man  was  old  Rosebud  ?  " 

"  His  family  name,"  rejDlied  the  widow, 
"  was  not  Rosebud  but  Yellowboy  ;  and,  in- 
deed, to  speak  the  truth,  my  dear  old  Rose- 
bud had  all  the  marks  and  tokens  of  the 
original  family  name  upon  him,  for  he  was 
as  thin  as  the  philosopher  there,  and  as  yel- 
low as  safiEi'on.  His  mother,  however,  tlie 
night  before  he  was  born,  dreamed  that  she 
was  presented  with  a  rosebud,  and  the  name, 
being  somewhat  poetical,  was  adoj3ted  by 
himself  and  the  family  as  a  kmd  of  set-off 
against  the  duck-foot  color  of  the  ancestral 
skin." 

The  philosopher,  in  the  meantime,  finding 
himself  interrupted,  stood,  with  a  complacent 
countenance,  awaiting  a  pause  in  which  he 
might  proceed.  At  length  he  got  an  oppor- 
tunity of  resuming. 

"  The  world,"  he  added,  "knows  but  Httle 
of  the  great  founder  of  so  many  systems  and 
theories  connected  with  human  life  and  phi- 
losophy. It  was  he  who  invented  the  multi- 
plication table,  and  solved  the  forty-seventh 
proposition  of  the  first  book  of  Euclid.  It 
was  he  who,  from  his  profound  knowledge 
of  music,  first  discovered  the  music  of  the 
sjDheres — a  di'vine  harmony,  which,  from  its 
unbroken  continuity,  and  incessant  play  in 
the  heavenly  bodies,  we  are  incaj)able  of 
heai'ing." 

"Where  the  deuce,  then,  is  the  use  of 
it?  "  cried  Captain  Culverin  ;  "it  must  fee  a 
very  odd  kind  of  music  which  we  cannot 
hear." 

"  The  great  Samian,  sir,  could  hear  it ; 
but  only  in  his  heart  and  intellect,  and  after 
he  had  discovered  the  truthful  doctrine  of  the 
metempHuchods,  or  transmigration  of  souls." 

"  The  transmigration  of  solen  ;  why,  my 
dear  sir.  doesn't  every  fishwoman  understand 
that  ?  "  obsei-ved  the  captain.  "  Was  the  fel- 
low a  fisherman  ?  " 

"His  great  discovery,  however,  if  mankind 
would  only  adopt  it,  was  the  healthful  one 
of  a  vegetable  diet,  earned  out  by  a  fixed 
determination  not  to  wear  any  dress  made 
up  from  the  skins  or  fleeces  of  animals  that 
have  been  slain  by  man,  but  philosophically 
to  confine  himself  to  plain  linen  as  I  do.  O 
Lord !  this  rhevimatism  will  be  the  death  of 
me.  Pythagoras  was  one  of  the  greatest 
philosophers." 

Here  the  doctor  threw  another  glass  of 
itojquebaugh  into  the  cup  which  stood  before 


the  Pythagorean,  which  act,  in  consequence 
of  his  great  height  and  short  sight,  he  did 
not  perceive,  but  imagined  that  he  was 
di'inking  the  well  water. 

"Philosopher,"  said  Captain  Culverin, 
"hob  or  nob,  a  glass  with  you." 

"With  pleasure,  captain,"  said  the  Pytha- 
gorean, "  only  I  wish  you  would  adopt  my 
principles — a  vegetable  diet  and  aqua  jyui'a." 

"  Upon  my  credit,"  observed  Father  Mul- 
renin,  "  I  think  the  oquaj^ura  is  the  best  of 
it.  It  is  blessed  Avater,  this  well  water,  and 
it  ought  to  be  so,  because  the  parson  con- 
secrated it.  Hob  or  nob  with  me,  jVIi*. 
Cooke." 

"  W'ith  pleasure,  sir,"  rejihed  ]\Ir.  Cooke, 
again  ;  "  and  I  do  assure  you.  Father  Mulre- 
nin,  that  I  think  the  parson's  consecration 
has  improved  the  water." 

"  Sorra  doubt  of  it,"  rephed  the  fi'iar  ; 
"  and  I  am  sure  the  doctor  there  will  sup- 
port me  in  the  article  of  the  pai'son's  conse- 
cration." 

"The  great  Samian,"  proceeded  Cooke, 
"the  great  Samian " 

"  My  dear  philosopher,"  said  the  facetious 
fi'iar,  "never  mind  your  great  Samian,  but 
follow  up  your  principles  and  drink  your 
water." 

The  mischievous  doctor  had  thrown 
another  glass  into  his  cup:  "Drink  your 
water,  and  set  us  all  a  j)hilosophical  example 
of  sobriety." 

"That  I  always  do,"  said  the  philospher, 
staggering  a  httle  ;  "  that  I  always  do  :  the 
water  is  dehcious,  and  I  think  my  rheuma- 
tism has  departed  from  me.  IMr.  Manifold, 
hob  or  nob  !  " 

"No,"  replied  Manifold,  "confoimd  me  if 
I  will.  You  are  the  fellow  that  eats  nothing 
but  vegetables,  and  drinks  nothing  but  "wa- 
ter. Do  you  think  I  wiU  hob  or  nob  with  a 
water-drinking  rascal  hke  you  ?  Do  you 
think  I  will  put  my  wine  against  your  paltry 
water  ?  " 

"Don't  call  it  paltry,"  replied  the  Pytha- 
gorean ;  "  it  is  delicious.  You  know  not 
how  it  elevates  the  spirits  and,  so  to  speak, 
philosophizes  the  whole  system  of  man,  I 
am  beginning  to  feel  extremely  happy." 

"I  think  so,"  rephed  the  friar;  "but 
wasn't  it  a  fact,  as  a  proof  of  your  metemiiHy^ 
chosis,  that  the  gi'eat  author  of  your  doctrine 
was  at  the  siege  of  Troy  some  centuries  be- 
fore he  came  into  the  world  as  the  philoso- 
pher Pythagoras  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  his  follower,  "he  fought 
for  the  Greeks  in  the  character  of  Euphor- 
bus,  in  the  Trojan  war,  was  Hermatynus, 
and  afterwards  a  fisherman  ;  his  next  trans- 
formation having  been  into  the  body  of  I^' 
thaaoras." 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


75T 


"  What  an  extraordinary  memorj'  be  must 
have  had,"  said  the  friar.  "Now,  can  you 
yourself  rememher  all  the  bodies  j'our  soul 
has  passed  through  ? — but  before  I  expect 
you  to  answer  me, — hob  or  nob  again, — this 
is  famous  water,  my  dear  philosopher." 

"  It  is  famous  water,  Father  Mulrenin  ; 
and  tbe  parson's  consecration  has  given  it  a 
power  of  exliilaration  which  is  astonishing." 
Tho  doctor  had  thrown  another  glass  of 
usquebaugh  into  his  cup,  of  course  unob- 
served. 

"  Why,"  said  the  fiiar,  "  if  I'm  not  much 
mistaken,  you  wiU  feel  the  benefit  of  it.  It 
is  purely  philosophical  water,  and  fit  for  a 
philosopher  like  you  to  di'ink." 

The  company  now  were  divided  into  little 
knots,  and  the  worthy  philosopher  found  it 
necessary  to  take  his  scat.  He  felt  himself 
in  a  state  of  mind  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand ;  but  the  delicious  flavor  of  the  water 
still  clung  to  him,  and,  .owing  to  his  short- 
ness of  sight,  and  the  doctor's  wicked  wit, — 
if  wit  it  could  be  called, — he  continued 
drinking  spirits  and  water  until  he  became 
perfectly — or,  in  the  ordinary  phrase — blind 
drunk,  and  was  obliged  to  be  carried  to 
bed. 

In  the  meantime,  a  new  individual  had 
arrived  ;  and,  having  ascertained  from  the 
servants  that  there  was  a  great  dinner  on 
that  day,  he  inquired  if  ]Mr.  Goodwin  and 
his  family  were  present  at  it.  He  was  in- 
formed that  Mr.  Goodwin  and  Mrs.  Good- 
win were  there,  but  that  Miss  Goodwin  was 
unable  to  come.  He  asked  where  ^Ii'.  Good- 
^vin  and  Mrs.  Goodwin  resided,  and,  haring 
been  informed  on  this  point,  he  immediatel}' 
passed  to  the  farmer's  house  where  they 
lodged. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  there  was  a 
neat  garden  attaclied  to  the  house,  in  which 
was  an  arbor  of  willows  where  ]\Iiss  Good- 
win Avas  in  the  habit  of  sitting,  and  amus- 
ing herself  by  the  perusal  of  a  book.  It 
contained  an  arm-chair,  in  which  she  fi-e- 
quently  reclined,  sometimes  after  the  slight 
exertion  of  walking ;  it  also  happened  that 
she  occasionaUy  fell  asleep.  There  were  two 
modes  of  approach  to  the  farmer's  house — 
one  by  the  ordinary  pathway,  and  another 
much  shorter,  which  led  by  a  gate  that 
opened  into  the  garden.  By  this  last  the 
guide  who  pointed  out  the  house  to  Wood- 
ward directed  him  to  procee  1,  and  he  did 
so.  On  passing  through,  his  eye  caught  the 
summer  house,  and  he  saw  at  a  glance  that 
Alice  Goodwin  was  there,  and  asleep.  She 
was,  indeed,  asleep,  but  it  was  a  troubled 
sleep,  for  the  demon  gaze  of  the  terrible  eye 
which  she  di-eaded,  and  which  liad  almost 
blasted  her  out  of  Hfe,  she  imagined  was 


one  more  fixed  upon  her.  Woodward  ap- 
proached with  a  stealthy  step,  and  saw  that, 
even  although  asleep,  she  was  deeply  agita- 
ted, as  was  evident  by  her  moanings.  He 
contemplated  her  features  for  a  brief  space. 

"Ah,"  he  said  to  liimself,  "I  have  done 
my  work.  Although  beautiful,  the  stamp  of 
death  is  upon  her.  One  Last  gaze  and  it  will 
all  be  over.  I  am  before  her  in  her  dream. 
My  eye  is  upon  her  in  her  morbid  and  dis- 
eased imagination,  but  what  will  the  conse- 
Cjuence  be  when  she  awakens  and  finds  it 
upon  her  in  reality  ?  " 

As  those  thoughts  passed  through  his 
mind,  she  gave  a  scream,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  O,  take  him  away  !  take  him  away  !  he 
is  killing  me  ! "  and  as  she  uttered  the 
words  she  awoke. 

Now,  thought  he,  to  secure  my  twelve 
hundred  a  year  ;  now,  for  one  glance,  with 
the  power  of  hell  in  its  blighting  influence, 
and  all  is  over ;  my  twelve  hundred  is  safe 
to  me  and  mine  forevei*. 

On  awakening  from  her  terrible  dream, 
the  first  object  that  presented  itself  to  her 
was  the  fixed  gaze  of  that  terrific  eye.  It 
was  now  A\Tought  up  to  such  a  concentration 
of  malignity  as  surpassed  all  that  even  her 
imagination  had  ever  formed  of  it.  Fixed — 
diabolical  in  its  aspect,  and  steady  as  fate  it^ 
self — it  poured  upon  the  weak  and  alarmed 
girl  such  a  flood  of  venomous  and  pros- 
trating influence  that  her  shrieks  were  too 
feeble  to  reach  the  house  when  calling  for 
assistance.  She  seemed  to  have  been  fasci- 
nated to  her  own  desti-uction.  There  the  eye 
was  fastened  upon  lier,  and  she  felt  hei"seh 
depx'ived  of  the  power  of  removing  her  own 
from  his. 

"  O  my  God  ! '"  she  exlaimed,  "  I  am  lost 
— lielp,  help  ;  the  murderous  eye  is  upon 
me  !  " 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  Woodward  ;  "  good 
by,  !Miss  Goodwin.  I  was  simply  contem- 
plating yoiu-  beauty,  and  I  am  soriy  to  see 
that  you  are  in  so  weak  a  state.  Present  my 
compliments  to  your  father  and  motlier  ;  and 
think  of  me  as  a  man  whose  atTection  you 
have  indignantly  spurned — a  man,  however, 
whose  eye,  whatever  his  heai-t  may  be,  is  not 
to  be  trifled  with." 

He  then  made  her  a  low  bow,  and  took 
his  departure  bjick  through  the  garden. 

"It  is  over,"  said  he;  "■finitum  exi,  the 
property  is  mine  ;  she  cannot  be  saved  now  ; 
I  have  taken  her  life  ;  biit  no  one  can  say 
that  I  have  shed  her  blood.  !My  precious 
mother  will  be  delighted  to  hear  this.  Now, 
we  will  be  free  to  act  with  old  Cockletown 
and  his  niece  ;  and  if  she  does  not  turn  out 
a  good  wife — if  she  crosses  me  in  my  amours 
. — for  amours  I  will  have, — I  shall  let  her, 


T58 


WILLIAM   CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


too,  feel  what  my  eye  can  do."  Alice's 
screams,  after  his  departure  from  the  gar- 
den, brouglit  out  Sarah  Sullivan,  who,  aided 
by  another  servant,  assisted  her  between 
them  to  reach  the  house,  where  she  was  put 
to  bed  in  such  a  state  of  weakness,  alarm, 
and  terror  as  cannot  be  described.  Her 
father  and  mother  were  immediately  sent  for, 
and,  on  arriving  at  her  bedside,  found  her 
api^arently  in  a  dicing  state.  All  she  could 
find  voice  to  utter  was, — 

"He  was  here — his  ej'e  was  upon  me  in 
the  summer  house.     I  feel  I  am  d}ing." 

Doctor  Doolittle  and  Father  Mulrenin 
were  both  sent  for,  but  she  had  fallen  into  an 
exhausted  slumber,  and  it  was  deemed  bet- 
ter not  to  disturb  her  until  she  might  gain 
some  strength  by  sleep.  Her  parents,  who  felt 
so  anxious  about  her  health,  and  the  faint 
hopes  of  her  recovery,  now  made  fainter  by 
the  incident  which  had  just  occurred,  did 
not  retui'n  to  the  assembly,  and  the  conse- 
quence was  that  Woodward  and  they  did 
not  meet. 

^\Tien  the  hour  for  the  dance,  however, 
arrived,  the  tables  for  refi-eshments  were 
placed  in  other  and  smaller  rooms,  and  the 
larger  one  in  w^hich  they  had  dined  was 
cleared  out  for  the  ball.  The  simple-heart- 
ed Pythagorean  had  slept  himself  sober, 
without  being  aware  of  the  cause  of  his 
break-down  at  the  dinner,  and  he  now  ap- 
peared among  them  in  a  gala  di-ess  of  snow- 
white  linen.  He  was  no  enemy  to  healthy 
amusements,  for  he  could  not  forget  that 
the  great  philosopher  whom  he  followed  had 
won  public  jDrizes  at  the  Olympic  games. 
He  consequently  frisked  about  in  the  dance 
with  an  awkwardness  and  a  disregard  of  the 
graces  of  motion,  which,  especially  in  the 
jigs,  convulsed  the  whole  assembly,  nor  did 
any  one  among  them  laugh  more  loudly  than 
he  did  himself.  He  esijecially  addressed 
himself  too,  and  danced  Avith,  Mrs.  Rosebud, 
who,  as  slie  was  short,  fat,  and  plump,  ex- 
hibited as  ludicrous  a  contrast  with  the  al- 
most naked  anatomical  structure  which 
fi'isked  before  her  as  the  imagination  could 
conceive. 

"  Upon  my  credit,"  observed  the  fiiar,  "  I 
see  that  extremes  may  meet.  Look  at  the 
pilosopher,  how  he  trebles  and  capers  it  be- 
fore the  widow.  Faith,  I  should  not  feel 
surprised  if  he  made  ]\Ii-s.  Pythagoras  of  her 
before  long." 

This,  however,  was  not  the  worst  of  it,  for 
what  or  who  but  the  devil  himself  should 
tempt  the  parson,  with  his  gout  strong  uj)on 
him,  to  select  Miss  Eosebud  for  a  dance, 
whilst  the  philosophic  rheumatist  was  frisk- 
ing it  as  well  as  he  could  with  her  mother  ? 
The  room  was  in  an  uproar.     Miss  Kosebud, 


who  possessed  much  wicked  humor,  having, 
as  the  lady  always  has,  the  pri\ilege,  called 
for  one  of  the  liveliest  times  then  known. 
The  parson's  attemi^t  to  keep  time  made  th« 
uproar  still  greater  ;  but  at  length  it  ceased, 
for  neither  the  philosoj^her  nor  the  parson 
could  hold  out  any  longer,  and  each  retired 
in  a  state  of  torture  to  his  seat.  The  mii-th 
having  now  subsided,  a  gentleman  entered 
the  room,  admirably  dressed,  on  whom  the 
attention  of  the  whole  company  was  turaed. 
He  was  tall,  elegantly  formed,  and  at  a  first 
glance  was  handsome.  The  expression  of  his 
eyes,  however,  was  striking — starthng.  It 
was  good — brilUant ;  it  was  bad  and  strange, 
and,  to  those  who  examined  it  closely,  such 
as  thej'  had  never  witnessed  before.  Still  he 
was  evidently  a  gentleman  :  there  could  be 
no  mistake  about  that.  His  manner,  his 
dress,  and  his  whole  bearing,  made  them  all 
feel  that  he  was  entitled  to  respect  and  cour- 
tesy. Little  did  the}'  imagine  that  he  was  a 
murderer,  and  that  he  entered  the  room  im- 
der  the  gi'atifying  impression  of  his  having 
killed  Alice  Goodwin.  It  was  Harry  "Wood- 
ward. The  evening  was  now  advanced,  but, 
after  his  introduction  to  the  company,  he 
joined  in  their  amusements,  and  had  the 
pleasure  of  dancing  with  both  IMrs.  Rosebud 
and  her  daughter ;  and  after  having  con- 
cluded his  dance  with  the  latter,  some 
tidings  reached  the  room,  which  struck  the 
whole  company  with  a  feehng  of  awe.  It 
was  at  first  whisj)ered  about,  but  it  at  length 
became  the  general  toj)ic  of  conversation. 
Ahce  Goodwin  was  dying,  and  her  parents 
were  in  a  state  of  distraction.  Nobod}'  could 
tell  why,  but  it  appeared  she  was  at  the  last 
gasp,  and  that  there  was  some  m^'stei-y 
in  her  malady.  IMany  speculations  were 
broached  upon  the  subject.  Woodward  pre- 
seiwed  silence  for  a  time,  but  just  as  he  was 
about  to  make  some  observations  with  refer- 
ence to  her  illness,  a  tall,  handsome  gentle- 
man entered  the  room  and  bowed  with  much 
gi'ace  to  the  company'. 

Father  Mulrenin  staiied  up,  and,  shakiug 
hands  with  him,  said, — 

"  I  know  now,  su*,  that  you  have  got  my 
letter." 

"  I  have  got  it,"  replied  the  other,  "  and  1 
am  here  accordingly." 

As  he  spoke,  his  eye  glanced  around  the 
room,  the  most  distinguished  figiu-e  in  which, 
beyond  comparison,  was  that  of  Woodward, 
who  instantly  recognized  him  as  the  gentle- 
man whom  he  had  met  on  the  moruing  of 
his  departure  from  the  hospitable  roof  of 
Mr.  Goodwin,  on  his  return  home,  and,  we 
may  add,  l^etween  whom  and  himself  that 
extraordinary  trial  of  the  jjower  of  xcill,  as 
manifested   by   the   power  of  the  eye,  took 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


759 


place  80  completely  to  bis  own  discomfiture. 
They  were  botli  gentlemen,  and  bowed  to 
each  other  very  courteously,  after  which  they 
approached  and  shook  hands,  and  whilst  the 
stranger  held  Woodward's  hand  in  his  during 
their  short  but  fnendly  chat,  it  was  observed 
that  Woodward's  face  got  as  pale  as  death, 
and  he  almost  immediately  tottered  towards 
a  seat  from  weakness. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  Siiid  the  stranger; 
"you  now/f-e/  that  the  principle  of  fjowl  is 
always  able  to  overcome  the  principle  of  evil." 

"Who  or  what  ai'e  you?"  asked  Wood- 
ward, faintly. 

"  I  am  a  plain  country  gentleman,  sir ; 
and  something  more,  a  man  of  wealth  and 
distinction  ;  but  who,  unlike  my  fiiend  Cooke 
here,  do  not  make  myself  ridiculous  by  ab- 
surd eccentricities,  and  the  adoption  of  the 
nonsensical  doctrines  of  P^'thagoras,  so 
utterly  at  variance  with  reason  and  Christian 
tnith.  ^  You  know,  my  dear  Cooke,  I  could 
have  cured  you  of  your  rheumatism  had  jon 
possessed  common-sense  ;  but  who  could 
cure  any  man  wlio  guards  his  person  against 
the  elements  by  such  a  ludicrous  and  un- 
substantial dress  as  yours  ?  " 

"  I  am  in  torture,"  rei^lied  Cooke  ;  "  I  was 
tempted  to  dance  with  a  pretty  woman,  and 
now  I  am  suflfering  for  it." 

"  As  for  me,"  exclaimed  Topertoe,  "  I  am 
a  match,  anil  more  than  a  match,  for  you  in 
suffering.     O,  this  accursed  gout !  " 

"  I  suppose  you  brought  it  on  by  hard 
drinking,  sir,"  said  the  stranger.  "If  that 
be  so,  I  shall  not  undertake  to  cure  you  un- 
less you  give  up  haixl  drinking." 

"  I  ^vill  do  anj-thing,"  replied  Topertoe, 
"provided  you  can  allay  my  pain.  I  also 
was  tempted  to  dance  as  well  as  the  phi- 
losopher ;  and  now  the  Cliristian  pai'son  and 
the  pagan  Pythagoi'ean  are  both  suflfering 
for  it." 

"  "WTiat  is  all  this  about  ?  "  exclaimed  Mani- 
fold. "  O  Lord  !  is  he  going  to  put  them 
on  a  vegetable  diet,  relieved  by  toast  and 
water — toast  and  water  ?  " 

The  stranger  paid  but  Httle  attention  to 
Manifold,  because  he  saw  by  his  face  and  the 
number  of  his  chins  that  he  was  past  hope  ; 
but  turning  towards  Topertoe  and  the  Pytha- 
gorean, he  requested  them  both  to  sit  beside 
each  other  before  him.  He  then  asked 
Topertoe  where  his  gout  aflfected  him,  and 
having  been  informed  that  it  was  principally 
in  his  great  toe  and  right  foot,  he  deliber- 
ately stripped  the  foot,  and  baring  pressed 
his  hands  upon  it  for  about  the  space  of  ten 
minutes,  he  desired  his  patient  to  rise  up 
and  walk.  This  he  did,  and  to  his  utter  as- 
tonishment, without  the  shghtest  symptom  or 
sensation  of  pain. 


"Wliy,  bless  my  soul!"  exclaimed  the 
ixarson,  "  I  am  cured  ;  the  pain  is  altogether 
gone.     Let  me  have  a  bumper  of  claret." 

"  That  will   do,"  observed  the   stranger. 
,  "  You  are  incuraVjle.     You  will  plunge  once 
more  into  a  life  of  intemperance  and  luxury, 
and  once  more  your  complaint,  fi'om  which ' 
:  you  are  now  free,  will  return  to  you.     You 
will  not  deny  yourself  the   gratUi cation  of 
your   irratiouiil  and  senseless  indulgences, 
'  and  yet  you  expect  to  be  cured.     As  for  me, 
'  I  can  only  remove  the  malady  of  such  per- 
,  sons  as  you  for  the  present,  or  time  being  ; 
f  but,  so  long  as  you  return  to  tlie  exciting 
;  cjuise  of  it,  no  eai-thly  skill  or  power  in  man 
can  etfect  a  permanent  cure.     Now,  Cooks,  I 
will  reUeve  you  of  your   rheumatism  ;   but 
unless  you  exchange  this  flimsy  stutl'  for  ap- 
parel suited  to  your  climate  and  condition,  I 
feel  that  I  am  incapable  of  rendering  you 
anything  but  a  temporary  rehef." 

He  passed  his  hands  over  those  parts  of 
his  limbs  most  aflt'ected  by  his  complauit,  and 
in  a  short  time  he  (the  philosopher)  louud 
himself  completely  free  from  his  pains. 

During  those  two  most  extraordinai'y  pro- 
cesses Woodward  looked  on  ^41  h  a  degree 
of  wonder  and  of  interest  that  might  be 
truly  tei-med  intense.  What  the  operations 
which  took  place  before  him  could  mean  he 
knew  not,  but  when  the  stnmger  turned 
round  to  the  fi-iar  and  said, — "  Now  bring 
me  to  this  unhappy  girl,"  Woodwai-d  seized 
his  hat,  feeling  a  presentiment  that  he  was 
going  to  the  rehef  of  Alice  Good\\in,  and 
with  hasty  steps  proceeded  to  the  fann  house 
in  which  she  and  her  parents  lodged.  He 
was  now  desperate,  and  resolved,  if  courtesy 
failed,  to  force  one  more  annihilating  glance 
upon  her  before  the  mysterious  stranger 
should  arrive.  We  need  scai'cely  inform  our 
readers  that  he  was  indignjintly  repulsed  by 
the  famil}' ;  but  he  was  furious,  and  m  spite 
of  all  ojjposition  forced  his  way  into  her  bed- 
room, to  which  he  was  led  by  her  gi-oans — 
dying  groans  they  were  considered  by  all 
around  her.  He  rushed  into  her  bed-room, 
and  fixed  his  eye  upon  her  with  something 
like  the  fury  of  hell  in  it.  The  poor  girl  on 
seeing  him  a  second  time  fell  back  and 
moaned  as  if  she  had  expired.  The  villain 
stood  looking  over  her  in  a  spirit  of  the  most 
malignant  triumph. 

"  It  is  done  now,"  said  he  ;  "  there  she  lies 
— a  corpse — and  I  am  now  master  of  my 
twelve  himdred  a  year." 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when 
he  felt  a  powei-ful  hand  gi-asp  him  by  the 
shoulder,  and  send  him  with  dreadful  rio- 
lence  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  On  tui-n- 
ing  roun<l  to  see  who  the  person  was  who  hivi 
actuallv  twirled  him  about  like  an  infant,  he 


7G0 


WILLTAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


found  the  large,  but  benevolent-looking 
stranger  standing  at  Alice's  bedside,  bis 
finger  upon  the  pulse  and  bis  eyes  intently 
fixed  upon  ber  apparently  lifeless  features. 
He  tben  turned  round  to  Woodward,  and 
exclaimed  in  a  voice  of  tbunder, — 

"  She  is  not  dead,  villain,  and  will  not  die 
on  tbis  occasion :  begone,  and  leave  tbe 
room." 

"Villain  !  "  replied  Woodward,  putting  bis 
band  to  bis  sword  :  "I  allow  no  man  to  caJl 
me  villain  unpunished. " 

Tbe  stranger  contemptuously  and  indig- 
nantly waved  bis  band  to  bim,  as  mucb  as  to 
say — presently,  presently,  but  not  now.  Tbe 
truth  is,  tbe  loud  tones  of  bis  voice  had 
caused  Alice  to  open  ber  eyes,  and  instead  of 
finding  the  dreaded  being  before  ber,  there 
stood  the  symbol  of  benevolence  and  moral 
power,  with  bis  mild,  but  clear  and  benig-nant 
eye  smibng  upon  ber. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  he,  "look  upon  me 
and  give  me  your  bands.  You  shall,  with 
tbe  assistance  of  that  God  who  has  so  mys- 
teriously gifted  me,  soon  be  well,  and  free 
from  tbe  evil  and  diabolical  influence  which 
has  been  for  such  selfish  and  accursed  pur- 
poses exercised  over  you." 

He  tben  took  ber  beautiful  but  emaciated 
hands  into  bis  own,  which  were  also  soft  and 
beautiful,  and  keeping  bis  eyes  fixed  upon 
hers,  he  tben,  with  that  necessary  freedom 
which  physicians  exercise  with  their  patients, 
pressed  his  hands  after  a  time  upon  ber  tem- 
ples, ber  bead,  her  eyes,  and  ber  heart,  tbe 
whole  family  being  present,  servants  and  all. 
Tbe  effect  was  miraculous.  In  tbe  course  of 
twenty  minutes  the  girl  was  recovered  ;  ber 
spirits — ber  liealtb  had  returned  to  her.  Her 
eyes  smiled  as  she  tiirned  them  with  debght 
upon  ber  father  and  mother. 

"  O,  papa  !  "  she  exclaimed,  smiling,  "  O, 
dear  mamma,  what  can  tbis  mean  ?  I  am 
cured,  and  what  is  more,  I  am  no  longer 
afraid  of  that  vile,  bad  man.  May  tbe  God 
of  heaven  be  praised  for  tbis  !  but  how  will 
we  thank — how  can  we  thank  tbe  benevo- 
lent gentleman  who  has  rescued  me  fi'om 
death?" 

"  More  thanks  are  due,"  replied  tbe  stran- 
ger, smiling,  "  to  Father  Mulrenin  here,  who 
acquainted  me  in  a  letter,  not  only  with  yovu' 
melancholy  condition,  but  with  tbe  supposed 
cause  of  it.  However,  let  your  thanks  be 
first  returned  to  God,  whose  mysterious  in- 
strument I  only  am.  Now,  sir,"  said  be, 
turning  to  Woodward,  "  you  laid  your  hand 
upon  your  sword.  I  also  wear  a  sword,  not 
for  aggression  but  defence.  You  know  we 
met  before.  I  was  not  tben  aware  of  your 
personal  history,  but  I  am  now.  I  have  just 
returned  from  London,  where  I  was  at  tbe 


court  of  bis  Majesty  Charles  the  Second. 
While  in  London  I  met  youi-  granduncle,  and 
from  him  I  learned  your  history,  and  a  bad 
one  it  is.  Now,  sir,  I  beg  to  inform  you  that 
your  malignant  and  diabolical  influence  over 
tbe  person  of  this  young  lady  has  ceased 
forever.  As  to  tbe  future,  she  is  free  from 
that  influence  ;  but  if  J  ever  hear  that  you 
attemi^t  to  intrude  yourself  into  her  presence, 
or  to  ani}oy  ber  family,  I  will  have  you  se- 
cured in  tbe  jail  of  Waterford  in  forty-eight 
hours  afterwards,  for  other  crimes  that  render 
you  liable  to  tbe  law." 

"  And  pray  who  are  you  ?  "  asked  Wood- 
ward, with  a  blank  and  crestfallen  counte- 
nance, but  still  with  a  strong  feeling  of  en- 
mity and  bitterness — a  feeling  which  be 
could  not  repress.  "  Who  are  you  who  pre- 
sume to  dictate  to  me  upon  my  conduct  and 
course  of  life  ?  " 

"Who  am  I?"  repbed  the  stranger,  as- 
suming an  air  of  incredible  dignity.  "  Sir, 
my  name  is  Valentine  Greatrakes,  a  person 
on  whom  God  has  bestowed  powers  which, 
apart  from  insj)iration,  have  seldom  for  cen- 
turies ever  been  vouchsafed  to  man." 

Woodward  got  pale  again.  He  had  beai'd 
of  his  extraordinary^  powers  of  cming  almost 
every  description  of  malady  peculiar  to  the 
human  frame,  and  without  another  word 
slunk  out  of  the  room.  On  bearing  his 
name  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Goodwin  rushed  to  bim, 
seized  bis  bands,  and  with  tbe  enthusiasm  of 
grateful  hearts  each  absolutely  wept  upon 
bis  broad  and  ample  bosom.  He  was  at  this 
period  about  forty-six  ;  but  seeing  Alice's 
face  lit  up  with  joy  and  delight,  he  stooped 
down  and  kissed  ber  as  a  father  would  a 
daughter  who  had  recovered  fi'om  the  death 
struggle.  "My  dear  child,"  he  said,  "you 
are  now  saved  ;  but  you  must  remain  here 
for  some  time  longer,  because  I  do  not  wish 
to  part  with  you  until  I  shall  have  completely 
confirmed  tbe  sanative  influence  with  which 
God  has  enabled  me  to  reinvigorate  you  and 
others.  As  for  your  selfish  persecutor,  he 
will  trouble  you  no  more.  He  knows  now 
what  the  consequences  would  be  should  he 
attempt  it." 


CHAPTER  XXn.  * 

History  of  tlie  Black  Spectre. 

W^oonwAED  returned  to  tbe  jDublic  room, 
where  be  was  soon  followed  by  Father  Mul- 
renin and  Greatrakes,  who  were  shortly 
joined  by  Mr.  Goodwin ;  Mrs.  Goodwin 
having  remained  at  home  with  Alice.  Tbe 
dancing  went  on  with  great  animation,  and 
when  the  hour  of  supper  arrived  there  was  a 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


761 


full  and  merry  table.  The  friar  was  in  great 
glee,  but  from  time  to  time  kept  his  eye  close- 
ly fixed  upon  Woodward,  wliose  countenance 
and  conduct  be  watched  closely.  It  might 
have  been  about  the  hour  of  midnight,  if  not 
later,  when,  after  a  short  lull  in  the  conver- 
sation, Father  Muh'enin  addressed  IVIr.  Good- 
win as  follows  : — 

"^Ir.  Goodwin,  is  there  not  a  family  in 
your  neighborhood  named  Lindsay  ?  " 

"There  is,"  replied  Goodwin;  "and  a 
very  respectable  family,  too." 

"  By  the  way,  there  is  a  very  curious  tra- 
dition, or  legend,  connected  with  the  family 
of  Mr.  Lindsay's  wife  :  have  you  ever  heard 
of  it  ?  " 

"That  such  a  tradition,  or  legend,  exists, 
I  believe,"  he  replied,  "but  there  are  many 
versions  of  it — although  I  have  never  heard 
any  of  them  distinctly  ;  something  I  did  hear 
about  what  is  termed  the  Shan-dhinne-dhuc, 
or  !he  Blach  Spcvtre."  \ 

"  WeD,  then,"  proceeded  the  friar,  "  if  the 
Company  has  no  objection  to  hear  an  au- 
thentic account  of  this  fearful  apparition,  I 
wiU  indulge  them  with  a  slight  sketch  of  the  \ 
narrative :  j 

"  IVhen  Essex  was  over  here  in  the  Eliza-  ' 
bethan  wars — and  a  nice  hand  he  made  of  \ 
them  ;  not,   God  knows,   that  we  ought  to 
regret  it,  but  I  hke  a  good  general  whether  j 
he  is  for  us  or  against  us — devil  a  doubt  of 
that  :  well,  when  Essex  was  over  here  con- 
ducting them  (with  reverence  be  it  spoken)  j 
it  so  happened  that  he  had  a  scoundrel  with 
him  by  name   Hamilton — and   a   thorough 
scoundrel  was  he.     O  Lord !  if  I  had  lived 
in  those  days,  and  wasn't  in  Orders  to  tie  my 
hands  up — but  no  matter  ;  this  same  scoun-  j 
drel  was  one  of  the  handsomest  vagabonds  in  I 
the  English  camp.     Well   and   good  ;  but, 
indeed,  to  tell  God's  truth,  it  was  neither 
well  nor  good,  because,  as  I  said,  the  man 
was  a  first-rate,  tiptop  scoundrel ;  but  you 
will  find  that  he  Avas  a  devilish  sight  more 
so  before  I  have  put  a  period  to  my  little 
narration.     Mr.  Woodward,  will  you  hob  or 
nob  ?     I  think  j^our  name  is  Woodward  ?  " 

"  With  great  pleasure,  sir,"  replied  Wood- 
ward ;  "  and  you  are  right,  my  name  is 
Woodward  ;  but  i)roceed  with  your  nan-a- 
tive,  for,  I  assure  you,  I  feel  veiT  much 
interested  in  it,  especially  in  that  jjortion  of 
it  which  relates  to  the  Ji/acL-  Spfdn:  Though 
not  a  believer  in  supernatural  apjiearances,  I 
feel  much  gi-atification  in  listening  to  ac-  | 
counts  of  them.     Pray  proceed,  sir."  i 

"  Well  sir,  it  so  happened  that  this  Hamil-  | 
ton,  who  had  been  originally  a  Scotcli  Ked- 
shauk,  became  privately  acquainted  -snth  a 
bca\itiful  and  wealthy  orphan  girl,  a  relation 
of  the  O'Neils  ;    and  it  so  happened  again,  i 


that  whether  they  made  a  throw  on  the  dice 
for  it  or  not,  he  ivon  her  afl'ections.  So  far, 
however,  there  was  nothing  very  particularly 
obnoxious  in  it,  because  we  know  that  inter- 
mai-riages  between  Cathohcs  and  Protestjinta 
may  disarm  the  jjarties  of  their  religious 
prejudices  against  eiich  other  ;  and  although 
I  cannot  aflirm  the  truth  of  what  I  am  about 
to  say  from  my  own  experience,  still,  I  think 
I  have  been  able  to  smell  out  the  fact  that 
little  Cupid  is  of  no  particular  reHgion,  and 
can  be  claimed  by  no  particuhir  church  ;  or 
rather  I  should  say  that  he  is  claimed  by  all 
churches  and  all  creeds.  This  Hamilton,  as 
I  said,  was  exceedingly  handsome,  but  it 
seems  from  the  tradition  that  it  was  by  the 
beauty  of  his  eyes  that  Eva  O'Neil  was  con- 
quered, just  as  the  first  Eve  was  by  the  eyes 
and  tongue  of  the  sei-jDent.  Not,  God  knows, 
that  the  great  Eve  was  any  great  shakes, 
for  she  left  the  world  in  a  nice  plight  by  fall- 
ing in  love  with  a  serpent ;  but  upon  my 
credit  she  was  not  the  first  woman,  excuse 
the  blunder,  who  fell  in  love  with  a  seii^ent, 
and  suffered  accordingly.  I  appale  to  Pythar 
goras  there." 

"  It  is  an  allegory,"  replied  the  Pythagore- 
an, "  and  simply  means  that  we  are  innocent 
so  long  as  we  ai'e  young,  and  that  when  we 
come  to  maturity  we  are  coiTupted  and  de- 
praved by  our  passions.'" 

"  How  the  sorra  can  you  say  that,"  replied 
the  fi'iar,  "  when  you  know  that  Adam  and 
Eve  were  created  full-grown  ?  " 

"  Pray  go  on  with  your  tradition,"  said 
Greatrakes,  "and  let  us  hear  the  histoiy  of 
the  Black  Spectre.  I  am  not  myself  an  in- 
fidel in  the  historj'  of  supernatural  appear- 
ances, and  I  wish  to  hear  you  out." 

"  Well,  then,"  rei^lied  the  friar,  "  you  shall 
The  villain  }n-oposed  marriage  to  this  beauti- 
ful young  orphan,  and  as  he  was  a  handsome 
vagabone,  as  I  have  stated,  he  was  accepted  ; 
but  his  eyes,  above  iili  things,  were  irresisti- 
ble. They  were  married  by  a  Protestant 
clergjnnan,  and  immediately  afterwards  by  a 
Catholic  priest,  who  was  far  axlvanced  in 
years.  The  lady  would  submit  to  no  nvxr- 
riage  but  a  legal  one.  The  marriage,  how- 
ever, was  private  ;  for  Hamilton  knew  that 
Essex  was  aware  of  his  having  been  during 
this  event  a  married  num,  and  that  his  wife, 
Avho  was  a  distant  relation  of  the  Eiu-l's,  was 
still  living.  The  marriage,  however,  came 
to  Essex's  ears,  and  Hamilton  was  oxlled  to 
account.  He  denied  the  marriage,  the  old 
priest  having  been  now  dejwl,  and  none  but 
the  Protestiuit  clergj-man  of  the  p:xrish  being 
alive  to  bear  testimony  to  the  fact  of  the 
m;uriage.  He  endeavored  to  prevail  upon 
the  dergj-man  also  to  deny  the  man-iage, 
which  he  refused  to  do,  whereupon  he  was 


762 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S   WORKS. 


found  murdered.  His  wife  by  this  mamage 
ha\-ing  leai-ned  from  Essex  that  Hamilton 
had  most  treacherously  deceived  her,  fell  in- 
to premature  labor  and  died  ;  but  her  last 
words  were  an  awful  curse  upon  him,  and 
his  children  after  him,  to  the  last  genera- 
tion, 

"  '  May  the  Eye  that  lured  me  to  destruc- 
tion,' she  said,  '  become  a  curse  to  you  and 
your  descendants  forever !  May  it  blight 
and  kill  all  those  whom  it  looks  upon,  and 
render  it  dreadful  and  dreaded  to  all  those 
who  will  place  confidence  in  you  or  your  de- 
scendants ! " 

"  God  knows  I  couldn't  much  blame  her ; 
it  was  her  last  Christian  benediction  to  the 
villain  who  had  destroyed  her,  and,  setting 
charit}'  aside,  I  don't  see  how  she  could  have 
spoken  otherwise. 

"When  the  proofs  of  the  marriage,  how- 
ever, were  about  to  be  brought  against  him, 
the  Protestant  clergyman,  who,  on  discover- 
ing his  iniquity,  was  too  honest  to  conceal 
it,  and  who  felt  bitterly  the  fraud  that  had 
been  practised  on  him,  was  found  murdered, 
as  I  have  said,  because  he  was  now  the  only 
evidence  left  against  Hamilton's  crime.  The 
latter  did  not,  however,  get  rid  of  him  by 
that  atrocious  and  inhuman  act.  The  spirit 
of  that  man  haunts  the  family  from  that  day 
(o  this  ;  it  is  always  a  messenger  of  evil  to 
them  whenever  he  appears,  and  it  matters 
not  where  they  go  or  where  they  Hve,  he  is 
sure  to  follow  them,  and  to  fasten  upon  some 
of  the  family,  generally  the  wickedest,  of 
course,  as  his  victim.  Now,  ]\Ii'.  Wood- 
ward, what  do  you  think  of  that  family  tra- 
dition ?  " 

"  I  think  of  it,"  replied  Woodward,  "  with 
contempt,  as  I  do  of  everything  that  proceeds 
from  the  lips  of  an  ignorant  and  iUiterate 
Roman  Catholic  priest." 

"  Sii',"  replied  the  friar,  "I  am  not  the  in- 
ventor of  this  famil}'  tradition,  nor  of  the 
crime  which  is  said — however  justly  I  know 
not — to  have  given  rise  to  it ;  but  this  I  do 
know,  that  no  man  ha%dng  claims  to  the 
chai'acter  of  a  gentleman  would  use  such 
language  to  a  defenceless  man  as  you  have 
just  used  to  me.  The  legend  is  traditionaiy 
in  your  family,  and  I  have  only  given  it  as  I 
have  heard  it.  If  I  were  not  a  clergyman  I 
would  chastise  you  for  your  insolence  ;  but 
my  hands  ai-e  bovmd  up,  and  you  well  know 
it." 

"Friar,"  said  Greatrakes,  "when  you 
know  that  your  hands  are  bound  up,  you 
should  have  avoided  insulting  any  man.  You 
.should  not  have  related  a  piece  of  family 
history — perhaps  false  from  beginning  to 
end — in  the  presence  of  a  gentleman  so  in- 
timately connected  with  that  family  as  you 


knew  him  to  be.  It  was  no  topic  for  a  com- 
raon  room  hke  this,  and  it  was  quite  unjus 
titiable  in  you  to  have  introduced  it." 

"  I  feel,  sir,  that  you  are  perfectly  right," 
replied  the  good-natured  friar,  "  and  I  ask 
]Mi'.  Woodward's  pardon  for  having,  without 
the  slightest  intention  of  offence  to  him, 
done  so.  You  will  recollect  that  he  himseli 
expressed  an  anxiety  to  hear  it." 

"All  I  say  upon  the  subject,"  observed 
the  Pythagorean,  "  is  simply  this,  that  Pyth- 
agoras himself  could  not  have  cured  me  of 
the  rheumatism  as  my  friend  Valentine 
Greatrakes  has  done." 

"  You  will  require  no  cure,  and,  what  is 
better,  no  necessity  for  cure,"  rephed  Great- 
rakes, smiling,  "  if  you  will  have  only  com- 
mon sense,  my  dear  Cooke.  Clothe  yourself 
in  warm  and  comfortable  garments,  and 
feed  youi'  miserable  carcass  with  good  beef 
and  mutton,  and,  in  addition  to  which,  like 
myself  and  the  friar  here,  take  a  warm  tum- 
bler of  good  usquebaugh  punch  to  promote 
digestion." 

"  I  -will  never  abandon  my  principles,"  re- 
plied the  philosopher.  "  Linen  and  vege- 
table diet  forever." 

INIanifold  was  asleep  after  his  gorge, — a 
sleep  from  which  he  never  awoke, — but  Doc- 
tor Doolittle,  anxious  to  secure  Cooke  as  a 
patient,  became  quite  eloquent  upon  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  vegetable  diet,  and  of  the 
Pythagorean  system  in  general  ;  after  which 
the  conversation  of  the  night  closed,  and  the 
guests  departed  to  their  respective  lodg- 
ings. 

The  night  was  still  an  beautiful.  The 
moon  was  about  to  sink,  but  still  she  emit- 
ted that  faint  and  shadowy  Hght  which  lends 
such  calm,  but  picturesque  beauty  to  the 
nocturnal  landscape.  Wooodwai'd  was  alone  ; 
but  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  language  in 
which  to  describe  the  bitterness  of  his  feel- 
ings and  the  frightful  sense  of  his  disap- 
pointment on  finding,  not  only  that  his  in- 
famoixs  design  upon  the  life  of  Alice  Good- 
win had  been  frustrated,  bitt  on  feeling  cer- 
tain that  she  had  been  restored  to  perfect 
health  before  his  eyes.  This,  however,  was 
not  the  worst  of  it.  He  had  calculated  on 
killing  her,  and  consequently  of  securing  the 
twelve  hundred  a  yeai',  on  the  strength  of 
which  he  and  his  mother  could  confidently 
negotiate  Avith  the  old  nobleman,  who  al- 
ways slept  with  one  eye  open.  In  the  venom 
and  dark  malignity  of  his  heart  he  cursed 
Alice  Goodwin,  he  cursed  Valentine  Great- 
rakes, he  cursed  the  world,  and  he  cursed 
God,  or  rather  would  have  cursed  him  had 
he  believed  in  the  existence  of  such  a  being. 

In  this  mood  of  mind  he  was  proceeding 
to  his  lodgings,  Avhen  he  espied  before  him 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE 


763 


tlie  Shan-dhinyie-dhuu,  or  Mack  Spectre  with 
the  middogue  iu  his  hand.  He  stood  and 
looked  at  it  steadily. 

"  AVhat  is  this  ?  "  said  he,  addressing  the 
figure  before  him.  "  What  pranks  are  you 
lilaying  now?  Do  you  think  nie  a  fool? 
\Vhat  brougiit  you  here  ?  and  what  do  you 
mean  by  this  pantomimic  nonsense,  jVIi*. 
Conjurer?" 

The  figure,  of  course,  made  no  reply,  ex- 
cept by  gesture.  It  brandished  the  mid- 
dogue, or  dagger,  however,  and  pointed  it 
three  times  at  his  heai't.  The  spot  upon 
which  this  strange  interview  occuiTed  was 
perfectly  clear  of  anything  that  could  con- 
ceal an  individual.  In  fact  it  was  an  open 
common.  Woodward,  consequently,  led 
astray  by  circumstances  with  which  the 
reader  will  become  subsequently  acquainted, 
started  forward  with  the  intention  of  reach- 
ing the  individual  whom  he  suspected  of  in- 
dulging himself  in  playing  with  his  fears,  or 
rather  wdth  jocularly  intending  to  excite 
them.  He  sprang  forward,  we  say,  and 
reached  the  spot  on  Avhich  the  Black  Spectre 
had  stood,  but  our  readers  may  judge  of  his 
surprise  when  he  found  that  the  sjiectre,  or 
■whatever  it  was,  had  disaj^peared,  and  was 
nowhere,  or  any  longer,  visible.  Place  of  ' 
concealment  there  was  none.  He  examined  ; 
the  ground  about  him.  It  was  firm  and  ' 
■  compact,  aud  without  a  fissure  in  which  a 
rat  could  conceal  itself.  i 

There  is  no  power  in  human  nature  which  ' 
enables  the  heart  of  man,  under  similar  cir-  : 
cumstances,  to  bear  the  occurrence  of  such  ' 
a   scene  as   we   have   described,    unmoved.  ' 
The  man  was  hardened — an  infidel,  an  athe- 
ist ;  but,  notwithstanding  all  this,  a  sense  of  ■ 
awe,  wonder,  and  even,  in  some  degree,  of 
terror,  came  over  his  heai-t,  which  neai'ly  un- 
nerved  him.     Most   atheists,   however,    are 
utter  profligates,  as  he  was  ;  or  sillj-  philoso- 
phers, who,  because  they  take  their  own  rea- 
son for  their  guide,   will  come  to  no   other 
conclusion  than  that  to  which  it  leads  them.  , 

"It  is  simply  a  hallucination."  said  he  to  j 
himself,  "  and  merely  the  result  of  having 
heard  the  absurd  nonsense  of  what  that 
ignorant  and  credulous  old  friar  related  to-  I 
night  concerning  my  family.  Still  it  is 
strange,  because  I  am  cool  and  sober,  aud  in 
the  perfect  use  of  my  senses.  This  is  the 
same  appearance  which  I  saw  before  near 
the  Haunted  House,  and  of  which  I  never 
could  get  any  account.  WTiat  if  there  should 
be -?" 

He  checked  himself  and  proceeded  to  his 
lodgings,  with   an    intention    of    returning  i 
home  the  next  morning  ;  which  he  did,  after  i 
having  failed  in  the  murderous  mission  which  j 
he  undertook  to  accompUsh.  I 


"Mother,"  said  he,  after  his  return  home, 
"  all  is  lost :  Ahce  Goodwin  has  been  restored 
to  perfect  health  by  Valentine  Greatrakes, 
and  my  twelve  hmulred  a  year  is  gone  foi 
ever.  How  can  we  enter  into  negotiations 
with  that  sharp  old  scoundrel,  Lord  Co<:k.e- 
town,  now  ?  I  assure  you  I  had  her  at  ii^t 
last  gasp,  when  Greatrakes  came  in  and 
restored  her  to  pei-fect  health  Ijefore  my 
face.  But,  setting  that  aside  for  tlie  present, 
is  there  such  a  being  as  what  is  termed  the 
J)lac/c  Spectre,  mysteriously  connected,  if  T 
may  say  so,  with  our  family  ?  " 

His  mother's  face  got  pale  as  death. 

"  Why  do  you  ask,  Harry  ?  "  said  she. 

"Because,"  he  replied,  "  I  have  reason  < 
think  that  I  have  seen  it  twice." 

"iVlas  !  alas  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "then  th 
doom  of  the  curse  is  upon  ucu.  It  select 
only  one  of  every  generation  on  wliich  to  wor 
its  vengeance.  The  third  appeju*auce  of  i 
will  be  fatal  to  you." 

"  This  is  all  contemptible  absurdity,  m_ 
dear  mother.  I  don't  care  if  I  saw  it  ; 
thousiuid  times.  How  can  it  interfere  witl 
my  fate  ?  " 

"It  does  not  interfere,"  she  replied,  "it 
only  intimates  it,  and  whatever  the  uatui'e 
of  the  indiAadual's  death  among  our  family 
may  be,  it  shadows  it  out.  What  signs  did  it 
m;ike  to  you  ?  " 

"It  brandished  what  is  called  in  this 
country  a  middogue,  or  L'ish  dagger,  at  my 
heart." 

His  mother  got  pale  again. 

"Harry,"  said  she,  "I  would  recommend 
you  to  leave  the  kingdom.  Avoid  the  thu'd 
wai'ning !  " 

"Mother,"  he  replied,  "this  certainly  is 
sad  nonsense.  I  have  no  notion  of  leaving 
the*  kingdom  in  consequence  of  such  super- 
stitious stuff  as  this  ;  sdl  these  things  are 
soap  bubbles  ;  put  your  finger  on  them  aud 
they  dissolve  into  nothing.  How  is  Ch;u"les  ? 
for  I  have  not  yet  seen  him." 

"  Lnproving  very  much,  although  not  able 
yet  to  leave  his  room." 

Woodward  walked  about  and  seemed 
absorbed  iu  thought. 

"  It  is  a  painful  thing,  mother,"  said  he, 
"  tJiat  Charles  is  so  long  recovering.  Do  you 
know  that  I  am  half  inclined  to  think  he  \rill 
never  recover  ?  His  wound  was  a  dreadful 
one,  and  its  consequences  on  his  constitution 
■win,  I  fear,  be  fatal." 

"I  hope  not.  Hany,"  she  replied,  "for 
ever  since  Iiis  illness  I  have  found  that  ray 
h'eart  gathers  about  him  with  an  aft'ection  that 
I  have  never  felt  forliim  before." 

"  Your  resolution,  then,  is  fixed,  I  suppose 
to  leave  him  your  property  ?  " 

"  It  is  fixed  ;  there  is,  or  can  be,  no  doubt 


764 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJ^'S   WORKS. 


about  it  Once  I  come  to  a  determination  I 
am  immovable.  We  shall  be  able  to  wheedle 
Lord  Cockletown  and  his  niece." 

Hari'j  paused  a  moment,  then  passed  out 
of  the  room,  and  retii'ed  to  his  own  apart- 
ment. 

Here  he  remained  for  hours.  At  the  close 
of  the  evening  he  appeared  in  the  withdi-aw- 
ing-room,  but  still  in  a  silent  and  gloomy 
state. 

The  perfect  cxxJ%  of  Miss  Goodwin  had 
spread  like  wildfire,  and  reached  the  whole 
country. 

Greatrake's  reputation  was  then  at  its 
highest,  and  the  number  of  his  cures  was  the 
theme  of  all  conversation.  Barney  Casey 
had  well  marked  AYoodward  since  his  return 
fi'om  Ballyspellan,  and  having  heard,  in  con- 
nection with  others,  that  Miss  Goodwin  had 
been  cured  by  Greatrakes,  he  resolved  to 
keep  his  eye  upon  him,  and,  indeed,  as  the 
event  will  prove,  it  was  well  he  did  so. 

That  night,  about  the  hour  of  twelve 
o'clock,  Barney,  who  had  suspected  that  he 
(Woodward)  had  either  murdered  Grace  Dav- 
oren  in  order  to  conceal  his  omti  guilt,  or 
kept  her  in  some  secret  place  for  the  most 
unjustifiable  purposes,  remai'ked  that,  as  was 
generally  usual  with  him,  he  did  not  go  to 
bed  at  the  period  pecuHar  to  the  habits  of 
the  family. 

"  There  is  something  on  my  mind  this 
night,"  said  Barney  ;  "I  can't  tell  what  it  is  ; 
but  I  think  he  is  bent  on  some  villainous 
Scheme  that  ought  to  be  watched,  and  in  the 
name  of  God  I  will  watch  him." 

Woodward  went  out  of  the  house  more 
stealthily  than  usual,  and  took  his  way 
towards  the  town  of  Rathfillan.  A  good  way 
in  the  distance  behind  him  might  be  discov- 
ered another  figure  dogging  his  footsteps, 
that  figure  being  no  other  than  the  honest 
figure  of  Barney  Casey.  On  went  Woodward 
unsuspicious  that  he  was  watched,  until  he 
reached  the  indescribable  cabin  of  Sol  Don- 
nel,  the  old  herbahst.  The  night  had  be- 
come dark,  and  Barney  was  able,  vsdthout 
being  seen,  to  come  near  enough  to  Wood- 
ward to  hear  his  words  and  observe  his 
actions.  He  tapped  at  the  old  man's  win- 
dow, which,  after  some  delay  and  a  good 
deal  of  grumbling,  was  at  length  opened  to 
him.  The  hut  consisted  of  only  one  room — 
a  fact  which  Bamey  well  knew. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  said  the  old  herbalist. 
"  T^liy  do  you  come  at  this  hour  to  deprive 
me  of  my  rest?  Nobody  comes  for  any 
good  pui*pose  at  such  an  hour  as  this." 
_  "  Open  your  door,  you  hypocritical  old 
sinner,  and  I  v/ill  speak  to  you.  Open  your 
door  instantly." 

"  Wait,  then  ;  I  will  open  it ;  to  be  sure 


I  will  open  it ;  because  I  know  whoever  you 
are  that  if  there  was  not  something  extraor- 
dinary in  it,  it  isn't  at  this  hour  you'd  be 
coming  to  me." 

"  Open  the  door  I  say,  and  then  I  shall 
speak  to  you." 

The  window,  which  the  old  herbahst  had 
ojDened,  and,  in  the  hui-rj'-  of  the  moment, 
left  unshut,  remained  unshut,  and  Barney, 
after  Woodward  had  entered,  stood  close  to 
it  in  oi'der  to  hear  the  conversation  which 
might  j)ass  between  them. 

"Now,"  said  Woodward,  after  he  had  en- 
tered the  hut,  "I  want  a  dose  fi-om  you. 
One  of  my  dogs,  I  fear,  is  seized  v.itli  incip- 
ient symptoms  of  hydroj^hobia,  and  I  wish  to 
dose  him  to  death." 

"  And  what  hour  is  this  to  come  for  such 
a  pui-jiose?"  asked  Sol  Donnel.  "It  isn't 
at  midnight  that  a  man  comes  to  me  to  ask 
for  a  dose  of  poison  for  a  dog." 

"  You  are  verj'  right  in  that,"  replied 
Woodward  ;  "  but  the  truth  is,  that  I  had 
an  assignation  with  a  gui  in  the  town,  and  I 
thought  that  I  might  as  well  call  upon  you 
now  as  at  any  other  time." 

The  eye  of  the  old  sinner  glistened,  for  he 
knew  perfectly  well  that  the  malady  of  the 
dog  was  a  fable. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  can  give  you  the 
dose,  but  what's  to  be  the  recompense  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  ask  ?  "  replied  the  other. 

"I  will  dose  nothing  under  five  pounds." 

"Are  you  certain  that  yoiir  dose  will 
be  sure  to  effect  its  purpose  ?  "  asked  Wood- 
ward. 

"  As  sure  as  I  am  of  hfe,"  repHed  the  old 
sinner  ;  "  one  glass  of  it  would  settle  a  man 
as  soon  as  it  would  a  dog  ;  "  and  as  he  spoke 
he  fastened  his  keen,  glittering  eyes  ujjon 
Woodward.  The  glance  seemed  to  say,  I 
understand  you,  and  I  know  that  the  dog 
you  are  about  to  give  the  dose  to  walks 
upon  two  legs  instead  of  four. 

"Now,"  said  Woodward  after  having  se- 
cured the  bottle,  "  here  are  your  five  pounds, 

and  mark  me "   he  looked  sternly  in  the 

face  of  the  herbahst,  but  added  not  another 
word. 

The  herbalist,  having  secured  the  money 
and  deposited  it  in  his  pocket,  said,  with  a 
malicious  grin, — 

"  Couldn't  you,  IVIi'.  Woodward,  have  pre- 
vented yourself  from  going  to  the  expense 
of  five  pounds  for  poisoning  a  dog,  that  you 
coxild  have  shot  without  all  this  expense  ?  " 

Woodward  locked  at  him.  "Your life," 
said  he,  "  will  not  be  worth  a  day's  jDurchase 
if  you  breathe  a  syllable  of  what  took  place 
between  us  this  night.  Sol  Donnel,  I  am  a 
desperate  man,  otherwise  I  would  not  have 
come  to  you.     Keep  the  secret  between  us, 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,    THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


765 


for ,  if  you  divulge  it,  you  may  take  my  word 
for  it  that  you  will  not  survive  it  twenty- 
four  hours.  Now,  be  warned,  for  I  am  both 
resolute  and  serious." 

The  herbalist  felt  the  energy  of  his  lan- 
;^age  and  was  subdued. 

"  No,  "  he  replied,  "  I  shall  never  breathe 
it ;  kill  your  dog  in  your  own  way  ;  all  I 
can  say  is,  that  half  a  glass  of  it  would  kill  the 
strongest  horse  in  your  stable  ;  only  let  me  re- 
mark that  I  gave  you  the  bottle  to  kill  a  dog  !  " 

"Now,"  thought  Barney  Casey,  "what 
can  all  this  mean  ?  There  is  none  of  the 
dogs  wrong.  He  is  at  some  devil's  work  ,  ; 
but  what  it  is  I  do  not  know  ;  I  shall  watch 
him  well,  however,  and  it  will  go  hard  or  I 
shall  find  out  his  pui^pose."  i 

As  Woodward   was   about  to   depart  he  ' 
mused  for  a  time,   and  at  length  addressed 
the  herbalist. 

"  Suppose,"  said  he,  "that  I  wish  to  kill 
this  dog  by  slow  degrees,  would  it  not  be  a 
good  plan  to  give  him  a  httle  of  it  every 
day,  and  let  him  die,  as  it  were,  by  inches  ?  " 

"  That  m}'  bed  may  be  made  in  heaven  but 
it  is  a  good  thought,  and  by  far  the  safest 
plan,"  replied  the  herbalist,  "  and  the  very 
one  I  would  recommend  you.  A  small 
spoonful  every  day  put  into  his  coffee  or 
her  coffee,  as  the  case  may  be,  will,  in  the  •. 
course  of  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  make 
a  complete  cure." 

"  Why,  you  old  scoundrel,  who  ever  heard 
of  a  dog  drinking  coffee  ?  " 

"I  did,"  replied  the  old  villain,  with  an- 
other grin,  "and  many  a  time  it  is  newly 
sweetened  for  them,  too,  and  they  take  it 
until  they  fall  asleep  ;  but  they  forget  to 
waken  somehow.  Taste  that  youi'self,  and 
you'll  find  that  it  is  beautifully  sweetened  ; 
because  if  it  was  given  to  the  dog  in  its 
natural  bitter  state  he  might  refuse  to  take 
it  at  all,  or,  what  would  be  worse  and  more 
dangerous  still,  he  might  suspect  the  reason 
why  it  was  given  to  him."  j 

The  two  persons  looked  each  other  in  the 
face,  and  it  would,  indeed,  be  difficult  to 
witness  such  an  expression  as  the  counten- 
ance of  each  betrayed.  That  of  the  herbalist 
lay  principally  in  his  feiTet  eyes.  It  was 
ci-uel,  selfish,  cunning,  and  avaricious.  The 
eye  of  the  other  was  dark,  significant,  vin- 
dictive, and  terrible.  In  his  handsome 
features  there  was,  when  contrasted  with 
those  of  the  herbalist,  a  demoniacal  eleva- 
tion, a  Satanic  intellectuaUty  of  expression,  1 
which  rendered  the  contrast  striking  beyond 
belief.  The  one  appeared  with  the  power 
of  Apollyon,  the  god  of  destz'uction,  conscious 
of  thit  power  ;  the  other  as  his  mere  con- 
temptible agent  of  evil — subordinate,  low, 
villanous,  and  wicked.  i 


Woodward,  after  a  significant  look,  bade 
him  good  night,  and  took  his  way  home. 

Barney  Casey,  however,  still  dogge<l  him 
stealthily,  because  he  knew  not  whetlier  the 
dose  was  intended  for  Grace  Davoren  or  his 
brother  Charles.  Mi-s.  Lindsay  had  made  no 
secret  of  her  intention  to  leave  her  property 
to  the  latter,  whose  danger,  and  the  state 
of  whose  health,  had  awakened  all  those 
affections  of  the  mother  which  had  lain 
dormant  in  her  heart  so  long.  The  revivifi- 
cation of  her  affections  for  him  was  one  of 
those  capricious  manifestations  of  feeling 
which  can  emanate  from  no  other  source  but 
the  heart  of  a  mother.  Independently  of 
this,  there  was  in  the  mind  of  5lrs.  Lindsay 
a  princijDle  of  conscious  guilt,  of  hardness  of 
heart,  of  all  want  of  common  humanity, 
that  sometimes  startled  her  into  terror.  She 
knew  the  %'illany  of  her  son  Woodward,  and, 
after  all,  the  heart  of  a  woman  and  a  mother 
is  not  like  the  heart  of  a  man.  There  is  a 
tendency  to  recuperation  in  a  woman's  and 
a  mother's  heart,  which  can  be  found  no- 
where else  ;  and  the  contrast  which  she  felt 
herself  forced  to  institute  between  the  gen- 
erous character  of  her  son  Chai'les  and  the 
villany  of  Woodward  broke  down  the  hard 
propensities  of  her  spirit,  and  subdued  lier 
verj-  -SN-ickedness  into  'something  like  hu- 
manity. Virtue  and  goodness,  after  all,  will 
woi'k  their  way,  especially  where  a  moth- 
er's feehngs,  conscious  of  the  evil  and 
conscious  of  the  good,  are  forced  to  strike 
the  balance  between  them.  This  con- 
sideration it  was  which  determined  Mi-s. 
Lindsay,  in  addition  to  other  considerations 
already  alluded  to,  to  come  to  the  resolution 
of  leaving  her  property  to  her  son  Charles. 
There  is,  besides,  a  want  of  confidence  and 
of  mutual  affection  in  %'iUany  which  reacts 
upon  the  heart,  precisely  as  it  did  upon  that 
of  ^Irs.  Lindsay.  She  knew  that  her  eldest 
son  was  in  intention  a  mvu*derer  ;  and  there 
is  a  terrible  summons  in  conscience  which 
sometimes  awakens  the  soul  into  a  sense  of 
virtue  and  truth. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Baniey  Casey's  vigi- 
lance was  ineffectual.  From  the  night  on 
which  Woodward  got  the  bottle  from  the 
herbalist,  Charles  Lindsay  began  gradually 
and  slowly  to  decline.  Barney's  situation  in 
the  family  was  that  of  a  general  sei-vjuit,  in 
fact,  a  man  of  all  work,  and  the  necessary 
consequence  was,  that  he  could  not  contra- 
vene the  conduct  of  HaiTj'  Woodward,  al- 
though he  saw  clearly  that,  notwithstanding 
Charles's  wound  was  nearly  healed,  his  gen- 
eral health  was  getting  worse. 

Now,  tlie  benevolence  and  singular  powei 
of  Valentine  Greatrakes  ai*e  historical  facts 
which  cannot  be  conti-adicted.     After  about 


7&b 


WILLIAM  GARLETON'8   WORKS. 


a  month  from  the  time  he  cured  Alice  Good- 
win he  came  to  the  town  of  Rathtillan,  with 
several  objects  in  view,  one  of  which  was  to 
see  Ahce  Goodwin,  and  to  ascertain  that  her 
tealth  was  perfectly  reestabhshed.  But  the 
other  and  greater  one  was  that  which  we 
«hall  describe.  Mr.  Lindsay,  having  per- 
ceived that  his  son  Charles's  health  was 
^aduaily  becoming  worse,  though  his  wound 
was  hoa/ed,  and  on  finding  that  the  physician 
who  attended  him  could  neither  do  anything 
for  his  malady,  nor  even  account  for  it,  or 
pronounce  a  diagnosis  upon  its  character, 
bethought  mxa  of  the  man  who  had  so  com- 
pletely cured  Airce  Goodwin.  Accordingly, 
on  Greatralres's  visit  to  Eathfillan,  he  waited 
upon  him,  and  requested,  as  a  personal  fa- 
vor, that  he  would  corue  and  see  his  dying 
son,  for  indeed  Charles  ht.  that  time  was  ap- 
parently not  many  days  trom  death.  Tliis 
distinguished  and  wealtny  gentleman  at  once 
assented,  and  told  ^Ir.  Lindsay  that  he 
would  visit  his  sen  the  next  day. 

"I  may  not  cure  him,"  said  he,  '*  ))ecausp 
there  are  certain  complaints  whioh  cannoo 
be  cured.  Such  complaints  I  never  attempt 
to  cure  ;  and  even  in  others  that  are  curabie 
I  sometimes  fail.  But  wherever  there  is  a 
possibility  of  cure  I  rarely  fail.  I  am  not 
proud  of  this  gift ;  on  the  contrary,  it  has 
subdued  my  heart  into  a  sense  of  piety  and 
gratitude  to  God,  who,  in  his  mercy,  has 
been  pleased  to  make  me  the  insti'ument  of 
so  much  good  to  my  fellow-creatures." 

j\Ir-  Lindsay  returned  home  to  his  family 
in  high  spirits,  and  on  his  way  to  the  house 
observed  his  stepson  Woodward  and  Barney 
Casey  at  the  door  of  the  dog-kennel. 

"I  maintain  the  dog  is  wrong,"  said 
Woodward,  "  and  to  me  it  seems  an  incipi- 
tent  case  of  hydrophobia." 

"  And  to  me,"  replied  Barney,  "  it  appears 
that  his  complaint  is  hrmger,  and  that  you 
have  simply  deprived  him  of  his  necessary 
food." 

At  this  moment  IVIr.  Lindsay  approached 
them,  and  exclaimed, — 

"  Harry,  let  your  honest  and  affectionate 
heart  cheer  up.  Valentine  Greatrakes  will 
be  here  to-morrow,  and  will  cure  Charles,  as 
he  cured  Alice  Goodwin,  and  then  we  will 
have  them  married  ;  for  if  he  recovers  I  am 
determined  on  it,  and  will  abide  no  opposi- 
tion from  any  quarter.  Indeed,  Harry,  your 
mother  is  now  willing  that  they  should  be 
mariied,  and  is  sorry  that  she  ever  opposed 
it.  Your  mother,  thank  God,  is  a  changed 
woman,  and  thank  God  the  change  is  one 
that  makes  my  very  heart  rejoice." 

"  God  be  praised,"  exclaimed  Barney, 
"  that  in  good  news,  and  makes  my  heart  re- 
joice nearly  as  muoli  ms  yoiu-s." 


"Father,"  said  Woodward,  "you  have 
taken  a  heavy  load  off  my  mind.  Charles  is 
certainly  very  ill,  and  until  Greatrakes  comes 
I  shaU  make  it  a  point  to  watch  and  nurse 
tend  him  myself." 

"  It  is  just  what  I  would  expect  from  your 
kind  and  affectionate  heart,  Hany,"  replied 
Lindsay,  rather  slowly  though,  who  then 
passed  into  the  house  to  communicate  the 
gi-atifjing  intelHgence  to  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter. 

The  intensity  of  Woodward's  malignity 
and  villany  was  such  that,  as  we  have  men- 
tioned before,  on  some  occasions  he  forgot 
liimseK  into  such  a  state  of  mind,  and,  what 
was  worse,  into  such  an  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, as,  especially  to  Barney  Casey,  who 
so  deeply  suspected  him,  challenged  obser- 
vation. After  Lindsay  had  gone  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  chin,  and  said,  still  with  cau- 
tion,— 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow,  I  v\ill  watch  him  myseK 
this  night ;  for  if  he  happened  to  die  before 
Greatrakes  comes  to-moiTOw.  what  an  afflic- 
tion would  it  not  be  to  the  family,  and 
especially  to  myself,  who  love  him  so  well. 
Yes,  in  order  to  sustain  and  support  him,  I 
will  watch  him  and  act  as  his  nm-se  this 
night." 

There  was,  however,  such  an  expression 
on  his  countenance  as  could  not  be  mistaken 
even  bj'  a  common  observer,  much  less  by 
such  an  acute  one  as  Barney  Casey,  who  had 
his  eye  upon  him  for  such  a  length  of  time ! 
His  countenance,  Barney  saw  plainly,  was  as 
dark  as  hell,  and  seemed  to  catch  its  inspi- 
ration from  that  damnable  region. 

"  Barney,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  watch  the 
sick  bed,  and  nurse  my  brotlier  Charles  to- 
night, in  order,  if  possible,  to  sustain  him 
until  Greatrakes  cures  him  to-morrow." 

"Ah,  it's  you  that  is  the  affectionate 
brother,"  replied  Barney,  who  had  I'ead  de- 
liberate murder  in  his  countenance.  "But," 
he  exclaimed,  after  Woodward  had  gone,  "  if 
you  watch  hbn  this  night,  I  will  watch  xjou. 
You  know  now  that  he  stands  between  you 
and  your  mother's  property,  and  you  wiU 
put  liim  out  of  the  way  if  you  can.  Yes,  I 
will  watch  you  well  /Ais  night." 

The  minute  poisoned  doses  which  he  had 
contrived  to  administer  to  his  brother  were 
always  followed  by  an  excessive  thirst.  Now, 
Barney  had,  as  we  have  often  said,  strong 
suspicions ;  but  on  this  occasion  he  was 
determined  to  place  himself  in  a  position 
from  which  he  could  watch  every  move- 
ment of  Woodward  without  being  sus- 
pected himself.  His  usual  sleej^ing  place 
was  in  a  low  gallery  below  stairs  ;  but  it  so 
happened  that  there  was  a  closet  beside 
Charles's  bed  in  which  there  was  neither  bod 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


767 


nor  furniture  of  any  kind,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  single  chair.  The  door  between 
them  had,  as  is  usu:J,  two  panes  of  p^lass  in 
it,  through  which  any  person  in  the  dark  could 
see  what  happened  i^i  the  room  in  which 
Charles  8lei)t. 

Barney  locked  the  door  on  the  inside,  and 
it  was  well  that  he  did  so,  for  in  a  short  time 
Woodward  came  in,  with  a  guilty  and  a 
stealthy  pace,  and  having  looked,  like  a  mur- 
derer, about  the  room,  he  ajjproached  the 
closet  door  ami  tried  to  open  it ;  but  finding 
that  it  was  locked  his  apprehensions  vanished, 
and  he  deliberately,  on  seeing  that  his  broth- 
er was  asleej),  took  a  bottle  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  having  poured  about  a  wine-glassful  of 
the  poison  into  the  small  jug  which  con- 
tained the  usual  drink  of  the  patient,  he  left 
the  I'oom,  satisfied  that,  as  soon  as  his 
brother  awoke,  he  would  take  the  deadly 
draught.  When  he  departed,  Barney'  came 
out,  and  having  substituted  another  for  it — 
for  there  was  a  variety  of  potions  on  the  sick 
table — lie,  too,  stealthily  descended  the  stairs, 
and  going  to  the  dog-kennel  deliberately  ad- 
ministered the  pernicious  draught  to  the  dog 
which  Woodward  had  insisted  was  unwell. 
He  hapi^ily  escaped  all  observation,  and  ac- 
complished his  plan  without  either  notice  or 
suspicion.  He  stayed  in  the  kennel  in  order 
to  watch  the  effects  of  the  potion  upon  the 
dog,  who  died  in  the  course  of  about  fifteen 
minutes  after  having  received  it. 

"  Now,"  said  Barney,  "  I  think  I  have  my 
thumb  upon  him,  and  it  will  go  hard  ^vith  me 
or  I  will  make  him  suffer  for  this  helhsh  in- 
tention to  murder  his  brother.  JMi*.  Great- 
rakes  is  a  man  of  great  wealth  and  high 
rank  ;  he  is,  besides,  a  magistrate  of  the 
county,  and,  please  God,  I  will  di-sclose  to 
him  ail  that  1  have  seen  and  suspect." 

Barney,  under  the  influence  of  these  feel- 
ings, went  to  bed,  satisfied  that  he  had  saved 
the  life  of  Charles  Lindsay,  at  least  for  that 
night,  but  at  the  same  time  resolved  to  bring 
his  murderous  brother  to  an  account  for  his 
conduct. 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

Oreatrakes  at  Work — Denouement. 

Greatrakes  was  on  his  way  from  Birch  j 
Grove  to  RathfiUan  House  the  next  day  when 
he  was  met  by  Barney  Casey,  who  had  been 
on  the  lookout  for  him.  Baniey,  who  knew 
not  his  person,  was  not  capable  of  determin- 
ing whether  he  was  the  individual  whom  he 
wanted  or  not.  At  all  events  he  resolved  at 
once  to   ascertain   that   fact.     Accordingly,  I 


'  putting  his  hand  to  his  hat,  he  said,  with  a 
respectful  mfmner, — 

"Pray,  sir,  are  you  the  great  Valentine 
Great  Rooke,  who  prevent*  the  people  from 
dyin'?" 
!  "  I  am  Valentine  Greatrakes,"  he  replied, 
with  a  smile  ;  "  but  I  cannot  prevent  the  peo- 
ple from  dying." 

"Begad,  but  you  can  prevent  them  from 
being  sick,  at  any  rate.  I  am  myself  some- 
times subject  to  a  coHc,  bad  luck  to  it — (this 
was  a  he,  got  up  for  the  purpo.se  of  arresting 
the  attention  of  Greatrakes) — and  maybe  3 
you  would  be  kind  enough  to  rub  me  down 
you  would  drive  the  wind  out  of  me  and 
cure  me  of  it,  for  at  least,  by  all  accounts 
through  the  whole  parish,  it's  a  windy  coUc 
that  haunts  me." 

Greatralies,  who  was  a  man  of  great  good- 
nature, and  strongly  suscejitible  of  humor, 
laughed  ver}'  heartily  at  Barney's  account  of 
his  miserable  stiite  of  health. 

"  Well,"'  siiid  he,  "  my  good  friend,  let  me 
tell  you  that  the  colic  you  speak  of  is  one  of 
the  most  healthy  diseases  we  have.  Don't, 
if  you  regard  your  constitution,  and  your 
health,  ever  attem^jt  to  get  rid  of  it.  Your 
constitution  is  a  windy  constitution,  and 
that  is  the  reason  why  you  are  graciously 
afflicted  with  a  windy  cohc." 

It  was,  in  fact,  diamond  cut  diamond  be- 
tween the  two.  Barney,  who  had  never  had 
a  coUc  in  his  life,  shrugged  his  shoulders 
very  dolefully  at  the  miserable  character  of 
the  sj'mpathy  which  was  expressed  for  him  ; 
and  Gi'eatrakes,  from  his  great  powers  of 
observation,  saw  that  every  word  Barney 
uttered  with  respect  to  his  besetting  malady 
was  a  lie. 

At  length  Barney's  countenance  assumed 
an  expression  of  such  honest  sincerity  and 
feeling  that  Greatrakes  was  at  once  struck 
by  it,  and  he  kept  his  eye  steadily  fixed  upon 
him. 

"  Sir,"  said  Barney,  "  I  understand  you 
ai"e  a  distinguished  gentleman  and  a  magis- 
trate besides  ?  " 

"I  am  certainly  a  magistrate,"  rephed 
Greatrakes  ;  "  but  what  is  your  object  in 
asking  the  question,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

"I  undei-stand  3011  are  going  to  cure 
IMasther  Charles  Lindsay.  Now,  I  wish  to 
give  you  a  hint  or  two  concerning  him.  His 
bi'other — he  of  the  Evil  Eye — according  to 
my  most  solenui  and  serious  opinion,  is 
poisoning  him  by  degrees.  I  think  he  has 
been  dosing  him  upon  a  small  scale,  so  as  to 
make  him  die  off  by  the  effects  of  poison, 
Arithout  any  suspicion  being  raised  agauist 
himself ;  but  when  his  father  told  him  yes- 
tei'day  that  you  were  to  come  this  day  to 
cure    him,    his    brother    insisted    that   he 


768 


WILLIAM    CARLETON'S  WORKS. 


should  sit  up  with  him,  and  Burse-tend  him 
himself.  I  was  aware  of  this,  and  from  a 
conversation  I  heard  him  have  with  an  old 
herbalist,  named  Sol  Donnel,  I  had  suspi- 
cions of  his  design  against  his  brother's  life. 
He  strove  to  kill  Jkliss  Goodwin  by  the 
damnable  force  and  power  of  his  Evil  Eye, 
and  would  have  done  so  had  not  you  cm-ed 
her." 

"And  are  you  sure,"  repKed  Greatrakes, 
"  that  it  is  not  his  Evil  Eye  that  is  killing 
his  brother?" 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  replied  Barney  ; 
"  perhaps  it  may  be  so." 

"No,"  rephed  Greatrakes,  "from  all  I 
have  read  and  heard  of  its  influence  it  can- 
not act  upon  persons  within  a  certain  degree 
of  consanguinity." 

"  X  would  take  my  oath,"  said  honest 
Barney.  "  that  it  is  the  poison  that  acts  in 
this  instance." 

He  then  gave  him  a  description  of  Wood- 
ward's ha^ang  poured  the  poison— or  at  least 
what  he  suspected  to  be  such — -into  the 
drink  which  was  usually  left  at  the  bedside 
of  his  brother,  and  of  its  effect  upon  the 
dog. 

Greatrakes,  on  hearing  this,  drew  up  his 
horse,  and  looking  Barney  sternly  in  the 
face,  asked  him, — 

"Pray,  ray  good  fellow,  did  Mx.  Wood- 
ward ever  injure  or  offend  you?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  rephed  Barney,  "  never  in  any 
instance  ;  but  what  I  say  I  say  from  my  love 
for  his  brother,  whose  life,  I  can  swear,  he  is 
tampering  with.  It  is  a  weak  word,  I  know, 
but  I  wiU  use  a  stronger,  for  I  say  he  is 
bent  upon  his  mui'der  by  poison." 

"Well,"  said  GreatraJies,  "keep  your 
counsel  for  the  present.  I  will  study  this 
matter,  and  examine  into  it ;  and  I  shall 
most  certainly  receive  your  informations 
against  him  ;  but  I  must  have  better  oppor- 
tunities for  making  myself  acquainted  with 
the  facts.  In  the  meantime  keep  your  own 
secret,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me." 

"W'lien  Greatrakes  reached  Rathfillan  House 
the  whole  family  attended  him  to  the  sick 
bed  of  Charles.  Woodward  was  there,  and 
appeared  to  feel  a  deep  interest  in  the  fate 
of  his  brother.  Greatrakes,  on  looking  at 
him,  said,  before  he  applied  the  sanative 
power  which  God  had  placed  in  his  constitu- 
tion,— 

"  This  young  man  is  dying  of  a  slow  and 
subtle  poison,  which  some  j)erson  under  the 
roof  of  this  house  has  been  admmistering 
to  him  in  small  doses." 

As  he  uttered  these  woi-ds  he  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  Woodward,  whose  face  quailed 
and  blanched  under  the  power  and  signifi- 
cance of  his  gaze. 


"  Sir,"  replied  Lindsay,  "  with  the  greatest 
respect  for  you,  there  is  not  a  single  individ- 
ual under  this  roof  who  would  injure  him. 
He  is  beloved  by  every  one.  The  s^'mpathy 
felt  for  him  through  the  whole  paiish  is  won- 
derful— but  by  none  more  than  by  his  broth- 
er Woodward." 

This  explanation,  however,  came  too  late 
Greatrakes's  impressions  were  unchanged. 

"  I  think  I  will  cure  him,"  he  proceeded  ; 
"  but  after  his  recovery'  let  him  be  cautious 
in  taking  any  drink  unless  fi'om  the  hands 
of  his  mother  or  his  father." 

He  then  placed  his  hands  over  his  face 
and  chest,  which  he  kept  rubbing  for  at 
least  a  quarter  of  an  houi",  when,  to  their  ut- 
ter astonishment,  Charles  pronounced  him- 
self in  as  good  health  as  he  had  ever  enjoyed 
in  his  life. 

"  This,  sir,"  said  he,  "is  wonderful ;  why, 
I  am  perfectly  restored  to  health.  As  I  hve 
this  man  must  have  the  power  of  God  about 
him  to  be  able  to  effect  such  an  extraordi- 
nary cure  :  and  he  has  also  cured  my  dai'ling 
Alice.  WTiat  can  I  say?  Father,  give  him 
a  hundred — five  hundred  potinds." 

Greatrakes  smiled. 

"  You  don't  know,  it  seems,"  he  replied, 
"that  I  do  not  receive  remuneration  for  any 
cures  I  may  effect.  I  am  wealthy  and  inde- 
pendent, and  I  fear  that  if  I  were  to  make 
the  wonderful  gift  which  God  has  bestowed 
on  me  the  object  of  mercenary  gain,  it  might 
be  withdrawn  from  me  altogether.  My 
princijDle  is  one  of  humanity  and  benev- 
olence. I  will  remain  in  EathfiUan  for  a 
fortnight,  and  shall  see  you  again,"  he  add- 
ed, addressing  himself  to  Charles.  "  Now,' 
he  proceeded,  "  mark  me,  30U  wiU  require 
neither  drinks  nor  medicine  of  any  descrip- 
tion. Whatever  drinks  you.  take,  take  them 
at  the  common  table  of  the  family.  There 
are  circumstances  connected  with  your  case 
which,  as  a  magistrate  of  the  county,  I  am 
resolved  to  investigate." 

He  looked  sternly  at  Woodward  as  he  ut- 
tered the  last  words,  and  then  took  his  de- 
parture to  RathfiUan,  having  first  told  Bar- 
ney Casey  to  call  on  him  the  next  day. 

After  Greatrakes  had  gone.  Woodward  re- 
paired to  the  room  of  his  mother,  in  a  state 
of  agitation  which  we  cannot  describe. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "  unless  we  can  man- 
age that  old  peer  and  his  niece,  I  am  a  lost 
man." 

"  Do  not  be  uneasy,"  replied  his  mother  ; 
"whilst  you  were  at Ballyspcllan  I  contrived 
to  manage  that.  Ask  me  notliing  about  it ; 
but  every  arrangement  is  made,  and  you  are 
to  be  married  this  day  week.  Keep  yourself 
prepared  for  a  settled  case." 

"V\Tiat  the  mother's  arguments  in  behalf  of 


yHE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   TTJE  BLACK  SPECTRR 


769 


the  match  may  have  been,  we  cannot  pre- 
tend to  say.  We  beUeve  that  jSIiss  Riddle's 
attachment  to  his  handsome  pei-son  and 
gentlemanly  manners  overcame  all  objec- 
tions on  the  part  of  her  uncle,  and  notliin*^ 
now  remained  to  stand  in  the  way  of  their 
union. 

Tlie  next  day  Barney  Casey  waited  upon 
Greatrakes,  according  to  appointment,  when 
the  following  conversation  took  jjlace  bet»^een 
them  : — 

"  Now,"  said  Greatrakes,  solemnly,  "  what 
is  3'our  name  ?  " 

As  he  put  the  question  with  a  stem  and 
magisterial  air,  his  tablets  and  jjencil  in 
hand,  which  he  did  with  the  intention  of 
awing  Barney  into  a  full  confession  of  the 
exact  truth — a  precaution  which  Barney's 
romance  of  the  windy  colic  induced  him  to 
take, — "I  say,"  he  repeated,  "what's  your 
name  ?  " 

Barney,  seeing  the  pencil  and  tablets  \a 
hand,  and  besides  not  being  much,  or  at  all, 
acquainted  with  magisterijil  investigations, 
felt  rather  blank,  and  somewhat  puzzled  at 
this  query. 

He  accordingly'  resorted  to  the  usage  of 
the  country,  and  commenced  scratching  a 
rather  round  bullet  head. 

"  My  name,  your  honor,^'  he  replied  ;  "  my 
name,  couldn't  you  pass  that  by,  sir  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Greatrakes,  "I  cannot  pass  it 
by.  In  this  business  it  is  essential  that  I 
should  know  it." 

"Ay,"  replied  Baniey,  "but  maybe  you 
have  some  treacherous  design  in  it,  and  that 
you  are  goin'  to  take  the  j'-art  of  the  wealthy 
scoundrel  against  the  poor  man  ;  and  even  if 
you  did,  you  wouldn't  be  the  first  magistrate 
who  did  it." 

Greatrakes  looked  keenly  at  him.  a'he 
observation  he  expressed  was  precisely  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  liberahty  of  his  own  feel- 
ings. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  he  added  ;  "  if  you 
knew  my  character,  which  it  is  evident  you 
do  not,  you  would  know  that  I  never  take 
the  part  of  the  rich  man  against  the  j^oor 
man,  unless  when  there  is  justice  on  the  part 
of  the  wealthy  man,  and  crime,  unjustifiable 
and  cruel  crime,  on  the  part  of  the  poor  man, 
which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  not  an  unfre- 
quent  case.  Now,  I  must  insi.st,  as  a  magis- 
trate, that  you  give  me  your  name." 

"  Well,  then,"  replied  the  other,  "  I'm  one 
Barney  Casey,  sir,  who  lives  in  liitbfillan 
House,  as  a  sei-vant  to  Mr.  Lindsiy,  step- 
father to  that  murtherui'  blackguard." 

Greatrakes  then  examined  him  closely,  and 
made  him  promise  to  come  to  Ratlifillan  that 
night,  in  order  that  he  might  accompany  him 
to  the  hut  of  old  Sol  Donnel,  the  herbalist 
25 


"  I  am  resolved,"  said  he,  "to  investigate 
this  matter,  and  in  my  capacity  of  a  magis* 
trate  to  bring  the  guilty  to  justice." 

"  Faith,  sir,"  replied  Baniey,  "  and  I'm  no* 
the  boy  who  is  going  to  stand  in  your  way 
in  such  a  business  as  that.  You  know  that 
it  was  I  that  put  you  up  to  it,  and  any  assii*. 
tance  I  can  give  \on  in  it  you  may  reckon  on. 
.iVlthough  not  a  magistrate,  as  you  are,  maybe 
I'm  just  as  fond  of  justice  as  yourself.  Of 
coorsel'll  attend  you  to-night,  and  show  you 
the  devil's  nest  in  which  Sol  Donnel  and  his 
blessed  babe  of  a  niece,  by  name  Caterine 
Collins,  live." 

Greatrakes  took  down  the  name  of  Cater- 
ine CoUins,  and  after  hanng  arranged  the 
hour  at  which  Barney  was  to  conduct  him  to 
Sol  Donnel's  hut,  they  separated. 

About  eleven  o'clock  that  night  Baniey 
and  Greatrakes  reached  the  miserable- 
looking  residence  in  which  this  old  vij)ei 
hved. 

"Now,"  said  Greatrakes,  addressing  the 
herbalist,  " my  business  with  you  is  this:  I 
have  a  bitter  enemy  who  w;mts  to  establish 
a  claim  upon  my  property,  and  I  wish  to 
put  him  out  of  my  way.  Do  you  understand 
me  ?  I  am  a  wealthy  man,  and  can  reward 
you  well." 

"  I  never  talk  of  these  things  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  third  party,"  replied  the  herbiihst, 
looking  significantly  at  Barney,  whom  he 
well  knew. 

"  Well,"  replied  the  other,  "  I  dare  say 
you  are  right.  Casey,  go  out  and  leave  ua 
to  ourselves." 

There  was  a  little  hall  in  the  house,  which 
hall  was  in  complete  obscurity.  Barney 
availed  himself  of  this  cii'cumstance,  opened 
the  door  and  clapped  it  to  as  if  he  had  gone 
out,  but  remained  at  the  same  time  in  the 
inside. 

"  No,  sir,"  rephed  Sol  Donnel,  ignoi-ant  of 
the  trick  which  Baniey  had  pkiyed  upon 
him,  "  I  never  allow  a  third  i)erson  to  be 
present  at  any  of  those  conversations  about 
the  strength  and  power  of  my  herbs.  Now, 
tell  me,  what  it  is  that  you  want  me  to  do 
for  you." 

"^^'hy,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  replied 
Greatrakes,  "I  never  heard  of  your  name 
until  within  a  few  days  ago,  that  you  were 
mentioned  to  me  by  Mr.  Henr^'  Woodward, 
who  told  me  that  you  gave  him  a  dose  to 
settle  a  dog  that  was  laboring  under  the  first 
symptoms  of  hydrophobia.  Well,  the  dog  is 
dead  by  the  infiuence  of  the  bottle  you  gave 
him  ;  but  now  that  we  are  by  ourselves  1 
tell  you  at  once  that  I  want  a  dose  for  a  man 
who  is  likely,  if  he  hves,  to  cut  me  oul  of  a 
large  property." 

"  O.  (Jhccrnah  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  villsun, 


TTO 


WILLIAM  CARLETOJTS    WORKS. 


"  do  you  think  that  I  who  lives  by  curin'  the 
poor  for  nothing,  or  next  to  notliing,  could 
lend  myself  to  sich  a  thing  as  that  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  other,  preparing 
to  take  'his  departm-e,  "  you  have  lost  fifty 
pounds  by  the  afiair  at  all  events." 

"Fifty  pounds!"  exclaimed  the  other, 
whilst  his  keen  and  diabolical  eyes  gleamed 
with  the  united  spirit  of  avarice  and  villany. 
"  Fifty  pounds  !  well  how  simple  and  fooHsh 
some  people  are.  Why  now,  if  you  had  a 
dog,  say  a  setter  or  a  pointer,  that  fi'om  fear 
of  madness  you  wished  to  get  rid  of,  and 
that  you  had  mentioned  it  to  me,  I  could 
give  you  a  bottle  that  would  soon  settle  it ; 
I  don't  go  above  a  dog  or  the  inferior  animals, 
and  no  man  that  has  his  senses  about  him 
ought  to  ask  me  to  do  anytliing  else." 

"  AVell,  then,  I  tell  you  at  once  that,  as  I 
said,  it  is  not  for  a  dog,  but  for  a  worse 
animal,  a  man,  my  own  cousin,  who,  unless  I 
absolutely  contrive  to  poison  him,  -wiil 
deprive  me  of  six  thousand  a  year.  Instead 
of  fifty  I  shall  make  the  recompense  a  hun- 
dred, after  having  found  that  your  medicine 
is  successful." 

The  old  villain's  ej'e  gleamed  again  at  the 
prospect  of  such  liberality. 

"  Well  now,"  said  he,  "  see  what  it  is  for  a 
pious  man  to  forget  his  devotions,  even  for 
one  day.  I  forgot  to  say  my  Leadan  Wurrah 
this  mornin',  and  that  is  the  raison  that 
your  temjitation  has  overcome  me.  You 
must  call  then  to-morrow  night,  because  I 
have  nothing  now,  barrin'  what  'ud  excite 
the  bowels,  and  it  seems  that  isn't  what  you 
want ;  but  if  you  be  down  here  about  this 
same  hour  to-moiTow  night,  you  shall  have 
what  Avill  put  your  enemy  out  of  the  way." 

"  Tliat  will  do  then,"  repUed  Greatrakes, 
"  and  I  shall  depend  on  you." 

"Ay,"  replied  the  old  villain,  "but  re- 
member that  the  act  is  not  mine  but  your 
own.  I  simply  fui'nish  you  with  the  ne- 
cessary means  —  your  own  act  will  be  to  ap- 
ply them." 

On  leaving  the  hut,  Greatrakes  was  highly 
gratified  on  finding  that  Barney  Casey  had 
overheard  their  whole  conversation. 

"  You  will  serve  as  a  corroborative  evi- 
dence," said  he. 

The  herbalist,  at  all  events,  was  entrap- 
ped, and  not  only  his  disposition  to  sell  bo- 
tanical poisons,  but  his  habit  of  doing  so, 
was  clearly  proved  to  the  benevolent  magis- 
trate. 

On  the  next  night  he  got  the  poison,  and 
having  consulted  with  Casey,  he  said  he 
would  not  urge  the  matter  for  a  few  days,  as 
he  wished,  in  the  most  private  waj'  possible, 
to  procure  fvurther  evidence  against  the  guilty 
parties. 


In  the  meantime,  every  preparation  "waa 
made  in  both  families  for  Woodward's  wed- 
ding. The  old  peer,  who  had  cross-examined 
his  niece  upon  the  subject,  discovered  her 
attachment  to  Woodward  ;  and  as  he  wished 
to  see  her  settled  before  his  death  with  a 
gentlemanly  and  respectable  husband  —  a 
man  who  would  be  capable  of  taking  care  of 
the  property  which  he  must  necessarily  leave 
her,  as  she  was  his  favorite  and  his  heiress 
— and  besides,  he  loved  her  as  a  daughter — 
he  was  resolved  that  Woodward  and  she 
should  be  united." 

"  I  don't  care  a  fig,"  said  he,  "  whether  this 
Woodward  has '  property  or  not.  He  is  a 
gentleman,  respectably  connected,  of  accom- 
pHshed  manners,  handsome  in  person,  and 
if  he  has  no  fortune,  why  you  have  ;  and  I 
think  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  accept 
him  without  hesitation.  The  comical  rascal," 
said  he,  laughing  heariily,  "  took  me  in  so 
completely  during  our  first  interview,  that 
he  became  a  favorite  with  me." 

"  I  think  well  of  him,"  rephed  his  firm, 
minded  niece  ;  "  and  even  I  admit  that  I 
love  him,  as  far  as  a  girl  of  such  a  cold  con- 
stitution as  mine  may  ;  but  I  tell  you,  uncle, 
that  if  I  discovered  a  taint  of  vice  or  want 
of  principle  in  his  chai*acter,  I  could  fling 
him  off  with  contempt." 

"I  wish  to  heaven,"  rej)lied  the  uncle, 
rather  nettled,  "  that  we  could  have  up  one 
of  the  twelve  apostles.  I  dare  say  some  of 
them,  if  they  were  disposed  to  marry,  might 
come  up  to  yotu:  mark." 

"  Well,  uncle,  at  all  events  I  like  him  suffi- 
ciently to  consent  that  he  should  become  my 
husband." 

"  Well,  and  is  not  that  enough  ;  bless  my 
heari,  could  you  wish  to  go  beyond  it  ?  " 

In  the  meantime,  very  important  matters 
were  proceeding,  which  bore  strongly  upon 
Woodward's  destiny.  Greatrakes  had  col- 
lected —  aided,  of  course,  by  Barney  Casey, 
who  was  the  principal,  but  not  the  sole,  evi- 
dence against  him— such  a  series  of  facts,  a&, 
he  felt,  justified  him  in  receiving  informa* 
tions  against  him." 

At  this  crisis  a  discoverv'  was  made  in  con- 
nection with  the  Haunted  House,  which  vas 
privately,  through  Casey,  communicated  to 
Greatrakes,  who  called  a  meeting  of  tht 
neighboring  magistrates  upon  it.  This  he 
did  by  writing  to  them  jDrivately  to  meet 
him  on  a  particular  day  at  his  little  inn  in 
RathfiUan.  For  obvious  reasons,  and  out  of 
consideration  to  his  feehngs,  ]\Ir.  Lindsay's 
name  was  omitted.  At  all  events  the  night 
preceding  the  day  of  Woodward's  marriage 
with  ]\Iiss  Riddle  had  ai'i-ived,  but  two  cir- 
cumstances occurred  on  that  evening  and 
on  that  night  which  not  only  frustrated  all 


THE  EVIL  EYE;   OR,   THE  BLACK  SFECTBK 


m 


his  designs  upon  Miss  Riddle,  or  rather 
upon  her  uncle's  property,  but— however, 
we  shall  not  anticipate. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  Miss  Rid- 
dle was  told  by  a  servant  that  a  young  man, 
handsome  and  of  tine  proportions,  wished  to 
see  her  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Not  that  I  would  recommend  you  to  see 
him,"  said  the  serving- woman  who  dehvered 
the  message.  "He  is,  to  be  sui-e,  vei-y 
handsome  ;  but,  then,  he  is  one  of  those 
wild  i^eoi^le,  and  armed  Avith  a  great  mid- 
dogue  or  dagger,  and  God  knows  what  his 
object  may  be — maybe  to  take  j'oui'  life.  As 
sure  as  I  live  he  is  a  tory." 

"That  may  be,"  rei^lied  Miss  Riddle; 
"  but  I  know,  by  your  description  of  him, 
that  he  is  the  individual  to  whose  generous 
spirit  I  and  ray  dear  uncle  owe  our  lives  : 
let  him  be  shown  in  at  once  to  the  fi'out 
pai'lor. " 

In  a  few  minutes  she  entered,  and  found 
Sha^\-n  before  her. 

"  O  Shawn  !  "  said  she,  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  My  uncle  is  using  all  his  interest  to 
get  you  a  pardon — that  is,  provided  j'ou  are 
wiUing  to  abandon  the  wild  life  to  which  you 
have  taken." 

"I  am  willing  to  abandon  it,"  he  replied  ; 
"but  I  have  one  task  to  perform  before  I 
leave  it.  You  have  heard  of  the  toir,  or  tory- 
hunt,  which  was  made  after  me  and  others  ; 
but  chiefly  after  me,  for  I  was  tlie  object 
they  wanted  to  shoot  down,  or  rather  that 
he,  the  villain,  wanted  to  murder  lauder  the 
authority'  of  those  cruel  laws  that  make  us 
tories." 

"  Who  do  you  mean  by  he  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Riddle. 

"I  mean  Harry  "Woodward,"  he  replied. 
"He  hunted  me,  disguised  by  a  black 
mask." 

"  But  are  you  sure  of  that,  Shawn  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  it 
■was  not  until  yestei'day  that  I  discovered  his 
villany.  I  know  the  barber  in  RatlifiUan 
where  the  black  mask  was  got  for  him,  I  be- 
Ueve,  by  his  wicked  mother." 

Miss  Riddle,  who  was  a  strong-minded 
girl,  paused,  and  was  silent  for  a  time,  after 
which  she  said, — 

"  I  am  glad  you  told  me  this,  Shawn.  I 
spoke  to  liim  in  your  favor,  and  lie  pledged 
his  honor  to  me  pi-e^aous  to  the  terrible 
hunt  you  allude  to,  and  of  which  the  whole 
country  rang,  that  he  would  never  take  a 
step  to  yoiir  prejudice,  but  would  rather 
protect  you  as  far  as  he  could,  in  conse- 
quence of  your  having  generously  saved  my 
dear  uncle's  life  and  mine." 

"  The  deeper  villain  he,  then.  He  is  upon 
my  trail  night  and  day.     He  ruined  Grace 


Dcivoren,  who  has  disappeared,  and  the  be- 
lief of  the  people  is  that  he  has  murdered 
her.  He  possesses  the  Evil  Ej'e,  too,  and 
would  by  it  have  murdered  jVIiss  Goodwin, 
of  Beech  Grove,  in  order  to  get  back  the 
property  which  liis  uncle  left  her,  only  for 
the  wonderful  i>o\\er  of  Scjuire  Greatrakea, 
who  cui-ed  her.  And,  besides,  I  have  ralson 
to  know  thixt  he  will  be  arrested  this  very 
night  for  attempting  to  poison  his  brother. 
I  sun  a  humble  young  man.  Miss  Riddle,  but 
I  am  afeard  that  if  you  many  liim  you  will 
stand  but  a  bad  chance  for  hajDpiness."' 

"  She  was  again  silent,  but,  after  a  paiise> 
she  safd — 

"Shawn,  do  you  want  money?" 

"I  thank  you,  Miss  Riddle,"  he  replied. 
"  I  don't  want  mone}' :  all  I  want  is,  tliat 
3'ou  will  not  he  desaved  by  one  of  the  most 
dan:inable  villiiins  on  the  face  of  the  earth.'' 

There  was  an  earnestness  and  force  of 
tiiith  in  what  the  generous  young  tory  said 
that  could  not  be  mistaken.  He  arose,  and 
was  about  to  take  his  leave,  when  he  said, — 

"  Miss  Riddle,  I  understand  he  is  about 
to  be  married  to  you  to-morrow.  Should  he 
become  your  husband,  he  is  safe  from  my 
hand — and  that  on  your  account ;  but  as  it 
may  not  yet  be  too  late  to  spake,  I  warn  3*ou 
against  his  hypocrisy  and  ^'iUany — against 
the  man  Avho  destroyed  Grace  Davorcn — 
who  would  have  killed  ^liss  Goodwin  Nvith 
his  Evil  Eye,  m  order  to  get  back  the  j^rop- 
erty  which  his  uncle  left  lier,  and  who  would 
have  poisoned  his  o^^'n  brother  out  of  his 
way  bekase  his  mother  told  him  she  had 
changed  her  mind  in  leaving  it  to  him 
(Woodward),  and  came  to  the  resolution  of 
leaving  it  to  his  brother,  and  that  was  the 
raison  why  he  attempted  to  poison  him.  All 
these  tilings  have  been  proved,  and  I  have 
raison  to  believe  that  he  \\'ill  sleep — if  sleep 
he  can — in  Waterford  jail  before  to-morrow 
mornin'.  But,"  he  added,  with  a  look  which 
was  so  replete  with  vengeance  and  terror, 
that  it  perfectly  stunned  the  girl,  "  porhapb 
he  won't,  though.  It  is  likely  that  the  fate 
of  Grace  Davoren  ^\■ill  i)rev8nt  him  from 
it." 

He  did  not  give  her  time  to  reply,  but  in- 
stantly disapiiearod.  and  left  her  in  a  state 
of  mind  which  our  readers  may  yery  well  im- 
derstand. 

Slie  immediately  went  to  her  uncle's  li- 
brary, where  the  following  brief  di;ilogue  oo 
cun'ed  : 

"Uncle,  this  marriage  must  not  and  shall 
not  take  place." 

"  TSHiat !"  replied  the  peer;  "then  he  is 
none  of  the  twelve  apostles." 

"You  are  there  mistaken,"  said  she  ;  "he 
is  one  of  them.     Remember  Judas." 


WILLIAM  CARLETON'S  WOBES. 


"  Judae  f  What  tlie  deuce  are  you  at,  my 
dear  niece  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  he  is  a  most  treacherous  vil- 
lain :  that's  what  I'm  at,"  and  her  face  be- 
came crimson  with  indignation, 

"But  what's  in  the  wind?  Don't  keep 
me  in  a  state  of  susjjense.  Judas  !  Con- 
tound  it,  what  a  comijarison  !  Well,  I  per- 
ceive you  are  not  disjDosed  to  become  Mi*s. 
Judas.  You  know  me,  however,  well 
enough :  I'm  not  going  to  jDress  you  to  it. 
Do  you  think,  my  dear  niece,  that  Judas  was 
a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Precisely  such  a  gentleman,  pex-haps,  as 
Mr.  Woodward  is."  • 

"  And  you  think  he  would  betray  Christ  ?  " 

"  He  would  poison  his  brother,  uncle,  be- 
cause he  stands  between  him  and  his  moth- 
er's property,  which  she  has  recently  ex- 
pressed her  intention  of  leaving  to  that  bro- 
ther— a  fact  which  awoke  something  hke 
comijassion  in  my  breast  for  AVoodward." 

"  Well,  then,  lack  him  to  heU,  the  scoun- 
drel. I  liked  the  fellow  in  the  beginning, 
and,  indeed,  all  along,  because  he  had  badg- 
ered me  so  beautifully, — which  I  thought 
few  persons  had  caj^acity  to, — and  in  conse- 
quence, I  entertained  a  high  ojjinion  of  his 
intellect,  and  be  hanged  to  him  ;  kick  him  to 
hell,  though." 

"  Well,  my  dear  lord  and  uncle,  I  don't 
think  I  Avould  be  capable  of  kicking  him  so 
far  ;  nor  do  I  think  it  will  l)e  at  all  neces- 
saiy,  as  my  opinion  is,  that  he  vvill  be 
able  to  reach  that  region  without  any  assist- 
ance." 

"  Come,  that's  very  well  said,  at  all  events 
—one  of  your  touchers,  as  I  call  them. 
There,  then,  is  an  end  to  the  match  and  mar- 
riage, and  so  be  it." 

She  here  detailed  at  further  length,  the 
conversation  which  she  had  with  Shaum-na- 
Middogue ;  mentioned  the  fact,  which  had 
somehow  become  well  kno'vvn,  of  his  liaving 
wrought  the  iniin  of  Grace  Davoren,  and 
concluded  by  stating  that,  notwithstanding 
his  gentlemanly  manners  and  deportment, 
he  was  unworthy  either  the  notice  or  regard 
of  any  respectable  female. 

"Well,"  said  the  peer,  "from  all  you  have 
told  me  I  must  say  you  have  had  a  nar- 
row escape  ;  I  did  suspect  him  to  be  a  for- 
tune-hunter ;  but  then  who  the  deuce  can 
blame  a  man  for  stri\ing  to  advance  himself 
in  life  ?  However,  let  there  be  an  end  to  it, 
and  you  must  only  wait  until  a  better  man 
comes." 

"  I  assure  you,  my  dear  uncle,  I  am  in  no 
hurry;  so  let  that  be  your  comfort  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  peer,  "I  shall  write 
to  him  to  say  that  the  marriage,  in  conse- 


quence of  what  we  have  heard  of  his  chax*' 
acter,  is  ofl"." 

"Take  whatever  steps  you  please,"  re^ 
plied  his  admu'able  niece  ;  "for  most  assur- 
edly, so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  zs  off.  Do 
you  imagine,  uncle,  that  I  could  for  a  mo- 
ment think  of  marrying  a  seducer  and  a 
poisoner  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  a  very  queer  thing  if  you 
did,"  replied  her  uncle  ;  "  but  was  it  not  a 
fortunate  cu'cum  stance  that  you  came  to  dis- 
cover his  real  character  in  time  to  prevent 
you  fi'om  becoming  the  wife  of  such  a  scoun- 
drel?" 

"  It  was  the  providence  of  God,"  said  his 
niece,  "  that  would  not  suffer  the  innocent 
to  become  associated  with  the  guilty." 

Greatrakes,  in  the  meantime,  was  hard  at 
work.  He  and  the  other  magistrates  had 
collected  evidence,  and  received  the  infor- 
mations against  Woodward,  the  herbalist,  and 
the  mysterious  individual  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  appearing  about  the  Haunted  House 
as  the  Shan-dhinne-dhuv,  or  the  Black  Spectre. 
Villany  hke  this  cannot  be  long  concealed, 
and  will,  in  due  time,  come  to  hght. 

During  the  dusk  of  the  evening  preceding 
Woodward's  intended  marriage,  an  individual 
came  to  j\Ii-.  Lindsay's  house  and  requested 
to  see  Mr.  Woodward.  That  gentleman 
came  down,  and  immediately  recognized  the 
person  who  had,  for  such  a  length  of  time, 
fiightened  the  neighborhood  as  the  Hhan- 
dhinne-dhnv  or  the  Black  Spectre.  He  was 
shown  into  the  parlor,  and,  as  there  was  no 
one  present,  the  following  dialogue  took 
place,  fi-eely  and  confidentially,  between 
them  : — 

"  You  must  fly,"  said  the  Si^ectre,  or,  in 
other  words,  the  conjurer,  whom  we  have 
already  described, — "you  must  fly,  for  you 
are  to  be  arrested  this  night.  Our  estab- 
lishment for  the  forgery  of  bad  notes  must 
also  be  given  up,  and  the  Haunted  House 
must  be  deserted.  The  magistrates,  some- 
how, have  smelled  out  the  trutli,  and  we 
must  change  our  lodgings.  We  dodged 
them  pretty  well,  but,  after  all,  these  things 
can't  last  long.  On  to-morrow  night  I  bid 
farewell  to  the  neighborhood  ;  but  you  can- 
not Avait  so  long,  because  on  this  very  night 
you  are  to  be  arrested.  It  is  very  well  that 
you  sent  Grace  Davoren,  at  my  suggestion, 
from  the  Haunted  House  to  what  is  sup- 
posed to  be  the  haunted  cottage,  in  the 
mountains,  where  Nannie  Morrissy  soon 
joined  her.  I  supplied  them  with  pro- 
visions, and  had  a  bed  and  other  articles 
brought  to  them,  according  to  your  own  in- 
structions, and  I  think  that,  for  the  present, 
the  safest  place  of  concealment  will  be 
there." 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


773 


Wootlwai-d  became  terribly  alarmed.  It 
was  on  the  eve  of  his  marriage,  and  the  in- 
telligence almost  drove  him  into  distraction. 

"I  vrill  follow  your  advice,"  said  he,  "  and 
will  take  refuge  in  what  is  cjilled  the  haunted 
cottage,  for  this  night." 

His  mysterious  friend  now  left  him,  and 
Woodward  prepared  to  seek  the  haunted  cot,- 
tage  in  the  mountains.  Poor  Grace  Davoren 
was  in  a  painful  and  critical  condition,  but 
Woodward  had  engaged  Caterine  Collins  to 
attend  to  her :  for  what  object,  ^^'ill  soon  be- 
come evident  to  our  readers. 

Woodward,  after  night  had  set  in,  — it  was 
a  mild  night  with  fjiiut  moonlight, — took  his 
way  towards  the  cott:ige  that  was  supposed 
to  be  haunted,  and  which,  in  tliose  days  of 
witclicraft  and  superstition,  nobody  would 
think  of  entering.  We  have  already  de- 
scribed it,  and  that  must  suffice  for  our 
readers.  On  entering  a  dark,  but  level  moor, 
he  was  startled  by  the  appearance  of  the 
Black  S/)ertr<',  which,  as  on  two  occasions  be- 
fore, pointed  its  middogue  three  times  at 
his  heart.  He  rushed  towards  it,  but  on 
arriving  at  the  spot  he  could  find  nothing. 
It  had  vanished,  and  he  was  left  to  meditate 
on  it  as  best  he  might. 

We  now  pass  to  the  haunted  cottage  itself. 
There  lay  Grace  Davoren,  after  having  given 
birth  to  a  child  ;  there  she  lay — the  victim 
of  the  seducer,  on  the  very  eve  of  dissolution, 
and  beside  her,  sitting  on  the  bed,  the  un- 
fortunate Nannie  Morrissy,  now  a  con- 
firmed and  dying  maniac. 

"  Grace,"  said  Nannie,  "you,  like  me,  were 
ruined." 

"I  was,"  replied  Grace,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
audible. 

"  Ay,  but  you  didn't  murder  your  father, 
though,  as  I  did  ;  that's  one  advantage  I 
have  over  you — ha  !  ha  !  ha  I  " 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  Nannie,"  rephed 
the  dying  gui  ;  "  but  where's  my  baby  ?  " 

"  O !  yes,  you  have  had  a  baby,  but 
Catei-ine  Collins  took  it  away  with  her." 

"  My  child !  my  child !  where  is  my 
child  ?  "  she  exclaimed  in  a  low,  but  husky 
voice  ;  "  where's  my  child  ?  and  besides,  ever 
since  I  took  that  bottle  she  gave  me  I  feel 
deadly  sick." 

"  Will  I  go  for  your  father  and  mother — 
but  above  all  things  for  your  father  ?  ]3ut 
then  if  he  punished  the  villain  that  ruined  you 
and  brought  disgi-ace  upon  your  name,  he 
might  be  lianged  as  mine  was." 

"Ah  !  Nannie,"  replied  poor  Grace  ;  "my 
father  won't  die  of  the  gallows ;  but  he  will 
of  a  broken  heart." 

"  Better  to  be  hanged,"  said  the  maniac, 
whose  reason,  after  a  lapse  of  more  than  a 
year,  was  in  some  degree  retiiming,  precisely 


as  life  was  ebbing  out,  "bekase,  thank  God, 
there's  then  an  end  to  it." 

"  I  agree  with  you,  Nannie,  it  might  be 
only  a  long  life  of  suti'ering  ;  but  I  wouldn't 
wish  to  see  my  father  hanged." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Namiie,  relapsing 
into  a  deeper  mood  of  lier  mania, — "  do  you 
know  tliat  when  I  saw  vii/  father  last  he 
wouldn't  nor  didn't  spixke  to  me  ?  The  house 
was  tilled  with  people,  and  my  little  brother 
Frank — why  now  i.su't  it  .strange  that  I  feel 
somehow  as  if  I  will  never  wash  his  face 
again  nor  comb  his  white  hea<l  in  order  to 
prei^jvre  him  for  mass  ? — but  whisper,  Grace, 
sure  then  I  was  innocent  and  had  not  met  the 
destroyer." 

The  two  unhappy  girls  looked  at  each 
other,  and  if  ever  there  was  a  gaze  calcukited 
to  wring  the  human  heart  ^vith  anguish  and 
with  jjity,  it  was  that  gaze.  Both  of  them 
were,  although  unconsciously,  on  the  veiy 
eve  of  dissolution,  and  it  woiild  seem  as  if  a 
kind  of  presentiment  of  death  had  seized 
ujion  both  at  the  same  time. 

"  Nannie,"  said  Grace,  "  do  you  know  that 
I'm  afeard  we're  both  gom'  to  die  ?  " 

"  And  why  are  you  afeard  of  it  ?  "  asked 
Nannie.  "  Many  a  time  I  would  'a  given  the 
world  to  die." 

"  A\^i3',"  replied  Grace,  who  saAV  the  deep 
shadows  of  death  upon  her  -vN-ild,  pale,  but 
still  beautiful  countenance, — "why  Nannie, 
you  have  your  wish — you  are  dring  this 
moment." 

Just  as  Gi*ace  spoke  the  unfortunate  girl 
seemed  as  if  she  had  been  stricken  by  a 
spasm  of  the  heart.  She  gave  a  slight  start 
— tunied  up  her  beautiful,  but  melancholy 
eyes  to  heaven,  and  exclaimed,  as  if  conscious 
of  the  moment  that  had  come, — 

"  Forgive  me,  O  God  !  "  after  which  she 
laid  herself  calmly  down  by  the  side  of  Gmoe 
and  expired.  Grace,  by  an  efl'ort,  put  lier 
hand  out  and  felt  her  lieart,  but  there  was 
no  piilsation  tliere — it  did  not  beat,  and  she 
saw  l)v  the  utter  hfelessness  of  her  features 
that  she  was  dead,  and-  had  been  relieved  at 
last  from  all  her  sorrows. 

"  Nannie,"  she  said,  "  your  start  before  me 
won't  be  long.  I  do  not  wish  to  live  to  show 
a  shamed  face  and  a  mined  character  to  my 
family  and  the  world.  Nannie.  I  am  coming  ; 
but  where  is  my  child  ?  Wljero  is  that  wo- 
man who  took  it  away  ?  My  child  !  "NMiere 
is  my  child  ?  " 

Whilst  this  melancholy  scene  was  taking 
place,  miother  of  a  veiw  ditTerent  description 
was  occuring  near  the  cottage.  Two  poach- 
ers, who  were  concealed  in  a  hiizel  copse  on 
the  brow  of  a  little  glen  beside  it,  saw  a  wo- 
man advance  with  an  infant,  which,  by  its 
cries,  they  felt  satisfied  was  but  newly  bom 


774 


WILLIAM  CAIiLETON'S  WORKS. 


Its  cries,  however,  were  soon  stilled,  and  they 
saw  her  deposit  it  in  a  little  grave  which  had 
evidently  been  jDrepared  for  it.  She  had 
covered  it  slightly  with  a  portion  of  clay, 
but  ere  she  had  time  to  proceed  further 
ihey  pounced  upon  her. 

"Hould  her  fast,"  said  one  of  them,  "  she 
iias  mm-dered  the  infant.  At  all  events,  take 
it  up,  and  I  will  keep  her  safe." 

This  was  done,  and  a  handkerchief,  the 
one  -nith  which  she  had  strangled  it,  was 
found  tightly  tied  about  its  neck.  That  she 
was  the  instrument  of  Woodward  in  this 
terrible  act^  who  can  doubt  ?  In  the  mean- 
time both  she  and  the  dead  body  of  the  child 
wei-e  brought  back  to  Eathfillan,  where,  upon 
their  e%'idence,  she  was  at  once  committed  to 
prison,  the  handkerchief  having  been  kept 
as  a  testimony  against  her,  for  it  was  at  once 
discovered  to  be  her  own  property. 

Dm-ing  all  this  time  Grace  Davoren  lay 
dying,  in  a  state  of  the  most  terrible  desola- 
tion, with  the  dead  body  of  Nannie  Morrissy 
on  the  bed  beside  her.  What  had  become 
of  her  child,  and  of  Caterine  Collins,  she 
could  not  tell.  She  had,  however,  other 
reflections,  for  the  young,  but  gTiilty  mother 
was  not  without  strong,  and  even  tender, 
domestic  affections. 

"  O  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  her  woful  solitude 
and  utter  desolation, ."  if  I  only  had  the  for- 
giveness of  my  father  and  mother  I  could  die 
happy  ;  biit  now  I  feel  that  death  is  ujDon  me, 
and  I  must  die  alone." 

A  footstep  was  heard,  and  it  relieved  her. 
"Oh!  this  is  Caterine,"  she  said,  "with  the 
child." 

The  door  opened,  and  the  young  tory, 
Shawn-na-Middogne,  entered.  He  paused  for 
a  moment  and  looked  about  him. 

"Wliatis  this?"  said  he,  looking  at  the 
body  of  Nannie  Morrissy  ;  "  is  it  death  ?  " 

"  It  is  death,"  repUed  Grace,  faintly  ; "  there 
is  one  death,  but,  Shawn,  there  will  soon  be 
another.  Shawn,  forgive  me,  and  kiss  me  for 
the  sake  of  our  early  love." 

"  I  am  an  outlaw, "replied  the  stern  young 
tory  ;  "but  I  will  never  kiss  the  polluted  lijDS 
of  woman  as  long  as  she  has  breath  in  her 
body." 

"  But  Caterine  Collins  has  taken  away  my 
cnild,  and  has  not  returned  with  it." 

"No,  nor  ever  will,"  replied  the  outlaw. 
■"  She  was  the  instrument  of  your  destroyer. 
But  I  wish  you  to  be  consoled,  Grace.  Do 
you  see  that  middogue  ?  It  is  red  with  blood. 
Wow  listen.  I  have  avenged  you  ;  that  mid- 
dogue was  reddened  in  the  heart  of  the  villain 
that  wrought  your  ruin.  As  far  as  man  can 
be,  I  am  now  satisfied." 

"  My  child  !  "  she  faintly  said  ;  "  my  chi],d  ! 
where  is  it?" 


Her  words  were  scarcely  audible.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  was  silent.  The  outlaw 
looked  closely  into  her  countenance,  and  per- 
ceived at  once  that  death  was  there.  He  felt 
her  pulse,  her  heart,  but  all  was  still. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  the  penalty  you  have 
paid  for  your  crime  has  taken  away  the  pol- 
lution fx-om  your  hps,  and  I  will  kiss  you  for 
the  sake  of  our  early  love." 

He  then  kissed  her,  and  rained  showers 
of  tears  over  her  now  unconscious  features. 
The  two  funerals  took  jrtlace  upon  the  same 
day  ;  and,  what  was  still  more  particular, 
they  were  buried  in  the  same  churchyard. 
Theu'  unhappy  fates  were  similar  in  more 
than  one  point.  The  selfish  and  inhuman 
seducer  of  each  became  the  victim  of  his 
crime ;  one  by  the  just  and  righteous  ven- 
geance of  a  heart-broken  and  indignant 
father,  and  the  other  by  the  middogue  of  the 
brave  and  noble-minded  outlaw.  Who  the 
murderer  of  Harry  Woodward,  or  rather  the 
avenger  of  Grace  Davoren,  was,  never  became 
known.  The  only  ears  to  which  the  outlaw 
revealed  the  secret  were  closed,  and  her 
tongue  silent  for  ever. 

The  body  of  Woodward  was  found  the 
next  morning  lifeless  upon  the  moors  ;  and 
when  death  loosened  the  tongues  of  the  peo- 
jDle,  and  when  the  melancholy  fate  of  Grace 
Davoren  became  known,  there  was  one  indi- 
vidual who  knew  perfectly  weU,  from  moral 
conviction,  who  the  avenger  of  her  ruin 
was. 

"Uncle,"  said  IMiss  Eiddle,  while  talking 
vsdth  him  on  the  subject,  "I  feel  who  the 
avenger  of  the  imfortmaate  and  beautifu] 
Grace  Davoren  is." 

"  And  who  is  he,  my  dear  niece  ?  " 

"  It  shall  never  escape  my  lips,  mj^  lord 
and  uncle." 

"  Egad,  talking  of  escapes,  I  think  youl 
have  had  a  very  narrow  one  yourself,  in  es- 
caping from  that  scoundrel  of  the  Evil 
Eye." 

"I  thank  God  for  it,"  she  rephed,  and  this 
closed  their  conversation. 

There  is  little  now  to  be  added  to  our 
narrative.  We  need  scarcely  assure  our 
readers  that  Charles  Lindsay  and  Alice  Good- 
win were  in  due  time  made  happy,  and  that 
Ferdora  O'Connor,  who  had  been  long  at- 
tached  to  Maria  Lindsay,  was  soon  enabled 
to  call  her  his  beloved  wife. 

The  devilish  old  herbalist,  and  his  equally 
devilish  niece,  together  with  the  conjurer 
and  forger,  who  had  assumed  the  character 
of  the  Black  Spectre,  were  all  hanged, 
through  the  instrumentality  of  Valentine 
Greatrakes,  who  had  acquired  so  many  testi- 
monies of  their  villainy  and  their  crimes  as 
enabled  him,  in  conjunction  with  the  other 


THE  EVIL  EYE;    OR,   THE  BLACK  SPECTRE. 


775 


magistrates  of  the  county,  to  obtain  such  a 
body  of  evidence  against  them  as  no  jury 
could  withstand.  It  was,  probably,  well  for 
Woodward  that  the  middogue  of  the  outlaw 
prevented  him  from  sharing  the  same  fate, 
and  dying  a  death  of  jmbhc  disgi-ace. 

Need  we  say  that  honest  Barney  Casey 
jvas  rewarded  by  the  love  of  Sarah  Hullivan, 
who,  soon  after  their  man*iage,  was  made 
housekeeper  in  IVir.  Lindsay's  family  ;  and 
that  Barney  himself  was  appointed  to  the 


comfortable  situation  of  steward  over  his 
property  ? 

Lord  CockletowTi  exercised  all  his  influ- 
ence with  the  government  of  the  day  to  jiro- 
cure  a  pardon  for  Sliawn-na-Middorjue,  but 
without  eftect.  He  furaished  him,  however, 
with  a  liberal  sum  of  money,  with  which  ho 
left  the  country,  but  was  never  iieard  of 
more. 

INIiss  Riddle  was  married  to  a  celebrated 
barrister  who  subsequently  became  a  judge. 


University  of  Caiifomia 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LiBRARY  FACILiTY 

405  Hiigard  Avenue,  Los  Angeies,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  It  was  borrowed. 


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